Authors: Brian Haig
When I got back downstairs, all the blue- and black-suited storm troopers were gone, and Imelda was looking at me inquisitively. “They gonna boil your ass?” she asked, well aware of the stiff penalties for losing classified materials.
“In fact, some Agency bigwig called to thank me for putting
up such a valiant battle in defense of our country’s security. He said I’m a real good guy.”
Imelda mumbled, “Tell ’em to talk to me.”
It occurred to me that I had just won a round. However, a case like this can last fifteen or twenty rounds, and to be lulled into complacence can be fatal. Regarding my conversation with Johnson, I was still a little shaky. A man does not rise to such an exalted position in the CIA—where backstabbing, one-upping, and conspiracy are art forms—unless one is ruthlessly persistent. I had the sense we would meet again, that I had just tipped my hand, and the next occasion would be a bit more artful.
T
he dents and scratches on the side of the black Porsche had disappeared when I parked right next to it. Image is all-important to Homer Steele, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how much trouble and expense he’d gone through to make those scabs and bruises disappear. Actually, I spent a very pleasurable moment trying to imagine it, because that was the whole point, right?
Katrina’s eyes widened as she got a good glimpse of the house and neighborhood. “Nice little shack,” she murmured.
“Yes, it is. But inside that big palace lives a mean, nasty ogre.”
“Don’t tell me. You and her father, you got a thing, too?”
“We got a thing, too,” I admitted.
She leaned against the car door and adopted a wearied look. “Don’t you have any friends?”
“That are alive?”
She chuckled and asked, “Okay, what’s the father’s story?”
This was a fair request, all the more since nobody should
have to meet Homer without fair warning. Actually, to be perfectly accurate, nobody should ever have to meet him—period.
“Homer’s his name,” I explained, “and the fact he sired Mary is biologically incredible. There’s been big money in the Steele family going back to the dinosaurs. Root hard through our country’s economic history and you’ll find a Steele with his hand out at every turn. One bankrolled the first steamship. Another supplied the boots to the Union Army. Another . . . look, if you want the full anthology, ask Homer. It’s his favorite topic of discussion.”
“So he’s rich? So what?”
“The way they stay rich is they keep marrying their pile of money to other piles of money, a sort of long family tradition. The first time I came, he shook my hand and his opening words were, ‘Well, young man, what’s your father do?’ I said, ‘Well sir, he sells used cars.’ His head flew back. ‘Used cars,’ he snorted. Just like that. The words actually popped out his nostrils.”
Katrina somehow found this funny.
I continued, “Anyway, Mary’s mother died when she was young. She was their only kid, and the thought that the last family eggs would cross-fertilize with me drove him nearly crazy. He badgered her continuously. Then he banned me from the house. When all that failed, he hired private detectives to tell me to stay away from her. Oddly enough, that very same night someone took sledgehammers to my car.”
“And what did you do about that?”
“I had it towed away.”
“You’ve never heard of the police?”
“You’ve never heard of evidence?”
“Did you tell Mary?”
“I didn’t have to. We were leaving for spring break in Florida the next day. We were going in my car.”
“And what did she do?”
“She rented a chauffeur and a big black limo and filled it
with champagne and imported beer. We kept it the whole ten days, and she charged it all to her father.”
I threw open my door, and oops.
Katrina said, “You’re striking that car.”
“Damn, you’re right.” I did it again.
She peered at me with an odd frown, obviously wondering what kind of vindictive, juvenile jerk she was working with.
I rang the bell and we waited about forty seconds. That’s why I don’t own a big house like this. Someone knocks on your door, and it takes forever to hike your way from the back parlor to the front entry.
Suddenly, Homer was staring at me with that squeamish look some women get when a big, nasty cockroach prances across their kitchen counter. I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Steele. My associate, Miss Katrina Mazorski. Your daughter’s expecting us.”
His eyes took in Katrina’s outfit, which today consisted of a short skirt and an old cardigan over what looked like a camisole. He appeared to be on the verge of vomiting.
His eyes shifted to my Chevrolet. “Is that where you parked the other day?”
