Clean Hands

by Patrick Hoffman

  He was large, and rough-looking. He wore a suit coat over a turtle-neck, and Valencia assumed there was a gun under his coat on the left side of his torso. He reminded her of a few of the Russian agents she’d run into in Turkey.

  “Ms. Walker?” he asked, with a thick accent.

  “Yes,” said Valencia, lifting her hand to shake his, and taking a step forward. “Valencia Walker, pleased to meet you.” Her heart thumped away in her chest. She looked him in the eyes and could sense, from the tension in his face, that he was nervous too.

  “Please.” He held his hand out for her, indicating that she should walk in front of him. “Painting, construction—sorry.”

  They walked past eight tables, all with plastic sheets thrown over them. As they crossed the room, the large man spoke harshly over his shoulder to the suited man. Valencia didn’t understand the words, but the tone suggested something like, Lock the door, you idiot, and don’t bother us.

  They pushed through some swinging doors and then stepped into a dark, fake-wood-paneled hallway. Framed portraits of unsmiling men wearing suits and sitting around tables hung on both sides of the hall.

  After passing through another set of doors, they entered a second dining room. This room was plain, with cheap black-and-white tiled linoleum floors. Spotlights on the ceiling cast an odd glow. Four empty tables occupied the near side. Farther back in the corner were two round tables. Three men sat around the furthest one.

  Valencia ignored the man next to her and the other two men at the table. She locked her full attention onto Yakov Rabinowitz and walked directly toward him. Her training kicked in, and immediately she started thinking of him as an old friend. She wanted to set him at ease; the fastest route to that goal was to set herself at ease.

  “Valencia Walker,” she said, smiling and extending her hand across the table. Yakov Rabinowitz took hold of it. Valencia felt something like a wave of energy travel up her arm.

  My God, she thought, you are a powerful little man. She’d seen pictures of him, but none of them captured the strength of his presence. He was bald on top, but the hair on the sides of his head was pure white and cropped short. The most striking thing was how smooth his skin was, like a baby’s—but tan. His eyes were milky blue, and they stayed glued on her.

  “How do you do?” he asked, with his Russian accent. He squeezed her hand one more time, and then seemed to raise his eyebrows to her as if he were acknowledging a kind of kinship. It occurred to Valencia that he was trying to make her relax too.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said. With their hands still touching, she thought, I’m here to help.

  He smiled again, and their hands came apart.

  Rabinowitz turned to the man on his right and spoke quietly in Russian. He then turned to the other one and repeated the message. The man on his right raised his palm to Valencia and said, “Excuse me.” He was an old man, and he wore a beautifully tailored suit. She smiled and nodded.

  The other man seemed annoyed at being asked to leave. Rabinowitz said something else to the two of them, and they walked away. Rabinowitz then spoke to the large man who had walked her in.

  When he had finished, he raised his hand toward the man and said, “You met Grigory? He’s my closest partner. He looks mean, but he’s a gentle soul. Look at him; he writes love poems. Beautiful poems. He’s a published poet. Admired.”

  Valencia looked at him.

  “No, no,” said Grigory lowering his eyes bashfully and shaking his head.

  “Please,” said her host, turning back to Valencia, “take a seat. Make yourself at home.”

  Valencia pulled back her shoulders, breathed in deeply, and flipped her hair as they both sat. The large man, Grigory, sat at a table behind them.

  “You speak Russian?”

  “Not well,” she said. “I speak Turkish.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “You’re hungry?”

  “Oh, no,” she crinkled her nose for him. “Thank you.”

  “Fine, we’ll have a drink, and we’ll have a little bit of dessert.” He raised himself up in his seat and spoke in Russian to the waiter. “They aren’t normally open today. For you, for us …” A glass appeared in front of her and vodka was poured into it.

  “Mr. Sandemose suggested I get the stuffed cabbage,” said Valencia. “But I had an early dinner.”

