Sophie Medina: Ghost Image Part 3

"Well, don't get unused to it."

"When do you leave and where are you going?"

The Middle East and the former oil-producing Soviet republics for long enough to learn his way around, meet the players, and become familiar with the politics. At least I knew he wasn't going to Russia this time, or he'd end up in Lubyanka, the notorious KGB prison.

Ten days later he was gone. I knew a rough itinerary, and unlike his work with the CIA, we were in touch on e-mail almost daily. Occasionally we even managed a video call on Skype. At the moment he was in Saudi Arabia, and he'd told me the last time we spoke that he figured he'd be home in another month.

Before I got out of the car, I checked my phone to see if he had written me today as he usually did, and for any other messages. Somehow I had missed a call in the last hour, a D.C. area code and a number with a 224 prefix. The U.S. Senate.

The message was from Ursula Gilberti's personal secretary asking me to call as soon as possible. Maybe Ursula had reconsidered today's meeting at the monastery because of the weather.

I hit Redial and the secretary answered right away. "The senator would like you to drop by her office in the Russell Building this afternoon," she said. "She has something she wishes to discuss with you."

"We're supposed to meet at the Franciscan Monastery at five o'clock. Perhaps we could talk about it then?"

"The senator was very specific that she wanted to see you in her office without her daughter present before your meeting at the monastery. I'm sorry, that's all I know. She did say it wouldn't take long."

She was just the messenger, and knowing Ursula, her secretary obeyed without question. My meeting with Olivia Upshaw wasn't supposed to take long, either; I was just picking up a ma.n.u.script. But finding parking on the Hill and going through security would chew up at least half an hour.

"I have a meeting in a few minutes at the Smithsonian. I'll try to be there in an hour or so, maybe around one thirty or one forty-five, but don't hold me to it."

"Senator Gilberti is working in her office in Russell all afternoon. I'll let her know." Before she hung up she said, "Thank you."

Now what did Ursula want?

I grabbed my camera bag and got out of the car. The sky threatened rain so I was about to head straight to the Castle when I caught sight of a scrolled wrought-iron bench wrapped around a fountain in a sweet little courtyard. Behind the courtyard was one of the hidden gardens Kevin had written about in his article, a narrow serpentine walkway between the Mall and Independence Avenue known as the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden. But more important to me was the memory of the day I sat on that bench between Harry Wyatt and my mother, when Harry asked me if it was okay if he married Mom and me. A pa.s.serby had taken our photograph, the three of us beaming, a happy, soon-to-be new family. I still kept a dog-eared copy in my wallet. Afterward we'd walked through the pretty, sheltered pathway between the Hirshhorn Museum and the Arts and Industries Building, Harry's protective arm around my shoulders, as he talked about our future after Mom and I moved from our apartment in Queens, New York, to his sprawling horse farm in Middleburg, Virginia.

I walked into the courtyard to take a picture of that bench, remembering Harry explaining how the garden had been slated to become a parking lot until the wife of the secretary of the Smithsonian saved it. She'd turned it into a replica of a sensory garden she'd seen in San Francisco for the blind and disabled, an eclectic collection of plants, shrubs, and trees that filled beds, overflowed urns, and trailed from hanging baskets. Probably no surprise to Kevin, I had it to myself just now, my own secret garden.

Halfway down the path I had company. A man in a black leather jacket, jeans, and a black turtleneck with a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder had entered the garden from the Mall, just as I had. It took a few seconds before I recognized David Arista from last night's party. I hadn't seen him when I parked my car, and that had been only a couple of minutes ago.

He came toward me, smiling as though we were old friends, and held out his hand. "We met last night. Or almost did. You're Sophie Medina. My name's David Arista."

I'm not good at being coy. We shook hands. "I know who you are. I asked someone about you when we kept almost meeting."

