Mistress

Chapter 81

Edgar Griffin, Esquire, rests his hands on his stomach and forms a temple with his hands. “A sensitive negotiation, to be sure, that oil pipeline. The Russian government can be difficult. But we’ve managed to put together a very lucrative arrangement that benefits both sides. We think Alex will have a profitable partnership with the Russian government.”

“We’re talking about a billion-dollar deal?” I ask, like I’m impressed.

“Easily. Tens of billions, ultimately.”

“Wow. I can’t even imagine how much pressure that must be, to negotiate something like that. You’re an awfully impressive guy, Mr. Griffin.”

He seems to agree. We both take a moment to admire him.

“Just out of curiosity,” I say, leaning forward. “I mean, this stuff is way, way over my head, but-just wondering. This recent development, with Georgia and Russia starting to bicker again. What happens with something like that? Like, what if war breaks out and Russia cuts off its oil supply to Georgia?”

He nods and tosses a hand. “There are standard force majeure clauses.”

“Wow,” I say. “Latin.”

Now that it’s clear that we’re on the same page about how impressive he is, Edgar has loosened up considerably. “Actually,” he says with a chuckle, “as long as this is off the record-this is just on background, agreed?”

“Agreed,” I say. On background means I won’t print it or attribute it to him. But Kutuzov’s contract with the Russians is a matter of public record anyway. I found it online, albeit in Russian. Either way, this guy’s ego is way too large to prevent him from giving me information.

Edgar says, “Not only is Alex’s obligation to supply oil terminated in the event of war, but Alex would be compensated handsomely for the interruption.”

“He’d be paid for not supplying oil?”

“Correct.” Edgar is beaming. “He’s guaranteed the same amount of profit, but he doesn’t have to go to the expense of actually pumping the oil.”

“Or he could pump it and sell it to somebody else,” I note. “Double the profit.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow,” I say for the third time. “You served your client well. You really are a top lawyer. I hope Mr. Kutuzov paid you well.”

Edgar cocks his head, then winks at me and says, “He did.”

“And I suppose if Russia installed a puppet regime in Georgia, that regime could even agree to pay higher oil prices to Alex. I mean, hypothetically.”

He thinks about that. “Well-I hadn’t considered that.”

But your client Alex sure did.

“Well,” I say, “that explains why Kutuzov went along with the side deal.”

Mr. Edgar Griffin, Esquire, shifts ever so slightly in his seat. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse you?”

“A side deal, you said? I’m not aware of any side deal.”

He probably isn’t. No reason the feisty billionaire would share that kind of information with his lawyer in the States.

“Oh, sure,” I say. “His side deal to help Russia blackmail the US government while Russia invades the Republic of Georgia. No wonder Kutuzov’s willing to help. He’ll make a fortune.”

The lawyer draws back and reappraises the situation. The temperature has dropped in the room.

“Y’know,” I say, “I’m glad we could reschedule this, Eduardo. You don’t know this, but I was planning on joining you in your meeting with Detective Ellis Burk a few days ago. For some reason, we had to cancel…oh, now I remember.” I snap my fingers. “Someone ambushed us with machine-gun fire on our way here. Don’t you just hate it when that happens? My friend, Detective Burk, was killed, by the way.”

I shrug. “Anyway, E-Dog, I just need you to deliver a message to your good friend Alex. Think you can handle that, sport?”

Edgar is still at a loss for words. He’s a lawyer, so he can put up a stoic front, but there’s something cooking beneath his collar.

It took me a while, but eventually I figured it out. My own lawyer, Eddie-not-Edgar Volker, asked me a simple question-if Diana is out of the picture, why is the US government still afraid of me?-and it all became clear to me. I know why the CIA is threatened by me. It’s the same reason, I assume, that the Russians want to kill me.

I pick one of Edgar’s business cards off his desk and scribble a place, a time, and a few other instructions on the back. “Tell your valuable client, Mr. Kutuzov, to meet me here tonight,” I say. “And I want to know how to reach him. So get a cell number for Kutuzov, and when I call you at five tonight, you’ll give it to me.”

Edgar still looks like he swallowed a bug. “Why…would he meet you?” he manages.

I lean over the walnut table and accidentally, or maybe not so accidentally, spill his cup of Starbucks. But Edgar never takes his eyes off me.

“Because I have a copy of the video,” I say. “And I’m selling it to the highest bidder.”