The Touch of Treason

by Sol Stein

  Francine, Thomassy thought, help me.

  “I don’t mean the obvious fronts,” Widmer continued, “Afghanistan, Poland, Cambodia, Nicaragua, all that. I mean the positioning. Photographic satellites, laser-armed satellites, silent submarines. People notice wars like they notice stock market crashes, too late. Some of us get involved at earlier stages because of coincidences. I met Perry at Yale. Miss Tarasova was born in the Soviet Union. We were introduced because this country needs her and she might one day need me. As now.” Widmer leaned forward. “George, you’ve always sneered at lawyerlings who play by the rule and lose. We both should be grateful that we have some people in Washington who are not unlike you in a different arena. They are determined that the best way to win is to avoid the uncontrollable. The naive think counter-intelligence involves the keeping of secrets. Only in part, George. The clever part is letting the other side know the strength of some of our hands. The naive also think that intelligence consists of ingathering the other fellow’s secrets. The real function of intelligence is using experience to evaluate what we know. Martin Fuller learned his trade the hard way. Miss Tarasova had the advantage of cultural as well as geographic osmosis. She may catch up very fast if you don’t blow everything by putting her on the witness stand.”

  In his head Thomassy opened a door to admit a Ned Widmer he had not previously known.

  “George,” Widmer said, “the Soviets are chess players. We play checkers. Tarasova is one of our very few chess players. If you’re calling her to the stand to acknowledge that twenty years ago she had a long-lasting affair with Martin Fuller, I don’t see how that contributes to your case.”

  Widmer waited for a response. Instead Thomassy turned to Tarasova.

  “It was my thought,” Thomassy said, “that the jury should be aware of the many people other than my client who might have had a good motive to remove Professor Fuller from the scene.”

  Tarasova’s face flushed. “Surely, Mr. Thomassy, you don’t think—”

  “I do think, Miss Tarasova, before I make my moves. No, I’m not suggesting you were in any way responsible for Professor Fuller’s death. I’m sure you have an excellent, objectively verifiable alibi, witnesses you were with, et cetera.”

  “Of course.”

  “What I want from you is a roll call of all the political assassinations on behalf of the Soviet Union you know about from, say, 1931 through today.”

  Tarasova leaned forward. “Do you know who Trotsky was?”

  He hated to say vaguely. “What’s the relevance?”

  “He was killed by a student he trusted.”

  “Where?”

  “In Mexico. Coyoacan.”

  Tm talking about right here in the United States,” Thomassy said, anxious to get back to familiar turf. “Can you provide me with the précis of the assassination attempts here?”

  Widmer interrupted, “That would be hearsay.”

  “I’m sure the judge would permit it as expert testimony since, I gather, Miss Tarasova includes KGB foreign operations in her lectures to students and, in fact, has an extensive section on that subject in her next-to-last book.”

  “Congratulations on your homework, George.”

  “Congratulate Francine when you see her next. The UN library’s been very helpful.”

  “In other words, you’re preparing to drag every red herring you can across the screen, as it were.”

  Thomassy clasped his hands together and pointed his two forefingers at Widmer. “Ned, I was hired through you to win this case. Why are you interfering? I’m beginning to find this whole thing ugly.”

  “You’ve dealt with the unpalatable before, surely.”

  “I’ve never defended a traitor.”

  Thomassy noticed the quickening of Tarasova’s expression. He continued, “You want me to drop the ball?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then pay attention. Have those photographs your friends from Washington showed me the other night gotten into the hands of the DA?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ned, let’s not play games. Roberts knows about those photos or he’s seen them. He didn’t find out about them by getting overnight service under the Freedom of Information Act. He heard about them or saw them through your friends or by someone acting on their behalf.”

  “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You do now because if those photos hadn’t attempted to connect Ed Porter with some Russians, the DA wouldn’t have dared put Francine on the stand and I wouldn’t have had to fight like a madman to destroy the value of her testimony.” Thomassy lowered his voice. “And risk our relationship.”

