Liars & Thieves

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A man followed Dorsey through the door. He was maybe mid-thirties, with collar-length blow-dried hair and wearing an expensive silk suit cut in the Italian style.

I ignored her question and exclaimed, “I thought you were yachting in the Med!”

“It didn’t work out, so I came home.”

“I see.” I turned toward the man. “And you are?”

“Just a friend,” Dorsey stated firmly. She turned to him. “Carlo, I’m so sorry, but I need to talk to Tommy. Perhaps later. Would that be okay?”

Carlo was no fool. When you hang with rich girls you must get used to being brushed off when a better deal arrives unexpectedly. “Of course, darling. Call me.” He squeezed her hand and was out the door before I could blink twice.

“One would think he did exits professionally,” I observed as Dorsey led me across the lobby to an empty couch far removed from the bar and piano player.

She sat down as close to me as she could get — thigh to thigh — took my hand, and looked me straight in the eyes. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

I looked straight back into her deep brown orbs and said, “They’re having a political convention in New York in the age of terror to make a statement to the world. The feds have pulled in security people from all over.” Notice that I didn’t say that I was one of the security people, I merely implied it. For a spur-of-the-moment falsehood, I thought this was one of my better efforts.

“But what about—?”

“Over. Finished. Highly classified and buried.”

“Oh.” She examined my hand as if seeing it for the first time, then a knee, then the carpet. “Oh, my.”

“These things happen.”

“Then I’ll never be questioned about that man?”

“I doubt it, but really, I wouldn’t know. If you are, I suspect that you’ll have to sign a secrecy agreement.”

“I see. Very convenient for me.”

“Yes. Isn’t it?”

“Of course, it was strictly self-defense. You and that other woman were witnesses, and he was armed. After all, he had just broken into the house to do God knows what. I didn’t do anything illegal. And I would be delighted to tell anyone about it.”

“As I said, the whole thing is classified. I suggest you not mention it to anyone or, indeed, you will be visited by the FBI.”

“I certainly don’t need to tell anyone anything. That was one of those episodes best forgotten.”

“You got that right.”

“Difficult to forget, though.”

This was my cue. She was still holding my hand, so I covered hers with my free hand and squeezed gently. “Have you had dinner?”

“Why, no. Have you?”

“I was just on my way. This place is packed. There’s no way we will get into one of these hotel restaurants without reservations.”

“I have a reservation.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sure they held it. It’s at Gallagher’s on West Fifty-second.” I had heard of it. Gallagher’s was a classy beanery where the political honchos liked to hang out. Getting a table at this hour was probably impossible unless you knew the maître d’ or were willing to slip him two or three photos of Jackson. “Would you like to eat there?” she continued. “Or perhaps someplace more intimate?”

Uh-oh. That was an invitation if ever I heard one.

She made the decision for us, as I knew she would. “I know a little neighborhood place in the Eighties that shouldn’t be crowded,” she said. “Not too many people know of it, but the food is delicious and we can visit and talk. Let’s go there.”

Looked as if I was going to be the main course for Dorsey this evening. Too bad for Carlo.

“So,” I said as we walked out the front entrance of the hotel, “why are you in New York?”

“Haven’t you heard? The convention is going to nominate a woman for the vice presidency.”

“I didn’t know you cared about politics.”

“Tommy, I like to be where the action is, and this week that’s New York. Can’t you feel the electricity in the air? Nothing will ever be the same. No woman who could afford to be here would dare miss this.”

That evening Callie Grafton joined her husband on the porch of their beach house after dinner. Jake put down the sectional aeronautical charts he had been annotating and slipped his pencil into his pocket. Their guest, Mikhail Goncharov, had gone upstairs to lie down. He and Callie had been talking all afternoon.

“He is a very brave man,” Callie said forcefully.

“I suspect so,” Jake murmured.

