Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [88]
Cindy started to put the set back in the envelope.
“Wait a minute,” Horace said, pulling a couple of shots from the pack. “What are these? Looks like birds of a different feather.”
Cindy laughed. “Oh, just forget those. I saw this group of men down in the valley and couldn’t resist taking a few shots of them.”
“We’ve got a Peeping Tom here, Jess,” Horace said, chuckling.
“A Peeping Tomasina,” Jess corrected, looking more closely at the men in the photos. “What were they doing?”
“Beats me. Running around in the valley. Probably some male bonding group.” Cindy looked up at a clock on the wall. “Oh, speaking of running, I’ve got to run. The congressman’s an early-morning guest tomorrow on C-SPAN. Wants me to go with him to the studio.”
“I believe it’s time for me to leave, too,” said Horace, standing stiffly and arching his back. “Lovely evening, Jess.”
“Great trip,” Cindy said. “Dinner was fine, too.”
They left after dividing the cost of the photo processing and the meal. Alone now, Jessica cleaned up the remains of the dinner, removed her makeup, washed her face, brushed her teeth, dressed for bed, and settled on the couch. She was tempted to turn on the television again but decided not to. The news from Washington State was too depressing to watch before trying to sleep. Instead, she briefly browsed through the latest copy of The Washington Monthly, felt her eyes closing after ten minutes, and went to bed. Her final conscious thoughts were of Max. What was he doing at the moment, who was he with? A woman? His pal Bill Lerner? Some Russian lowlife?
“I miss you, Pauling,” she muttered as she turned on her side, fluffed up the pillow beneath her head, and allowed sleep to take hold. Come home.
Chapter 32
Early Morning
Moscow
Hoctor led Pauling to a car that had been parked around the corner from Bill Lerner’s apartment. The young Russian driver said nothing as Pauling and Hoctor got in the rear seat. “Sheremetevo,” Hoctor said.
The 707 with the seal of the United States of America on its tail was bathed in light at Moscow’s international airport, twenty miles outside the city. It was parked away from the main terminal, an area specially designated for the aircraft of foreign dignitaries, and had been there since Secretary of State Rock and her party arrived. It was surrounded by a dozen uniformed, armed Russian soldiers, supervised by diplomatic security special agents assigned to the Secretary, some of whom had flown with her from Washington, others from the American embassy in Moscow. The Air Force crew had been billeted in a former Soviet military barracks a mile outside the airport. Now, six hours after they’d been alerted they’d be leaving, the pilots busied themselves in the cockpit preparing to depart; cabin stewards had provisioned the aircraft and awaited the arrival of the passengers, most notably Elizabeth Rock. A bottle of Rombauer chardonnay chilled in an ice bucket in her private quarters.
Pauling and Hoctor’s car was stopped at a gate by two Russian soldiers and an American security officer. He greeted Hoctor by name but still asked for identification. Pauling’s temporary ID card from the embassy indicated he worked in the ECO/COM division. They were waved through.
They hadn’t spoken for the entire ride from the city to the airport, nor did they say anything now as the driver maneuvered the car close to the 707’s boarding stairs. Hoctor was first out; Pauling hesitated, then joined him on the tarmac. Moving lights in the distance caused them to turn. Secretary Rock’s black limousine, followed by four other vehicles, came to a stop at the foot of the boarding stairs. The Secretary got out, spoke to a few people, and went up into the aircraft.
“Time to board, Mr. Hoctor,” a security man said.
“Max,” Hoctor said, touching Pauling’s arm to indicate they were to go to the stairs.
When he didn’t follow, Hoctor turned and glared at him.
“I want to know what happened to Bill Lerner,” Pauling said.
“And you will, Max, but not now. You’ve done a good job. Don