  “Yours and mine, George?”

  “Hers and mine! Her testimony is still hanging there as the only plausible intent they’ve been able to throw against my client. If one juror believes that Ed Porter was in cahoots with the Soviets, I won’t succeed in what you fellows wanted me to do.”

  Widmer was avoiding eye contact.

  “Or,” Thomassy continued, “was I set up for some propaganda stunt? We got him a real hotshot defense lawyer, but the Soviet connection hung him anyway, was that the plant?”

  “George, I swear I knew of no ulterior motives.”

  “You just let them use you. And then me. Well me is not used to losing ball games. Now that the jury’s heard Francine’s testimony—I don’t give a damn about it being stricken from the record—I’m going to have to demonstrate that if this was not an accident but murder with intent, and if that intent is linked to a foreign government, that a lot of others might have acted for that government, that it wasn’t a one-on-one between Ed Porter and his mentor.”

  “George, some of your phrases escape me. What does one-on-one mean?”

  “Somebody killing somebody else for a reason that’s between them. I’ve come to think that Professor Fuller died because a foreign government wanted him dead—I hope to hell it was a foreign government and not our own.”

  Tarasova leaned forward. Her voice was not unkind. “Mr. Thomassy, you are much less naive than most Americans, but when it comes to understanding how the Soviet government accomplishes its purposes, I think you have a lot to learn.”

  The phone rang. Tarasova went to answer it. Thomassy’d been called a prick by district attorneys whose cases he had flattened. But naive? He’d fled Oswego to escape naiveté.

  “It’s for you,” Tarasova said to Widmer. “Your wife.”

  Widmer looked at Thomassy for a moment. Thomassy hoped he wasn’t going to make a small joke about how his wife always knew where he was. Widmer said nothing, went to the phone.

  Tarasova touched the side of the brass samovar. “Some more tea? It’s still quite hot.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she was pouring, Thomassy took in the striking shape of the woman’s face. She must have been a very great beauty. He could understand why Fuller was unable to restrict his relationship with her. Her brain invited friendship. Her face invited more.

  Thomassy looked up to see Widmer in the doorway of the living room. For the first time since Thomassy had known him, composure had fled from Widmer’s expression, his blanched skin stretched across the skullbones of his face.

  “There’s been a terrible accident,” he was able to say hoarsely.

  “Who?” said Thomassy, rising.

  “Francine was picking up a friend at the airport. They were both in intensive care at the hospital in New Rochelle. One of them died.”

  Thomassy’s heart, dressed against surprises all his life, was caught naked. “Which one?”

  “They couldn’t say. The contents of their purses were all over the place. We need to get down there. Priscilla will be there before we will.”

  Tarasova already had Widmer’s coat.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  She kissed his white cheek, a blessing for the distraught.

  “Look, George,” Widmer said, “I’m not certain I can drive right now.
Could we go in your car?”

  Thomassy, needing the camouflage of motion, said, “Come on, then!” and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Some time ago Archibald Widmer had determined that the inadequately brought-up human animal was at the mercy of his adrenaline, as if predators were still at large. The virtue of a proper upbringing was the ability, in the presence of stress, to curb one’s inner dance with a presumably inherited biofeedback mechanism. In Thomassy’s car, more than halfway to their destination, he said, “I keep remembering a comfort attributed to Niebuhr. It’s like a nursery rhyme in my head. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. His lungs accepted air. “You must have heard that before?”

  “I think so,” Thomassy said.

  “I don’t suppose you care for that kind of thing?”

  “No.”

  “I imagine you think it’s a slaves’ litany.”

  “Something like that.” Tarasova had called him naive.

  “Will the Armenians find serenity when the last Turk is dead, George?”

  “Somebody will hatch a new Turk.”

