Authors: Brian Haig
“No. But Alexi believed it, and I used his suspicion to lure him in. Probably somewhere in Moscow there’s some group up to something, and Alexi has blown it out of proportion. Hell, there’s probably a hundred different groups, and Alexi has jumbled them all together into some single gargoyle. If there was something as big as he suspects, we would’ve detected it.”
“How?”
“Because our penetrations have increased a thousandfold since the Big Bang. Used to be it took work. It was a closed country with cops and soldiers and KGB guys on every street corner. If you joined a Russian for a drink, you had a thousand prying eyes on you, and afterward the poor bastard would get a late-night knock on the door that led to broken bones and yanked teeth and all that. It doesn’t happen anymore. The whole country’s a big fishing pond. Cast a line and you get a hundred bites.”
“So you think Arbatov’s paranoid?” I prodded.
“What Russian isn’t? Especially one with his background.”
“And what’s so special about his background?” Katrina asked.
“He was raised in a small farming village about nine hundred miles south of Moscow. His father was a pig farmer. You believe that? His mother died when he was two, and his father when he was ten, so Alexi was placed in a state orphanage. A year later he won some national math championship and got hooked up with Yurichenko.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Yurichenko was the head of the Soviet Union’s version of an exalted Mensa society, this group of people with extraordinary IQs. Not geniuses . . . hyper-geniuses. So Alexi was flown up from his orphanage to meet with him. The old man virtually adopted him, then got him into accelerated courses in Moscow and then Moscow University. Hell, Alexi lived with him until he graduated from college.”
“So they’re close?” Katrina asked.
“Closer than father and son. But Alexi can’t escape his roots. Sure, he’s got good manners and seems poised and polished, because Yurichenko gave him that. But he still has peasant’s blood, and that makes him distrustful of everybody in Moscow, the same way farmers in Kansas feel about people in Washington. We fertilized that impression every time Alexi brought it up. It was the central motif of his treatment.”
I nodded, because at least on this point, Mary and her husband seemed to be in agreement. Plus, the time had come to break the bad news.
I leaned back in my chair, knowing what was coming. I said to him, “The prosecution wants to offer a deal. We’ve agreed to meet with Golden tomorrow morning.”
“What kind of deal?”
“We don’t know the details yet. We suspect they’ll offer to waive the death sentence in return for a guilty plea at the pre-trial hearing.”
He chuckled. “That’s fuckin’ crazy. I’m not going to plead guilty.”
I didn’t chuckle with him. “It will probably be a one-time shot. Once the offer’s withdrawn we’ll never get it back.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’ve found nothing that exonerates you. To the contrary, every rock we’ve turned over just looks worse for you. And we believe Golden is still sitting on his most persuasive evidence.”
He was shaking his head. “So what? Because you and this bitch here are incompetent, you expect me to plead guilty? Is that what you’re saying?”
I bit down hard on my cheek. “What I’m saying is, it doesn’t look good at the moment, and if we turn down the deal there’s no going back.”
His whole demeanor suddenly changed. His face turned instantly suspicious. “You’re not working this with Mary, are you? What’s going on here? Have you and that bitch cooked up some kind of deal?”
I knew he was emotionally distraught and was lashing out. I also knew how much enjoyment it would give me to reach across the table and snap his neck. Of course, I’m a professional. We compartmentalize, right?
I mustered up my calmest, coldest voice. “My loyalty belongs to you. If I thought Mary had something to do with this, I’d go after her with everything I’ve got. I’ll be back once I’ve heard their offer. It’ll be your choice. If you don’t trust me, then replace me.”
I spun around and left. Katrina remained behind for a few minutes, I think to try to smooth things over. When she finally joined me out in the parking lot she looked a bit shaken. She said, “He was upset. He’s convinced his wife’s framing him. And he’s frustrated that we haven’t made any headway.”
“And he’s an asshole. It would serve him right if she did frame him, but the whole idea’s ridiculous.”
“I suppose,” she said, an answer notable only for the assertion that she neither agreed nor disagreed.
Then came an awkward moment. Gentleman that I am, I
decided to be graceful about this. “Listen, I’m sorry about Alexi. Remember, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you’re not a nice guy.”
