Murder on Embassy Row Read Free Page A

Palington. “He should have stayed in banking instead of all this diplomatic nonsense. We miss him at the club.”
    “We’ll just leave the old stick-in-the-mud home and go ourselves,” Marsha James said. “I’m not about to miss Robyn Archer.”
    The Argentinian ambassador to the United States, who was surprised he’d been invited, considering the Falklands tête-à-tête, fumbled with a long, thin black cigarette in a holder as James approached. The Argentinian clicked his heels, extended his hand, and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Ambassador.”
    “For what, for heaven’s sake?”
    “For one year in this country.”
    “How long have you been here, Mr. Ambassador?”
    “Three years.”
    “Then congratulations are entirely more appropriatefor you.” James heartily shook his hand and went to where Nuri Hafez was collecting empty glasses from a table. Although Hafez’s only official duty at the embassy was to serve the ambassador, he’d offered to help during the evening’s festivities. “I intend to leave soon, Nuri,” James said. “I’m not feeling well. Mrs. James and the Palingtons are going off to catch a show after the party, I’m told. Please drive them.”
    “All right,” Hafez said, continuing to put glasses on a tray.
    “After you’ve dropped them at the theater, come back here. I’ll be in my study. I might want to go out, although my plans are not firm. You needn’t mention that to Mrs. James.”
    “Whatever you say, Mr. James.”
    James narrowed his eyes at the form of address used by Hafez, looked over his shoulder, then said, “I plan to retire to my study in a few minutes after I’ve said good-bye to those who matter. I’d like a fire, caviar from the special stock, toast, lemon, and vodka, thoroughly chilled.”
    “All right.”
    “I’ll tell you when.”
    The musicians launched into “A Foggy Day.” A young woman who’d had too much to drink shrieked with laughter, lost her balance, and fell into her date’s arms. Werner Gibronski winced and moved away.
    “Ah, Mr. Ambassador,” said a corpulent man in a doublebreasted tan plaid suit. He had a long, thick mustache that swooped down low, flared out, and was waxed to precise points. His name was Berge Nordkild and he was Washington’s most successful and famous purveyor of fancy imported foods. Most of the food for the party had been supplied by Nordkild, Ltd. He spokewith a Scandinavian accent. “Everything is to your satisfaction?”
    “Yes, quite.”
    “A fine party befitting a fine man,” said Nordkild.
    “And from the looks of things, it’s about to end,” James said, patting him on the shoulder and moving on. He found Marsha enjoying a joke being told by a young man from the State Department’s British liaison office. James waited patiently for the conclusion of the joke, which had a mildly risqué punch line. Everyone laughed except James. When the young man looked at him for a reaction, James smiled and said, “Quite good.”
    “Dear,” James said to Marsha, indicating with his finger that he wanted her to follow him. They moved away from the group and he said, “I’m going to my study for the evening. There are cables I must go over.”
    “Really?” A sardonic smile crossed her lips.
    “Yes, really. I’ll say good night and take my leave. Nuri will drive you and the Palingtons to the show and pick you up. And please, I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
    The smile never left her face as she said, “You really are a bastard, Geoffrey, and you become more of one every day.”
    “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “Yes, in the morning.”
    The ambassador went to the kitchen, where he found Nuri Hafez. “I’m going upstairs now,” he told his valet. “Please bring me what I requested.”
    James left the kitchen. Hafez took a brass key fob from his jacket pocket, unlocked a padlock on one of the refrigerators, opened its door, and found what he was looking for, a dented tin with a lid secured by