  Without plan, they were having a conversation each of them might have postponed forever. What the hell, Thomassy thought, he might as well know why the daughters of men like him flee to men like me. “Ned,” he said, “in my end of the law, you know what serenity is good for? For making your antagonist nervous.”

  “Did Francine know how manipulative you were?”

  He’s talking of her in the past tense. Oh pioneers, the Indians are winning.

  “You knew how I was,” Thomassy said. “You brought her to me because she wanted Koslak in jail for what he did to her. Would you have picked me if you wanted a kid-glove lawyer? You picked me because you knew I knew what human nature looks like with the ski mask off and can deal with it.”

  “That you did. And very well. I guess we’re used to a different way of negotiating with our adversaries,” Widmer said.

  “I can’t let you off with that, Ned. When one of your daughters gets into trouble, you don’t hire some Chamberlain to negotiate by walking around with a white feather seeing if Hitler wants his ass tickled.”

  Widmer sighed. “Yes, I brought her to you. For better or worse.”

  “If that’s a question, you’ll have to ask her.” Yes, the present tense. He was her life-support system now, the kind you don’t find in hospitals.

  He remembered the biggest faux pas in his life. His law school friend Jeremy had a younger sister who died of meningitis the week before graduation. The night before the ceremony, he and Jeremy had gone out for beers. When they’d sat down, Thomassy had said to Jeremy, “How’s your sister?” as if she were still alive.

  He was betting on life, though the odds were exactly even. He glanced over at Ned Widmer, a man who was brought up to believe in fair play, got caught in Perry’s web, and was now trapped in the same vehicle with his daughter’s lover, who’d just come down off the trees in Oswego, New York, and operated as if the twentieth century were a jungle.

  *

  They entered the hospital, Widmer walking slightly ahead. Thomassy thought of hospitals as holding pens where the soon-to-be-back-among-the-living were sorted out from the soon-to-be-among-the-dead. The sorters were doctors. Not too many would put up a strong defense if they thought the odds were high. Too much work. Too little hope of winning. Corporation lawyers in white coats. He was too rough on Widmer. Practicing hanky-panky for the spooks took more guts than playing racquetball in Chappaqua.

  Widmer was up ahead at the desk making inquiries. A father has precedence, Thomassy thought. If he and Francine were married, he’d have precedence. Was there something more to marriage than a contract?

  Widmer, leading the way, motioned for Thomassy to follow. Widmer was walking fast. Then Thomassy saw Priscilla Widmer coming toward them in a rush. She took her husband’s hands. He couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Thomassy, the outsider, wanted to bellow I love her, too. Tell me.

  “She’s out of shock. She’s stable,” Priscilla Widmer said.

  “Who?” Widmer asked.

  “Francine. Of course, Francine. Oh Ned,” and her arms were around him.

  Thomassy, a waxworks dummy, suddenly felt his blood coursing, his face hot, the madly happy machine of his heart pumping. Priscilla Widmer was noticing him, and he took her extended hand. “George,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here. I think she was asking for you. She’s sedated. Her words aren’t clear.”

  Widmer said, “Tilly’s dead?”

  Death was not final until it was acknowledged. Priscilla Widmer nodded as if her neck were in great pain.

  “What happened?”

  In self-defense, Priscilla Widmer waved the question away. If it had been his mother, Thomassy thought, she’d be screaming at God.

  *

  The Widmers stood at the left side of the bed, Thomassy at the foot. Most immediately noticeable was the tube in Francine’s nose, the death drain. And a nurse whose stare said All of you are interrupting.

  “’lo,” Francine said to her mother and father. “’lo,” she said to Thomassy at the foot of the bed, lifting several fingers of her right hand in a kind of wave. Her left arm, in a splint, was suspended from above.