“Paranoid, my ass,” Katrina replied, predictably, of course.
“Look, it isn’t just Morrison saying so. I talked to Mary last night. She said the Agency headshrinks pinned him for a bona fide nut right from the start. She said that was the vulnerability they exploited since that first meeting, that the Agency even put together a few ruses to feed his fears.”
It was that “nut” word, I think. Perhaps I should’ve used something more clinical.
Her whole expression changed. “Don’t you
ever
use that word about Alexi. They’re full of shit.”
“Look, I . . . well, everybody’s afraid of something. Alexi’s fears are just, well, I guess, a little bigger than everybody else’s.”
She stuck her middle finger in my face. I stared at it for about twenty seconds, till she put it down. We walked back to the office, neither of us saying a word, neither of us liking the other very much.
One of Imelda’s girls handed me a note when I came in. Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Becker’s name and phone number were written on it—the same Charlie who’d gotten me the files on Arbatov and Yurichenko.
I grabbed the phone and dialed the number. Charlie answered on the third ring, and I said, “Charlie, it’s your favorite JAG officer.”
“I don’t have any favorite JAG officers. I believe they should all be put on a big ship, floated out to the Arctic Ocean, and somebody should torpedo the boat.”
“Do they at least get life vests?”
“Good idea. They’ll all slowly freeze to death. We’ll get it all filmed on satellite, and on dull days I’ll sit around and eat popcorn and watch all the lawyers die.”
“Wouldn’t work, Charlie. Lawyers have ice in their veins.”
“Bullshit. You’re all full of hot air. Listen, you asked me about Viktor Yurichenko.”
“Yeah, thanks for the packet.”
“No problem. The thing is, Yurichenko’s coming to America. He’s supposed to meet with the new CIA director. He always likes to do that.”
“When?”
“Arrives tonight. He’s supposed to stay through tomorrow and fly back to Moscow tomorrow night.”
“He staying in Washington?”
“This is the part I’m not supposed to tell you about, on penalty of death. He’s booked at the Hay-Adams Hotel, and for security reasons, he’s traveling and staying under the name A. Ames.”
“No shit?”
“Viktor’s got a real keen sense of humor that way. Last time he came, he used the pseudonym Rosenberg, if you can believe it.”
“Buddy, I do owe you.”
“You’re right. You do.”
I hung up, informed Katrina, and then I called Imelda, who was still back in the Virginia office, and informed her also, before I asked if it was possible to rearrange our tickets in the event we decided to come back to D.C.
Imelda immediately snapped, “Get your asses to the airport right now. I’ll handle them tickets.”
“Well, I haven’t made up my mind yet,” I said.
“He’s a witness, right?”
“Well, he obviously knew all about it. He’s in charge of all external intelligence operations. Morrison’s material would’ve gone to his agency.”
“So drop a subpoena on his ass.”
I looked over at Katrina. “Imelda says to slap him with a subpoena.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
I said to both of them, “He’s surely traveling with a diplomatic passport and thus is invulnerable to our laws. Not to mention, no judge is going to allow us to slap a subpoena on the head of Russia’s intelligence agency.”
To which Imelda said, “You think I didn’t think of that? Serve papers on Ames. This guy Yurichenko checks in under an alias, you got the right to nail him. Besides, you ain’t arrestin’ him, but requestin’ his presence as a witness. Draw up the papers and find the right judge.”
I said, “Have the papers prepared before we get back.”
It was a wild outside shot, but the game was winding down and I’d shoot from the bleachers at this point.
E
very decent lawyer knows a judge or two who’s willing to bend the rules a bit. Maybe they’re lenient by nature, or they’re sloppy and you know you can slip one past them, or they know you and feel sympathy for your plight.
I happen to be the one lawyer who doesn’t know anyone like that. What I did know was a world-class drunk named Colonel Andrew Cleaver, who by six o’clock every evening could be found at the Fort Myer officers’ club bar, guppered to the gills. He was a sly devil who brought bottled-water containers filled with gin and then spent the evening ordering tonic water. He mixed his own under the table, thinking nobody knew, but everyone did know, because lawyers watch judges like hawks and trade rumors like old ladies in a knitting club.
At 7:00
P.M.