“He was a Communist and got into the KGB through his uncle, who was a bigwig there. A major general, I think he said. He’d worked in the Fifth Directorate for eight years when he was picked for the archivist job. He didn’t get along with his boss, who campaigned hard to get rid of him. I think by that time he was disillusioned with the KGB and the Communists, but if he resigned from the organization he would have been unable to get other work.”

“And he would have been a security risk.”

“Yes. He was stuck and knew it. So he made the best of the archivist assignment. It was actually a very low-pressure, low-visibility job. He said that in effect he was merely the head clerk, overseeing the typists who transcribed handwritten notes, overseeing the clerks who logged the files in and out, preparing the department’s budget, supervising the guards who were on duty twenty-four hours a day, and so forth. The amazing thing is that the files for all the directorates were kept in his archives — all of them — for security purposes. Regulations forbid anyone, even the top people, from keeping files in their private safes.”

“Why did he begin making notes?”

“Disillusionment, he says. He doesn’t want to talk of that decision, but it is the key to his personality. He saw the reports and reviewed the files for completeness for every single activity the KGB engaged in — everything — from internal security to bugging foreign embassies in Moscow and overseas, running spy rings and counterintelligence operations, the campaigns against the dissidents, the show trials, covering up scandals among the party elite, all of it. And he had time to review the old files in the archives, the files from Lenin’s and Stalin’s time. Those files were sometimes incomplete, he says. In the past highly sensitive material was removed from the files. The example he gave me was of the arrest record of Stalin when he was a young man. The file was there because it was numbered and had to be accounted for, but the folder was empty.”

“You like Goncharov, don’t you?”

“I admire him, yes. The pressure he put himself under by betraying the state! Living with that day in and day out for all those years, living with the constant fear of being found out. He doesn’t say so, but I think they would have executed him if they had learned what he was doing.”

“I have no doubt they would have,” Jake agreed.

“His wife is now dead because of what he did.”

“She must have known what he was doing. At some point all that paper accumulating in their small apartment had to be explained.”

“Oh, she knew, all right. And shared his conviction that he was doing the right thing. Still, the guilt is hard to bear.” Callie fell silent, thinking about the afternoon’s conversations.

Finally she passed her hand over her face, then said, “I asked him the questions you suggested. He can’t remember anything on any of those people.”

Jake studied his toes. “Can’t or won’t?” he prompted.

“I believe he can’t. He has nothing to hide. He risked his life and his wife’s life for all those years to make notes on the files and threw their fate to the wind to bring the information to the West.”

Jake Grafton nodded.

“But Jake, if he can’t remember, perhaps those files don’t exist. Perhaps they never existed.”

“The copies are being reviewed. Quickly read, not analyzed. We’ll know more in a day or two. Perhaps three.”

“Who knew the files had been copied?”

“MI-5, of course, and probably a few senior people in the CIA. But no one else. British intelligence had secretly copied the files without permission, and the people who knew it didn’t want that fact leaking back to Goncharov. They wanted his cooperation.”

“So whoever went after him thought the files had not been copied?”

“Apparently.”

“But I don’t understand. If he can’t remember, perhaps the files they thought were there never existed at all.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why would any of those people want him dead and nonexistent files destroyed?”

“That’s the nub of it.”

They talked on, and even went on to other subjects, but after a while Callie came back to this one. “If it had been your decision and Goncharov refused to allow the files to be copied, would you have betrayed his trust and copied them against his wishes?”

“In a heartbeat,” Jake said. “When Kelly Erlanger said he had been in Britain a week and a few days in America and there was only one copy of the files, his, I knew that couldn’t be true. No competent, responsible intelligence officer would take the chance that the most precious intelligence treasure of modern times might be lost in a plane crash or house fire. Not one. Those files were duplicated the instant they were out of his sight.”

“So who ordered the files destroyed and Goncharov murdered?”

“Someone who isn’t an intelligence officer.”

Dorsey O’Shea was as forthcoming about her reasons for being in New York as I had been. Baldly, she was evasive, but unlike me, she didn’t have the classified information laws to hide behind, not that she needed them. Over white wine at the restaurant on the Upper West Side, she told me that she and the yacht dude hadn’t hit it off, so she decided to come home.

