Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [98]
“Ms. Mumford, this is FBI Special Agent Sydney Wingate,” he’d said.
“Yes?”
“I work closely with your former husband, Special Agent Traxler.”
“Has something happened to him?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, nothing like that. He’s been on extended leave and we need to speak with him on agency matters. I thought he might have been in contact with you.”
“With me? No, we haven’t spoken for… no, I haven’t heard from him.”
“If you should, Ms. Mumford, I’d appreciate a call.” He gave her his direct number at the Hoover Building.
“All right, although I doubt he’ll call me.”
“Thank you.”
The call itself was upsetting enough for Jessica. No one from the FBI had ever contacted her before concerning her former husband, and the inherent message wasn’t lost on her. She knew that agents of the FBI were never out of touch with their superiors, never, no matter where they were or the reason for being there.
Was Skip hurt and unable to contact the Bureau? Or dead, his cover blown and the victim of a group he’d infiltrated?
TV coverage of the assault on the Jasper ranch played in the background. She knew now that an FBI undercover agent had provided the information leading to the attack. Had Skip been that agent?
When will you ever learn? she asked herself, staring vacantly at the screen. When would she allow—indeed, insist—that her mind override her heart? Traxler, now Pauling, the two significant men in her life, restless and adventuresome, their passions inflamed more by danger than a kiss, off doing what they loved best and unconcerned that those who cared about them worried, speculated, chewed nails and ate too much out of anxiety. She knew—her mind knew—that to allow such men’s fire-eating, daredevil, flying-without-a-net existence to dominate the lives of those mired in more mundane lives back home was, if not futile, self-destructive. But tell that to the heart.
She forced herself to disconnect from the TV by picking up some of the photographs Cindy had taken six months earlier, from the duplicate batch she’d given Jess as a gift, and examined them through the magnifying glass she kept for that purpose. The birds depicted in the shots were beautiful, but this particular photo didn’t contain brightly colored birds in their natural habitat. It was one of two Cindy had taken of the group of men in the valley on the U.S.-Canadian border. Jessica kept changing the position of the magnifying glass to make the figures as large as possible.
The ringing phone caused her to flinch. She took another look at the photo before going to the kitchen and answering.
“Jess, it’s Max.”
“Where are you?”
“In Washington.”
“When did you get back?”
“Today. I flew back with… it doesn’t matter. I’d like to see you.”
“Now?”
“Later today? Tonight?”
“Yes, of course. I have the day off, at least for now. Max, I’d like very much to see you.”
He managed a laugh. “I’m glad to hear that. Dinner?”
“Here at the apartment. There’s something I want to show you.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t go into it over the phone. What time?”
“I’m not sure. I’m at State, will be the rest of the day, maybe evening, too. I’ll call again when I know.”
“All right. Max, is the Jasper thing the reason you’re back?”
“Tonight, Jess. I have to go.”
She looked at the clock; tonight couldn’t arrive fast enough.
Joe Potamos and Roseann Blackburn were secluded in a small conference room a floor above the studio where he had just told the world that federal authorities were attacking the wrong hate group. His friend, Jim Bellis, fielded calls on the room’s only phone.
“Everybody and his brother want to interview you, Joe,” he said, “the nets, other cable operations. Geraldo, Brian Williams, Wallace, Jennings, everybody. We want you on in an hour, a special report built around you. They’re putting it together now. Tonight, you’re on Larry King, and another special right after Larry.”
Potamos put