second husband. Maybe Chaney’s son had been luckier than she’d been, Mariah thought. At least he had some kind of father.
She skimmed through the summary of Chaney’s travels as a foreign correspondent. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he had a death wish. Over the years, he had covered the Soviet Union, Afghanistan, the Middle East, Northern Ireland and South Africa, winning several journalism awards along the way, including one for his coverage of the Gulf War. She’d seen his work, of course, and as much as she hated to, Mariah had to admit he was good. She scanned the rest of the file, but there was little there of interest—mostly references to interviews he had conducted with various political leaders.
But suddenly, the name Elsa von Schleimann leaped off the screen. Someone else in the Vienna station—not Mariah, that much was certain—had alerted Langley to Chaney’s links to the self-proclaimed “Princess.” Every other Austrian, it seemed, claimed to be a descendant of the deposed Hapsburgs, but that alone wouldn’t make Elsa worthy of mention in Chaney’s CIA file. Nor were any other of his numerous lady friends mentioned. So why did someone think it important to note his association with her?
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