House Justice (31 page)

He poured Courvoisier into two snifters, handed her one, took a seat, and waited for her to speak. He knew she hadn’t dropped by just to tell him how sorry she was for the way he had been treated. She also knew it was unlikely that he would tell her what she wanted to know. They had worked together but only briefly, and although he liked her he didn’t owe her in any way.

“Bill,” Angela said, “LaFountaine has me going after the people who got Mahata killed. Bodies are dropping, and more are going to drop—and I’m fine with that. But I think LaFountaine is keeping things from me. He might even be playing me.”

Carson smiled, but it wasn’t because Angela had said something funny. It was a sad smile, a weary smile, a smile that seemed to say,
Does nothing ever change
?

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

Instead of answering his question, she said, “What happened, Bill? What did LaFountaine cut too close with Mahata?”

Carson took a sip of his cognac while looking at her over the top of the snifter. He gave no indication that he knew what she was talking about—she would never have played poker with him—but he didn’t ask her to clarify her question and it didn’t look as if he was going to. He may have been booted out of Langley—literally booted out—but that didn’t mean he was going to divulge Langley’s secrets. No matter how he felt about LaFountaine or what LaFountaine may have done, Carson would never betray the agency or its precepts, and one of those precepts was that you didn’t share information with people who had no need to know. And Angela, technically, didn’t have the need.

“Do you remember after 9/11,” he said, “the so-called blue-ribbon commission they formed to look into what went wrong?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“One of the committee’s astute, armchair observations was that there was an overreliance on technology and an underreliance on
HUMINT
.”

What he meant was that the 9/11 Commission had berated the intelligence community for relying too heavily on spy satellites, Predator drones, and electronic eavesdropping, and not having enough spies in the enemy’s camp.

“But the problem with human beings is … well, they’re human. They make mistakes. They misunderstand, they become confused. They forget things that need to be done. And when you’re the one in the field directing these fallible people, you’re often directing them remotely. Communications are terse and coded and sporadic. You can’t ask all the questions you’d like to ask; you can’t double-check their work. It’s very…
imprecise
in the field, Angie.”

She had the impression he was saying out loud all the things that he had been going over repeatedly in his own head in the sleepless nights since Mahata’s death.

“Are you saying LaFountaine didn’t give you the time to do the job right, Bill? Is that what was cut too close? Did he wait too long after the article appeared in the
News
to tell you to pull Mahata out?”

“I had all the time in the world. In Mahata’s case, I had six years.”

“Then what did LaFountaine cut too close?”

He shook his head. “Angie, I can’t tell you what you want to know. I wish I could but it’s need-to-know, and only LaFountaine can bring you into the circle.”

“I understand,” she said.

And she did. But, goddamnit, she was tired of it—tired of being kept in the dark, tired of being used, tired of being excluded. In spite of her aversion to drinking on duty, she drained the cognac snifter in one swallow, and after she did she had an urge to throw the beautiful glass into Carson’s fireplace and watch it shatter. They did that in old movies and she always thought it looked silly and over the top
and it offended her practical sensibilities—the thought of having to clean up all that broken glass—but now she felt like doing just that. She had an overwhelming desire to break something.

“Did you hear LaFountaine’s press conference,” Carson asked, “when he told the jackals about Mahata’s death?”

“Yes,” she said, “but—”

“Do you remember him saying how deeply embedded she was, what fine product she produced? Didn’t that strike you as odd, Angie? The director of the Central Intelligence agency admitting, publicly, that we had inserted an agent right into one of the most sensitive ministries in Iran? Why would he do that?”

She couldn’t tell if he was seriously puzzled by what LaFountaine had done or if he was trying to instruct her with his question. She suspected he was telling her something important, but she didn’t know what.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But one thing I do know is that you didn’t deserve to be treated the way he treated you.”

Carson smiled again, but this time there was genuine mirth in it. “People assume that LaFountaine attacked me in his office that day. It’s apparently never occurred to anyone, including you, that maybe I was the one who attacked
him
and he was simply defending himself.”