  “Ah yes, Utah Sandemose,” answered Rabinowitz, speaking each word with precision. He laid both his hands flat on the table. “A good actor in the courtroom.” He closed his eyes. “His voice—He has a deep voice that carries. I am told judges, particularly female ones, respond to it.”

  Rabinowitz touched his chest, opened his eyes, and looked at Valencia. “I don’t know about the jury, because I’ve never seen him in front of one.” He looked at her as if checking whether she’d challenge him. “I’m not sure if he has a brilliant legal mind. He never showed it to me. Sometimes though, you want your lawyer to be an actor, not a genius. And you? You are a lawyer too?”

  “I spent five years at The Bronx Defenders. I haven’t practiced law in quite some time. I’m more in communications now.”

  He smiled. “I see, and I’m told that you also work in intelligence.”

  Valencia returned his smile. “Used to.”

  “In Russia, there is no ‘used to.’ Maybe it is the same here.” Then, peering over Valencia’s shoulder, he spoke in Russian, and waved his hand as if discouraging a nuisance. Valencia turned and saw the back of the retreating waiter.

  When she faced Rabinowitz again, she noticed that his face had become rather serious. “You know, I have many good friends who work at your organization,” he said, leaning forward. “Chris Meisner, Berlin station chief.”

  “I had dinner with him about two months ago,” said Valencia. She smiled and sat up straighter.

  “A charming man,” said Rabinowitz.

  “Wonderful,” said Valencia. She hated Meisner and hadn’t seen him for years, but for the moment, she wanted to agree with everything Rabinowitz said. This stage of the negotiation was a dance, so stepping on toes was bad form. She wanted to find some kind of flow.

  Right then, the waiter reappeared and placed a plate of baklava on the table.

  “Za vashe zdorovie,” said Valencia, ignoring the dessert, and raising her glass.

  “To your health,” said Rabinowitz, looking into her eyes in a way that, for a moment, seemed to suggest a kind of displeasure.

  They drank. Valencia felt her stomach and chest warm up. As soon as she placed her glass on the table, it was filled again.

  “Tell me: how long were you an official member of the CIA?”

  “Ten years,” said Valencia. “But they used me just like this, just meeting people, talking.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” said Rabinowitz, leaning forward. “Why did you leave?”

  Valencia’s mind went to a black site in Bosnia—a place where detainees were tortured with electricity. “Between you and me, I wanted to make more money.”

  “I see,” said Rabinowitz. “And for whom do you make your money these days?”

  “It’s funny you should ask.” She watched Rabinowitz’s eyebrows squeeze together. “I work for the Calcott Corporation. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Rabinowitz.

  Valencia breathed in deeply. “I think it would probably make the most sense if we could be honest,” she said, offering a sympathetic smile. “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I know you’re a busy man, and I want to be respectful of your time.”

  “Please,” said Rabinowitz, turning his hand for her to continue.

  “We’re having a problem with your nephews.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Which nephews? I have”—he looked up at the ceiling—“sixteen, excuse me, seventeen nieces and nephews. Some here”—he counted off on his fingers—“some in Russia of course, two in Israel, one in Kazakhstan, one in Syria, and one in China.”

  He kne
w exactly who she was talking about, and playing dumb was diminishing his charm. “Your nephews here in Brooklyn, Yuri and Isaac.”

  She watched his mouth open, and his chest deflate as he exhaled.

  “Not them,” he said, shaking his head. He raised his fingers from the table, as if telling her to slow down. “You must be confused; these are very good boys. They are young. I’m afraid you’ve been given false information.”

  Valencia lowered her chin and looked right into the old man’s eyes. “Your nephews”—she paused for a moment, made sure she had his attention—“came across some files that belong to the Calcott Corporation. Sensitive files from an active court case, a federal case. They used those files and blackmailed the law firm that represents Calcott. The law firm paid your nephews. I advised them to do that. It was a one-time act of generosity. It won’t be repeated.”

