Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

down by MPD ten years ago and had settled for the embassy patrol. He liked police work. He liked uniforms.
    He hugged the curb across from the South AfricanEmbassy. The three-story white cinderblock building was dark, just as it had been during his initial run. He yawned, put the gearshift of his unmarked car into DRIVE , and proceeded at a snail’s pace, stopping across from a two-story white building whose windows were covered by ornate blue metal grillwork with bronze tulips woven into the design. The number was 3005. A weathered wooden sign read: EMBASSY OF THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN . It was translated below into Arabic.
    The Iranian Embassy in Washington had been vacant since diplomatic relations between Iran and the United States had crumbled in 1980. It—and other buildings owned by Iran—had dramatically deteriorated, prompting constant protests from neighbors. A thick layer of leaves covered the front lawn. The flagpole was bare. Blue-and-white Persian ceramic tiles on the front of the building were stained and lifeless.
    Jones was about to continue on his route when a light flickered in an upstairs window. “It’s supposed to be empty,” he told himself. The light continued to dance, then vanished. The window was black.
    He made a careful U-turn, pulled into a driveway in front of the embassy, and shined a flashlight on large wooden front doors whose windows were covered with bronze scenes of stags, horses, and lions locked in combat.
    Jones followed the driveway to the rear of the building where the garages were located. One of the overhead doors was raised a few feet. As he got out of the car, a gust of wind picked up dry leaves and swirled them into his face. He came around the front of the car, stooped, and directed the beam of his flashlight beneath the door. There was a vehicle inside. Jones pushed up on the door and it retracted with a bang.
    The vehicle was a black Cadillac limousine. Its licenseplate designated it as belonging to the diplomatic corps. Jones entered the garage and opened the driver’s door. The interior light came on. The sun visor was down. A sign attached to it read: OFFICIAL BUSINESS—BRITISH EMBASSY .
    Jones stood in the garage and pondered the situation. There was no reason for a limousine from the British Embassy to be there. The Iranian Embassy had been vacant for years. All abandoned cars had been towed away. Jones looked to where he’d left his patrol car running and debated whether to call in or to give his report in person. Calling in would mean staying there—and he was already a few minutes past quitting time. Willard Jones always had trouble making decisions. This time, the decision was taken out of his hands. A man stepped into the garage through a door shrouded in shadow, came up behind Jones, and brought a tire iron down on his neck. Jones’s head snapped back and his pupils disappeared behind his eyelids. A rush of air exploded from his lungs and filled the garage with an anguished, breathy scream. He pitched forward over the limousine’s hood, his fingers grasping the smooth black metal as he slowly slid back toward the floor. By the time he reached it he was unconscious.
    His attacker grabbed Jones’s feet and dragged him into a corner of the garage, went inside the embassy, and returned moments later carrying two black leather satchels. He took keys from his pocket and climbed behind the wheel of the limo, shook his head, got out, put the keys on the seat, left the garage, pulled down the overhead door, and quickly walked to Massachusetts Avenue. The sun was higher and traffic had begun to build. He went right, passed the three-story white Embassy of South Africa and stopped in front of a park across from the British Embassy. He climbed a slight rise to where the heavily wooded park began. Therewas a wooden bench, and a sign that read: NORMANSTONE TRAIL—TRAIL MAINTAINED BY THE POTOMAC-APPALACHIAN TRAIL CLUB . An arrow pointed toward the British Embassy