Murder at Union Station

THIRTY-NINE

The phone was ringing when Mac Smith walked through the door.

“Mac. Frank Marienthal.”

“Hello, Frank. How are you?” Smith said, cradling the cordless phone to his ear as he deposited two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter of his Watergate apartment.

“I’ve been better. I’m in Washington.”

“Oh. Business?”

“Family business. Richard. I’m staying at the Watergate. I’d like to see you.”

“Want to come up to the apartment?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Mac gave directions to his building in the complex and hung up. Ten minutes later, the New York criminal attorney was seated with Smith on the terrace, glasses and a bottle of sparkling water on the table.

“Sorry to barge in on you on short notice,” the elder Marienthal said. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a solid maroon tie. Smith had changed into loose-fitting jeans and a pale green short-sleeved polo shirt.

“I’m pleased to see you, Frank. I know why you’re here, of course. Richard’s disappearance has been all over the news. How much play has it gotten in New York?”

“Not as much as here, it being a Washington story. Christ, Mac, to think that Richard got himself into a situation like this is anathema to Mary and me. The potential ramifications are immense. A sitting president may be accused of authorizing the assassination of a foreign leader when he was heading the CIA. The accuser is murdered in Union Station, and his killer is also murdered. And now Richard is missing, presumably with those goddamn tapes on which Louis Russo weaves some tale about killing on orders from our government.”

“Yes. You don’t believe his claim?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. I represented Russo, you know. The important thing is that whatever he told Richard for the book is being used for political gain. Do you know Senator Widmer?”

“I’ve met him a few times,” Smith said.

“He’d do anything to derail Parmele’s bid for a second term, even use the rants of a mob killer.”

“Have you spoken with Kathryn?” Smith asked.

“Ms. Jalick? Yes, I have. She’s lying about Richard’s whereabouts. Hardly the sort of young woman Mary or I envisioned for Richard. As long as he has those tapes-”

“What can I do to help?” Smith asked.

“Help me find Richard,” Marienthal said. “Before the wrong people do.”

Annabel came home from her gallery and Marienthal stayed for dinner. Naturally, most of the talk at the table was a continuation of what he and Mac had discussed earlier. It was over coffee that Marienthal took something from a large manila envelope he’d carried with him to the apartment and handed it to his hosts. It was a copy of his son’s book, The Contract: The Assassination of Constantine Eliana, and the People Behind It by Richard Marienthal.

As Annabel flipped through the pages, stopping at a photo section in which the Chilean dictator’s image was featured, along with scenes from the assassination, and earlier photos of Adam Parmele as CIA chief, commingled with more recent shots, Mac sat glumly, chewing his cheek and tapping his fingertips together.

“It’s obviously not a novel,” Annabel said, laying the book on the table.

“That’s not how the contract read when Rich asked me to review it. It’s not what he told me.”

Marienthal said in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Annabel asked.

“For Richard’s dishonesty. I asked you to vet his contract, Mac, and you did, under false pretenses.”

“He and his publisher obviously had their reasons for wanting it to be known as a work of fiction,” Smith said. “I’m sure they tried to hide the true nature of the book for as long as possible.”

“Which doesn’t make it any less dishonest,” said the father. “I read the book on my way here. It’s filled with speculation and innuendo, vague references by Russo to contacts he had with the CIA. How absurd, this minor league thug claiming he had direct contact with CIA agents who contracted with him to shoot Eliana, on Adam Parmele’s orders.”

“Evidently Richard believed him,” Annabel offered.

“Which doesn’t surprise me,” Marienthal said. “Richard’s a dreamer, always has been. That’s why he became a writer, I suppose. I wanted him to go to law school.” He looked at Mac and smiled. “If there’s one thing you lose in law school, it’s your sophomoric na¨é. Right, Mac?”

“Maybe to a fault,” Smith said, feeling a growing need to defend his friend’s son.

Annabel brought coffee to the table and returned to the kitchen to get a plate of cookies. The phone rang; she answered. A moment later, she returned to the dining room carrying the cordless phone. “It’s for you, Mac,” she said. To both men sotto voce: “It’s Richard.”

Mac glanced at Marienthal before taking the phone from her. “Richard?” he said.

“Yes, Mac. I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner.”

“We’ve just finished. Your father is here.”

“Dad’s in Washington?”

“He certainly is. I’ll put him on.”

“No, Mac. In a minute. I need to speak with you. I need some detached advice.”

“Hold on a minute.” Mac placed his hand over the phone and said to Marienthal, “He wants to run something by me, Frank. Give me a few minutes with him.”

