Cocktails and Murder on the Potomac

By Mary-Jane Deeb

Mary-Jane Deeb holds a Ph.D. in International Relations from the School of Advanced International Studies at the Johns Hopkins University. She has taught at American University in Washington for almost a decade, and now holds the position of Arab world Area Specialist at the Library of Congress.

In addition to her teaching career, Deeb has published three academic books and over sixty articles, book chapters and book reviews on Middle East politics. Between 1995 and 1998 she was the Editor-in-chief of The Middle East Journal and as such travelled widely in Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. She is fluent in French and Arabic and can read a number of other languages. Deeb brings her own personal knowledge of the Washington social scene to bear on the murder-mystery plot of Cocktails and Murder on the Potomac her first novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 19, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462807406

Mary-Jane Deeb

Mary-Jane Deeb holds a Ph.D. in International Relations from the School of Advanced International Studies at the Johns Hopkins University. She has taught at American University in Washington for almost a decade, and now holds the position of Arab world Area Specialist at the Library of Congress. In addition to her teaching career, Deeb has published three academic books and over sixty articles, book chapters and book reviews on Middle East politics. Between 1995 and 1998 she was the Editor-in-chief of The Middle East Journal and as such travelled widely in Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. She is fluent in French and Arabic and can read a number of other languages. Deeb brings her own personal knowledge of the Washington social scene to bear on the murder-mystery plot of Cocktails and Murder on the Potomac her first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

A BANQUET IN CRYSTAL CITY

It was to have been just another Washington dinner. Formal, boring, and made more tedious by the bland and insipid food that was served. But perhaps life was beginning to taste like a rubber chicken, and that is why we chose to spice it up . . .

The National Policy Group was holding its annual dinner. The keynote speaker was to be the secretary of state, who because of scheduling problems, was to make his speech before the dinner and then leave. But we were late. By the time we arrived at the Marriott, the doors of the main ballroom were shut. A few poor souls were waiting outside in the corridor. Then we heard the roar of applause—It was loud, enthusiastic, and marked the end of the speech.

The doors opened, and we walked in. Danny saw us and waved. He was sitting at a table just under that of the guests of honor from which the secretary of state had just been whisked away after his speech.

Sorry about the mix-up. The directions I gave you yesterday were for the Marriott in Rosslyn instead of Crystal City. I tried to call you this afternoon but you had already left.

A bucktoothed, bewhiskered businessman, with a velvety voice that belied his shrewd nature, Danny was a childhood friend of Julius, my husband. He pointed to the two empty seats at the table:

They’ve been waiting for you.

His wife, Linda, a doe-eyed brunette who owns her own ex- clusive Italian boutique, and believes that this entitles her to an honorary Italian citizenship, blew us a kiss from across the table.

You’re OK, carissime? What was it? The traffic? She stretched out her hand languidly and smiled with half closed eyes.

No, it was Danny’s instructions. The traffic didn’t help either, Julius grumbled.

At the table were Caroline, Paul, Tony and Eva. Paul and Caroline had just returned from Venezuela where he had been chairing a conference on US-Venezuelan trade relations. Paul was the dream dean of the School of International Affairs at American University. Tall, permanently tanned, and with a dazzling smile, he could charm any Wall Street tightwad tycoon into making generous donations to his university.

Julius, you missed the best speech on US policy towards the Middle-East this secretary of state has made since he came to office— and you call yourself a political scientist! grinned Paul.

If my career depended on Danny’s directions, I’d be unemployed ! Julius glared at Danny.

We sat down and ordered a drink. Paul was fidgety-the secretary’s speech had been too long.

Caroline, come, let’s jog around the pool until they feed us . . . Bound to be tasteless anyway, so if we miss dinner it won’t be a great loss.

Lean and trim, and as athletic as Paul, Caroline sprung from her seat.

Sure! We’re likely to be sitting here for another two hours. She looked up at Paul with a naughty twinkle. We couldn’t just slip away, could we?

Unfortunately not. I must report to my board on what happened here tonight.

He pulled Caroline away and they went off to stretch their legs, walking in perfect unison like two thoroughbred horses.

I turned to Eva,

I love your new hair-cut! I was admiring the short, blond bob, that was the perfect frame for her heart-shaped face and snub nose. She pouted.

Tony hates it. He wants me to keep my hair long. Look at him. He’s been sulking the whole evening.

Tony was drowning his sorrows in a glass of beer. He winked at me:

I plan on sulking until her hair grows back to at least shoulder-length.

How long do you think that’ll be? I asked.

Well at least until the dinner speakers finish their talks . . . although her hair may reach her waist by then.

I looked at the dinner speakers seated at the table of honor. There was a well-known short-story writer having a heated discussion with a famous television show host, who was turning his back to a familiar UN envoy to the Middle East. The latter was chatting with a stunningly beautiful woman. She looked Middle Eastern, with jet black hair pulled back in a fancy chignon, ivory pale skin and enormous brown eyes. She wore a slinky mauve chiffon dress and expensive looking jewelry. Two other guests were standing next to her, laughing loudly. I recognized them instantly from their photographs in the papers: one was an internationally known Middle Eastern financier and the other was the son of Sultan Mohamed bin Sharif, the wealthy potentate of an oil emirate, Prince Faysal bin Mohamed.

Our host this evening was the president of the National Policy Group, the organization that was sponsoring this dinner. This organization promoted better international understanding and was often a forum for speeches by members of the administration in Washington, and foreign policy pundits. The president tapped on the microphone, cleared his throat, and then announced that dinner was to be served momentarily and suggested we all take our places. Out of breath and laughing, Caroline and Paul returned from their tour of the pool just as the food was being brought to the table.

Apart from the salad, the pale grey chicken and the wilting string beans were inedible. We all chewed on pieces of lettuce, moved our beans around the plate in the muddy gravy, and focused our attention on the rather good California Beaujolais. Conversation was desultory.

As my eyes wandered around the room I noticed that the beautiful woman at the table of honor was no longer there. I wondered if she had been as bored as we were and had found some excuse to leave the room.

The president, a short and somewhat rotund man, seemed rather nervous. He was constantly looking at his watch and then at the door. He talked to the people on his right, then turned to those on his left, and they just shrugged their shoulders.

Finally, he got up and, after wiping his bald head with a big white handkerchief, began to introduce the guest speakers. Each was an important person in his or her own right. Some had something significant to say, others little that was worth listening to. Some were funny, others bland, and a couple should have remained silent, but all were kept strictly to a five minute limit by the president. We clapped politely after each speech.

Then there was no one else but the beautiful woman who had not returned to her seat. The president stood up to say something, when a waiter came up to his table and handed him a note, nodding towards the entrance door. After reading it the president sat down abruptly. He seemed shocked and bewildered and passed the note to the UN delegate next to him who read it and passed it on down the table. Gradually, everyone in the room became aware that something was wrong and people fell silent waiting for someone to tell them what was going on.

The president finally staggered up, and holding on to the table for support, he announced in a rather shaky voice:

Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Leila Salem has been called away on urgent business. She will not be able to give her talk tonight and she has asked me to apologize for her. Thank you all very much for coming, and goodnight.

People began getting up, looking rather puzzled, and talking to each other. Soon they were streaming out of the room and we were about to follow, when I decided to go up to the UN envoy who was still sitting at the table of honor. I had attended his talk on Islamic fundamentalism in Algeria, at Georgetown University the previous week, and wanted to ask him to send me a copy of his paper so that I could publish it in the academic journal I edited.

As I came up to the table the president of the National Policy Group and the television personality rushed passed me out of the room, while the others stood together talking in muffled tones. only the UN envoy sat prostrate with a note in his hands reading and re-reading it.

Hallo, I am Magda Lieb, I attended your lecture last week at Georgetown . . ."

He looked up,

She has been kidnapped. They have taken Leila away . . .

I could not believe what I was hearing. I must have looked totally bewildered because he handed me the note. Sure enough cut out of a newspaper were words stuck on a white sheet of paper with the Marriott Hotel letter head that read: Leila Salem will not speak tonight and perhaps never again. She is a traitor and a spy. We will hold her until she recants publicly. It was unsigned. I handed it back to the envoy without a word.

