Part 3 (1/2)
”Well, don't get unused to it.”
”When do you leave and where are you going?”
The Middle East and the former oil-producing Soviet republics for long enough to learn his way around, meet the players, and become familiar with the politics. At least I knew he wasn't going to Russia this time, or he'd end up in Lubyanka, the notorious KGB prison.
Ten days later he was gone. I knew a rough itinerary, and unlike his work with the CIA, we were in touch on e-mail almost daily. Occasionally we even managed a video call on Skype. At the moment he was in Saudi Arabia, and he'd told me the last time we spoke that he figured he'd be home in another month.
Before I got out of the car, I checked my phone to see if he had written me today as he usually did, and for any other messages. Somehow I had missed a call in the last hour, a D.C. area code and a number with a 224 prefix. The U.S. Senate.
The message was from Ursula Gilberti's personal secretary asking me to call as soon as possible. Maybe Ursula had reconsidered today's meeting at the monastery because of the weather.
I hit Redial and the secretary answered right away. ”The senator would like you to drop by her office in the Russell Building this afternoon,” she said. ”She has something she wishes to discuss with you.”
”We're supposed to meet at the Franciscan Monastery at five o'clock. Perhaps we could talk about it then?”
”The senator was very specific that she wanted to see you in her office without her daughter present before your meeting at the monastery. I'm sorry, that's all I know. She did say it wouldn't take long.”
She was just the messenger, and knowing Ursula, her secretary obeyed without question. My meeting with Olivia Upshaw wasn't supposed to take long, either; I was just picking up a ma.n.u.script. But finding parking on the Hill and going through security would chew up at least half an hour.
”I have a meeting in a few minutes at the Smithsonian. I'll try to be there in an hour or so, maybe around one thirty or one forty-five, but don't hold me to it.”
”Senator Gilberti is working in her office in Russell all afternoon. I'll let her know.” Before she hung up she said, ”Thank you.”
Now what did Ursula want?
I grabbed my camera bag and got out of the car. The sky threatened rain so I was about to head straight to the Castle when I caught sight of a scrolled wrought-iron bench wrapped around a fountain in a sweet little courtyard. Behind the courtyard was one of the hidden gardens Kevin had written about in his article, a narrow serpentine walkway between the Mall and Independence Avenue known as the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden. But more important to me was the memory of the day I sat on that bench between Harry Wyatt and my mother, when Harry asked me if it was okay if he married Mom and me. A pa.s.serby had taken our photograph, the three of us beaming, a happy, soon-to-be new family. I still kept a dog-eared copy in my wallet. Afterward we'd walked through the pretty, sheltered pathway between the Hirshhorn Museum and the Arts and Industries Building, Harry's protective arm around my shoulders, as he talked about our future after Mom and I moved from our apartment in Queens, New York, to his sprawling horse farm in Middleburg, Virginia.
I walked into the courtyard to take a picture of that bench, remembering Harry explaining how the garden had been slated to become a parking lot until the wife of the secretary of the Smithsonian saved it. She'd turned it into a replica of a sensory garden she'd seen in San Francisco for the blind and disabled, an eclectic collection of plants, shrubs, and trees that filled beds, overflowed urns, and trailed from hanging baskets. Probably no surprise to Kevin, I had it to myself just now, my own secret garden.
Halfway down the path I had company. A man in a black leather jacket, jeans, and a black turtleneck with a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder had entered the garden from the Mall, just as I had. It took a few seconds before I recognized David Arista from last night's party. I hadn't seen him when I parked my car, and that had been only a couple of minutes ago.
He came toward me, smiling as though we were old friends, and held out his hand. ”We met last night. Or almost did. You're Sophie Medina. My name's David Arista.”
I'm not good at being coy. We shook hands. ”I know who you are. I asked someone about you when we kept almost meeting.”
He laughed, and his eyes crinkled into tiny crow's-feet. This close I saw flecks of gray in his long dark hair. It was swept off his face to reveal a sharp widow's peak that made me think of actors who played the devil in old movies. Last night I guessed he was in his early thirties. Today I realized he was probably closer to my age, maybe late thirties or early forties.