I made my entrance into the bar. Imelda had done an expert job of preparing the packet, having made out the top sheets against A. Ames. Tucked six sheets down in the stack was a mealy-worded statement that vaguely implied A. Ames might be an alias for Viktor Yurichenko.
I plopped into the chair across from Cleaver and said, “Evening, Judge.”
The judge—a tiny man with a tight, pinched face and a potbelly that pushed hard against the buttons of his shirt—was one of those drunks who could look at you perfectly straight-faced and clear-eyed, even though his brain was swollen up like a blowfish. He replied, “Evening Drummond. Care to join me? I’m a bottled-water man myself.”
I waved for the waiter, who rushed over. I told him, “Scotch on the rocks.” And he left to retrieve it. I needed Cleaver to feel chummy and hospitable.
I nonchalantly slid the packet across the table. “I, uh, I hate to bother you after hours, but I need to get this subpoena authorized this evening. Nothing serious, and I might not even have to use the guy as a witness, I just have to go through the motions.”
He was sipping from his glass and staring at the shapely derriere of a young female officer at the bar. “What case is it?”
“Morrison’s, Your Honor. He’s being tried in the Military District, so you can authorize it. Some guy he used to work with in Moscow just flew in, and he’s expected to leave tomorrow. I wanted to serve him while he’s still here.”
“Morrison, huh? What’s that bastard like?”
“A first-rate prick, but as they say, he’s my client.”
He chuckled at that. “God, we see some assholes, don’t we?”
“We sure do,” I admitted, taking my glass from the waiter.
He began patting his pockets looking for a pen, and I quickly reached into my breast pocket and whipped one out. He took it.
He asked, “Think this Ames guy knows something relevant?” He was going through the motions of ascertaining the legal validity of the authorization, no matter how much his heart wasn’t really in it.
“I’m fishing. If he’s got anything intriguing, I’ll see if I can drag him back for the trial. He did work with Morrison, though.”
He picked at something on the tip of his nose. “Don’t know
if anything you do’s gonna help your client, Drummond. According to the papers, he’s guilty as hell.”
“Well, you know how the papers lie.”
He cackled and signed, and then took another sip of his “bottled water.” He said, “And you got Fast Eddie on the other side, right? You know some asshole started a betting pool on the Internet?”
“Uh, no, I hadn’t heard that,” I replied, quickly taking the papers and stuffing them in my briefcase.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I bet on you.”
“Sir, that’s very kind.” I was actually touched that this old guy had thought enough of my legal abilities to wager on my behalf. I promised, “I’ll try to live up to your confidence.”
He cackled again. “Shit, Drummond, I was drunk. I wouldn’t ever have wagered on you if I was sober.” He kept cackling as he reached down to his water bottle and prepared a refill.
I walked away pondering the fact that the only folks who thought I could win this case were drunks who regretted it in the morning.
Anyway, armed with my freshly signed subpoena, I retrieved Katrina and we went straight to the 14th Street precinct, where my co-counsel used to hang out and fish for customers. She got us ushered into the back, where I shoved my papers at the precinct commander and asked him to provide a police escort to help us serve them. He walked us out to the desk sergeant, who went and located a pair of beat cops.
One was named Officer Murtry and the other was Officer Blackstone. Murtry looked like an ex-jock who knew exactly where all the donut shops were located, and Blackstone looked like a skinny, pimply-faced rookie who was still learning how to put on his uniform.
Murtry looked at Katrina and said, “Hey, Miss Mazorski, nice to see ya again. Haven’t seen ya around the precinct lately.”
Katrina smiled back. “I took some time off.”
“Good for you. Anyway, where’s this Ames guy located?”
I said, “He’s staying at the Hay-Adams.”
“The Hay-Adams?” he asked, looking surprised. “Funny place to serve papers.”
By which he meant that the Hay-Adams is one of the swankest inns in Washington and therefore doesn’t attract the kinds of customers the D.C. police would ordinarily be interested in.
“This guy’s special,” I said. “He’s more of a character witness than a crook. But it isn’t going to be easy. He’s likely to have some people guarding him. He considers himself a very important man and doesn’t like to be bothered by us everyday working slobs. You know the type, right?”