“From a dead friend. I’m not here looking for a job, Mr. Brazier.”
“Well, perhaps we can meet again.”
“Whenever you wish. You’ll think about what I’ve said this morning?”
Brazier grinned. “Oh, yes, Mr. Smith. I’ll give it considerable thought. Thank you for stopping by. My secretary will show you out.”
As Smith passed through the reception area on his way to the elevator—he was tempted to blow on his hands—he noticed a handsome young man sitting in a chair. He looked vaguely familiar to Mac, but he didn’t know why.
Smith got in his car and breathed a sigh of relief, and satisfaction. He’d played many roles in the courtroom, but none like this. He was glad he’d done it, and at once was glad it was over.
Solving the assassination of Paul Latham was not his responsibility, he knew. But by having contributed something to the process, perhaps a closure of sorts had been accomplished. He now felt free to resume his life, especially the challenge of completing his analysis of differences between the American justice system and its counterpart in Russia, and coming up with ideas in advance of his trip to Russia as to how the Russian system could be improved.
This sudden, newfound sense of liberty consumed him as he drove to Foggy Bottom, so much so that he never noticed the two men in the car that followed him home.
The chair in which Smith had sat in Warren Brazier’s office was now occupied by Marge Edwards’s lover, Anatoly Alekseyev. Brazier granted him a half hour. When it was over, Alekseyev, stifling a smile, shook his boss’s hand and quickly departed the building. Once outside, he allowed the smile to erupt, and he stabbed a fist into the air, the way athletes do when winning.
His exuberance was short-lived, however, lasting only long enough for him to return to his apartment.
“Hello?” he called once inside. “Marge?”
There was no response, but a note was on the dining room table:
Dear Anatoly:
Getting everything off my chest to you was cleansing, therapeutic. Now that you know what really caused me to run and to hide—and I will never be able to thank you enough for being my protector during this awful period—I’ve developed the backbone to do something about it, to take action. I’m going to meet with Bob Mondrian and hash everything out. Then, I’ll see to it that the report on Brazier Industries is placed in the right hands. I don’t want to involve you any further because you have your own problems with Brazier. Maybe if I finally do the right thing, I’ll be better able to help you stay here in Washington. I want that because I don’t want to lose you. I will call and keep in touch. I love you (one day I’ll learn to say it in Russian). Marge.
Brazier summoned his chief of Russian personnel, Aleksandr Patiashvili, to his office. A minute later, Patiashvili returned to his own office, where he placed a call to Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Pavel Bakst answered. They spoke in Russian.
“Hello, Alek,” Bakst said.
“Hello, Pavel. All is well?”
“Very well,” the Russian mob boss replied. “You?”
“Problems.”
“Oh?”
“The young man we sent, Fodorov. He is with you?”
“No, but close by. A strange one, Alek. A real zhopachnik, huh?”
Patiashvili wasn’t interested in Yvgeny Fodorov’s sexual orientation. “He wants him here in Washington this afternoon.”
They both understood who “he” was. Brazier. The boss of bosses.
“All right. I’ll put him on a plane myself. If I can wake him. He’s a lazy zhopachnik. Better to be with you than me. Ciao, Alek.”
30
Washington-area McDonald’s were busy that day.
Dennis Mackral sat in a booth at the Adams-Morgan fast-food outlet with James Perrone. The private investigator ate a Big Mac as if it were an hors d’oeuvre and sipped a giant soda. Mackral had nothing in front of him; he was too angry to ingest anything but air.
“I’m telling you straight out, Perrone, we won’t pay a penny more for this joke you call a diary. In fact, we ought to get back what we’ve already given you.”
“Don’t push me,” Perrone responded, chewing.
“Don’t push you? The senator and I read the diary from cover to cover. It’s nothing you represented it to be. Nothing! Just the schoolgirl fantasies of Marge Edwards. It doesn’t prove a damn thing.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“The hell it isn’t. You told me—and I stuck my neck out with the senator—you told me that you knew this woman who had a diary belonging to a friend who worked for Latham, and that the same diary documented his sexual overtures to her over a period of years.”