  Rabinowitz tented his fingers on the table. A dark expression settled on his face. “I’m going to say it again. My nephews had nothing to do with whatever it is you’re talking about. To be polite, I will ask you a hypothetical question. If the boys did do that—these boys would never do anything like that—but if they did do something, what is it you would have me do?”

  Valencia mirrored the man’s hands and posture. She then turned her wrist toward her nose and sniffed her perfume. She leaned forward, picked up a piece of baklava and took a bite of it. She sat there chewing for a moment, enjoying its taste, then took a sip of vodka.

  “We made the payment. Now we need the problem to go away. I’m going to be clear with you, so please don’t think I’m trying to threaten you. If it doesn’t go away, if for some reason we hear something else about these files, I will be forced to call Albert Dunning. Do you know who that is?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Rabinowitz.

  “He’s the special agent in charge of the Newark FBI. He is a very dear friend of mine. We worked together for two years. I’ve been to his house. I’ve swam in his swimming pool. If I called him and told him to have customs agents take a look at containers coming from Shenzhen, if I told him specifically to examine all shipments from the Piang Won Company, what would he find?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rabinowitz, shaking his head. “What would you find if you looked in there?”

  “If I looked?” asked Valencia, glancing at the ceiling, smiling. “I would probably find shipments of different chemical substances. Maybe methylone. Depending on what time of month, pentedrone, maybe crystal meth. All kinds of things.”

  She held up her left hand while she spoke and showed him her perfect red fingernails. “But I don’t look in shipping containers. I’m not a customs agent.”

  “You are in communications.”

  “Exactly.”

  He closed his eyes and appeared to give her words some thought. He stayed silent for almost ten seconds. Valencia kept her eyes on him the whole time.

  “It is impossible that my nephews would engage in such behavior,” said Yakov Rabinowitz, his voice softer now. “They are good boys, but since you have come here, and because we have mutual friends, I will suggest to them that they should never even think about anything like that in the future.”

  She raised her glass, locked eyes with him. “Can we drink to that?”

  4

  IT FELT WONDERFUL

  Two nights later, Elizabeth Carlyle attended a party at the home of one of her husband’s colleagues. It was a Friday night, a few minutes after eight. Party guests stood around the living room in groups of two or three. They leaned in with their heads, and held their drinks in front of their chests as if they were cradling baby birds. They spoke civilly; occasionally a joke was told, and the sound of male laughter could be heard over the general murmur of conversation. The place teemed with fifty-year-old brokers and traders. It was, to put it plainly, Elizabeth’s idea of hell.

  She didn’t want to be there; she planned on quietly drinking her way through the evening. “Fill it to the top this time, please,” she said, handing her glass to the rented bartender. He pulled his lips into a tight smile, nodded, and filled the glass three-quarters full. Drink in hand, she turned to face the party and wondered who was the least boring person she could talk to.

  Her husband didn’t appear to be in the room. She took a sip of sauvignon blanc, cleaned her teeth with her tongue, and fantasized about climbing into the bed of her husband’s colleague. Not for sex, just for sleep. Her eyes went to the television on the far wall and she wondered what would happen if she turned it on and sat down to watch the news.

  A man could do that, she thought. A man could watch sports as much as he wanted.

  Right then, one of her husband’s coworker’s wives, a woman named Louisa, a corporate lawyer with a distinguished reputation, appeared at her side.

  “There you are,” said Louisa, sounding nasal, like a dame from an old Hollywood movie. She looked drunk. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you. You’re the only person who I’m sure agrees how boring this party is.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes went from the woman’s face to her chest. She couldn’t help wondering if the woman had gotten implants. “You’re looking marvelous,” said Elizabeth, keeping her eyes there.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” said Louisa, studying Elizabeth’s face like she was appraising a fine piece of art. “And you? What’s your exercise routine?”

  “Klonopin,” said Elizabeth.

  “Darling, now you’re speaking my language,” said Louisa.

