Read Online Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Truman
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to any nation remain the sole purview of that mission. However, because of the circumstances surrounding the death of Ambassador James, this mission sought the help of its host country, the United States of America. An autopsy was performed on the ambassador by the excellent forensic division of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department. It was determined, as a result of that forensic exploration, that the cause of death was poison, to be more precise, a highly toxic and fast-acting poison called ricin.”
There was a flurry of activity in the room. A series of questions came from the floor, but Barnsworth shook his head and held up a hand. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to complete my statement.” When reporters continued to ask questions, Jack Boyingtontook the microphone and announced that if order was not restored, the press conference would be terminated. That did it, and Barnsworth continued. “Obviously, this loss has been felt deeply within this mission, and within Great Britain. It is little consolation that the identity of this great man’s murderer is known.”
Again, a roar of comment and question.
Barnsworth ignored the disruption this time. He cleared his throat with surprising gusto, grasped the flexible mike stand and said loudly, “Geoffrey James, Her Majesty’s ambassador to the United States, was poisoned to death by one Nuri Hafez, an Iranian who had been rescued from Iran by the deceased ambassador, and who had served as his valet and chauffeur ever since. The evidence against Nuri Hafez is overwhelming and beyond debate, and an international warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
The questions erupted. “Where is he?”… “What’s his background?”… “Was the limousine found this morning at the Iranian Embassy connected with it?”
Barnsworth pressed on, and his words caused the reporters to cease their questioning. “A printed statement regarding the death of Ambassador James and background information on his murder has been prepared and is available for each of you at the conclusion of this conference. I would like to express Her Majesty’s profound appreciation for the invaluable aid and cooperation of the United States government, and for the same spirit of friendship and help from this city’s Metropolitan Police Department, Donald J. Trottier, chief of police, and Detective Captain Salvatore Morizio, coordinator of intracity security. Their contributions and professional excellence have been exemplary. That concludes my official statement.”
Press secretary Boyington took the microphone andinvited questions, then immediately turned it over to Trottier, who launched into answers that sounded more, to Morizio, like a campaign speech.
Morizio hopped down from the platform. “Can I help you?” Thorpe asked. Morizio shook his head and headed for the foyer where he cornered an embassy security guard. “Is Paul Pringle here?” he asked.
“Mr. Pringle? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”
“Thanks.”
Morizio crossed a corridor leading to the embassy’s main entrance and motioned to guards at a desk behind a series of sliding bulletproof doors. He waved his ID. After some scrutiny, a button was pushed and the doors slid open. “Captain Morizio, MPD,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Paul Pringle.”
“Pringle.” One of the guards consulted an internal directory. “Sorry, sir, Mr. Pringle is no longer with us.”
“That can’t be,” Morizio said. “He was here a few days ago.”
Another of the guards said pleasantly, “That he was, sir, but he’s been dispatched to special duty back home.”
“England?”
“Yes, sir, that is home.”
“Can you connect me with his office?”
The guard laughed. “He doesn’t have an office any longer.”
“Thanks,” said Morizio. “If Paul Pringle passes through on his way home, please give him this.” He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled on the back—“
Paul, please
There was a flurry of activity in the room. A series of questions came from the floor, but Barnsworth shook his head and held up a hand. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to complete my statement.” When reporters continued to ask questions, Jack Boyingtontook the microphone and announced that if order was not restored, the press conference would be terminated. That did it, and Barnsworth continued. “Obviously, this loss has been felt deeply within this mission, and within Great Britain. It is little consolation that the identity of this great man’s murderer is known.”
Again, a roar of comment and question.
Barnsworth ignored the disruption this time. He cleared his throat with surprising gusto, grasped the flexible mike stand and said loudly, “Geoffrey James, Her Majesty’s ambassador to the United States, was poisoned to death by one Nuri Hafez, an Iranian who had been rescued from Iran by the deceased ambassador, and who had served as his valet and chauffeur ever since. The evidence against Nuri Hafez is overwhelming and beyond debate, and an international warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
The questions erupted. “Where is he?”… “What’s his background?”… “Was the limousine found this morning at the Iranian Embassy connected with it?”
Barnsworth pressed on, and his words caused the reporters to cease their questioning. “A printed statement regarding the death of Ambassador James and background information on his murder has been prepared and is available for each of you at the conclusion of this conference. I would like to express Her Majesty’s profound appreciation for the invaluable aid and cooperation of the United States government, and for the same spirit of friendship and help from this city’s Metropolitan Police Department, Donald J. Trottier, chief of police, and Detective Captain Salvatore Morizio, coordinator of intracity security. Their contributions and professional excellence have been exemplary. That concludes my official statement.”
Press secretary Boyington took the microphone andinvited questions, then immediately turned it over to Trottier, who launched into answers that sounded more, to Morizio, like a campaign speech.
Morizio hopped down from the platform. “Can I help you?” Thorpe asked. Morizio shook his head and headed for the foyer where he cornered an embassy security guard. “Is Paul Pringle here?” he asked.
“Mr. Pringle? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”
“Thanks.”
Morizio crossed a corridor leading to the embassy’s main entrance and motioned to guards at a desk behind a series of sliding bulletproof doors. He waved his ID. After some scrutiny, a button was pushed and the doors slid open. “Captain Morizio, MPD,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Paul Pringle.”
“Pringle.” One of the guards consulted an internal directory. “Sorry, sir, Mr. Pringle is no longer with us.”
“That can’t be,” Morizio said. “He was here a few days ago.”
Another of the guards said pleasantly, “That he was, sir, but he’s been dispatched to special duty back home.”
“England?”
“Yes, sir, that is home.”
“Can you connect me with his office?”
The guard laughed. “He doesn’t have an office any longer.”
“Thanks,” said Morizio. “If Paul Pringle passes through on his way home, please give him this.” He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled on the back—“
Paul, please
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