“That’s what she told me,” Perrone said, wiping ketchup from his mouth with a small white paper napkin.
“I thought you looked at the diary.”
“I did. She showed it to me. I didn’t read the whole thing, but it had a lot of sexual stuff in it about Latham.”
“Her sexual fantasies. That’s all they were. Christ, the diary paints Latham as a saint.”
Perrone shrugged. “What you do with it is your business. All I promised was to deliver it to you. I did. And you owe me money.”
“No, we don’t.” Mackral held up his right index finger to reinforce his statement.
Perrone grabbed the finger and pressed it back, hard. “You owe me money,” the investigator repeated. He released the finger. “You think this was easy, cozying up to this Craig broad?”
“You bought the diary from her.”
“Yeah, but how do you think I even knew the damn thing existed? I had to get close.”
“How much of the money have you paid her?”
“All of it.”
“All of it?”
“How come you keep repeating what I say?”
“I thought you were paying her in installments.”
“That’s how I started. But when you put the screws on me to see the diary, I pressed her. She wouldn’t budge. She’s as tight when it comes to a buck as she is ugly. She wanted the rest of the ten, so I gave it to her.”
“Ten thousand dollars. For nothing. My job’s on the line.”
“Why? You said the money came from a private fund.”
Mackral leaned across the table. “A private fund that can’t afford losing ten thousand dollars. We have to account for that money to … them.”
“Twenty thousand, Dennis.”
“No. We’ve given you, what? Six?”
“Which means you owe me four.”
“Forget it.”
Perrone hunched his shoulders, as though getting ready for a physical act. “Dennis,” he said, “either you pay me the four grand you owe me, and do it fast, or there’ll be some people, like people in press people, who’ll enjoy knowing you and your politico boss paid money out of a secret slush fund to buy a diary smearing Congressman Paul Latham so he wouldn’t become secretary of state. Understand?”
Perrone left the restaurant.
A defeated Dennis Mackral sat back in the booth, less tan than a half hour before.
Molly Latham and a group of fellow pages ate takeout from the McDonald’s on Capitol Hill. Dressed in their uniforms, they sat on the grass in a park on Constitution Avenue, comparing notes about their classes that morning.
Molly was happy to be back. There were sudden, unpredictable moments of sadness, especially when someone mentioned her father during a floor speech, or when a member of the House made a special fuss over her. She wanted to be treated like everyone else, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before that was the case.
Molly and her new friends eventually turned to what had become their favorite pastime when together, evaluating members of the House they served each day.
“Does Mr. Schumer ever stop talking?” Melissa asked.
“He’s okay,” said John. “At least he doesn’t go off the deep end like Mr. Dornan used to. Mr. Traficant’s the one cracks me up. He even dresses funny. Those t
ies.”
“Beam me up, Mr. Speaker,” they said in unison, laughing as they mouthed Traficant’s favorite phrase.
“The one who scares me is Mr. Solomon. What a temper,” another member of the group offered. “He blew up at me because I didn’t get a message from the cloakroom to him fast enough.”
“He’s not as mean as Bonior or DeLay” was another opinion, voiced between bites of sandwiches.
“Mr. Dreier’s so cute,” said Melissa. “Wish Ah were older.”
“You notice the women members are the nicest?” John asked.
“No, they’re not,” someone said.
“They are,” John said, defending his observation. “Ms. Kelly and Jackson Lee and Waters? They’re terrific.”
“I like Ms. Molinari” was tossed into the conversation. “But I guess I like Republicans better anyway.”
“Maybe we ought to write a book when this session is done,” John said. “You know, take a poll and rate everybody in the House.”
“Who’s your favorite so far, Molly?” John asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Would she feel compelled to name her father?