Marienthal’s face was gray and sunken, as though attacked by a sudden burst of gravity. Large circles puffed beneath his eyes; his mouth was a tight, thin slash.

Smith walked away from the table, went to his office, and shut the door. “Before we get into advice-giving, Richard, I want you to listen to me. I understand you’re under considerable pressure, and your need to become incommunicado might also be understandable. But you have a mother and father who are worried about you. I think you owe them some contact.”

“I know, Mac,” Marienthal said, “and I’ve been meaning to call. It’s just that-”

“No excuses, Rich. When we’re through with this conversation, I’ll put your father on.”

“Okay.”

“Now, care to tell me where you are?”

The moment Smith said it, the possibility of his phone being tapped struck him. He was happy when Rich replied, “Not yet. Kathryn has been urging me to talk to you, Mac. I’ve resisted it because-well, because I suppose I’m not ready to take advice from someone else. What it comes down to is that I am very confused at this point.”

“I’m glad you called. Now that the book is out-your father brought a copy with him, and the media is all over its publication-your tape-recorded interviews with Louis Russo take center stage.”

“I know.”

“You have them, I assume.”

“Sure I do.”

“And I assume you’re pondering what to do with them.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think this is the sort of decision to be made while under pressure, Rich. If you are seeking my advice, I urge that we all meet-you, me, and your father-and that you bring the tapes. We can decide what to do with them under calmer circumstances.”

Marienthal hesitated. “I know you’re right, Mac. Let me give it a little more thought. But you are right. Kathryn said you were the one to handle this.”

Handle this? Smith thought. All he wanted to do was effectuate a meeting between father and son, and let them decide what to do with the tapes.

He’d silently speculated during dinner that there were three possible options as far as the tapes were concerned: turn them over to Senator Widmer’s committee; pass them on to the White House; or destroy them. But as he spoke with Richard, a fourth option emerged in his thinking. The tapes could be placed under seal at some disinterested institution such as the Library of Congress or in a school like his own George Washington University, perhaps not made available to researchers and other interested parties until a specific date, long after President Parmele was out of office.

He was acutely aware that while the immediate concern was the well-being of Rich Marienthal, the broader political ramifications were potentially huge. The book was bad enough. Although it preached to the already converted, who would wave it about as “proof” that the president was unfit to hold the nation’s highest office-and his defenders would dismiss it as nothing more than braggadocio from a demented former Mafia hit man-it would do damage. But with the tapes played before a Senate committee, and played over and over on radio and TV newscasts, the hit man’s actual words would provide gravamen to the charge against Parmele and throw his bid for a second term into turmoil, the need to defend himself overwhelming the presentation of more meaningful political positions. A familiar plight for modern candidates or officeholders.

“I’m going to put your father on now, Rich,” Smith said. “Before I do, I suggest you not wait much longer to decide what to do with the tapes. You may end up losing your ability to determine their fate. I might have an idea for you if you’ll agree to meet. Hold on.”

He brought the phone to Frank Marienthal at the dining room table. “Rich wants to talk to you, Frank. Take it in my office. You can use this phone or the one on the desk.” He handed the cordless to Marienthal, who slowly got up and left the room, disappearing behind the door to Smith’s office.

The conversation between the elder Marienthal and his son consumed ten minutes. During it, Mac filled Annabel in. Frank Marienthal’s voice was occasionally heard, the words unintelligible, the tone unmistakably angry. When he emerged, he said, “I think I finally talked some sense into him. He’s promised to call again tomorrow.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“He didn’t say. I could use a drink. Scotch if you have it. Neat.”

“Sure.”

“If he only realized what this is doing to his mother, his name splashed all over TV and the newspapers, hiding out like some dumb kid playing a prank on his parents.”

Mac brought Marienthal a tumbler of single malt. “I think Rich is genuinely afraid, Frank,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too judgmental at this juncture. It’s not all directed at you and Mary. Maybe none of it is.”

Marienthal ignored Smith’s counsel and asked, “Did he tell you where he was calling from?”

“No.”

The phone rang, and Annabel went to the kitchen to answer. It was a friend, an art dealer from New York confirming plans to visit Annabel at her gallery the following day. The two men sat quietly at the table, Annabel’s words filling the void.

“And I’m so pleased you’re coming, Karen. Your train gets in at Union Station at one? Grab a cab out front-you’ll be at the gallery by one-thirty. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”

At the Com Center in the Hoover Building, two agents from the communications division heard “We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”

”Just a couple of ladies doing lunch,” said one agent, laughing.

“Maybe it’ll get juicier later on,” offered the second one.

“Yeah, let’s hope.”