“I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand.”
He spun around, slammed the door, and stomped off to get his daughter. Was this fun or what?
A few moments later the door opened and there stood Mary, wearing jeans and a simple white sweater that came down to her thighs, looking like an ad for
Casual Living
or some such thing.
I said, “Hi, uh, Mary, this is my associate, uh, uh, uh, Katrina Mazorski,” experiencing this sudden odd difficulty, a sort of mental paralysis.
Mary and what’s-her-name shook hands, and then Mary bent forward, squeezed my arm, and pecked my cheek. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Please, come in.”
She led us through some long hallways to the sunroom in the back. We got ourselves seated, and I could see Katrina’s eyes
watching the two of us, obviously trying to take the temperature of our relationship. Behind that sarcastic, laid-back, cocky playfulness was more curiosity about things that were none of her damned business than was good for her, or me, or whatever.
Mary bent forward and studied my face. “Sean, what happened to your nose? And your eyes?”
“I . . . well, I walked into a wall,” I said, which was true; I did walk into a wall—full speed—with a little help. Only I wasn’t about to mention the rest of the story to either Mary or her husband. I had my reasons and believed they were sound.
She reached over and squeezed my nose. “You must’ve been moving pretty fast. Your nose looks broken.”
That squeezing hurt like hell, but I’m a guy, and she’s a good-looking girl, so I smiled, which looked pathetically stupid, as my eyes welled up with tears.
“I guess. Anyway, we spent yesterday with your husband.”
“How is he?”
“Angry, but better. He thinks he’s been framed.”
At first, she didn’t reply. She appeared shocked, then curious, then asked, “By whom?”
“He claims to be completely baffled by the whole thing. Mary, he’s just throwing darts in the dark . . . Believe me, we defense attorneys hear it all the time.” Especially from perps who know they’re guilty as hell, I politely failed to mention. “Anyway, we went back over his career. The papers are claiming his betrayal began back in ’88 or ’89.”
She was shaking her head. “I read the articles. It’s ludicrous. It would mean he started within months after we married. It’s impossible, believe me.”
“The articles also mentioned he had a single Russian controller over all those years. We therefore reviewed what he was doing, looking for contacts he made with Russian citizens.”
“That’s a logical approach, but I’m sure you discovered it was hopeless. Our whole careers were centered around Russians.”
I nodded and then paused for a brief moment. “Mary, he told us about Alexi Arbatov.”
Her eyes suddenly widened and her whole body convulsed forward. “Oh my God. Sean, he should never have mentioned that name. You have no business knowing about that. What in the hell is Bill doing?”
“Defending himself. Don’t worry, Katrina and I have proper clearances. Your secret’s safe,” I insisted, conveniently forgetting to mention that little incident about the tapes.
“Your clearances are meaningless. Knowledge about. . . about him is the tightest compartment in the Agency. Less than ten living people know about him. Forget that name. Please.”
I allowed Mary a polite interlude to realize that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. I had expected her to be uncomfortable, however, she appeared to be almost distraught.
She finally burst out, “You’ll have to be read on to the compartment.”
I chuckled—she didn’t.
“Sean, it’s not funny. This is the most sensitive secret in Agency history. You’ll have to be read on”—she glanced at Katrina and insisted—“both of you.”
“Mary, we’re not going to be read on. We’ll never be allowed to mention anything about this again. This guy Arbatov’s the only Russian your husband knew all those years. He might be a link to what’s going on here.”
“Oh God, Sean, can’t you see what Bill’s doing? He fed you that name because he knew how much it would frighten the Agency. I want him to be innocent, but this is dangerous.”
“Look, what I hoped was, we could have a long, candid conversation about Arbatov. This could be important for you, too. You were meeting with him also.”
“Don’t you understand? . . . I
can’t
speak with you about . . . well, about this topic.”
“And why can’t you?”
“I take polygraphs. I’m subject to prosecution. If I mention
that name, I could go to prison. I have two young children. You see that, don’t you?”
