Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [102]
“Elena Alekseyevna wasn’t the enemy, Tom. She loved Bill.”
“And he loved her—too much.”
“It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”
“I wouldn’t know, Max. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you tomorrow. Discuss what’s transpired with no one, and that includes this female friend of yours.”
“Don’t worry, Tom, the last thing I want to talk about with her is what happened.”
Pauling watched Hoctor walk away, saunter, actually, as though he held a closed umbrella and was strolling a boulevard or boardwalk. It struck Pauling that despite years of working for and with Thomas Hoctor, Pauling didn’t know the little CIA operative at all. Maybe that was the prime requisite for being in their business, being unfathomable to even your closest friends.
Had Hoctor killed Bill Lerner?
Would he ever know the answer?
When Hoctor was out of sight, Pauling pressed his elbows against the pockets of his vest, feeling the Austrian Glock 17 semi-automatic in the pocket on the right, the two small glass ampules of prussic acid and their spring-loaded activating devices in a left. He’d forgotten he still had them until sitting in the meeting at State. Having flown back on Secretary Rock’s private aircraft, and being ushered into Main State as part of her contingent, precluded having to go through the usual metal detectors.
Should I walk back to Columbia Plaza and pop in on Jessica? he asked himself. His answer was to wave down a cruising cab and direct the driver to his apartment in Crystal City, across the Potomac from the District.
Chapter 38
That Same Day
Washington, DC
Joe Potamos burst through the door from the J. Edgar Hoover Building like a man who’d just been released from prison. In a sense, he had been.
At first, the FBI agents interrogating him were pleasant and polite, even went so far as to congratulate him on his journalistic skills and the scoop he reported on CNN. But when it came to the point where they wanted the name of the man he’d gone to interview in Burlington, Vermont, and he refused to give it, the atmosphere in the room had changed from compatible to confrontational.
“Look, Potamos,” the lead interrogator, one of six agents in the cramped room, said, “you stated on TV that you got this story from somebody in Burlington. Obviously, this person was involved with the Jeremy Wilcox who was killed here in DC, an employee of the Canadian embassy. Why don’t you just make everybody’s life easy and tell us who he is?”
Potamos had deliberately not mentioned Craig Thomas or Connie Vail during his on-camera performance, and he wasn’t about to give them up now. “That’s privileged information,” he said. “Shield law.”
“Ever hear of national security?” another agent asked. “Ever hear of patriotism?”
“Patriotism?” Potamos repeated, snickering. “I figure being patriotic means telling the truth to the American people, no matter who’s in front of the fan when the goop hits. Look, I’d like to leave. I came here voluntarily, didn’t give you any hassle. But unless you’re arresting me for sedition or espionage or for being unpatriotic, I’m out of here.”
Potamos stood. The lead agent ordered him to sit.
“I want a lawyer,” Potamos said.
“You don’t need one,” the lead agent said. “You haven’t been charged with anything.” He nodded at another agent, who left the room.
The door opened and FBI Director Templeton stepped into the room. Potamos recognized him immediately.
“Mr. Potamos, Russell Templeton,” the director said, smiling and shaking Potamos’s hand. “Please, sit.”
Potamos’s surprise at being confronted by Templeton was fleeting. “I was just leaving,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”
“Please, Mr. Potamos,” Templeton said, “sit down and hear me out. I promise it will only take a few minutes. Strictly off the record. When I’m finished, you can leave and go about your business.”
Potamos resumed his seat and Templeton stood over him. The director was taller than he appeared to be on television, and looked older than his