Read Online Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online

cash to buy a small country—or at least its leader— and instructed to tell no one where you’d be or how long you’d be there.
    “I’m leaving tomorrow on an assignment, Doris.”
    “Where are you going? How long will you be gone?”
    “Can’t say.”
    There was the requisite icy stare as you packed your
bag in the bedroom where you’d made love the night before. The kids asked, too, where Daddy was going, and
you answered with a pat on the head when they were
little. Once they got older, they didn’t bother asking because they knew there wouldn’t be an answer.
    Hugs and kisses when you were leaving. A modicum
of guilt, tempered by the excitement of the assignment,
another important one, national security, defending their
way of life, someone has to do it—plenty of rationalizations at the ready. The waves good-bye—“I’ll be in
touch”— when you knew you probably wouldn’t be.
Then, the relief when you were on your way, alone,
pumped up, anxious to do what you’d trained for and
were good at. Of course he loved it, like almost every
other spook.
    Now, since coming to Washington, he spent most of his time behind a desk in the Department of State analyzing information gathered by a variety of sources, including people doing what he’d happily done while in Moscow and elsewhere, and filling in gaps from his personal experience and knowledge. As far as he was concerned, he’d been booted upstairs, and was in the process of giving credence to the Peter Principle.
    He wandered down to Room 2109, the nerve center for State’s public affairs and press operations, where a bank of television monitors were tuned round-the-clock to CNN and MSNBC. All personnel there were also on a twenty-four-hour cycle, tearing stories off the wire service machines, taping relevant TV news and other reports, and at the moment fielding calls from the press and the public about the unfolding story of three aircraft crashing that morning.
    “Can you believe it?” a young PA employee said, pointing to one of the monitors:
    “CNN has learned from a highly placed source that the planes were shot down by missiles launched from the ground near the three airports. The president, we’re told, has scheduled a meeting of Cabinet members and other top administration officials. Meanwhile, the FBI’s antiterrorism unit has issued an alert to state and local law enforcement officials across the country to put into effect contingency plans formulated following the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City bombings, and airports have elevated their security systems to top-readiness status. Stay tuned for further information as CNN receives it.”
    Two of the networks had broken into their normal afternoon programming to issue brief reports on the situation, but had gone back to their soap operas. The third network ended its breaking news with soft drink and feminine hygiene commercials.
    “Who the hell would do such a thing?” the young woman said, shaking her head. “They killed innocent civilians and kids, people minding their own business— or too young to have any business.”
    Pauling’s beeper went off. It was Barton. He left the press area and went back to the office. Barton held up his hand to keep Pauling from entering, wrapped up his meeting, then waved Pauling in.
    “Any new information?” Pauling asked.
    “Close the door.”
    Pauling did as instructed and returned to the visitor’s side of the desk. Barton stood behind it, erect, stomach flat, chin jutting, hair perfectly trimmed to conform to his temples.
    “Got your bags packed, Max?”
    “Haven’t unpacked yet. I flew up to visit my ex-wife and sons.”
    “I’m not talking overnight. I want you in Moscow.”
    “Would it be out of order to ask why?”
    “The missile fragments from the Westchester incident arrived at the Pentagon, although the FBI’s labs did the testing. Took them a half hour to determine it’s Russian-made, a SAM, probably an older model of the