No. More than that.
Annabel Reed was quite simply the most beautiful woman he’d met since losing his wife and son years ago in a Beltway head-on collision, a drunken Agriculture Department employee crossing the line to take from him everything that was good and precious.
That defining moment in his life changed Mac Smith forever. His passion for criminal law dimmed, and he began to question whether he should continue to pursue it. What would he do instead? Retire? Politics? Teach? The last became increasingly appealing.
At the time of their introduction, Annabel, too, had started to wonder whether the practice of law, especially her emotionally wrenching specialty of divorce and child custody, was worth the pain. Deciding to become a lawyer had been a pragmatic move. Prior to law school, she’d been an art major, focusing on the pre-Columbian. Launching a career in the art world as an assistant curator in some small museum—if she could even find such an entry-level job—would not, she knew, provide the material things she wanted at that stage of her life.
Law proved to be a good choice in that regard. Her practice flourished, she surrounded herself with well-chosen, lovely things, and eventually there was money in the bank for her future, no matter what it held.
But there was, at once, an emptiness inside. She suspected it could be filled only by following her dream: opening a gallery specializing in pre-Columbian art. Now that she was financially secure, that goal was certainly reachable.
After Mac and Annabel fell in love—it happened surprisingly fast, considering they were lawyers—and as their conversations dug deeper into their inner selves, their mutual dissatisfaction with their profession increasingly took center stage. One night, over succulent Maryland crab cakes at La Chaumière, they made some fateful decisions.
“I just feel that since I don’t want to do it anymore,” Mac said, “I can’t do justice to my clients.”
“Of course you can’t. I feel the same way.”
“What’s your dream, Annabel?”
“To own a gallery. To surround myself with artifacts I love.”
“Might that include this artifact?”
“Mackensie Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmmm.”
“I’ve been offered a teaching position at GW. In the law school, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know much about art,” Mac said. “But I know even less about pre-Columbian art.”
She laughed. “You don’t have to know anything about it. I have to know about it. All you have to know is what your law students need to know.”
“But I wouldn’t want to appear stupid about what you do each day.”
“The one thing you could never appear to be, Mackensie Smith, is stupid. About anything.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“It isn’t that. I believe that if two people are satisfied with their individual lives, they stand a better chance of being satisfied in their relationship.”
“No argument. But you’re leaving the law. I’ll still be involved with it. Granted, as a teacher, not an advocate. But your life will revolve around art, and I’ll—”
“Mac, I think what we each do with the rest of our lives doesn’t mean a damn thing, as long as we respect what it is that each of us does.”
“I can be cantankerous.”
“I can be difficult. But adorable.”
“The older I get, the more liberal I become despite knowing I’m supposed to become more conservative because I have more to conserve.”
“And?”
“And, I become more accepting of the human condition with each passing year.”
“I like that.”
“Annabel.”
“Yes, Mackensie?”
“Would you consider a contract? Would you consider marrying me?”
“Be more direct.”
“More direct? All right. Will you marry me?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
She sat back and laughed. “Why? You sound like you’re back in the courtroom. Why? Because I love you, about-to-be former counselor and soon-to-be distinguished professor of law at George Washington University, pipe, bow tie, and all, I assume. I love the image.”
“You’re beautiful, Annabel.”
“Thank you. You’re handsome.”
“Thank you. Let’s do it. You open your art gallery—with my enthusiastic encouragement—and I’ll become a mentor of future Supreme Court justices.”
“It’s a deal.” They shook hands across the table.
“And we’ll be married. Soon.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
Annabel watched her husband enter the building and experienced her own twinge of gratitude. Although Mac was decisive and self-assured, he moved his angular, fit, and lanky frame with appealing modesty. Entering a room on his arm was always a pleasure.
She pulled away from the curb and headed for a night of Mozart, Haydn, and Bruckner at the Kennedy Center. But she was on his mind as Mac came through the door of the National Democratic Club and went to the third-floor O’Neill Room. “Mac, hello,” Congressman Paul Latham said as he spotted his friend.
“Congressman,” Smith said, shaking Latham’s hand. “I see you’re still spending your life on airplanes.”
“Fortunately, planes with more up-to-date navigation systems than Jake Baumann’s. Did you know him?”
“We shook hands a few times. Any word on who the president will nominate to replace him?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I doubt that,” Smith said, smiling.
Latham went to greet other arrivals, leaving Smith to make his way to where the reason for the gathering, Giles Broadhurst, talked with well-wishers. Next to Broadhurst was an attractive, big-boned blond woman in a yellow suit. She spotted Smith approaching and came directly to him, hand outstretched. “Professor Smith,” she said. “I heard you were coming. How great to see you.”
“Always nice to see one of my favorite students again. How have you been, Jessica?”
“Terrific. I’m coming with Giles to the CIA.”
“Really? Congratulations. Life there will be a lot different than over at ITC.”
