Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [61]
“Lerner,” the fat man with the cigar said.
“Mr. Miziyano,” Lerner said, extending his hand, which the banker shook halfheartedly. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Pauling.”
Miziyano scrutinized Pauling before saying, “Zdrastvuti.” Pauling returned the noncommittal greeting.
“So, Yuri, things are well?”
“Da.” He struggled to his feet from the low bench and waved for Lerner and Pauling to follow him. They left the sauna and went to a small room with a table and four chairs. A bottle of vodka in a bucket of ice, and four glasses, sat in the table’s center. Miziyano barked an order at an attendant for food to be brought to the room. The men sat, and Miziyano poured their drinks. “Na zdrovia,” he said, raising his glass.
“Yes, cheers,” Lerner said.
They made small talk until a platter of snacks had been delivered. Once the attendant had left and shut the door, the corpulent Russian banker said, “So, your friend here, Mr. Pauling, is interested in missiles.”
“Certain missiles,” Pauling said.
“Yes, certain missiles,” Miziyano repeated. “The ones that shot down your planes.”
“Those missiles,” said Pauling.
Miziyano grimaced, finished his vodka, and refilled his glass, not bothering to offer to do the same for Lerner and Pauling. “A dreadful thing what happened to your airplanes, Mr. Pauling. Tragic. My heart was sickened when I read about it.”
Lerner glanced at Pauling, who he knew didn’t have much patience with self-serving rhetoric.
“What do you know about those missiles, Mr. Miziyano?” Pauling asked.
A shocked expression crossed the Russian’s broad face, and he placed his hands on his chest. “What do I know about these missiles? You insult me.”
Pauling smiled. “Not my intention, sir,” he said, “but I understand we’re here with you because you do know something—or someone who might know.”
Miziyano shrugged and transferred food from the platter to his mouth. “I know many people,” he said, “and they know many things.”
Pauling stood up, as if to go. Lerner said to the Russian, “Maybe this isn’t a good time to discuss this, my friend.”
Miziyano smiled and gestured to the room. “What better time? I would be willing to introduce you to a gentleman who might be able to shed some light on this matter, these missiles.”
“Might be able to?” Pauling said.
Miziyano nodded and ate again, took a swig of his vodka. “Come, come, drink up,” he said.
“When can we meet this gentleman who might know something about the missiles?” Pauling asked, sitting down, and wincing against the heat of the vodka as it slid down his throat.
“A day? A week? I will let you know. Of course, he will have to be compensated for his time, huh?”
“Of course,” Lerner said.
“How much?” Pauling asked, his voice now with an edge.
Another shrug from the Russian banker. “Let’s talk in round numbers. Your government is very anxious to find out about these missiles. I am right?”
“Yes, you are right,” Lerner said.
“Well, then, the information—if this gentleman is willing to provide it—will cost dearly.”
“Round numbers,” Pauling said.
“For the gentleman who provides to you the information? Two hundred thousand, although I am not certain if that would be his price. For me?” A low, guttural laugh. “My friend Lerner and I can talk about that at a later date.”
Pauling started to say something sharp but Lerner cut him off. “A good starting point, my friend. You’ll call?”
“Da. Good to see you, Lerner. Always a pleasure.” He ignored Pauling.
“A shower, then home?” Lerner said to Pauling.
Miziyano laughed. “Shower? The baths, Lerner, always the baths.”
They left the room, ignored his advice and showered, dressed, and walked up the street. There was a fine mist in