“I felt like a fugitive,” she said earnestly, leaning forward to give me a good view of her ample cleavage. “I wanted to come home so if anyone wanted to question me, they could see that I had nothing to hide.” The irony of that remark was not lost on me.

“Been home yet?”

“To Maryland? Not yet. I thought I’d spend a few days in New York and do some shopping, see some friends. The political theater is just a bonus. Tommy, I need something to take my mind off that—.” She made a gesture.

Well, that certainly was plausible. Shopping and socializing was all Dorsey had ever done since she left college — without a degree, I might add. The educators had gotten stuffy about the difference between required courses and electives, according to her, so she packed her checkbook and told them good-bye. After all, people who know things can usually be hired by the hour. I suspected there was a young male involved in Dorsey’s college adventure, but I had never pressed her on it.

Inevitably our conversation returned to the convention. “What do you think of the chances of having a woman vice-presidental candidate?”

“The country is ready,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think it will happen this week. I hope it does. I meant it when I said the moment is historic. If it happens, life will be different for every woman in America.”

I wasn’t about to argue that. “Think Zooey has a chance to be picked?”

“God, that would be awesome! She’s presidential timber. But whether the president has the guts to make the choice, I don’t know.”

“You’ve given a lot of money to the president’s campaign,” I remarked, “so why don’t you tell Dell Royston what you think? He has to listen to big contributors.” Actually I didn’t know that she’d ever given a politician a dime, but I felt that this shot in the dark was likely to hit something.

And it did. For a second she looked startled, but she said, “Perhaps I should talk to him.” She laughed to cover up letting her face slip. “And maybe I should write the president a letter. If enough people want her, he will have to choose her. Right?”

Our dinner arrived, and she picked at it. Skinny rich women never eat much. “Have you ever personally met Zooey?” I asked casually.

She took her time before she answered. “Several times, as I recall. Parties and receptions.”

“Did you ever go to the White House?” I asked warmly, as if that were a big deal.

Again the hesitation. Her answer could be checked, and she knew it. “One of the receptions was at the White House. I’ve forgotten the date and occasion, though.”

“Must be cool, getting invited to the big house.”

“It was, believe me. I bought a special dress for the occasion from a well-known designer”—she named him—“and believe me, I don’t do that very often.”

That didn’t cut much ice with me. I had seen her closet, which was about the size of my apartment. I kept my mouth busy with my pork chop.

We went on to other subjects, split a dessert — she had exactly one bite — and lingered over a coffee and liqueur. She palmed the tab expertly, and I let her. My guess was that the dinner and tip had run to at least $250. She was used to it. No doubt Carlo would have stuck her with the bill, too.

When we left she put her arm around my waist. “Where are you staying in New York?”

“With friends. That way I can pocket the per diem.”

“Would they miss you if you didn’t go there tonight?”

“Might telephone in a missing persons report. I’m willing to take a chance, though, if that was an invitation.”

“It was.”

Oh, boy. Willie was going to get an earful.

When we got back to the hotel there were two uniformed cops and two plainclothes dicks standing in front of the penthouse elevators checking credentials. It looked to me as if I got the bugs shifted just in time. They also gave the story I told Dorsey more credibility.

Sex with Dorsey was always a workout. She was one of the new moderns who believes that a woman’s sexual satisfaction is her own responsibility, so she went after hers with a will. Of course it was fun for me, too, since she was trim and tuned up and filled out in all the right places.

After the first round of bedroom gymnastics, she played with my chest hair and took another shot at my reason for being in New York.

“Hey, babe, a terrorist incident this week is a risk no one in government is willing to tolerate. The town is packed with feds and fuzz and badge-toters from all over.”

“But you’re not FBI.”

“I go where I’m told. Have to to keep getting paid.”

She left it there, and we got after it again.