At the U.S. International Trade Commission, Giles Broadhurst headed up its Office of Executive and International Liaison. He was leaving that position to establish a new division within the CIA, devoted to using the spy agency’s intelligence-gathering ability to enhance America’s overseas industrial competitiveness. In actuality, such a division had been in operation for years, ever since the Cold War ended. But the spy agency had recently gotten caught on two occasions doing industrial espionage, and decided it would be politic to, as Le Carré put it, come in from the cold.
“I’m braced for it,” Jessica Belle said brightly.
Smith laughed. “At least you won’t be spying on spies anymore. Makes sense, using our intelligence agency to help American industry—legitimately.”
“That’s the way Giles sees it. Me, too, of course. How’s Mrs. Smith?”
“Tip-top.”
She plucked a miniature quiche from a fast-moving tray, took a tiny bite, and said, “Are you still teaching the class?” She’d been a nonmatriculated student in a special six-session course Smith had taught on the difference between systems of jurisprudence in the United States and Russia, a recent and compelling interest of his.
“No.”
“Then I was lucky I took it when I did. I learned a lot.”
“Glad to hear it. That’s what you were there for.”
Broadhurst joined them, looking every bit the academic he was: floppy red-and-white bow tie, natural-shoulder tweed jacket despite the city’s heat, modified crew cut, and horn-rimmed glasses. He was considerably shorter than Mac Smith and Jessica Belle, and had a tendency to bounce on his toes while speaking.
Jessica introduced the men.
“My ple
asure,” Giles Broadhurst said. “Jess says you taught her everything she knows.”
“Fortunately, that’s not true,” Smith replied. “Congratulations on the new post. I’ve been reading about it, followed the House hearings pretty closely.”
Broadhurst launched into a discourse on why such an economic intelligence gathering division was officially needed, and what he hoped to accomplish. His youthful enthusiasm was pleasing to Smith. This was a smart guy, Smith knew, as evidenced by what he’d crammed into his forty-five years—attorney, Ph.D. in economics, a master’s in sociology. Quite a résumé.
Others gathered about Broadhurst, freeing Smith to head for the bar, where he ordered a single-barrel bourbon and soda and wandered to an unoccupied corner to enjoy it. As he sipped, he was able to observe the hundred or so people milling about the large room. What a remarkable city, he thought, politics its major industry and seemingly only topic of interest at such gatherings. Along with a little sex and real estate. He wished he’d gone to the concert with Annabel. He’d reached a point in his life where the sort of intrigues routinely played out in Washington didn’t hold the interest they once did. Annabel was intriguing enough to last him the rest of his life.
He checked his watch. Another half hour, say hello to a few more people, and he could make his escape, go home and walk Rufus, who’d appreciate the gesture, and wait with the Great blue Dane for Annabel to return.
He was considering a refill from the bar when three latecomers arrived. Smith recognized the group’s leader from his picture on the cover of newsmagazines and on television. He also knew a few things about the man, learned from Paul Latham.
His name was Warren Brazier, out of Northern California, one of the country’s richest and most influential business leaders and a Latham backer since Latham’s first run for Congress sixteen years ago.
But Brazier’s notoriety was not limited to the billions he’d amassed from his far-flung industrial empire. He’d become a potent political force in America. There was constant speculation that he would one day use his wealth to launch a third political party, à la Perot, although his denials were consistent, and forceful, like everything else he did. Those close to him were quick to point out that Warren Brazier reveled in his behind-the-scenes power, supporting elected officials in whom he believed, and devoting energy—more important, money—to ridding the nation of others whose political philosophy butted heads with his own.
Brazier was a small man, almost diminutive. Smith judged him to be no taller than five feet four, five-five at best. But he exuded largeness. He was accompanied by two younger men, whom Mac took in with interest. One was clearly not American. Eastern European, perhaps, judging from the cut of his suit and hair. The other man had the distinct look of government; FBI? INS?
Brazier went directly to Congressman Latham. He laughed at something Brazier said. After a few seconds of banter, Latham looked past Brazier to where Mac stood and waved for him to join them.
“Mac Smith, say hello to Warren Brazier.”
“Mr. Brazier. A pleasure.”
Brazier took Mac’s outstretched hand and shook it with energy. The industrialist’s smile displayed good, strong white teeth, made more dazzling against a muddy tan. “The pleasure is mine,” Brazier said.
“Mac was this city’s top defense lawyer,” Latham said. “Get in big trouble, call Mac Smith.”
“Was? What do you do now, Mr. Smith?”
“Teach law.”
“Where?”
“George Washington University.”
“Well, all I can say is I’m glad I didn’t have any reason to meet you in your earlier career. I’ve devoted my life to staying out of trouble.”
“And staying clear of lawyers,” Mac said.
“That, too.”
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Brazier,” Mac said. To Latham: “I have to run, Paul. Another commitment.”
“How’s your stroke these days?” Latham asked.
“My stroke? Oh, tennis?”
“Yes. Steal some time this weekend?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call.”
“Look forward to it.”