“What are you saying, Bill? Was it his fault she died, or yours? Will you just give me a straight answer?”

“I’m saying it was complicated and you shouldn’t judge LaFountaine —or me—too harshly. We’re human, too.”

They ended up taking the red-eye to San Diego because DeMarco couldn’t get them on an earlier flight. Angela barely said a word to him while they were waiting to board the plane, and didn’t say anything at all when they were in the air. She wouldn’t tell him who she had gone to see—invoking the CIA mantra of
need to know
—and she refused to be drawn into a discussion about the dangerous assignment that LaFountaine had given her. So DeMarco had two drinks, put on headphones, and fell asleep.

They stepped off the plane in San Diego, stiff jointed, exhausted, and fuzzy headed—symptoms familiar to overnight, crosscontinental travelers. A young guy wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a Padres ball cap met them at baggage claim. He looked like a college kid but, if he was one, DeMarco was pretty sure he wasn’t a full-time student.

“Where’s Markelov now?” Angela asked.

“At his place, probably sleeping,” the kid said. “He was out late last night partying. The man’s a party animal. Dave’s watching him, and he’ll call if Yuri takes off, but my guess is that he’ll be at home until this evening. So, if you need to get some sleep, you probably have time.”

“Is the FBI watching him?”

“Not yet. We couldn’t spot any surveillance and we talked to your guy Schommer back in D.C. He said they were still looking at records, getting justification for warrants, all that legal nonsense.” The kid
laughed. “That’s the problem with the Bureau; they hire too many lawyers and they think like lawyers.”

Getting some sleep had sounded like a great idea to DeMarco, but iron-woman DeCapria was still on the job.

“How do I look?” she asked.

They were in Angela’s room at the Hilton on Harbor Island. She had on black-framed glasses and a blonde wig that fit so well and looked so real that DeMarco couldn’t tell it was a wig. She was holding Pamela Walker’s driver’s license next to her face.

DeMarco liked her natural hair color better, but there was something sexy about the blonde wig. It made her look sorta tarty, and sometimes tarty was good. He wanted to say,
You look like every man’s fantasy, you look so good that I want to
…

“You look good,” he said.

“I mean, do I look like her?”

“She’s not as pretty as you. Her lips are thinner and her nose …but yeah, if this guy Yuri gets a copy of her real driver’s license, I think he’ll think it’s just a bad picture.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too,” Angela agreed.

“I’m going with you,” DeMarco said.

“No way. How do I explain you?”

“Tell him I’m muscle you hired for protection.”

“No, I’ll be all right. And I don’t want him getting a look at you. We may need you later.”

“Angela, the guy you’re going to see is a gangster and I’ve got some experience with gangsters, a lot more than you have.”

“You mean your father?” she asked.

DeMarco ignored the question. “You know, people see
The Godfather
and Marlon Brando scratching his cheek, acting all wise and thoughtful, and they get the wrong idea. Let me tell you something: mob guys aren’t wise and thoughtful. They’re a bunch of thugs that usually aren’t very bright and their solution to almost every problem
is violence. And if they think you’re trying to set them up, they’ll kill you.”

Angela looked at him and nodded her head, but it wasn’t because she appreciated the wisdom of his words.

“You’re going to have to tell me about your dad sometime,” was all she said.

Angela rang the doorbell of Yuri Markelov’s house, which, according to Ryan Schommer of the FBI, was really Marty Taylor’s house. The house was in Coronado and overlooked San Diego Bay. She didn’t know anything about the California real-estate market, but she was guessing the place would sell for several million. She would have given her eyeteeth to have a home like this.

The door was opened by an enormous man wearing a cheap brown suit and a white polo shirt. He was at least six six and so broad he completely filled the doorway. He had a shaved head, a goatee, and a neck that was about the same diameter as a fire hydrant. He was speaking on a cell phone and he raised a finger to her in a just-a-minute gesture. She heard him say, “Take him to the emergency room and don’t worry about the insurance. They’ll take care of him.” He paused and said, “No. Take him now. Take a cab.”