  They locked eyes. “So? Work?”

  “Please, my blood pressure,” said Elizabeth.

  For a moment, the issue of the three-quarters of a million dollars she’d given away bobbed up into Elizabeth’s consciousness. Her armpits dampened. Valencia had promised to find a way to fold the money into her bill. Her mother’s voice popped into her head: Fold it into a bill? She gulped her wine, looked around the party, shifted her weight.

  Louisa pivoted so they both faced the crowd. “Are you guys really going to trial?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.

  “On what?” answered Elizabeth, pivoting back so she could face her.

  “Calcott, Liz, what else?”

  Any number of people could have sent her as a spy. There were probably half a dozen hedge fund managers at the party right then who would pay an obscene amount of money for that information.

  “We’re preparing,” said Elizabeth. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Honestly, between me and you, I hope we do. I’m starving for it. The board’s starving too. They want to go nuclear. Scorched earth. End this thing once and for all.” She dropped her voice lower still: “Can’t think of a better scenario, better even than a settlement.”

  The truth—of course—was the exact opposite of everything she was saying. She wanted the case to disappear. Wanted nothing more. She was exhausted. But she could never admit that. After allowing her mouth to form into a lustful little smile, Elizabeth faced her friend full on. “And you?” she asked. “What are you up to?”

  For the next few minutes, Louisa droned on about some trial her firm had just won. Elizabeth squinted, listened, smiled when it seemed appropriate, raised her eyebrows, nodded, and finished her wine.

  Conversation still going, Elizabeth moved toward the bar, passed her glass to the barman, and had him fill it again. Louisa, meanwhile, had transitioned to blathering on about some charity or other whose board she’d recently joined.

  My God, thought Elizabeth. It was all so boring.

  Her mind shifted back to Valencia. She wouldn’t just stand there listening to this kind of inane conversation. She wouldn’t be caught dead at a party like this. Valencia and her fancy clothes—she was probably off having sex with someone.

  Elizabeth checked the level of her drink against her companion’s. She then drank half her glass and looked around the room for her husband. Someone, not the host, had begun to make a toast, but it didn’t stop Louisa’s monologue; it only lowered its volume. Elizabeth had
successfully tuned her out, until she heard her say something about “protected discovery.”

  “Excuse me?” said Elizabeth.

  “I said the stock fell.”

  “When what?” asked Elizabeth.

  “When Judge Shapiro unsealed the discovery.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” said Elizabeth, sobering up, and brushing her hair off her forehead. “My mind wandered. I was looking for my husband. What case are we talking about?”

  “Long Weather,” said Louisa, squinting at Elizabeth like she was suddenly curious to know just how drunk she was. Long Weather was one of Louisa’s firm’s clients—it had nothing to do with any of Elizabeth’s cases. The crowd around them gave a polite round of applause to the man who made the toast.

  A bad feeling gripped Elizabeth’s guts. It felt like one of her organs had finally failed and was currently spewing waste inside her abdomen. Her forehead became moist. Dizziness set in. She put her empty glass onto the bar. Louisa asked her if she was okay.

  “Ate something,” whispered Elizabeth, squeezing Louisa’s arm and walking away. To get to the bathroom she had to cross the living room floor. As she began her journey, the party guests all seemed to turn and watch her as she went. She noticed a man with a square of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. She didn’t recognize anyone, and she moved through the crowd with her lips clamped together involuntarily, like a dried-up clam.

  In the bathroom she vomited wine and shrimp violently. She hadn’t done that in years. Afterward, she rinsed her mouth at the sink, spit, fixed her hair, pinned it back, and took a moment to collect herself. The vomiting had relieved her discomfort, but she still felt weak.

  The door handle rattled. Short of breath, Elizabeth called out, “Just a minute!” It occurred to her that she might actually be unwell. She turned her face from side to side in the mirror, then bent down and searched under the sink; she found some air freshener and sprayed a little cloud into the air.