  The complex instrumentation behind the bed monitored what? Her life? The hospital bill? NO SMOKING, OXYGEN IN USE. I am not smoking. We’re all using oxygen all the time. By not looking at the three Widmers he was allowing a family moment in which he could not be included. When he finally couldn’t keep from looking at Francine, her eyes caught his and he knew she wanted him to step closer. Mother and father parted to let him step between. For a moment he thought he would drop to his knees as he had as a boy in church.

  She was trying to say something. He took her proferred hand. He made the soundless words I love you with his lips.

  Suddenly the nurse seemed to want all three of them to go, but Francine shook her head, trying to speak.

  Thomassy leaned down.

  “Nunfair,” he heard her say, struggling to articulate despite the nose tube. “I buzz driving.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  Francine shook her head. “She ad hids.”

  Priscilla Widmer touched Thomassy’s elbow. “What’s she saying?”

  “She had kids.”

  “Has anyone called Tilly’s husband?” Priscilla Widmer said.

  Francine closed her eyes.

  The nurse was being insistent. Thomassy ignored her. Francine was opening her eyes, wanting to say one more thing. “Wadn’t an accident.”

  And then they were hustled out into the corridor. Widmer’s eyes looked awful. “Was she saying it wasn’t an accident, George?”

  “Get ahold of yourself,” Thomassy told the older man. “Let’s get the facts.”

  The policeman who had been sitting on the bench outside stood up. “Mr. and Mrs. Widmer?” he asked.

  Thomassy, his precedence lost, listened to the officer asking, “Will your daughter be all right?”

  “I hope so,” Mrs. Widmer said.

  “The best we can make out,” the policeman said, “is that your daughter’s car was in the middle of a three-car pile-up on the Hutchinson River Parkway. The station wagon in back of her ploughed into her when she stopped short. She left a lot of rubber on the road. That old white Cadillac she hit was angled in front of her, no blown tires, must have turned into her lane sudden like.”

  Archibald Widmer, schooled in reticence, almost touched the policeman in trying to get his attention. “Did the driver of the white car try to cut her off on purpose?”

  The cop took his eyes off his notebook. “Sir,” he said patiently, “I wasn’t there. The Cadillac had three drunk spics all in the front seat. One’s in the hospital here. He’s been charged with DWI and reckless endangerment.”

  “My daughter say
s it wasn’t an accident,” Widmer said.

  “What about vehicular manslaughter?” Thomassy cut in.

  “That’s up to the DA,” the officer said.

  Widmer said, “Does anyone know why they did it?”

  The cop shrugged. “Personally, I think they were just girl chasing. The one in the hospital, he’s been arrested twice before, once for nearly going into a toll booth instead of next to it. The other time it was on complaint of a woman who got his license number and pressed charges.”

  Thomassy said, “Ned, I know what you’re guessing. Believe me, the Russians wouldn’t hire three drunks, one with a record, to stage a fake accident. Give them credit. They’re as smart as we are. This has nothing to do with the trial. Just animal life. Those drunks were playing games on the road.”

  “They ought to be shot,” Widmer said.

  The cop looked miffed because only the mother was paying attention to him. “We’ll do everything in our power to pin it on the perpetrator,” he said, trying to say perpetrator with brio, the way they always did on television.

  Widmer put his arm around his wife.

  “It seems so gratuitous,” she said. “So unnecessary.” She seemed to be trying to keep herself from tears.

  Thomassy suddenly felt himself outside the family circle again. Widmer was hugging his wife. What was Thomassy supposed to do, hug the cop?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The rooms they provided for lawyers to confer with clients were small courthouse cubicles, windowless monks’ cells with nongreen, nongray, dirty walls warning the client: you screwed up; now if your lawyer screws up, you’ll spend years in a room this size.

  Ed Porter, sitting opposite Thomassy, chewed on a cuticle.

  “Take your hand away from your mouth,” Thomassy said.

  “Look, Mr. Thomassy, would you mind not speaking to me that way?”

  “What way?” Thomassy wanted to be at the hospital.

  “I had enough of that do-this, do-that shit when I was a kid.”