He laughed, and his eyes crinkled into tiny crow's-feet. This close I saw flecks of gray in his long dark hair. It was swept off his face to reveal a sharp widow's peak that made me think of actors who played the devil in old movies. Last night I guessed he was in his early thirties. Today I realized he was probably closer to my age, maybe late thirties or early forties.

"You could have asked anyone about me," he was saying. "I know Yasmin's friends and everyone from her mother's office. Plus a few folks who work with Victor at Global Shield."

"I understand you own a public relations company."

"You really did ask about me, didn't you?" He seemed pleased, and for a moment it fl.u.s.tered me that he had misconstrued my curiosity for another type of interest.

He pulled a leather business card case out of an inside jacket pocket and handed me a card. "C-Cubed. Media, creative strategy, marketing, branding. PR is so twentieth century." His smile was self-deprecating. "And you're the wedding photographer. I know a few people who would love to meet you. Do you have a card? Give me a couple. I'll pa.s.s them out."

I had been expecting a fast-talking snake oil salesman, someone who kept looking over your shoulder as he spoke to you in case someone more important moved into view. David Arista was smart, disarming, and n.o.body's fool. The amused look I noticed last night seemed to be his default expression.

"I'm not a professional wedding photographer." I slipped his card into my camera bag. "I'm just doing this as a favor."

"For Yasmin or Victor?"

"Both, of course. But Victor's the one who asked me."

He pointed to my Nikon and the long lens I had on it. "That camera body and that zoom lens are worth at least five or six grand. You're no amateur."

"No, I'm not. I'm sorry, but I'm going to be late for a meeting. I should be going."

He gave me a shrewd look. "Is your meeting in the Castle?"

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"I'll walk you there. I'm heading over to the Smithsonian metro, so it's on my way."

"Thanks, but I thought I'd take the long way around so I could see the garden in front of the Castle on Independence Avenue," I said.

"No problem." He fell into step beside me. "I'll take the long way, too. You must like gardens?"

"I . . . yes."

"That was a great photo you took of Yasmin and Victor in the garden at the Franciscan Monastery," he said. "I saw the announcement in the Post a few weeks ago."

"Thank you." I didn't know too many men who checked out the wedding and engagement announcements, but then, he was a friend of Yasmin's. And, presumably, Victor's. "You recognized the garden?"

He grinned and made the sign of the cross. "Are you kidding me? I grew up in a house with a Jack-and-Jesus wall in the living room. I'll bet I visited the Eternal Flame more than some relatives of the Kennedy family when I was a kid. My Irish mother worshipped Jack Kennedy and she loved Jesus. And the Franciscans. Some people have garden gnomes. We had Francis of a.s.sisi in every corner of our yard like he was multiplying overnight."

I laughed. "She sounds very devout."

His smile turned rueful. "She was."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you lost her."

"Three years ago. Lung cancer. She was a smoker; all the radiation and drugs in the world couldn't stop it. And, G.o.d knows, my family had the resources to try everything." He shook his head, remembering. "Let's talk about something else."

"Okay . . . why don't you tell me about the Creativity Council? What does it do?"

He smiled. "So you heard about that, too? A creativity council shakes things up. At the meetings, we play games, do some role-playing, come up with a lot of what-if stuff. You start by dismantling everything and then you rebuild it from scratch and see what you end up with."

"Dismantling the Smithsonian?" We turned onto Independence Avenue by the Arts and Industries Building and walked the final block to the Castle.

"Why not?" He pointed to the elaborate designs in the brickwork of the beautiful old building. "That's the second-oldest Smithsonian museum after the Castle. Built in 1879, a terrific example of Victorian architecture. It's been closed for over a decade and it's going to stay closed. There's not enough money to maintain it and there's no plan for what to do with it." He sounded disgusted. "So there it sits, right here on the National Mall in the nation's capital, covered in scaffolding and all boarded up. Tell me, what good is it doing anybody?"

The building looked forlorn and abandoned, the barricades in front of it crisscrossed with bright yellow DO NOT ENTER tape.

