“Then how did his prints get on the letter and the envelope?”
“Blank paper,” said Jenny. “Maybe somebody got into his house. We all stack paper in our printers. Somebody could have taken the bottom page from the feeder. Or better, somebody hands Mirza a blank piece of paper in an envelope. He opens it, looks at it. Whoever gives it to him says, “Oops, wrong envelope,” takes it back, and gives him something else. Mirza never thinks twice about it. The contents of the letter are then typed or printed on the blank page and suddenly the witness is confronted with it in court.”
“You’re forgetting something. How did the letter get into Mirza’s safe-deposit box?” said Madriani.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You said it was found inside an envelope with some insurance documents.”
“Right.”
“Where did the insurance papers come from?”
“I don’t know. I assume an insurance agency.”
“Yes and we, as well as the court, all assumed that Mirza either hid the letter or misfiled it with his insurance papers. Now let me ask you, who reads insurance documents?” said Jenny.
Paul looked at her. “Nobody.”
“Exactly. You receive them and you file them away somewhere safe. Anybody could have gotten to that manila envelope with the insurance documents and slipped whatever they wanted in it before it was delivered to Mirza. Look again and you might find pictures of Mirza shooting from the grassy knoll in Dealey Plaza.”
Paul thought for a moment. “And who knew exactly where to look for the letter?”
“Rashid,” said Jenny. She looked at her watch, picked up the receiver on the nightstand, and started dialing, first an outside line.
“Who are you calling?”
“Alex. I need to pick her brain, but it’s going right to voice mail.”
“She may still be airborne,” Paul said.
Jenny tried again and asked for information this time.
“I would like the phone number for New York, the United Nations, UNESCO, if there is a separate listing.”
“What about his business card?” said Paul.
Jenny shook her head. “If I’m right, that’s probably an answering service. They’ll answer with any name a client gives them.”
Ten minutes later they had the news. The good part was that UNESCO had its own main number; the bad news was that no one by the name of Samir Rashid worked there. There was no listing under that name for any employee.
Jenny slammed the receiver into the cradle. “He played you and Alex like a piano. How the hell did he get into the building? His office?”
“After hours. On a Saturday night,” said Paul. “And the janitor who just happened to be going in through the side door. The man is just full of coincidences. He used the service elevator instead of the bank of elevators near the main entrance. I should have known it was way too smooth.”
“No going through security,” said Jenny.
“Exactly. He probably paid the janitor at the door to let Alex and me in. You hang a few pictures and certificates on the wall, put a holder with business cards on the desk, slip a plastic plaque with your name on the office door and you’re in business. What we saw is what he wanted us to see. It’s all about confidence,” said Paul. “Put yourself in the right setting, surround yourself with a cloak of authority, and you can peddle anything.”
“To two gullible lawyers, searching for the truth,” said Jenny. “And all you got was smoke and mirrors. Alex will go ballistic.”
“Don’t be so hard on us. We were the perfect marks. I’ve got a loser of a case. He’s got the answer, the solution to all my problems. He plays on the interests of justice. We both wanted the fair result, especially when we figured out that Mustaffa was being set up.”
“Why does he want to get Mustaffa off?” said Jenny.
“Mustaffa killed Spinova,” said Paul. “He had something Rashid wanted and he was holding it over Rashid’s head unless Rashid helped him beat the charges.”
“What?”
“The CIA memorandum,” said Paul.
“What? You think that was real?” said Jenny.
“The best con is one that includes a kernel of truth. Mustaffa killed Spinova to get the memo — and he got it. But in the process he got nailed. Mirza saw him dump the body. Cops caught up with him and Mustaffa used the memo which, unless I’m wrong, identifies Rashid as the mastermind behind the Cairo Museum theft. Mustaffa used the memo to extort Rashid. ‘Help me or else.’ If Mustaffa goes down for the count, he uses the memo and the evidence in it to cut a deal for himself come sentencing.”
“Enter two overanxious lawyers,” said Jenny. “And Alex, trying to do the right thing by the dead woman. Make sure the wrong guy isn’t convicted unfairly. Those autopsy pictures haunted her.”
“Now Mustaffa’s dead. The memo’s gone,” said Paul, “and God knows where Rashid is, assuming that’s even his name, which you and I both know it is not. He may be a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.”
“I hate being used like this,” said Jenny.
“You think I like it? I had an obligation to defend Mustaffa to the best of my ability. But suborning perjury was not included among my services.”
“So what do we do?” said Jenny.
“You got me,” said Paul. “We could go to the trial judge and the DA and explain what happened. Of course, what good is that? Even if Mustaffa were alive he would be beyond the reach of the court, double jeopardy being what it is, which is redundant in this case since he’s dead.”
“Rashid is a coconspirator,” said Jenny. “He’s still liable.”
“Try and find him,” said Paul. “He’s busy peddling his wares, little golden statues, remember?”
“Yes, I heard about them,” said Jenny. She thought for a moment. There was a twinkle in her eye. “That’s it!”
“What?”
“The answer.”
“The answer to what?” said Paul.
“A woman scorned. Alex will want a hand in this. Maybe the DA will listen to her now.”
Eight days later a sleek Gulfstream G650 touched down on the runway at the heavily guarded airport just outside Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. It taxied to a stop in front of a large hangar as the stairway was wheeled up next to the door. It swung open and a man stepped out onto the platform. He was carrying a small wooden box under one arm.
The man who called himself Samir Rashid looked down at the official entourage waiting for him at the foot of the steps, behind them the line of shiny black limousines and security cars waiting to escort him to the government house, what is called the Grand People’s Study House.
Rashid walked briskly down the steps until he reached the tarmac, where he extended his right hand in greeting toward the general who was first in line. Before the officer could take it, a guard stepped around him and quickly slapped the cold, hard metal of handcuffs around Rashid’s right wrist. Another guard took possession of the wooden box while they manacled Rashid’s other hand.
“What is this? What are you doing?”
“Silence,” said the general. “You will come with me. Is this the statue?” He gestured toward the box.
“It is, and your leader will be very angry with you for the manner in which I am being treated. There is no excuse for this. I had an arrangement with his father and have an understanding with your Dear Leader. I assure you he will be very upset when I speak to him about this.”
“Yes,” said the general. “Perhaps you can explain the meaning of this to him.” The officer reached for something handed to him by one of his subordinates standing next to him. It was a newspaper, two of them actually, copies of the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times, each of them one day old. Blaring headlines just below the fold from New York: