Page 77 of Fire and Bones

Burgos looked up, expression suggesting he wasn’t open to queries. “Arab Spring, al-Assad’s crackdown, the Syrian civil war. You know all that. If not, read about it on your own time.”

“How are relations between Syria and the US today?” I asked—to no one in particular.

“Nonexistent,” Thacker said.

“Does the Syrian embassy still exist?” Again, to whomever.

Thacker nodded. “It’s on Wyoming Avenue, in the Kalorama neighborhood, along with several other embassies. The building is noteworthy because former President William Howard Taft lived in it for almost a decade. He died there in 1930.” Sheepish grin. “DC’s historic architecture is my passion.”

“My passion,” said Burgos, “is that we wrap this up before I have another birthday sitting here?”

What a dick.

“Here’s the more pertinent stuff. El-Aman’s father is a millionaire businessman and pal of none other than President al-Assad. El-Aman owns properties in DC and Virginia, but his purpose for being in the States right now is unknown. According to Deery, the guy has more bucks than God and more enemies than a tax auditor.”

“If el-Aman’s father is wealthy, what was the kid doing in that Foggy Bottom dump?” I asked.

“Unclear. Jawaad had a condo in Georgetown, paid for by Daddy.”

“What has el-Aman senior been involved with that might have angered someone enough to want to kill his son?” Thacker sounded skeptical.

“The Arab-Israeli conflict, the Golan Heights annexation, the Iraq war, the occupation of Lebanon, state-sponsorship of terrorism, you name it. Deery found dozens of money trails arrowing straight to Jawaad’s old man.”

That night it was beef Wellington with minted peas and mashed potatoes. Custard for dessert.

Zanetti dined with us.

Besides the heart-stopping good looks, the man had the warmth of an old parish priest, and the manners of a royal at court. An extremely winning trifecta.

Another endearing quality. From what I observed, Zanetti was totally smitten with his fiancée. Whenever Doyle spoke, he regarded her with the eyes of a cocker spaniel fixed on a treat.

Naming no names, Zanetti entertained us with anecdotes involving clients. His descriptions of their quirks and foibles rivaled standup at its best.

Mostly for Zanetti’s sake, I shared what I’d learned regarding how long the subcellar vic had been dead. That I’d narrowed the range to the last eighty years.

“Hot damn!” Doyle said, twirling her fork in the air.

Zanetti shot her a look of faux disapproval.

I couldn’t disagree with Doyle. My achievement so far was pretty lame.

Doyle had spent the time between her eleven and four o’clock broadcasts researching the second Foggy Bottom property that had burned. As with the first, it had changed hands several times over the years.

“Might turn into a story, might not,” Doyle said in conclusion.

“It’s a long shot.” Zanetti sounded skeptical.

“Better than no shot at all.”

“Watergate was a long shot,” I said.

“I’ve heard of that,” Zanetti said, deadpan.

Doyle said she planned to stay on it.

As we were finishing the custard, Doyle asked when I planned to head back to North Carolina. I explained that my departure was delayed because of ME files I’d been duped into reviewing.

Zanetti proposed a toast to celebrate my prolonged stay. I clinked the rim of my tumbler to the rims of their crystal goblets. Mine held Lacroix grapefruit sparkling water, theirs a lovely Willamette Valley pinot noir.

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