19.2 Water Gate Inn

It took them three hours to breathe some air and the bottle was half empty. They ordered brunch.

“Who could have killed Howard Tuner?” Adams looked tired, “Maybe the Russians, maybe Gumper!”

“Are you going to investigate these guys, Alexey, Bradley, General Howe, Sivils and Gumper?”

“We cannot go after those guys and Macedon Air in another part of the world,” voiced John Adams, “Jair Sivils has returned to Spain to face with this bankruptcy trial. FBI do not have the legal authority to act outside the United States jurisdiction.”

“KGB can,” uttered Tyler.

“Yes, they do, immorally. I’m afraid, you haven’t got one piece of evidence of a leaked secret document to hold against them.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Are you going to meet General Howe?”

“Of course,” Tyler retorted, “he owes me fifteen grand and I’m going to prepare a report to submit to him. I want you to get me a typewriter.”

“I can get you a typewriter. By the way,” Adams asked, “will you be willing to wear a wire?”

“No,” Tyler claimed, “I think I’m done with it.”

“Come on! He’s a tough cookie!”

“I’d rather stay out of it.”

John Adams quoted, “Once you say you’re going to settle for second, that’s what happens to you in life.” He took a sip from his glass and changed the topic, “How do you communicate with these shaman folks?”

“They are nice people though they look strange with small eyes and long scary faces.”

“Scary faces?”

“How can I describe! I do not have a picture! You know that scary face painted by that famous artist?”

“Who?” quizzed Adams.

“I cannot remember his name,” said Tyler, “It’s a very famous painting of a scary face. You’ll find his work in a gallery. Anything he draws is out of proportion.”

“Edvard Munch!”

“Is he?”

“Scream!”

“Exactly!” cried Tyler, “The Scream!”

Almost the end of April and Tyler Friesen still in Washington DC was getting ready to visit his old friend, General Allan Denis Howe, in Dallas. One day, Tyler had gone to an area called Foggy Bottom by the Potomac River and not far from his hotel in a mile distance. He climbed down from the cab on Virginia Avenue and began to walk. At that point he noticed the cranes and covered scaffolds of a heavy construction site around a hotel complex and turned to a road on his left which was the 25^th Street NW. His next turn to his right was F Street NW. This road was blocked by bulldozers and cranes.

On his left there stood an eatery with a big signboard that read ‘WATER GATE INN – Luncheon, Cocktails, Dinner’. He entered a rustic looking restaurant with few people. Red and white checkered tablecloths and wooden chairs, timber beams, emblematic décors, large windows and a quaintness to the place. He sat down beside a table with an appetite and ordered a large meal from the menu; piping hot popovers with melting butter, rich Mennonite chicken in sour cream gravy and dunker soup, bread-and-butter pickles and apple tart pie. Food was excellent.

The owner of the restaurant told him that the US government asked her to sell her lot because they wanted to merge this area with the construction of a memorial centre. She demanded a million dollars but she was not going to get it. Marjory Hendricks ran this eatery at 2700 F Street NW now for twenty-four years.

A man approached his table. A thin tall guy with a big black moustache and stood smiling down at him. In the next step, he pulled a chair and sat down by the table without Tyler’s consent. He expressed, “I know you,” still smiling, “You are Tyler Friesen. I saw you on TV.” He wore black trousers and a yellow bush shirt, casually dressed, of an Italian descent.

Tyler, little disturbed, said nothing.

He picked a toothpick and uttered, “His name is Gumper, Randy Gumper.”

Tyler remained silent.

That man picked his tooth mannerlessly, “From Arizona State Teachers College in Tempe.”

“Who are you?” Tyler voiced in surprise.

He glanced up and down brashly and whispered, “He is Robert Maxwell.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Hush!” he sneered and said, “You don’t have to know me. Gumper uses an ex-girlfriend to do all his dirty work. Her name is Candice Staverton. She lives in Tempe, on Velutina Drive. She comes here to Washington to meet her friend, Andrey Makarov, who works for the Embassy of the Soviet Union.”

“Are you FBI?”

Tyler discussed with no one of Robert D Maxwell other than John Adams and Lt Colonel Rolnik during his meeting. Only the FBI would know.

He slammed his palms on the table and rose to his feet, “It is the same guy.” This man in his mid-thirties stepped away and was gone without looking back.

Tyler Friesen lost his appetite. He remembered the address card with Robert D Maxwell’s name on it. He couldn’t recall the number but Velutina it was. He should write to Cherry and Samvel Salazar in Armenia and get the photographs and film reels back. At least, he should bother to send them a postcard.