“They’ve all been okay,” she replied. “Mr. Jessup’s been real nice. He’s going to take over my dad’s chairmanship of International Relations.”
“Ah like him, too,” said Melissa.
Everyone else agreed.
“We’d better get back,” Molly said, getting up from the grass and brushing crumbs from her skirt.
“That’s a pretty scarf,” another female page said.
Molly touched it. Marge Edwards had given it to her the last time they saw each other. Where is she? Molly wondered as she led the group back into the Capitol.
Molly was assigned that afternoon to the Democratic coatroom, her favorite posting. She’d spent the morning after classes running dozens of small American flags up and down the flagpole outside the building. Members liked giving the flags to visiting constituents, proudly proclaiming that each had flown over the nation’s Capitol.
The coatroom provided more challenge, and was certainly more interesting. The phones seemed never to stop ringing, especially when there was a debate on the floor of sufficient interest to entice a large number of members to it. This was one of those afternoons; the session promised to go well into the night.
In addition, Molly noticed on the day’s schedule of events that the International Relations Committee’s subcommittee on Economic Policy and Trade had scheduled a meeting at seven that night. Must be an important issue being discussed, she surmised, to be slated at the last minute, and to start that late.
A rush of memories of her father engulfed her. He loved his committee chairmanships more than the House of Representatives itself, often saying it was in committee where the truly important legislation was shaped and drafted. He was fond of quoting Woodrow Wilson on the subject: “Congress in session is Congress on public exhibition, whilst Congress in committee rooms is Congress at work.”
That thought triggered another—the package Marge Edwards had given her containing books and papers her father wanted her to read.
Ruth had visited the Capitol that morning, her first appearance there since the moving memorial tribute to her husband in Statuary Hall. She’d stopped in at Paul’s office to collect personal items packed by Bob Mondrian and other staffers, said hello to House colleagues with whom Paul had been especially close, and swung by the page room to leave for Molly the package Paul had asked Marge Edwards to deliver to her. Knowing her mother was coming to the Capitol, Molly had called first thing to remind her to bring the materials.
Thinking about her father, and his desire that she read what he considered important, brought a lump to her throat. With a solitary tear running down her cheek, she gulped water from a fountain and headed for the page room.
The McDonald’s at National Airport did a brisk business, too.
Yvgeny Fodorov got off the Delta Shuttle and went directly into the restaurant, ordering two bacon cheeseburgers, a large fries, and a chocolate milk shake. He’d been told to wait there until someone from Brazier Industries’ security staff picked him up. He had time for an apple pie and another shake before his driver appeared, tapping him on the shoulder and greeting him in Russian.
Fodorov was driven directly from the airport to the company’s Washington offices, where he was told to wait in an empty room next to Aleksandr Patiashvili’s office. He was edgy, couldn’t sit still.
His stay in Brighton Beach had been confusing.
On the one hand, he was treated with respect by most members of the Russian mob. But he was also aware of the scorn some demonstrated toward him. One in particular, about Fodorov’s age, had nettled him, laughing when he saw him undressed, and once even calling him a zhopachnik, a fag. Fodorov considered killing him. Perhaps if he’d stayed in Brooklyn longer, he might have acted upon the impulse. And enjoyed it.
He’d found killing to be pleasurable since shooting his mother. That had been his first act of murder, but not his last. Shortly after murdering her, he’d been ordered to kill a Moscow drug dealer who’d held out on money. Remarkable, Fodorov thought as he shot the man in the head in front of his apartment building and slowly walked away, how exciting it was to plan a murder, stalk the victim, and complete the act, especially when you did it professionally, under orders, and were congratulated afterward.
He seriously considered shooting Sofia and some of her friends. But by then he’d decided that murdering for profit and praise was the only worthwhile reason for doing it. Killing those around him simply because they annoyed him rendered the act frivolous. He now viewed himself as having an occupation, a profession: Yvgeny Fodorov, professional assassin, killer for hire, cold and calculating, feared by those who deserved to die, respected by those who employed him.