"I'm waiting for permission to get inside and take photographs for a book on the history of the Mall," I said. "Apparently there are safety issues."

"Call me. I can arrange it. Wear a hard hat and you'll be fine," he said.

"Thanks. If I don't get anywhere with the calls I've made, I might do that."

"You must be working with Olivia Upshaw," he said, and I nodded. "I know her. We've worked together as well. She's good."

We reached the enormous wrought-iron Renwick Gates at the entrance to the Castle, and David Arista gestured for me to walk through them, ladies first. Inside, the Victorian Enid Haupt Garden was planted in geometric floral patterns that changed with the seasons. Today yellow and violet pansies formed interlocking diamonds across a pale green lawn and more pansies and spiky ferns spilled out of urns on each corner.

Something in David Arista's voice when he mentioned Olivia made me think of Yasmin Gilberti nearly spilling her drink when she realized he was watching her. Olivia was young, blond, and lovely, a beauty just like Yasmin. And if you believed all the rumors, Washington was more notorious than Hollywood for infidelity and people who worked together sleeping around. Somehow it wouldn't surprise me if David mixed business with pleasure.

"So what brought you down here today?" I asked. "A meeting with Yasmin?"

He shot me a quick surprised look. "Nothing like that. I met a client at the Chihuly exhibit at the Hirshhorn. We both wanted to see it before it left town."

"Really?" I would not have pegged him as an arty guy, certainly not someone who liked Dale Chihuly's fabulous gla.s.s sculptures.

That easy, self-deprecating laugh again. "Yeah, I know. You took me for some chump who wouldn't know a Chihuly from a Chihuahua."

I blushed. "I did not."

"I guess I'm what you'd call a museum nerd. Plus I know a lot of the folks who work at the Smithsonian museums since many of them have been clients."

We walked toward the Gothic turrets and towers of the Smithsonian Castle. In the somber light, the lozenge-shaped panes in the leaded-gla.s.s windows glittered like black diamonds.

At the entrance, I stuck out my hand. "It was nice to meet you."

He shook it, smiling, and I knew what was coming next. "You never gave me your card. And we ought to get together sometime. Coffee or a drink, maybe."

"That would be great, but I'm awfully busy right now." I laid my left hand over his.

He looked down at the antique diamond and white gold braided wedding ring that had been my grandmother's, and grinned. I knew he'd gotten the message. "Ah, the old brush-off." He let go of my hand.

"No . . . I really am busy."

"Look, I have a feeling we're going to be running into each other if you're working with Olivia. And Yasmin. You and I might be able to do business together, especially if you're involved with the Smithsonian." He was still smiling. "Give me a call sometime and maybe we can get a cup of coffee."

I pulled my wallet out of my camera bag and gave him my business card.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll call you. Coffee. Just coffee."

He left, walking in the direction of the Mall and whistling something cheery and tuneless. Even after he disappeared around the other side of the Castle, I still felt uneasy at the thought of David Arista calling me.

There was more to him than met the eye.

4.

I took the cramped elevator near the guard's desk to the second floor of the Castle and walked down a corridor with a sloping worn tile floor to Olivia Upshaw's office. Her door was partially open and she had her back to me, doing something at her computer.

For all the splendor of the public rooms downstairs with their soaring columns, vaulted ceilings, gold-leaf moldings, and other beautiful embellishments, her office was a nondescript, windowless room with greenish-beige walls, metal furniture, and the kind of overhead fluorescent lighting that sucks the life out of every government building in D.C. Books, ma.n.u.scripts, and folders were stacked on her desk and piled on a long, low bookcase. A mural of pale yellow Post-its festooned with her familiar loopy handwriting decorated the wall above her computer. Three posters of past Smithsonian exhibitions were the only decorations in the room. One of them had been askew the last time I'd been here, and it still was.

