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 emigres 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
