Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [83]
He was about to knock on the apartment door when he heard the phone ring from inside. He brought his ear close to the door and listened, heard a muffled man’s voice say something, then the phone being replaced in its cradle. Had the voice sounded like Lerner’s? He couldn’t be sure. It was too brief.
Pauling knocked. Shuffling inside, someone moving. Pauling realized he still held the Glock 17, slipped it into his pocket, and knocked again. The knob turned, then stopped.
“Bill? It’s Max Pauling.”
The door opened.
“Tom?” Pauling said, face-to-face with his CIA mentor, Tom Hoctor.
“Come in, Max.”
Pauling stepped into the apartment and Hoctor closed the door behind them. The flat was as Pauling remembered it to be, appropriately small—this was Russia— and cluttered. Lerner was an inveterate reader; books were everywhere, covering tables and kitchen countertops, piled on the floor, and overflowing from floor-to-ceiling bookcases on two walls of the living room.
“What are you doing here?” Pauling asked.
“Waiting for you,” Hoctor said, going to a window and parting the curtains to look down on the street. “Why didn’t you call the number you were given?” he asked Pauling, who stood in the middle of the living room.
“I had other things on my mind. I was improvising. A few unexpected events.”
Hoctor turned from the window. He looked even smaller and slighter than when Pauling last saw him at Langley. He was dressed in suit and tie; he always seemed to be. Light from a floor lamp created a sheen on his bald pate, and Pauling noticed that his friend’s perpetually drooping right eye was sagging a little lower than usual.
“Did you get the information?” Hoctor asked.
“Yes.” Pauling handed him the envelope Glinskaya had given him. Hoctor opened it and read the note. That an expression of shock crossed his narrow face didn’t surprise Pauling. He’d been shocked, too, when he’d read it.
“Do you believe it, Max?”
“Yes. It’s detailed enough.”
“Information provided by Russia’s less sterling citizens.”
“I trust them as much as I trust the spin doctors in Washington.”
Hoctor placed the envelope in his pocket. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“Where’s Bill?”
Hoctor lowered his head and slowly shook it.
“Something’s happened to him?”
Hoctor nodded toward the small bathroom. “In there.”
Pauling went to the open door. Lying on the floor was Bill Lerner. He was dressed in baggy slacks and a sleeveless summer undershirt. He was barefoot. His eyes were open, rolled back into his head.
“Jesus,” Pauling said, turning to Hoctor, who was again peering through the curtains.
“Obviously a heart attack. He was there when I arrived.”
Pauling knelt next to Lerner’s lifeless body and touched his fingertips to his throat in search of a pulse. There was none. He looked up at Hoctor, who’d come to the door.
“We must go, Max.”
Pauling’s eyes said it all, that he didn’t believe Lerner had died from a natural heart attack. Prussic acid? That was one of its advantages, killing people and making it look like a coronary to less probing medical examiners. Hoctor met his hard stare, right eye sadly lower on the outside corner, chin on his hand, index finger on his lips.
“Let’s go, Max.”
“Was he compromised, Tom?”
A shrug from the small man in the suit.
“Elena? Does she know? Was she—?”
“We make our choices in this world, Max, and live with the consequences. The only choice you have now is to come with me. The plane is waiting.”
“What plane?” Pauling said, getting to his feet.
“Secretary Rock’s plane. She’s a nice lady, but she has no patience for people who are late.”
Part Three
Chapter 30
That Evening
Blaine, Washington
Zachary Jasper stood with residents of the ranch in the main house’s large kitchen, except for men who’d been posted outside as lookouts. The government forces surrounding the ranch had begun training powerful spotlights on the house for the past thirty-six hours, accompanied by nonstop music blaring from huge speakers