Just then the president came bustling back. Where is the note? Ah there it is! he exclaimed, snatching it from the envoy’s hand. We have phoned the police and the FBI. They will be here any time. He looked at me suspiciously, Is there anything I can do for you?

No, no. I just came to say hallo to Mr. Sahnoun, that’s all.

Excusing myself, I hurried away and joined my friends who were chatting.

Let’s go to Café Torrino to continue the evening. This dinner party was no fun at all, Paul was saying cheerfully.

I took Julius’ hand absent-mindedly as we walked to the elevators to go to the garage.

Are you alright? Julius asked, looking concerned.

Yes, I’m alright. I’ll tell you what happened when we get in the car.

Once on the road, I told him about my encounter with the UN envoy.

Who is Leila Salem? I asked.

She is a famous journalist, who also writes satirical essays and plays under the pen name L.S.

Of course L.S. the initials that revealed neither her sex nor her identity. Her work had been translated in many languages and she was feared and criticized by many in high places for her denunciation of corruption, and abuses of power. She had worked for Amnesty International for a couple of years before becoming a journalist, and had covered the conditions of political prisoners in the Middle East, South East Asia and other parts of the world. She had many enemies around the world but also many friends. She always shied from publicity and rarely spoke in public gatherings preferring to be known only for her writings. She had even resorted at times to wearing large glasses and scarfs so as not to be recognized, and there were very few photographs of her anywhere.

But then why was she attending this dinner tonight? I asked. She who shuns the public, suddenly decides to be a guest of honor at a dinner of eight hundred people, a U.S. Secretary of State, and a whole bunch of well known public figures?

I don’t know. It is very odd. Come to think of it, her name was not mentioned on the invitation card that listed all the other guests of honor, answered Julius.

So it must have been a last minute decision. Or else she did not want people to know that she would be giving a speech, I said.

We arrived at Café Torrino just as the others were pulling into the garage. The Café had opened a few months earlier in Georgetown. It was run by a young Italian, named Franco, and specialized in a few excellent Italian dishes, each of which had been given the name of a famous Italian designer. There were Fettuccini Narciso, and Lazagna Valentino and a Rissotto Versace.

The Café’s wines were all Italian and excellent, and apart from the sorbets de rigeur, Café Torrino served an exquisite Tiramisu, a dessert made of a coffee cream with liqueur over ladies fingers that literally melted in your mouth.

Café Torrino became a favourite haunt of ours from the moment it opened. It was simply decorated: mainly with ties and scarfs on the walls from the various Italian designers, stark black and white furniture, and a black lacqueur and gold bar that occupied half the room. The Café’s particular charm was that it was always crowded. There never seemed to be a table for dinner and yet whenever we arrived, Franco would always manage to find us a table. I never quite understood how he did that, but there it was.

An international crowd, mainly from the Mediterranean, began frequenting the place, a crowd that was used to café life in Europe and did not feel guilty about sitting and chatting for hours over a light dinner, or sipping a glass of Guinness draught beer and discussing passionately the merits of crossing the Atlantic in a sail boat. The clients were generally in their twenties and thirties and liked music. So Franco would sometimes have live bands come and play in a corner near the door or just put tapes and people would get up and dance between the tables because there was no dance floor.

Franco welcomed us with his half-grin and little twinkle:

"I was able to keep your favorite table in the corner, even though some very important people came and I had to turn them away . . ."

He grinned again, and we were never sure if the story was true or if he was just making it up to make us feel special.

We sat down and ordered drinks and Franco’s special dip and his little canapés with chopped tomatoes and parsley.

That was a funny evening, Paul said biting into the little toasted breads. Something must have happened to this Leila what’s-her-name, for her to disappear like this.

Something did happen, and sipping my Cinzano I told them about my encounter with the UN envoy.

Oh my, said Caroline, Who could have done that? And why?

Some extremist political group, apparently, said Paul.

Perhaps she was going to disclose something very important and someone wanted to keep her quiet, I conjectured.

She could not do it in her column for some reason and had to reveal it publicly—Perhaps the people involved were in the room, added Julius, And she had to be silenced before she could talk.

or, she is very rich and someone is trying to get her family to pay ransom. The traitor bit may be just a smokescreen, suggested Eva.