I suddenly did—with a clarity that brought a rush of blood to my face. Merely bringing this up, I put her in peril. But then, her husband had to know that, too. So why had that conniving asshole sent me to ask Mary about Arbatov?
While I tried to reason through this, Katrina swiftly asked, “Didn’t Bill take polygraphs also?”
“No. As an Army officer he was immune from that.”
I abruptly stood up and mumbled, “Listen, we’ve got to get going. We’ve got all kinds of things that have to get done.”
Said less adroitly, it was time for a clumsy exit to match the even more clumsy mistake I’d just made. Nobody argued with me. No surprise there, right? Mary politely followed us out and at the doorway, put a hand on my arm and said, “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Sean. I want to help. Please believe that. I have to think of the children, though.”
“It was my fault.”
“It was not. Outsiders have no idea what it’s like to be hooked up to those detectors. I know one girl who literally begins shaking about a week before her annual sessions.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall at her confessions?”
I appreciated that in her typically gracious way she was trying to take the sting out of my embarrassment. But the only thing that would help at that moment would be to get my hands around her husband’s throat.
Mary smiled at my co-counsel and said, “Katrina, it was a real pleasure meeting you. I really wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Likewise. Listen, sorry about your husband. How are the children handling it?”
“They still don’t know. I’m trying to keep it that way. We’ve canceled my father’s newspaper subscriptions, and the cable TV hookups have been disconnected.”
“They don’t know?”
“I told them he’s on a trip. Maybe it’s a mistake . . . they’ve been yanked away from their school and home and friends in Moscow. They’re only kids. How much do you inflict on them at once?”
Then I received a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and we were off.
Once we were settled in the car, Katrina studied my face for a moment. “You think it was deliberate, don’t you?”
“He had to know.”
“Maybe he was using you to sound her out. Maybe it was a loyalty test. Or maybe he’s just desperate.”
“Or maybe he’s just an asshole,” I opined, putting the car in drive and peeling out of the driveway. I didn’t think it was any of the three reasons she just suggested. I thought he was trying to make me look like an idiot in front of Mary. And I walked right into it. From a personal standpoint, it pissed me off. From a professional standpoint, I found it alarming. This case was difficult enough without my client arranging emotional ambushes to show he’s the better man.
Back at my office, one of Imelda’s assistants was in the process of signing for a huge shipment of boxes. Three uniformed guards stood beside a delivery van, and a fellow in a gray suit blocked my doorway. Either FedEx was becoming very security conscious or I was looking at Eddie’s first evidentiary dump.
I walked up and introduced myself to the guy in the gray suit, who flashed a badge I didn’t recognize, identified himself as Herbert Something-or-other, and then coldly demanded, “Where are these documents going to be secured?”
I regarded the stacks in the back of the van and wondered myself. My office contained only two wall safes, and there were enough boxes to fill at least six. I told him I’d order more safes before we left that night.
“That won’t be satisfactory,” he snarled. “I’m not permitted
to leave until I’ve ensured all the proper precautions are in place.”
Given that this guy was sent by the same fellas who’d broken into my office that very morning, this was two feet short of hilarious. I pointed at a chair and said, “Make yourself comfortable.”
Katrina and I then walked in and started cracking open boxes. We yanked out folder after folder after folder. I knew this drill. When Eddie got the call from Johnson to start releasing evidence, he and his legions began stuffing boxes with as many papers as they could lay their hands on. The vast majority of this stuff was meaningless garbage intended to exhaust and frustrate us.
Did I mention yet that Eddie’s a complete prick? Aware it was only me and Katrina on my team, the more of our time he could waste, the better.
Unfortunately, I had no solution to that. Katrina and I therefore dutifully stayed till midnight, speed-reading through folders and struggling to sift the important from the trivial. It was a high-risk game. Eddie’s folks surely kept a log of everything, and the odds were we’d get to court and Eddie would unleash some critical piece of evidence, and we’d scream, “Hey, objection, we never got that”; and Eddie would smile and hold up that log and say, “Yeah, then how come this says it was sent over to you on November 20?”
Someday I’m going to piss on Eddie’s tombstone.