Murder on Embassy Row Read Online Free PDF Page B

get back?”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “I had a dinner date and…”
    “Do whatever you have to do.”
    He went to the public affairs office and pulled its chief, Rod Dexter, out of a meeting. “Look, Rod, something big is brewing at the British Embassy over the ambassador’s death, a possible homicide. I’ll find out more. For now, the word to the press is that my department is gathering the facts and will have a statement when those facts are organized. Until then, no comment.”

4
    A guard at the West Entrance of the White House confirmed that Morizio had an appointment with Dr. Gibronski, verified the date and place of his birth, and directed him to the Appointment Lobby, which had formerly housed the press room where reporters lounged in massive leather chairs, often napping in them while waiting for something newsworthy to occur. But when President Nixon took office, he floored over the White House swimming pool in a protest of sorts and moved the press corps there.
    The appointment lobby had taken on a distinctly more feminine character since its media days. The walls were covered in a pale yellow silk. Ceiling, moldings, and wainscoting were painted linen white. Drapes on the tall windows were of the same yellow silk as the walls. The oak floor was polished to a high, hard glow. A large, muted antique rug of yellow and green flowers covered the center of the room. It was sparsely furnished; two Sheraton Pembroke tables, an assortment of Queen Anne and Chippendale chairs, a small but handsomewalnut bonnet-top secretary, and an eight-legged mahogany Hepplewhite sofa upholstered in a rose-colored brocatelle. Morizio sat on the couch, then stood. It was uncomfortable.
    He perused a breakfront bookcase housing official gifts presented to presidents over the years, and admired a series of oil paintings of the American landscape. He was studying Winslow Homer’s
Maine Coast
when a young man with a cowlick appeared and said, “Dr. Gibronski will see you now.”
    Gibronski’s office was large and spartan. The blinds were drawn; two floor lamps and a brass desk lamp with a green shade cast pools of soft light over walls the color of talcum powder and over the burnt umber carpeting.
    Gibronski was dwarfed by a massive teak desk that was completely clean—not a scrap of paper, not a pencil, not a pad or paper clip. A matching credenza behind Gibronski contained an elaborate telephone system and two individual phones—one red, one white. He was on the white phone when Morizio arrived.
    A door at the side of the office opened. A man entered, came to where Morizio stood, halfheartedly offered a fleshy, cold hand, and said in a whispered British accent, “George Thorpe. Sit down.”
    Thorpe and Morizio took leather chairs across the desk from Gibronski, who continued a hushed conversation on the white phone. Thorpe fumbled through the pocket of a wrinkled brown tweed jacket with elbow patches and pulled out a large, fat, black cigar, carefully positioned a lighter’s flame so that its heat ignited the tobacco but didn’t actually touch it, snapped the lighter shut, and returned it to his pocket. He drew on the cigar, coughed, and exhaled.
    Morizio observed the Englishman as he went throughhis cigar ritual. He was big—six feet two inches, Morizio decided, and about 250 pounds. Everything about him was rumpled. He had a puffy face, heavy jowls, and the red, watery eyes and veined cheeks of a heavy drinker. The collar of his white shirt was too tight and a brown tie was ridiculously narrow against the shirt’s broad expanse.
    Gibronski concluded his conversation, quietly placed the phone in its cradle, and turned to face his visitors. Morizio stood and said, “Captain Morizio, Dr. Gibronski. I got here as fast as I could.”
    “Yes, thank you, Captain.” Gibronski neither stood nor offered his hand. He stared at Morizio over half-glasses until he sat down. Gibronski was in shirtsleeves and Morizio noticed that