"I heard she was not married but was having an affair with someone powerful and married," added Linda. Rumors and gossip were an essential part of her work. Society ladies came to her boutique almost as often to hear the most recent scandal, as they did to look at her latest collection of Milanese clothes. So it was essential that she keep an ear to the ground although the information she gathered was not always accurate.

Well then, the wife of the powerful lover may have wanted to get rid of her and tried to make it look like a political kidnapping, advanced Caroline.

What if it was not a political disclosure but a scandal in the business world that would have ruined some big businessmen and created havoc with major financial institutions? Danny said, Remember the BCCI scandal a few months ago that brought down so many important national and international business and political figures?

There are a lot of crooked things that take place in the international business world that go unreported. As an investigative journalist she could have found out some very important information, and had to reveal it before it was too late to do something about it, added Tony.

Paul was looking thoughtfully at one of the scarfs on the wall. Suddenly he jumped up,

I’ve got a great idea. What about finding out what really happened tonight?

We all stared at him not quite following his train of thought.

What I’m saying is this: what if we take it upon ourselves, for the sheer fun of it, to find out who kidnapped Leila Salem and why? We all have a large network of friends and acquaintances, here and abroad, who might know Leila Salem and her entourage and could help us find the truth. We are imaginative people with different talents and ideas, and if we put our minds to it I am sure we could find the solution to this mystery.

The idea appealed to me enormously. I always loved detective stories and had been a fan of Agatha Christie for years. That sounded like something right out of her novels. Furthermore, life had been rather dull recently.

But how are we going to go about it? asked Eva, always very practical. I mean, the police, the FBI, perhaps even the CIA are all investigating the disappearance—What role can we have?

Eva’s right, chipped in Danny. It’s all very well to sit and talk about it, but why should people want to talk to us?

Well, perhaps because we’re not the police, retorted Paul, because they may reveal things to us that they would not tell the police.

Julius interrupted, That’s a great idea. Why don’t we give it a shot? Let’s carry out an independent investigation. If we’re successful we’ll let the authorities in on our findings. And if we fail, well we would have had fun playing amateur detectives.

But where do we begin? the voice of reason from Eva.

Let’s start with the guests of honor. They must have known her. Perhaps they may give us some clues as to what she was going to say that could help us find out why she was kidnapped in the first place, I retorted.

Come over for a brunch next Sunday at our place, suggested Paul. And we can draw up our plan of action. What about it? All in favor say ‘aye’, those opposed say ‘nay’.

Aye, we shouted as one, making the people at the tables next to us jump and look alarmed.

We had all got into the spirit of the game, for that was the way we saw it then. Little did we know that the matter was much more serious than we could have imagined. Seated in a cozy corner in the Café Torrino, we felt brave, bold and adventurous.

CHAPTER II

TEA WITH THE PRINCE

Sunday was a warm and lovely Washington spring day. The cherry blossoms were out, the pink and red azaleas gave every front porch a freshly painted look, and dogwoods stretched out their limbs, lazily, while white petals floated down around us.

When we arrived at their little Georgetown house, Paul and Caroline were preparing a brunch on the patio. They had just run four miles, and looked fit and tanned. Paul was trying to barbecue some sausages and bacon while Eva was chatting excitedly at his side causing him to drop his utensils, burn his fingers and curse. Caroline had just finished mixing her special Mimosa, made of one-third champagne and two-thirds grapefruit juice, and looked as fresh and cool as her drink. Linda had curled up on a wicker chair, and was soaking up the sun, while Danny was struggling unsuccessfully to open a parasol to stay in the shade. Tony had moved indoors in search of something more substantive than a Mimosa.

Brunch is ready everybody. Come and get your plates and help yourselves, Paul called.

We helped ourselves from the warm croissants, barbecued bacon and sausages, scrambled eggs, tomatoes and mozarella cheese, and from an enormous bowl of fresh strawberries laid out on a side table under the dogwood tree.

Did you hear anything about the case of the disappearing journalist? asked Tony.

"There was a little item in the Washington Post the next day.

It just said that the police and the FBI were investigating," answered Julius.

Did you see any of the people who were at the table of honor, since we last saw them? asked Paul.

None of us had.

You know, Prince Faysal and I had met before that banquet, said Julius, after a little pause. "It