Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman Page B

unless instructed. Simple. So simple.
    “I didn’t break any rules.”
    “Berge Nordkild?”
    “What about him?”
    “Questions about Ambassador James’s death.”
    “Idle conversation. We had a social lunch, a food-testing session actually. Of course James came up. Nordkild was at the party.”
    “And you had no professional interest in the questions you asked him.”
    “That’s right.” Morizio got up, took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. He yanked his tie loose from his neck and dropped it on the jacket. He didn’t want to demonstrate the anger he felt. It would accomplish nothing, be counter-productive, end up in unpleasantness. He sat down and sampled his cognac.
    “The James matter is over, Captain Morizio. It was a tragic experience that has been resolved.”
    “Has it? What about the valet, Hafez?”
    “Under arrest.”
    Morizio sat up. “When?”
    “Yesterday, in Iran.”
    “In Iran? He went back?”
    “Yes. He’ll be prosecuted there.”
    “For poisoning Ambassador James.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Why not extradite him to England?”
    Thorpe laughed and extended his empty glass toward Morizio. “I’d love another. Extradite from Iran? Our Arab neighbors are not interested in the civilized manner in which we function. In some ways they have apoint. Extradition would mean red tape, delays, negotiations. Have you ever lived in an Arab state, Sal?”
    “Now it’s Sal.”
    “You prefer, ‘Captain’?”
    “I don’t prefer anything.”
    “You are, of course, now ready to accept the fact that the James case has reached its logical conclusion. There’s no need to ask questions of anyone any longer. Justice has been done. If you do understand that, then first names are again appropriate.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    Thorpe smiled. “Excellent bourbon. Please.”
    Morizio, too, smiled as he went to the kitchen to refill the glass. There was something strange and inherently charming about George Thorpe. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he enjoyed his company or detested him, but because there was that ambivalence, the tendency was to go along. He brought Thorpe his second drink, settled on the couch, and asked, “How do you know I talked to Berge Nordkild?”
    “Irrelevant.”
    “Not to me.”
    “Too many things have relevancy for you.”
    “What’s relevant to you, Thorpe?”
    “The quality of my life. I’m dedicated to direct routes, to taking highways rather than winding country roads.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To simplicity, Captain Morizio. It’s a significantly more rewarding way to live.”
    Morizio drank, said, “Sometimes the simple way doesn’t work.”
    “It always works, Captain, if one limits the relevancies in one’s life. Take me for instance. I don’t own a cat or a dog, nor are there any plants in my house. There is nothing I must care for except George Thorpe.”
    “Sounds dull.”
    “It works. Simplicity.”
    “Lonely?”
    “Alone, not lonely.” He crossed his legs and drew a deep breath before finishing his drink. Morizio hoped he wasn’t about to settle in for the night.
    “A nightcap, Thorpe? Then I have to turn in. It’s been a long day.”
    “Yes, of course.” He handed Morizio his glass. “Where is Miss Lake tonight?”
    “Home,” Morizio said over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. He stood in front of the sink and thought about Thorpe’s claim that Nuri Hafez had returned to Iran and had been arrested. He didn’t buy it. He poured the bourbon over the ice cubes and again felt anger scrape his belly. He’d been followed to Berge Nordkild’s office, had probably been under surveillance all the while. He didn’t like it, and by the time he handed Thorpe his glass he was ready to vent his feelings.
    “Why was I followed?” he asked as he sat across from Thorpe and stared at him.
    Thorpe laughed and shook his head. “Too many years as a police officer, Sal, too many years developing the paranoia common to