He closed the cell phone and muttered, “Stupid
suka
.” Looking at Angela, concern still etched on his face, he said, “One of my sons. He’s been coughing all night. That’s not good, is it?”

“Uh, no,” Angela said. “That doesn’t sound good. Look, I’m here to see Yuri Markelov.”

The giant smiled at her but shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you should have called first. He’s already with a girl, and he won’t want to be disturbed. But leave me your name and I’ll tell him you came by. You’re very pretty, I’m sure he’ll want to see you again.”

“I’m not one of Yuri’s bimbos,” she said. “Tell him I have information for him, important information related to Martin Taylor’s company. He’ll want to see me.”

Now the man frowned; he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Okay. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

He started to close the door but before he did, he said, “If you’ve lied to me, I’m going to hurt you.”

And Angela couldn’t help but think about DeMarco’s lecture on the fundamental nature of gangsters.

Angela was escorted to a glass-walled sunroom that had white wicker furniture, a beautiful Spanish tile floor, and looked out on to a swimming pool and the San Diego Bay. Markelov was standing with his back to her, near a wet bar, pouring coffee from a carafe into a delft-blue China cup. He was wearing a bathrobe that reached almost to his ankles and there was a gold Chinese dragon embroidered on the back of the robe. When he turned around, she saw the robe was open and under it the only thing he wore was a black Speedo swimsuit; his long blond hair was wet as if he had just come from the pool. Angela had to admit that he was a good-looking man with a terrific body. Very few men his age looked good in a Speedo.

He smiled at her and said, “I don’t understand why you’re here. Ivan said something about Martin Taylor’s company but I don’t have anything to do with his company. I socialize with Marty occasionally, we tend to go to the same clubs, but we’re not in business together.”

“He must be a pretty good pal to let you live in his house.”

Yuri shrugged. “I told Marty I was looking for a place to live while my house is being remodeled. He spends almost all his time at his beach place at Oceanside so he rented this house to me. I like it so much, I’m thinking about buying it.”

“Would you like to show me the rental agreement?”

Yuri stopped smiling. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

“My name’s Pamela Walker and I’m a lawyer at the Justice Department.”

“You’re a lovely woman, a very lovely woman, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave. I don’t talk to lawyers unless my own lawyer is with me.”

“Why don’t you hear what I have to say first? After you do, I think you’re going to put me on your payroll.”

“You’re here to apply for a job?”

“You could say that.”

Yuri started to say something else, but Angela said, “Why don’t we start with Conrad Diller.”

“Who’s Conrad Diller?”

Angela nodded. “That’s fine. Pretend you don’t know him, but let’s talk about him anyway. Conrad Diller was arrested for trying to sell U.S. missile technology to the Iranian government. It was suspected that he was doing this on Marty Taylor’s behalf but before that could be proven, Diller disappeared. But you made a big mistake with Diller because—”

“I don’t know any Diller,” Yuri said, and this time there was an edge to his tone.

“—because now the FBI is looking very, very hard at Taylor’s company. Until Diller was arrested, the FBI never had any reason to investigate Taylor but when a U.S. company attempts to sell dangerous things to our enemies, the Bureau tends to sit up and take notice. And you know what they noticed, Yuri? They noticed you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

As if he hadn’t spoken, Angela continued, “It all happened because of a phone call Diller made. I don’t have all the details yet—I’ll get them eventually—but because of this phone call they somehow linked you to Diller and Marty Taylor, and they found out that you used to work for, or maybe you
still
work for, an old Russian gangster named Lev Girenko.”

“I don’t work for anyone. I’m an independent businessman.”

“And a darn good one, I’ll bet. But as I was saying, until Diller was arrested, the FBI didn’t care about you. They may have suspected
that you were doing whatever it is that Russian mobsters do, but you just weren’t at the top of their people-to-catch list. But now you are.” Angela shook her head as if she felt very sorry for him. “You should never have tried dealing with the Iranians. Not in
this
day and age.”