”You could have asked anyone about me,” he was saying. ”I know Yasmin's friends and everyone from her mother's office. Plus a few folks who work with Victor at Global s.h.i.+eld.”
”I understand you own a public relations company.”
”You really did ask about me, didn't you?” He seemed pleased, and for a moment it fl.u.s.tered me that he had misconstrued my curiosity for another type of interest.
He pulled a leather business card case out of an inside jacket pocket and handed me a card. ”C-Cubed. Media, creative strategy, marketing, branding. PR is so twentieth century.” His smile was self-deprecating. ”And you're the wedding photographer. I know a few people who would love to meet you. Do you have a card? Give me a couple. I'll pa.s.s them out.”
I had been expecting a fast-talking snake oil salesman, someone who kept looking over your shoulder as he spoke to you in case someone more important moved into view. David Arista was smart, disarming, and n.o.body's fool. The amused look I noticed last night seemed to be his default expression.
”I'm not a professional wedding photographer.” I slipped his card into my camera bag. ”I'm just doing this as a favor.”
”For Yasmin or Victor?”
”Both, of course. But Victor's the one who asked me.”
He pointed to my Nikon and the long lens I had on it. ”That camera body and that zoom lens are worth at least five or six grand. You're no amateur.”
”No, I'm not. I'm sorry, but I'm going to be late for a meeting. I should be going.”
He gave me a shrewd look. ”Is your meeting in the Castle?”
”As a matter of fact, it is.”
”I'll walk you there. I'm heading over to the Smithsonian metro, so it's on my way.”
”Thanks, but I thought I'd take the long way around so I could see the garden in front of the Castle on Independence Avenue,” I said.
”No problem.” He fell into step beside me. ”I'll take the long way, too. You must like gardens?”
”I . . . yes.”
”That was a great photo you took of Yasmin and Victor in the garden at the Franciscan Monastery,” he said. ”I saw the announcement in the Post a few weeks ago.”
”Thank you.” I didn't know too many men who checked out the wedding and engagement announcements, but then, he was a friend of Yasmin's. And, presumably, Victor's. ”You recognized the garden?”
He grinned and made the sign of the cross. ”Are you kidding me? I grew up in a house with a Jack-and-Jesus wall in the living room. I'll bet I visited the Eternal Flame more than some relatives of the Kennedy family when I was a kid. My Irish mother wors.h.i.+pped Jack Kennedy and she loved Jesus. And the Franciscans. Some people have garden gnomes. We had Francis of a.s.sisi in every corner of our yard like he was multiplying overnight.”
I laughed. ”She sounds very devout.”
His smile turned rueful. ”She was.”
”I'm sorry. I didn't realize you lost her.”
”Three years ago. Lung cancer. She was a smoker; all the radiation and drugs in the world couldn't stop it. And, G.o.d knows, my family had the resources to try everything.” He shook his head, remembering. ”Let's talk about something else.”
”Okay . . . why don't you tell me about the Creativity Council? What does it do?”
He smiled. ”So you heard about that, too? A creativity council shakes things up. At the meetings, we play games, do some role-playing, come up with a lot of what-if stuff. You start by dismantling everything and then you rebuild it from scratch and see what you end up with.”
”Dismantling the Smithsonian?” We turned onto Independence Avenue by the Arts and Industries Building and walked the final block to the Castle.
”Why not?” He pointed to the elaborate designs in the brickwork of the beautiful old building. ”That's the second-oldest Smithsonian museum after the Castle. Built in 1879, a terrific example of Victorian architecture. It's been closed for over a decade and it's going to stay closed. There's not enough money to maintain it and there's no plan for what to do with it.” He sounded disgusted. ”So there it sits, right here on the National Mall in the nation's capital, covered in scaffolding and all boarded up. Tell me, what good is it doing anybody?”
The building looked forlorn and abandoned, the barricades in front of it crisscrossed with bright yellow DO NOT ENTER tape.
”I'm waiting for permission to get inside and take photographs for a book on the history of the Mall,” I said. ”Apparently there are safety issues.”
”Call me. I can arrange it. Wear a hard hat and you'll be fine,” he said.