Free Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman Page A

leave Mr. Teng alone. That comes from the director himself.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Joe Perone interviewed Sergio Nariz at four that afternoon. Nariz was a Paraguayan who was also attending the FBI academy training program for foreign law enforcement professionals. Physically, Nariz came off to Perone like a young Caesar Romero, very handsome and smooth, impeccably dressed in a dark blue vested summerweight suit, shoes shined to a mirror finish, every salt-and-pepper hair perfectly in place. Nariz lacquered his fingernails, a habit Perone disliked in men. He also wondered whether Nariz wore facial makeup. It looked it, although if he did he was skillful at it. You couldn’t be sure.
    They talked for an hour. Nariz was expansive in his answers, gregarious, charming. He frankly admitted that he disliked Pritchard.
    “Why?” Perone asked.
    “Because he was an arrogant and abusive man, Mr. Perone. He insulted me on a number of occasions. Because I am a guest here, I did not retaliate, but had it happened in my own country, I would have.”
    “How would you have retaliated?” Perone asked.
    Nariz smiled broadly and offered Perone a cigar. Perone accepted it. They both sat back and enjoyed the taste and aroma. “Excellent,” Perone said.
    “Cuban,” Nariz said, “but don’t tell anyone.”
    Perone laughed. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”
    “Good. How would I have retaliated? Not by murdering him and hanging him in a target range.”
    “No?”
    “No.”
    Perone thanked Nariz for the cigar at the end of the interview, packed up his recorder, and returned to Ranger.
    “Well?” Saksis asked.
    “He can account for his actions that night, but I’ll check it out. By the way, I asked the people Loeffler, the German, said he was with that night.
    “What’d they say?” Lizenby asked.
    “He disappeared for about an hour, said he was sick.”
    “He didn’t tell you that?” Saksis said.
    “Nope.”
    “Ask him about it,” Lizenby said.
    “I intend to. By the way, Nariz carries damn good Cuban cigars.”
    Later, Lizenby sat with Saksis in his office. He was pensive, and she asked why.
    “I was just thinking about George Pritchard and his life. You know, he just about single-handedly infiltrated and disrupted that terrorist group operating out of New York. Remember, when he was with the Long Island field office?”
    “I only heard bits and pieces. I do recall Director Shelton giving him a commendation.”
    “Yeah. Funny, but what sticks in my mind is that the terrorists had ties to Paraguay.”
    “They did?”
    “Yup, and George maintained a contact within the group, a Paraguayan. In fact, I think they got together the day he was killed.”
    She sat forward on her chair. “How do you know that?”
    “I don’t
know
it for certain, but I’d bet on it. Just something he said that morning before he went to lunch that made me think he was meeting up with the guy.”
    “Do you have his name?”
    “No. George Pritchard had refined to an art form the concept of keeping it to yourself. Even mentioning that the guy was a Paraguayan was a slip. I did a little research on the group he infiltrated. There’s strong evidence that it’s hooked up with a faction of Paraguay’s national police force that’s dedicated to overthrowing the government down there.”
    “Nariz?”
    “Maybe. What about the others on the list?”
    “Nonbureau types? There aren’t many. I had Barbara run a comparison of the initials and names in Pritchard’s phone book with everyone who was known to have seen him that day.”
    “Anything?”
    “No, except for that set of initials, R.K., which matches up with Raymond Kane, who signed in to see Pritchard at 11:30 that night.”
    “Who is he?”
    “I haven’t the slightest idea. He listed himself as a consultant. I checked with the guard who was on that night and he remembers that Pritchard had left word to admit Mr. Kane the moment he arrived.”
    Lizenby leaned his head far back and