Olivia had sought me out for this job through the usual way things get done in Washington: She knew somebody who knew me. In this case, it was my landlady, India Ferrer, who had met Olivia's parents when they had been overseas together in the Foreign Service. India had filled me in about Olivia, a smart twenty-five-year-old Yale grad who majored in art history and grew up mostly in Southeast Asia and Africa, finishing high school in Switzerland. She was a blue-eyed blonde, attractive in a tanned, lean, outdoorsy way with a habit of reaching around with one hand and pulling her long hair so it fell against her shoulder as if she couldn't stand the weight of it on her neck.

I knocked on her door, and she said, "It's open, come on in," without turning around.

A ma.n.u.script bristling with neon flags and Post-its sat on the corner of her desk. I read the t.i.tle upside down, "No Little Plans." It was part of a quote by Daniel Burnham, a Chicago architect and urban designer who had lived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. More of the quote, I knew, was on the dedication page: Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood.

Olivia chose it as the t.i.tle for a book on the history of the Mall because Burnham, who played an important role in designing the master plans for several major American cities, had served on a Senate commission that took a hard look at Washington at the beginning of the twentieth century and was appalled by what it saw. A mediocre town with nondescript architecture and poorly planned public s.p.a.ces, nothing that could hold a candle to London, Paris, or Rome. The commission resurrected the original grand plan of Pierre L'Enfant, the French architect hired by George Washington in 1791 to design the city, after it had been sc.r.a.pped for more than a century. They razed the hodge-podge collection of buildings, a Victorian park, and even a train station that had overrun the Mall, and started over. Since this was Washington and Congress had been involved, it had taken decades.

Olivia spun around in her chair and smiled when she saw me. "Sophie, sorry I kept you waiting. There's always so much work here. Please sit down. I've got the ma.n.u.script ready for you, as you can see. The Post-its and flags mark the places where I want photos. I've also made notes in the margins."

I realized when we started working together that she was going to be a hands-on editor. What I didn't know was whether she would feel the need to change "puppies" to "young dogs" just to have her imprimatur stamped all over this project. She stood and handed me the ma.n.u.script. Then she picked up a book that had been sitting on top of her bookcase.

"I think you should read this. It's a biography of Pierre L'Enfant."

"Thank you, but I know who Pierre L'Enfant is."

A look of annoyance crossed her face, and I knew that she was a "young dogs" editor.

"Everyone studied Pierre L'Enfant in high school," she said in a cool, firm voice, "for about fifteen minutes. This is probably the best book I've read on his life, why he wanted Washington to become a grand capital like Paris and London, and the problems that caused him with Thomas Jefferson, who hated that idea." She held it out. "And why George Washington finally fired him."

"Olivia, I'm taking photos of what's here now, not what should have been or didn't get built. You're getting those pictures, the historical photos, from the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian."

She held the book out to me. "I think it's important for you to understand L'Enfant's vision for Washington. It's important for this book."

I didn't take it. Long ago I learned to pick the battles worth fighting and let the other ones go. She was trying to do my job, or at least get me to do it the way she wanted. At some point she needed to trust me, or this wasn't going to work.

"And why do you believe I don't?"

"Would you please at least look at it? As a favor to me?"

"I'll make you a deal," I said. "Let me go through your ma.n.u.script first. You've got a lot of notes here. Then we can talk about the book."

She set it on her desk and gave a little one-shoulder shrug. "Fine. I know you're busy. You're the photographer for the royal wedding." She sat down and avoided my eyes. "Everyone's talking about it around here. I heard about the party last night at the Austrian amba.s.sador's residence."

She hadn't been at the party. "Do you know Yasmin?"

Her smile was brittle. "Oh, sure. Everyone here knows her. And her mother. Senator Gilberti's on the Smithsonian board."

It sounded like a dig at Yasmin, implying Ursula pulled strings to get her daughter a job at the museum.

"I didn't know that."

She nodded. "How did you end up with the job, if you don't mind my asking? I didn't know you photographed weddings."

"I don't. A mutual friend introduced me to Victor. He liked my photographs, so he asked me if I'd do it as a personal favor."