David Ignatius - Bloodmoney

“Yes. That’s why I need to see Mr. Perkins.”

“Not so fast, sister. Before you see Tom, you’re coming to see me. Can you get over to my hotel right now? I’m catching the eight o’clock flight to JFK, and I have to leave for Heathrow in an hour, max. I’m at the Park Lane Intercon. I’ll be in the bar. Ask the concierge for Mr. Tarullo.”

He was there, waiting impatiently, when she arrived ten minutes later. She didn’t have to ask the man at the desk. It was obvious that the big guy staring at his watch, the one with the slicked-back hair and the look of a superannuated pop star, must be Vincent Tarullo. He had already packed and was dressed for the flight in baggy slacks and a velour jacket. His eyes lit up when he saw her walking toward him.

“Howdy do,” he said, sticking out a meaty hand. “Buy you a drink?”

“I think we’re better off taking a walk,” said Marx, taking his arm. “A lot of people would like to hear what we’re going to talk about.”

They exited the hotel and took the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner that led toward the green oval of the park. If there was surveillance, it was well organized; there was no sign of anyone following or watching.

“I need to see Tom Perkins,” she began, taking his arm and leaning in close. “I’m part of the reason he’s in this mess, and I think I can help get him out.”

“Where were you when I needed you, lady? The poor man is in prison now. They’re about to nail him with enough fraud charges to put him away for a long time. You picked a strange time to get in touch.”

“I was traveling. I can’t explain any more, except that I was dealing with the fallout from the same mess that got your client in all this trouble.”

They emerged from the tunnel into the light and turned north, heading up a pathway that traversed a bower of trees along Park Lane.

“My client thinks he can get off,” the lawyer said. “He says they’re bluffing. The CIA will never let them prosecute this case because of all the secrets that would come out.”

“Your client is right. This is all a house of cards. He was the cover for something very secret. They used him, and now they want to make him the fall guy. But it won’t work.”

“Oh, yeah? It seems to be working pretty good so far. Why is that going to change?”

“Because I’m ready to talk. I’ll testify in court if I have to. You can tell that to people in Washington tomorrow. Sophie Marx is prepared to testify about everything she knows concerning Tom Perkins and his firm, and its connections to the U.S. government. How’s that?”

“Pretty damn good.”

Tarullo looked at his watch. If he wasn’t in the cab and on the way to Heathrow in thirty minutes, he would miss his flight. He spoke quietly, even in the hush of the wooded glen.

“Level with me. I’m running out of time. Who’s Anthony Cronin? You said on the phone that you knew about him. Where can I find him?”

“You can’t. He doesn’t exist. His real name is Jeffrey Gertz. He’s the one who contacted Tom in the beginning and arranged to use Alphabet Capital as a front company. He’s the one who’s taking it apart now, to cover his tracks.”

“Shit! No wonder nobody had heard of him. Can I use his name when I talk with people in D.C.? It’s G-E-R-T-Z, right?”

“Yes, but be careful. This man is toxic. I mean it. Don’t use his name with people unless you trust them.”

They were moving west now, out of the trees and across the grass toward the Serpentine. Tarullo looked at his watch again.

“Listen, I have to head back now or I won’t get out of here tonight. What can I do for you before I go? What do you need?”

“I want to see Tom. Can you put me on the visitors’ list and get me into the prison?”

“Sure, why not? It’s too late today. Tomorrow morning. Remind me your name, and not one of those bullshit spook names, please.”

She repeated her name, Sophie Marx, the one that Perkins knew her by, not the one on her new diplomatic passport.

Tarullo popped open his cell phone and called the warden’s office at Pentonville. He gave the clerk Marx’s name and asked that she be allowed to meet with Thomas Perkins the next morning, at the special and urgent request of his attorney. He was put on hold for a moment, and then the warden himself came on the line and quizzed Tarullo to make sure this was indeed his special and urgent request. They haggled over dates and times, and then Tarullo ended the call.

“You can see him the day after tomorrow,” he told Sophie. “It’s too late for tomorrow. The list is already set. Sorry. Best I could do. In the meantime, I’ll be chumming the water in D.C. See if we can make some people nervous.”

Tarullo was walking faster now, gesticulating as he spoke on the phone and nervously checking his watch every twenty seconds.

Sophie strode along with him, determined to get him to the airport on time. Rather than take the tunnel, they bolted across Park Lane, waving down the traffic so that the big man could make his way across the busy thoroughfare. He lumbered into the hotel as quickly as he could, retrieved his bag and had the doorman hail a black taxi from the queue.

Tarullo gave the cabbie a forty-pound tip, in advance, and said he had to- had to-make the eight o’clock British Airways flight from Terminal Five. Marx watched him go and then walked the hundred yards up Park Lane to her own hotel.

At the entrance to the Dorchester was a concrete island that served as a turnaround for vehicles approaching the front door. A neat wrought-iron fence protected a fountain in the middle, where passersby liked to sit in the sun in the late afternoon and watch the famous people go through the revolving door of the hotel across the way.

Sitting by the fountain as Sophie Marx approached, scanning the entrance with the eye of a man trained in surveillance, was Jeffrey Gertz. He was wearing sunglasses, and he had a full beard now, but he was unmistakable.

When Gertz saw Sophie, he sprang to his feet and walked toward her. She thought of running away, but that would attract the attention of the police who were parked in a squad car on Mount Street, just to the right, and Marx wanted to deal with the London police at that point even less than she did with Gertz.

He was smiling as he walked toward her, with his hand extended in greeting.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t like that.”

“Get over it,” she answered. “As you said, I’m a ‘former employee.’ And I don’t feel safe around you. I wonder why that is.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Sophie. It doesn’t suit you. We need to talk. Let’s go someplace quiet.”

“The only place I’m going is into my hotel. How did you find out I was still here?”

“You’re noisy. You move like an elephant. Come on, buy me a drink.”

Gertz walked toward the revolving door. Sophie followed along behind. She was curious what Gertz would have to say for himself after his imaginary world had come crashing down.

The doorman gave Sophie a concerned look as Gertz entered the hotel lobby, as if to ask whether this bearded roustabout was really a guest of Miss Marx, a member of the hotel family. She nodded that he was okay.

Sophie led the way to the bar, which flanked Park Lane. It was just beginning to fill with drinkers in the late afternoon. She found two chairs at the end of the long, curved counter. The martini glasses and bottles of liquor were lined up against the mirrored glass like an army at sunset. Sophie took her seat and told the bartender she wanted a kir.

“Don’t we want somewhere a little more private?” asked Gertz. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Privacy is the opposite of what I want with you,” she answered. “I want a public place, in my hotel, where everyone knows me. It’s the only way I would feel remotely safe in your company.”