Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [46]
They entered a small park that divided the boulevard and went to a shashlik, a kiosk offering barbecued meats and fish, freshly baked bread, and a small selection of vegetables.
“Hello, hello, Mr. Lerner,” the elderly man in the kiosk said. His wife looked up from her food preparation and smiled sweetly.
“Privet,” Lerner said, returning the greeting.
“A new favorite restaurant?” Pauling asked.
“Yes. Zagat hasn’t discovered it yet. They’re friends, occasionally helpful ones.”
Pauling smiled and peered into the kiosk at the food cooking on the grill. “Smells good.”
“Might I recommend the pirozhki and khatchapuri ? He has a touch with them.”
Pauling laughed. Lerner spoke excellent Russian and took considerable pride in it. Pauling had become almost fluent during his seven years in Russia, although he was not, and would never be, up to Lerner’s standard.
Lerner placed the order and led Pauling to a bench a few feet from the kiosk. The park was busy with lunchtime workers from nearby office buildings. Two uniformed city police leaned against a utility pole on the opposite side. It had warmed considerably since Pauling arrived in Moscow that morning. He removed his tan sport jacket and loosened his tie.
“What did you learn before leaving Washington?” Lerner asked as though not caring what the answer was.
“Nothing, except that they were Soviet-made missiles.”
“We know more than that now,” Lerner said, “but you’ve been traveling, wouldn’t be up to date.”
“Tell me.”
“According to what we’ve been told, they—I’m speaking of the missiles, of course—they were SA-7, shoulderfired, infrared homing after optical sighting, range—I don’t have all the specs with me. They’re back in the office, complete with batch and serial numbers.”
“Narrows it down to a hundred thousand or so,” Pauling said as the kiosk chef’s wife appeared carrying two paper plates with ravioli-like stuffed grape leaves and slabs of hot cheese bread overflowing their edges.
“Pivo, pazhalsta,” Lerner said to her.
“Da, pivo,” Pauling said, also in the mood for a beer.
“It won’t be quite as daunting as you think, Max. The batch number was intact on one of the missile fragments. Should help compress the process some. We’re having dinner tonight with Elena. She’s looking forward to seeing you again.”
“I meant to ask about her. You’re still with her?”
“In a manner of speaking. Different apartments, getting together when the need arises, which is less often as I get older. Our friendship is still between us, of course.”
“Of course. She still work for the Central Bank?”
“Yes. But you can catch up on us tonight. I have a lead for you, Max.”
“Good. Who?”
“Well, speaking of banks, a banker. A crooked one, successful because he is crooked. Very well connected in the district committees, the Central Committee, Council of Ministers—the usual criminal chain of command. Answers to the mafia, but that’s nothing new in Russia, is it? You’ll have to get to him through one of the names in your little black book.”
“That could take a while.”
“I believe I can narrow it for you, perhaps as early as tonight, after dinner. Check in with me at the end of the day. Until then, nothing has changed at the embassy. It’s still a sieve. Our Russian nationals at the embassy profess loyalty to us, or at least wave off any thought that they might tell tales out of school. Don’t believe them. I don’t. Enjoying the pirozhki?”
“I like the bread better,” Pauling said, taking a swig of beer from the bottle as he admired a stylishly dressed woman who sauntered past, her eyes playing with his.
“You’re officially assigned to me and ECO/COM, as usual. Everything comes through me—as usual. You’re to have no contact with Langley, none with Barton at State. You’ll keep me informed of every move, Max, and I’ll pass along what information you develop