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?”
Murtry flexed his still-broad shoulders for Katrina’s sake. “Hell yeah, I know the type. That’s the curse of being a D.C. cop. Everybody in this town thinks they’re important. Leave ’em to me. I’m not the kind of guy who takes no for an answer.”
Officer Blackstone was energetically nodding his head, like, Yeah, me too. Let’s get right over there and kick some butt. Just let me at ’em.
We went out and climbed into our cars. Katrina and I followed their patrol car, which actually worked out pretty well, because they parked in a no-parking zone directly in front of the hotel and we slid in right behind them. Then we trooped inside and Officer Murtry asked the lady at the desk where A. Ames was staying. She apparently surmised that he was part of the security arrangement for her very special guest, because she immediately provided him the room number, which happened to be at the end of the hall on the seventh floor.
We crowded into the elevator and went up. The doors opened and we walked down the hall to Yurichenko’s room, which I was fairly certain was the one with the two muscle-bound goons standing beside the entrance.
Officer Murtry, with Officer Blackstone beside him, walked right up to the goon on the right and said, “Don’t give us no trouble, buddy, but we’re here to serve papers on the guest. Let’s just keep this cordial.”
The goon’s expression didn’t change in the least. He stared at Murtry as though he didn’t understand a word.
Murtry said, “You hear what I’m tellin’ ya? Open the friggin’ door and let me get this over with.”
The goon continued to stare at him, until Katrina, who was standing next to me, said something in Russian. This the goon understood. He began violently shaking his head and saying something rapid-fire and emphatic.
Katrina just as emphatically said something back, and we were suddenly at a loud stalemate with the goon shaking his head and yelling something in Russian.
Murtry looked at Katrina and said, “Hey, what language is that?”
Katrina said, “Russian. He says he can’t let us in, under any circumstances.”
Murtry said, “Yeah? Tell him this is our fuckin’country and if he don’t let us in, I’ll bust his ass.”
By this time, everybody was yelling, and it seemed only a matter of time before some guests got bothered enough to call the desk to ask for security to come up and check on us. This was not part of the plan. The hotel no doubt had instructions that if there were any problems for the guest named A. Ames they were supposed to immediately notify the State Department, or the CIA, or whoever.
Fortunately, the door to the suite suddenly flew open and, lo and behold, Alexi Arbatov poked his head out. He looked at me and at Katrina and displayed absolutely no surprise or recognition. He said something to the goon on the right that I assumed to be the Russian version of “What the hell’s going on here?”
The goon started to answer, but I quickly said, “Excuse me, buddy, but do you speak English?”
Alexi nodded. “Yes. And you are who?”
“Sean Drummond, William Morrison’s attorney, and we’ve got a subpoena to serve on the man who checked into this room under the name A. Ames. Would you happen to be him?”
“No. My name is Arbatov, but Mr. Ames cannot be disturbed under any conditions.”
I waved the paper through the air. “Wrong. I’ve got a legal document to serve, and I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken with him.”
Alexi was studying me curiously, halfway amused and halfway not. “Are you aware of Mr. Ames’s, uh, indifference to your American laws?”
