Authors: Brian Haig
“I can guess.”
“No—I don’t think you can. That was the interagency working group that’s supposed to assess how much damage Morrison wrought. Those were the chiefs of counterespionage from the CIA and the FBI, from NSA and DIA and State, and a few agencies I never heard of. They climbed deeply up my ass. They are incensed that an officer of the United States Army betrayed his country in ways you can’t possibly conceive. An Army officer, damn it . . . a general officer. They warned me that I had better not make a single mistake in handling this case.” He paused very briefly. “Does that help you understand why I have reservations about you?”
I nodded. Why make him explain it?
He drew a deep breath and added, “Sean, you’re a good attorney, but this case is just too damned sensitive. I’m sorry. You’re the wrong man.”
Well, right, I nodded again—truly, I did agree with him on this point.
“Good.” His expression turned friendlier, and a fatherly hand landed on my shoulder. “Now, you fly back out there and tell Morrison why you can’t possibly be his lawyer. Tell him not to worry, we’ll provide one of our best.”
He looked me in the eye and that fatherly hand dropped off
my shoulder. “Damn it, do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”
“Something about a spy case, isn’t it?”
He ignored my sarcasm. This was a wise course. Encourage me and it only gets worse.
I’m not ordinarily predictable, but Clapper has known me long enough to appreciate my peccadilloes. Back when he was a lowly major, he actually instructed a dim-witted new infantry lieutenant named Drummond on the fundamentals of military law. He also happens to be the shortsighted fool who later persuaded the Army to allow me to attend law school and become a JAG officer.
You could argue, therefore, that this situation was his fault. Past sins do come back to haunt you.
Struggling to sound reasonable, he said, “Look . . . Sean . . . when the CIA and FBI first approached me with their suspicions and evidence on Morrison, I nearly choked. They’ve been watching him for months. They have him dead to rights.”
“Well, good. All I’ll have to do is strike the best deal I can get. Any idiot lawyer can do that. What are you worried about?”
Judging by his expression, a lot. “At least
try
to see this from my perspective. We’re dealing with Russia on this counterterrorism effort, not to mention the ongoing oil talks and nuclear arms reductions and a hundred other sensitive negotiations. The administration doesn’t want a dustup with Russia over this case. You see that, right?”
“Yes, General, I see that, but he asked for me, and he has the right to choose his representation,” I reminded him, less than subtly, for the third time.
There’s the old saying “No man is above the law” that applies even to two-star generals, a sort of divine provenance, or whatever. I had pushed this point as far as was healthy, and it was time to await the verdict.
He finally said, “All right, damn it. It’s yours.”
“Very good, thank you, sir,” I replied, doing my perfect
subordinate imitation, which, really, considering the audience and the moment, was a wasted effort. “Oh, I, uh, I have one other request.”
“What?”
“I need a co-counsel.”
“Fine. Submit your request and I’ll consider it.”
“Karen Zbrovnia,” I immediately replied.
“No,” he immediately responded.
“Why not?”
“She’s already committed.”
“So pull her off. You said yourself, this is the biggest case going.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes sir, you can. Sign the right piece of paper and, poof, it happens. And I’m formally requesting you to. I
need
Zbrovnia.”
His lips curled up. “Well, you see, she’s already assigned to the prosecution.”
We stared at each other a long moment. Karen Zbrovnia was one of the top assassins in the JAG Corps: brilliant, confident, occasionally ruthless—oh, and a nice ass, if you’re the crass type who notices such things. More important for my purposes, her parents were Russian émigrés and had taught her to speak like a Moscovite.
Losing her, however, wasn’t my biggest concern. I asked, “You’ve already formed the prosecution?”
“The prosecution nearly always comes in early in espionage cases. Zbrovnia and her boss have been approving everything for months. They have to live with the evidence, right?”
Well, yes . . . right. Was it worth noting that I also had to live with that evidence? Or how much of an advantage the prosecution had been handed after being involved in this case for months?
“You said ‘her boss,’ ” I asked, suddenly apprehensive. “Who’s in charge of the prosecution?”
“Major Golden.”
