The Kingmaker sd-3

by Brian Haig

  She gave me a forced smile and replied, “It’s the best place for us. He believes in protecting his brood, and that’s what the kids and I most need.”

  Wrong. What she and the kids needed most was to turn back the clock a dozen years, a different husband, a different father, and so on.

  But, this being America, when fate deals you a crappy hand, there is one other thing you need-a lawyer. And so, here we were.

  Brian Haig

  The Kingmaker

  CHAPTER THREE

  Given that Eddie had a several month head start, speed was going to count for everything at this stage. I pulled over at the first gas station and used a pay phone to call my legal assistant, whose name, title, and all that crap is Sergeant First Class Imelda Pepperfield. She answered on the first ring, as that’s her way with everything, prompt to the point of preemptive.

  I said, “Hey, Imelda, me. You know that Morrison case that’s splashed all over the news?”

  “I heard of it.”

  “It’s ours. Morrison asked for me, and his wife is a, uh, an old chum and she, uh, she sort of, well… twisted my arm.”

  Imelda’s about five foot one, 160 pounds, a fiftyish black woman with a pudgy face, frumpy build, gold-rimmed glasses, and slightly graying hair. People who observe her only from a distance immediately lump her into that harmless grandmotherly category, one of those late-middle-aged women who use their spare time to knit mufflers and sweaters for their nephews and make chicken soup for sickly friends. One could more safely confuse an atomic bomb with a firecracker.

  Imelda was raised in the mountains of North Carolina, where she acquired the affectations of a poorly educated backwoods hick she has long since outgrown, yet milks to this day to persuade suckers like me that there’s some tangible reason she’s supposed to salute and call me sir. What lurks behind that wicked camouflage are a razor-sharp mind, two master’s degrees, and the moral ambiguity of a Mack truck. She’s spent nearly thirty years in the Army, seeing law practiced and malpracticed in all its gritty varieties, and offers her seasoned advice whenever it’s asked for-or not-usually the same way a ballpeen hammer helps a tent peg find its way into the ground.

  “This a bad idea,” she finally replied.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause you don’t know diddly-squat ’bout espionage cases. ’Cause you over your head.”

  Not many people can say “diddly-squat” and still be taken seriously. But then, I don’t know anybody who doesn’t take Imelda seriously. I take her very seriously. I assured her, “It’s like any other criminal case. Different actors and setting is all.”

  “Horseshit. This ’cause of his wife?”

  “Imelda, she’s just an old friend. This isn’t personal, it’s professional… and please recall that her husband asked for me.”

  Without replying to that point, she asked, “You heard who the prosecutor is?”

  “Golden. So what?”

  “You takin’ this case ’cause you hot for the wife of the accused traitor, and you goin’ up against Golden, in something you don’t know shit about. And now you askin’ me so what?”

  Imelda has a maddening habit of developing her own opinions, which can be annoying, but then I have my annoying habits, too, so it all balances out. I replied, “I’m not hot for Mary. And regarding Eddie, I’ll blow him out of the courtroom.” Getting back to the business at hand, I added, “I’ll look into hiring an associate, and I need you to arrange a satellite office at Leavenworth.”

  “You better find a damned good one… You gonna need it.”

  “Thank you for your confidence in my abilities.”

  “Didn’t say I was confident in your abilities.”

  She was right, however, and I next placed a call to the JAG personnel officer and asked him to run a computer search for all the Army lawyers who spoke Russian.

  He called back a few minutes later with two names, one being Captain Karen Zbrovnia, previously committed. And a guy named Jankowski, whose Polish was flawless, but whose Russian was rated just shy of marginal.

  This wouldn’t do; I needed someone who could speed-read a Tolstoy novel in Russian without missing a single fractured nuance, assuming the Russians have such things. I therefore called an old law school chum who practiced criminal law in the District of Columbia. Harry Zinster is his name, and he is the Hedda Hopper of Washington law; sadly, what he isn’t, is an even halfway competent lawyer.

  He answered himself, as he definitely can’t afford a secretary. I said, “Hey, Harry, Drummond here. I need a favor.”

  “Whatever. You got a friend who needs good representation? I’ve got a busy calendar but I’ll see if I can squeeze him in.”

  Nice try-Harry hadn’t seen a busy calendar since law school, leave aside that I’d never commit a friend to his feeble hands. I said, “Actually, I’m looking for an attorney who speaks Russian, and speaks it really well. Know any?”

  “A few.”

  “I also need it to be someone who either has, or can get, a security clearance. Have I just made the problem too hard?”

  “Nope. Katrina Mazorski… she used to have some kind of government job. She works out of her home in the District, doing criminal stuff mostly.”

  “You know her, or of her?”

  “Know her, Sean, but only vaguely. She hangs out sometimes at the Fourteenth Street precinct, scrounging scraps off what the night shift drags in. We’ve shared a few late-night cups of coffee.”

  One of the things I love about Army law is that my clients fall into my lap off a conveyer belt. Spending all night in police stations begging pimps and whores and muggers for work is a part of the profession law schools don’t advertise. Funny thing, huh?

  I asked Harry, “Would you happen to have her number?”

  “Somewhere…” He began opening and slamming drawers. This lasted awhile, as organizational skills were another of Harry’s weaknesses. “Found it,” he finally mumbled.

  I thanked him, jammed in another seventy-five cents, and she answered on the first ring. I said, “Katrina Mazorski?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My name’s Drummond. Harry Zinster gave me your name.”

  “I know Harry.”

  “Well, uh, Harry told me you speak Russian. Is that speak it like you can order a beer and hot dog or like you could have a long, frank discussion with a Russian rocket scientist?”

  There was a quick, harsh chuckle. “Look, I couldn’t have a long, frank discussion with a rocket scientist in any language. If you mean, am I a native-quality speaker, yeah.”

  I noted that she had an interesting voice-deeper than most female voices, husky even. A picture formed inside my head of a woman of about thirty, elegant, mysterious, seductive. It would be too much to try to add a physical description to that picture, although one can always hope.

  I asked, “How’d you learn it?”

  “From my parents.”

  “How’d they learn it?”

  “From their parents. I hope there’s a point to this discussion.”

  “There’s a point. I’m a JAG officer, assigned a case that requires me to have a Russian-speaking co-counsel.”

  “I see. And you’re thinking of me?”

  “Harry also said you used to have a government job. What did you do?”

  “I was a translations clerk at State.”

  “Did you have a clearance?”

  “Yes. A Top Secret.”

  This was sounding too good to be true. I asked, “Can you drop everything and come meet me?”

  “I, uh… is this an interview?”

  “It’s only a temporary job, maybe a few months, and it’ll involve some travel. That satisfactory with you?”

  “Maybe.”

  I gave her the address for my office and then raced back to get ready. Imelda awarded me a testy frown, hrummphed a few times, and threw a stack of yellow phone message slips at me. She was very unhappy with me. Granted, she was being subtle, but
I could tell. I killed time returning calls.

  Then came a knock at the door and Imelda stuck her puzzled face in. “Some lady here… says she’s supposed to interview with you.”

  “Katrina Mazorski?”

  “Same one. She ain’t an attorney, is she?”

  “Why?”

  Imelda’s eyebrows merged with her hairline, and a moment later Katrina Mazorski stepped through the portal. I had stood up to shake, only my arm froze-call it a momentary paralysis. She had on skintight, hip-hugging, black leather pants, a halter top with a black bra peeking out, maroonish lipstick, a silver bead in her left nostril, and a silver hoop poking out of her naked navel. Her hair was dark and hung straight, and her eyes were brown, or possibly green. She had wide shoulders, no waist to speak of, long, slender legs, and she was pretty-and yes, okay, sexy, too, just not in the way I’m used to girls being pretty… or sexy. Along the lines of Sandra Bullock pretty, only clownishly made up, with a few bangles punched through her skin.

  “You’re, uh, you’re Miss Mazorski?”

  She slid into the chair in front of my desk. “My friends call me Kate, but you’re not my friend yet, so Katrina will do fine. What do I call you?”

  “Sean Drummond’s my name. Of course my friends call me Sean. Why don’t you call me Major?”

  She tipped back on the chair, grinned, and replied, “That’s cool. What’s the gig?”

  “Gig?”

  “Y’know, the case?”

  We stared at each other a moment. I finally said, “I’d like to ask the questions. Silly as that might sound, I read a management book once and it said that’s the way these interview things are supposed to work.”

  “Fire away,” she said. “That’s how you guys talk, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “When’d you graduate from law school?”

  “Two years ago. Maryland… night school.”

  “And what have you been doing since graduation?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but could you be more descriptive?”

  “Okay… I spent the first few months passing the D.C. and Virginia bars and interviewing with firms. And then-”

  “And did you get any offers?” I interrupted.

  She appeared amused. “A few.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I got several invitations to sleep with the interviewers. Do you want to hear the details?”

  “No, I, uh… let’s skip that. The firm route didn’t work out.”

  “You got the picture.”

  I was nodding when she asked, “What about you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She bent forward. “What about you? Where’d you go to law school? How long have you been a JAG officer? What do you expect from me?”

  There still seemed to be some confusion about whose interview this was. I swallowed my irritation and replied, “Georgetown Law eight years ago. For five years before that I was an infantry officer. And I’m interviewing you to become a member of the defense team for General William Morrison.”

  She slumped back in her chair. “Morrison… the spy?”

  “Same guy. Interested?”

  “Uh, yeah… I’m interested. What do you expect from me?”

  “We’ll figure that out as we go along.”

  She considered this a moment, then said, “Do I get involved in the criminal case or do you expect me to be a glorified paralegal?”

  I have a good memory and was sure I told her I was interviewing her. I allowed a long, cold moment to pass. “This is a military case that involves espionage. The Army picked two top guns to prosecute. You said you went to U of Maryland night school, right? They have the top-drawer lawyers of the CIA and the Justice Department at their beck and call. There’s going to more Ivy League degrees trying to fry my client than you can count. So tell me… what can you contribute?”

  She laughed. “I speak excellent Russian.”

  “Well there you have it. Married?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No again.”

  “A U.S. citizen?”

  “My mother and father emigrated ten years before I was born.”

  “Any limitations on travel or long hours?”

  “No limitations. What’s it pay?”

  “I can get you one-fifty a day, plus expenses. It’s no great shake, but the Army’s stingy. And incidentally, that’s about what the Army pays me.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Well, that presents a problem,” I politely noted. “I didn’t offer it yet.”

  “You’re going to.” She chuckled. “You’re definitely going to.”

  “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 th
e 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.”