“Why’s that?”
“Martindale-Hubbell’s will tell you there’s only three other lawyers in this town that speak fluent Russian. Two bill five hundred an hour and do most of their work for the Russian Mafiya. The third’s facing disbarment for running an adoption scam and bilking childless couples. None of them could bribe their way into the Republican Convention, much less a security clearance. You’re lucky I’m available. Now, put on a nice expression, make your offer, and quit wasting time.”
I shook my head. “This may come as a surprise, but I hear there’s actually lawyers outside of this city.”
She shrugged. “You’ll waste weeks and still not find somebody with my credentials and talents. Quit jerking me around and make your offer.”
Her head was canted sideways, and she was observing me with a sort of insouciant expression. Her eyes were brown, I realized. But the more relevant thing I realized was that this woman was a bit of a ballbuster.
Actually, so what? Maybe she was bluffing about how hard it would be to find another suitable attorney. But maybe she wasn’t. Time was already a bit of an issue for me.
I pondered the pros and cons and then said, “We’ll try it, but conditionally. If I don’t like your work, it’s sayonara.”
“I’ll start tomorrow,” she responded, “and don’t worry about my work. Just try to keep up.” Then she abruptly got up, spun around, and left.
The things I liked about her: She was obviously smart, self-confident, and attractive-if you like that type.
What I didn’t like was that she was sassy, cocky, pushy, and looked like a Technicolor cartoon of Generation X. The appearance issue could be a problem, but more her problem than mine. What was a problem for me was that she was definitely a wiseass. I happen to admire the characteristic, however, we all know what happens when you put two wiseasses together.
But then, I’m confident of my devastating wit and, misgivings aside, would find some use for her.
CHAPTER FOUR
The top story of the Washington Herald on my first full day as William Morrison’s lead attorney had this to say: A knowledgeable source who wished to remain anonymous claimed Morrison was first recruited by a case officer of the KGB as early as 1988 or 1989. Mr. Anonymous knew this because those were the years when the trail of Morrison’s damage first ignited. After the Soviet Union got swept into the dustbin of history, Morrison’s case officer simply transferred his files into Russia’s new intelligence bureaus and kept the game rolling.
Over that period, Morrison had scored some very impressive intelligence coups against the Soviets, and afterward, against the Russians, that dramatically furthered his career. He received a slew of early promotions and special assignments.
Also over that period, a number of critically vital intelligence programs had been blown and several double agents and Russian turncoats had been exposed and then brutally executed by Russia’s intelligence agencies. These signs were noticed. The CIA and FBI knew they had a traitor and searched relentlessly for his identity, a search that led eventually to Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, but the CIA and FBI were now forced to consider the ugly possibility that both had been tossed by the Russians to keep the spotlight off Morrison. Ames and Hanssen weren’t exactly minnows-this only accentuated the scale of treason Morrison was suspected of committing.
Regarding Mary being the Moscow station chief, there was no mention. Eventually it would have to surface. It was too stunningly juicy to ignore. If Morrison was a Russian vacuum cleaner, he had not only inhaled what he discovered in his own increasingly prestigious positions, but also what Mary learned from hers.
But the tidbit that especially whetted my interest was the mention of his case officer, or, in the lingo of professional spies, his “controller.” Not two controllers, or a team of controllers-the article referred to only one controller. In the lingo of lawyers, a highly relevant fact.
I got to the office at six, jump-started the coffeemaker, poured a fresh cup, and then ventured into my office to ponder the situation. A few minutes later I heard Imelda rumble in, and shortly behind her, Katrina. After a few more minutes I heard them chatting.
Probably Imelda was telling her to lose that damned belly-button ring. Probably Katrina was telling Imelda she’d have a special place in the guillotine line when the revolution went down. I heard banging and shuffling and wondered if Imelda was body-slamming her around the office.
By eight-thirty I had a general idea of what I wanted or, more accurately, needed to do. I began making calls, first to the office of the CIA general counsel for an appointment to see him. Second, to Eddie Golden’s office for an appointment to see him. Third, to Clapper’s office to arrange to have Katrina hired and paid, and for her Top Secret clearance to be restored.
When I walked out, a second desk had been added for Katrina, and both wall safes had their drawers opened and emptied. Imelda and Katrina had battened down the hatches, preparing for an onslaught of evidence. Smart girls.
Looking surprisingly chummy, they were seated at a makeshift table, empty Starbucks cups between them, and a crumbcake that had been reduced to its namesake.
I shrugged and started heading for the door. Imelda asked, “Where you goin’?”
“To the CIA, then to see Golden. I’ll be gone most of the morning.”
“You forgettin’ something?”
“Let me see… briefcase… pen… underwear… No, I have everything.”
“Like your co-counsel?”
“Oh, I didn’t forget. They’re introductory meetings. She can wait here.”
“My ass. She an attorney, ain’t she?”
“I might even surprise you and be useful,” said Katrina, looking amused. “Hard to believe, I know.”
Did I really need to explain the problem here? Other issues aside, first impressions are important in this business, especially when your first stop is the most tight-assed place on the planet. She was wearing a loose blouse, tight bell-bottoms, clogs, and a spiked collar around her neck. But on second thought, it might be worth bringing her along for the shock value. Maybe her nose bead and belly-button ring would set off the metal detector at the CIA. Wouldn’t that be a thrill?
Three minutes later we were racing down the GW Parkway. Wanting a better angle on this woman, I said, “So tell me about yourself.”
She chuckled and replied, “ ‘Tell me about yourself’?” like, What kind of asshole would phrase it like that?
“It’s just a question. Answer however you choose.”
“However, huh? Herpes-free single white female with a law degree from a third-rate school. Likes Chanel Premier Rouge lipstick, stands in long lines for U2 concerts, and would really appreciate less condescension from her boss. Does that work?”
“Fine.” However, I believe I detected a veiled message.
She said, “Quit jerking me off and tell me what you’re interested in.”
“It’s called getting acquainted. Familiarity breeds teamwork. Says so in a management book I once read.” Of course, this was the same management book that told me how to conduct interviews, so its validity was highly suspect at this point. I said, “You mentioned your parents were Russian. How come they ended up here?”
“I didn’t say they were Russian, I said they taught me to speak Russian. My father was Chechen; my mother was the Russian. When they got married… well, the Communists didn’t like Chechens or mixed marriages, and things became uncomfortable. They were smart. They came here.”
“And you grew up in New York City?”
“TriBeCa, before the yuppies discovered it. It used to be a nice neighborhood before all the condo associations converted it into high-gloss hell.”
“And college?”
“That would be CUNY and four years of humping dishes in Broadway restaurants with horny tourists groping my ass as I tried to balance a tray over my head. College sucked.” She paused a moment, then said, “Are we done yet?”