It occurred to me that he had been waiting for this moment. The JAG Corps annually presents an unofficial award, a silly twist on the Navy’s Top Gun, called the Hangman Award. It has rested on Eddie Golden’s office bookshelf two years running, and in an obnoxiously prominent place, telling you volumes about Mr. Golden. I played a role in that award, having faced him three times, the first two of which I was carried out of court on a stretcher. I nearly got the better of him the third time, before it was declared a mistrial, which, technically, was a draw. The idea of Eddie scoring a hat trick on me was sickening.
I mumbled, “I’ll send you a name when I think of one.”
He nodded as I made my retreat, thinking to myself that I’d ended up with a case I didn’t want, representing a client I couldn’t stand, opposing an attorney I dreaded. In short, I had kicked myself in the nuts.
I drove off in a fetid mood and raced down the George Washington Parkway to the McLean exit, described in Realtors’ brochures as a “leafy, upscale suburb” located right across the river from our nation’s glorious capital. Between “leafy” and “upscale” the message is this: McLean is where two or three million bucks in the bank can land you.
I raced past the entrance to the CIA headquarters, took a right on Georgetown Pike, shot past Langley High School and two more of those leafy side streets, then turned into one of what those Realtors’ brochures enticingly call an “elegant, highly prestigious address with old world charm.” Translation—bump up the bank balance another ten mil.
The street was lined with graceful old mansions that are distinctly different from the new McMansions sprouting up elsewhere, intimating that the residents of this block pay their property taxes with old money. Old money’s supposed to be better than new money, but when you have no money, like me, the distinction’s a bit blurry.
I pulled into the big circular driveway and parked my 1996 Chevrolet right next to a spanking-new $180,000 Porsche 911
GT2—a glorious thing in shimmering black, a boy-toy of the highest order. I admired it for a long, simmering instant before my car door flew out of my hand and oops—a big scratch and ugly dent magically appeared.
I walked to the front door and rang the bell. The man who answered had a curious smile that flipped into a vulgar frown as his eyes fell on my face. “Drummond?”
“In the flesh, Homer, and it’s a real pleasure to see you, too,” I replied, with a big phony smile.
He did not smile back. The man was Homer Steele, Mary’s father, a guy born with a lemon stuck so far up his ass that the stem poked out his ear. I thought I heard him laugh once at a cocktail party, but when I went to investigate, he was choking on a piece of lobster. I rooted for the lobster, incidentally.
“What do
you
want?” he demanded in a less than polite way.
“Mary. She’s expecting me.”
The door slammed and I waited patiently for three full minutes, overhearing a jarring argument inside. Was this fun, or what?
Finally the door opened, and there stood Mary Steele Morrison in her full staggering glory.
So let me explain about Mary.
Remember Grace Kelly . . . that alabaster skin, those scorching blue eyes, that silky white-blond hair? Remember how she walked into a room and men actually gasped? That’s Mary without the slightest exaggeration. One of those Hollywood doubles agencies saw her picture in some society rag and even offered her work as a stand-in.
Two months into my sophomore year at Georgetown, she approached me in the middle of the campus quad and brazenly begged me for a date. A crowd began gathering. People were watching. I did what any gentleman would do, and then the girl started calling me all the time, making a damned nuisance out of herself, and out of pity I dated her for the next three years.
That’s how I remember it.
Oddly enough, she recalls it somewhat differently.
Her father wasn’t too keen on her career choice, which we’ll get into later. She’d stop home on weekends, and there was always some new jerk in a Ralph Lauren sweater, perched casually by the fireplace, sipping sherry, eyeing her like a used sofa her father wanted to pawn off.
From that scant evidence, Mary deduced that her father was trying to mate her with somebody’s large fortune, and that put her in a cranky, rebellious mood. The day I worked up the nerve to ask her to go see a movie, she saw the perfect candidate for the perfect plot. In a nutshell, she’d lure me home to meet Daddy Warbucks, and since I wasn’t exactly what Papa had in mind, a deal would be struck—the spoiled rich kids and I would mutually disappear.
Her side of the story has going for it that it bears an almost uncanny resemblance to the facts. Homer barely glanced at me before he yanked her comely tush into his study, and the sounds of their yapping and thrashing echoed all over the house. And if you think that’s not a crappy feeling, try having it happen to you.