I sneaked out of Dorsey’s room at six in the morning while she was still asleep. Waking up alone would be hard for her ego, but I’d had enough of her company. I got a cup of coffee and a bagel from a street-corner vendor and went around the block to the van, which was locked up and empty. I went inside and locked myself in. Willie must have got a cab or train back to New Jersey last night.

They were awake and playing politics in Royston’s suites by nine. He got telephone call after telephone call, and I listened to his side of the conversation. He had a deep, gravelly voice, so I quickly learned to pick it out no matter how many conversations were going on in the room.

Tuesday was the first day of the convention. The platform committee had a large faction, I quickly learned, with an agenda that didn’t match the president’s. Royston spent the morning on that issue when he wasn’t meeting the heads of state delegations who came to call. I suspected Royston was going to be talking to delegations all week.

Each and every one asked Royston who the president wanted on the ticket with him. Royston was coy. If he knew, he wasn’t saying. After I heard him dance around the issue for the fifth time, I decided that he probably didn’t know. He did, however, ask each delegation what they thought of Zooey.

That was more for show, I figured, than anything else. The presidential nominee was going to get whoever he wanted to join him on the ticket. True, years ago a Missouri senator was announced as the presidential nominee’s selection, then dumped by the nominee, George McGovern, when it became plain that the senator’s mental health history worried the delegates. McGovern apparently dumped him on the theory that if the delegates were worried the voters would be, too. Of course, the voters turned out to be extremely worried about McGovern, so the veep choice didn’t really matter. Yet it might have.

This president hadn’t announced his choice, and no doubt he would not until the very last minute. Royston was merely taking temperatures and weighing support.

Yet when he had mentioned her name to eight delegations by eleven o’clock, I would have bet my pension, if I live to collect one, that Zooey Sonnenberg was going on the ticket with her husband. Dorsey was going to be thrilled.

I wondered why. I’d spent a lot of time with her during our torrid affair a couple years ago, and she had never once mentioned a single political issue. I didn’t know her party affiliation or if she was even registered to vote. If I had been forced to guess, I would have labeled her a nonpolitical independent who voted her conscience. She certainly didn’t need to vote her wallet.

The idea that she supported Zooey because she had met her was ludicrous. With her money Dorsey got invited everywhere in Washington. She had met everybody worth meeting at one time or another. Rubbing shoulders with the smart and powerful hadn’t changed her much, from what I could see.

I was listening to Dell Royston and wondering how much of anything we were going to get out of all this political wind when my cell phone rang. I checked the number before I answered it. Sarah Houston.

“Yo.”

“I heard you spent a hot night with Dorsey O’Shea.”

Ol’ Willie. Can he keep his mouth shut or what? “We need to know what she knows,” I said.

“So you were pumping her. Jerk!” The connection broke.

What was she hot about? It’s not like she and I had something going.

Willie Varner arrived around noon. He greeted me with a giggle and “Hoo boy, what a night you had!”

“Being a gentleman on a mission, of course you listened all evening to Royston’s suite.”

“When Dorsey wasn’t moanin’ and tellin’ you what a stud you are, yeah, I channel surfed to Royston’s station. Big political stuff goin’ on there, lots of drinkin’, no women.”

“Great. And you called Sarah to give her the hot news about where I was spending the night.”

“Actually she called me. Said you had turned off your phone. Wanted to know where you were. She’s got the hots for you, too, you lucky devil. How in the world do you manage to walk down the street carryin’ your cojones?”

“Gimme a break, goddamnit!”

“Royston and his bootlickers came poppin’ into those suites about ten minutes after you left. You cut it mighty fine.”

“Yeah, that’s the way I do things.”

“At least ol’ Dorsey says what you got is mighty fine.”

“Hey, it was in the line of duty, man! As your friend, I ask you to say no more about it.”

“Tough shit, Carmellini. I’m goin’ to talk about it ever’ chance I get for the next fifty years. She says you’re a real stud, big guy, and I think you oughta go with that endorsement. Take it to the bank. She’s a prime piece of ass and you did a good job fuckin’ it. Be proud. Be happy.”

I let him have the last word. It was the only way to shut him up.