Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [47]
“Sometimes those impulses paid off.”
“Yes, and sent me in search of antacid.”
“Tom Hoctor told me the same thing.”
“To curb your impulses?”
“Yeah. I had a pleasant couple of days with him at Langley.”
“So I understand. We’ve been in daily touch.”
“Good. I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know, but it’s always nice to see Tom. I wish the Company would fix the air-conditioning, though. Sometimes you wonder about who’s running things. When they built the building, the air-conditioning contractor said he needed to know how many people would be working in it to come up with the right amount of AC. They wouldn’t tell him. National security. So he puts in a puny unit and everybody sweats. Brilliant.”
Lerner smiled. He knew the story. He also knew that Pauling enjoyed telling it as an example of inept leadership to anyone who’d listen.
“You’ll have my complete support, Max, money, resources, whatever you need to find out how those missiles left here and ended up in whoever’s hands. I suggest you stay in the hotel for a few weeks. The regular routine, seeking a suitable place for our new staff member to live. Hopefully, you won’t be here long enough to have to find more permanent quarters.”
Pauling grinned. “Should I be offended that you want me out of here so fast?”
“No. The seriousness of the mission dictates that.”
“What if I can’t trace the missiles to who ultimately used them against the planes?” Pauling asked.
“Then at least identify who here in Russia sold them. Hopefully, it will be a private party, organized crime, a morally bankrupt businessman—anyone but the Russian government.”
“And if it was the Russian government?”
“I prefer not to think about that. We should get back. Your old office is vacant, although I don’t suppose you’ll be spending much time there.”
Pauling stood and returned the smile of another young woman wearing a miniskirt and a tank top that exposed her bare midriff. The prostitutes were dressing better these days, he thought. So much had changed in Moscow since the dissolution of the Soviet Union and this new Russia’s commitment, as painful as it was, to democracy, capitalism, crime, and prostitution. Western fashion had captured the women, cell phones and sport cars the men. The problem, he knew only too well, was that behind this flashy facade of economic prosperity in the city, there was a vastly wider country on the verge of economic collapse. And where the money flowed in the cities, you could count on organized crime to control the spigots. Pauling and Lerner retraced their steps to the embassy, but instead of accompanying Lerner inside, Pauling hesitated at the entrance gate manned by an armed, uniformed Marine.
“Not coming?” Lerner asked.
“No. I want to get my bearings again, Bill, maybe make a few contacts. What time is dinner?”
“Eight. The Anchor in the Palace Hotel.”
“I know it.”
“I’ll be there at eight. Elena will join us a little later, a chance meeting.” A wan smile.
Pauling understood.
Lerner’s four-year affair with Elena Alekseyevna was conducted quietly and with pragmatic discretion. Sleeping with a Russian woman was not encouraged for embassy male employees, especially those in sensitive positions like Bill Lerner. In fact, more than one libidinous male had been sent packing for succumbing to a Russian woman’s wiles.
Lerner’s superior in ECO/COM knew of the affair and, while not condoning it, chose to ignore it beyond cautioning Lerner on occasion to keep it low-key. Other supervisors might not have been quite so sanguine. But Lerner’s boss and his wife had been extremely close to Lerner and his wife, Jackie, and with him went through the agony of her long, painful battle with breast cancer, which eventually took her life.
Lerner knew that he would one day have to face a decision about Elena, should his boss be transferred and a new one assigned. Until then, he reveled in the closeness he and Elena had forged, and