Anyway, now as I stood in her doorway, her arms flew around my neck and she planted a kiss on my cheek. I hugged her, too, and then we stepped back and examined each other, as ex-lovers are wont to do. She smiled and said, “Sean Drummond, I’m so damn glad to see you. How are you?”
“Uh, fine, yeah, hi, gee, crappy way to meet, how are you, you look great.”
Am I cool or what?
That smile—I’d forgotten how unnerving it was. Most beautiful women, the best they can do is this flinching motion of a few stingy muscles that comes across more like a favor than a feeling. Mary’s smile swallows you whole.
Besides, she did look great. Her face was slightly leaner, and there were a few tiny wrinkles, but the effect was to enhance
her beauty—as the poetically inclined might say, sprinkling dew on a rose petal.
She wrapped both her arms tightly around my arm and tugged. “Come on.” She giggled. “I swear it’s safe. My father promised to leave us alone.”
“Gee, I don’t know.” I peeked inside. “I don’t trust the old fart.”
Mary giggled some more. “He has a dartboard upstairs with your face on it. He’s probably up there right now.”
This was a joke, right? She led me to the rear of the big house, to a cavernous sunroom built off a living room the size of a football stadium. The house was filled with ancient-looking oriental carpets, and cracked, antique-looking paintings, and leather furniture with brass studs, and all the other ostentatious furnishings meant to remind visitors of the life they can’t afford.
She sat on a flower-patterned couch and I took a place across from her. The moment instantly got landlocked in the past. Twelve years is a long time, and a million questions were swirling in my mind. Unfortunately, the one that kept kicking to the surface was, Hey, why’d you marry that lousy prick when you could’ve had me?
Given the circumstances and all, perhaps it would be best to avoid that one. I finally announced, “I saw him this morning.”
“How is he?”
“Not well. On suicide watch.”
She shook her head. “Poor Bill. They called him into the office on some pretense, then he was in handcuffs being dragged out of the embassy. They deliberately humiliated him. Those bastards even invited CNN to be there.”
I tried to appear sympathetic, but to be honest, I had enjoyed watching the arrest. Of course, this was before he became my client, and now I was deeply ashamed of myself. Right. Anyway, I said, “Well, he signed the request and my boss just approved it.”
She tried to muster a warm smile as she said, “Thank you. I
mean it. I know it’s awkward. I just . . .” And suddenly that smile crumbled, and she was biting her lip.
I put a hand on her leg. “Forget it.”
She laid her hand on top of mine. “We shouldn’t have asked,” she finally said. “What a stupid predicament.”
I chuckled. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sean, I have no right to put you in this position. I’m desperate . . . I have two young children and a husband accused of treason. Bill insisted on you, but I—”
“Look,” I interrupted, “if you’re concerned about my feelings, don’t be. Lawyers have no emotions.”
“Liar.”
“Liar, huh? At Georgetown Law, they caught a girl crying one day . . . She’d just learned her mother died. They threw her out on her butt. There was a big ceremony in the auditorium and they said she just couldn’t cut it.”
She was shaking her head and laughing. “Oh, come on.”
“We’re the ones in movie theaters who get dreamy-eyed when the
Titanic
goes down, counting the corpses and plotting the class-action suit.”
She giggled and said, “God, I’ve missed you,” then instantly looked chagrined, like, Oops, what made those words pop out? “Hey,” she said, a
little
too awkwardly, “do you want to meet the kids?”
“Oh God, kids?” I groaned.
“It won’t be bad, I promise. They’re just like regular people, only smaller. Just . . . nothing about Bill, okay?”
I nodded as she left the room and went into the hallway. She called upstairs and a moment later came the thundering sound of little feet bouncing down stairs.
“This is Jamie,” she said, pointing proudly at the boy, “and this is Courtney.” She then paused briefly to fabricate a graceful way to explain me, the guy who would’ve been their father were it not for their mother’s awful judgment. To them, she said, “Guys, this is Major Sean Drummond. We went to college
together and, well . . . we were best of friends. He’s just stopped by to say hello.”
They padded over and shook my hand, a pair of blond-haired, blue-eyed replicas of their mother. This was no bad thing, I must tell you, and I felt perversely gratified to see so little of Morrison’s seed evident in their children. Don’t ask me why; I just did.