“Play golf?” Brazier asked Smith.
“No.”
“Shame. Thought we could put together a foursome.”
“I’ll teach him,” Latham said. “Safe home, Mac.”
As Mac turned to leave, he glanced at the young men standing slightly behind Brazier. Their faces were blank, lacking affect. Humorless young men, Smith thought as he snaked through the crowd to say good-bye to Jessica Belle and Giles Broadhurst. Unpleasant young men.
Mac took Rufus for a long walk that night after returning to the house he and Annabel shared in Foggy Bottom, near the exciting Kennedy Center, the infamous Watergate complex, the enigmatic State Department, and Mac’s benevolent employer, George Washington. As usually happened, he fell into a dialogue with the dog—he considered it a dialogue despite its one-way nature—about many things on his mind, glancing about from time to time to make sure his conversation with an oversized canine wasn’t being observed.
The walk lasted a half hour, ample time for Smith to make all the points he wished to make without argument from the Dane. That’s what made Rufus “Great,” he thought. Once back in the house, he poured himself a brandy and turned on the television set to CNN. Rufus sprawled at his feet.
President Scott’s arrival back in Washington from the G-Seven meeting in France dominated the news. Scott gave a brief statement at the foot of Air Force One’s boarding stairs, stressing the need for the United States to become a full partner in the burgeoning global economy of which it was an intrinsic part, despite those who would wish otherwise.
Mac smacked his lips and shifted position in the red leather chair. The president was an impressive speaker, which had served him well during his campaign for the White House. Mac had voted for him, but not without reservations. Scott’s Republican opponent, the governor of Texas, was a good man with a number of views with which Smith agreed. Still, Scott possessed a leadership quality the law professor considered important in moving the country forward. That Paul Latham, for whom Smith had nothing but unbridled respect and personal fondness, believed fervently in Scott helped tip the scales in the Democrat’s favor.
A reporter asked the president whether he’d given more thought to who would replace Jacob Baumann as secretary of state.
Scott said, “I can’t give it more thought because I’m always thinking about it.”
“Who’s on the list?” another reporter asked.
“I’ll have an announcement soon.” He started to walk away from the cluster of microphones.
“Congressman Latham still your first choice?” he was asked.
The president leaned back and said into the mikes, “He’d be a great one, wouldn’t he?”
Annabel arrived home and gave her husband a lingering kiss on the lips.
“How was the concert?” Mac asked.
“Wonderful, although Bruckner takes some getting used to.”
“Brandy?” Mac asked.
“Love some. I’ll get changed.”
Mac joined her in the bedroom. They returned to the study in pajamas and robes and toasted each other, as was their custom: “To us.”
“How was the reception?” she asked.
“Typical. I’m impressed with Broadhurst. Paul was there.”
“And how is he?”
“Fine. We’re trying to schedule a tennis match this weekend.”
“Sounds like fun. You beat him last time.”
“Barely. Paul’s benefactor, Warren Brazier, was there, too.”
“You met him?”
“Yeah. Pleasant enough guy, although I suspect he can turn on being pleasant when it doesn’t pose any threat to him. He had two dour young guys with him. Why do young people today have such trouble smiling?”
“I suppose because they aren’t happy.”
“Why aren’t
they happy?”
“You’ll have to ask them. I am.”
“Happy?”
“Very. You?”
“Happier than usual. Taking a sabbatical this semester was a stroke of genius.”
She laughed. “You’re so modest.”
“Realistic. I’m really looking forward to the project, the trip to Russia, all of it.”
Smith had been granted a sabbatical to research and further develop his course on the differences between the American and Russian justice systems, especially in light of Russia’s halting, painful struggle to democratize. Accompanied by Annabel, he and a half-dozen other law professors from around the country were scheduled to take a three-week trip to Russia in October, during which Mac and his colleagues would meet with Russian lawyers, judges, and bureaucrats charged with bringing the system in line with the nation’s desperate need for legal reform.
“I’m excited, too,” she said. “Want to practice?”
“Sure.”
“Vy govoritye pa angliski?”
“Ya nye govoryu pa russki.”
“Not bad,” she said.
“We’ll have to learn more Russian than that before we go. Asking whether I speak English and saying you don’t speak Russian won’t hack it.”
She giggled. “We’ll get by. You and me, we go to bedski now?”
“Bedski? To sleepski?”
“Nyet. To fool aroundski.”
“Da. You betski.”
Communicating those needs—in any language—had never been a problem for Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
5
Mac Smith and Congressman Paul Latham met for their tennis match at seven o’clock Saturday morning at Mt. Vernon College, on Foxhall Road. Ted Koppel and Maria Shriver were playing on the adjacent court. Latham and Shriver eked out victories.
“I should say I let you win,” Smith said, “your being a congressman and all. But I didn’t.”
“That’s good to hear. We should do this more often, then.” They walked to their cars.
“How about coming back to the house for some breakfast?” Latham asked.
Murder in the House Page 4