He didn’t know why he’d been summoned back to Washington.
The first time, it had been to kill that congressman, Latham.
How easy that had been.
Fodorov didn’t know who arranged for Latham to be at the tiny park at such an odd hour, but he’d shown up, on time, alone and vulnerable. No guards. No security. What kind of country was this to allow elected officials to wander anywhere, day and night? It wouldn’t have happened in the old Soviet Union.
Placing the weapon in the dead congressman’s hand had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Fodorov wasn’t even sure why he’d done it, and after being sternly criticized, he wished he hadn’t. It just made sense to him at the time. What did it matter? he rationalized. He was told the weapon wasn’t traceable. In doing it, he delayed the official finding of murder, which gave him extra time to leave the city. What had been the harm?
But he hadn’t voiced those arguments when Patiashvili chastised him: “You do what you’re told, Fodorov, only what you’re told, and do it the way you are told.”
Fodorov had agreed, sullenly. He’d been smarting at Patiashvili’s harsh words ever since.
It was almost five o’clock when Brazier Industries’ head of Russian personnel summoned Fodorov to his office. Patiashvili pulled a revolver from his desk drawer and slid it across the desk to Fodorov. “Put it in here.” Next to cross the desk was a slim leather briefcase.
Fodorov weighed the weapon in his hand, then opened the briefcase and slid the semiautomatic in with papers already inside.
“Thank you,” Fodorov said. “What do you wish me to do?”
Fifteen minutes later, Fodorov left the building and hailed a taxi.
“Yes, sir?” the Arab driver said.
Fodorov handed him a slip of paper with an address in Georgetown written on it, sat back, lighted a cigarette, and looked through the window at the workers of Washington, D.C., on their way home after doing the nation’s business.
A small smile crossed his thin lips. His work was just beginning.
Robert Mondrian met in what had been Latham’s office with Jack Emerson, staff director to the House International Relations Committ
ee, soon to be chaired by Spencer Jessup, Democrat from North Carolina. The purpose for getting together was the scheduled meeting of the committee.
“You say Brazier himself is coming?” Mondrian said.
“According to the list Brazier Industries sent over. Twelve names, one of them Brazier’s.”
“Twelve? It’s not a hearing, Jack. It’s a meeting to hash over some of the amendments. Who’s on the list?”
“A bunch of his staff. Economic and banking types, I guess. There’s more than a hundred amendments to the bill, Bob. Stassi wants to tack on hearings into crime in Russia. I suppose Brazier feels he needs this many people with knowledge in the areas addressed by the amendments.”
“Yeah, I understand that,” said Mondrian. “But why is Brazier coming along? He hasn’t shown his face around here before.”
“Maybe to massage Jessup. You know, he lost his angel when Paul died. Wants to cozy up to the new chairman.”
Mondrian resented Emerson’s characterization of his former boss but let it slide.
“Look, Bob,” Emerson said, chewing on a pencil’s eraser, “there’s a chance of gutting this legislation before it comes out of committee. Jessup doesn’t stand behind it the way Paul did. Businesses in Paul’s district had a lot to gain from it. Spence’s district is barely impacted.”
“Maybe Paul wasn’t as solidly behind it as you think,” Mondrian said.
Emerson looked at him quizzically. “Explain?”
Mondrian shrugged. “Just that Paul wasn’t in Brazier’s camp to the extent too many people believed he was.”
A staffer knocked, opened the door, and said, “Bob, a call for you.”
“Get a name. I’ll call back.”
Her response was to motion for him to join her in the outer office.
“Sorry,” Mondrian said to Emerson.
“Bob,” Sue said when they were outside. “It’s a woman. She says she has to talk to you.”
“Who is she?”
“She wouldn’t give her name.”
“Tell her to—”
“She says it’s a matter of life or death.”
Murder in the House Page 23
