“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 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
