David Duffy - Last to Fold

“That was her on the phone this morning, at Mulholland’s apartment?”

“Courtesy call. Some frigging courtesy. We had an understanding. She’s been looking into FTB for months. Predatory lending makes good press. Sorry, that’s unfair. Not at all clear she could’ve made a case, but between you, me, and the microphone in the wall, some of FTB’s practices were close to the line. Anyway, when the credit crunch hit, we talked, and I thought we agreed, absent compelling evidence, she’d leave Rory alone so he could focus on saving the bank. There are jobs at stake, among other things.”

“Maybe she found the compelling evidence.”

“Rory says there’s nothing to find. Our own investigation—Hayes & Franklin, I mean—backs him up.”

“Not the first time a client’s lied to his lawyer.”

“Thanks, Turbo. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

“What about the money laundering?”

“This morning’s the first time I heard anything about that. We’re looking into it.”

“Surprised Felix Mulholland, too.”

He pulled his chair back to the desk and leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“I was watching. Something about that spooked her.”

“You sure?”

“The first job of a good spy…”

“Don’t give me the assess-human-nature speech. I’ve heard it as many times as the Russians winning World War II. So what’s the deal between the two of you?”

“What’d she tell you?”

“She’s a client, Turbo. What she tells me is between us.”

“Be careful how much stock you put in your clients, Bernie. Felix Mulholland was no more born Felicity Kendall in Jackson Heights, Queens, than I was born Richard Nixon in Yorba Linda, California. She’s a client with a past. Colorful is one adjective. I’m sure the Post will find others.”

That got him out of the chair, half standing, leaning forward. “The Post ? What the hell are you talking about?”

Since I arrived, Bernie had been talking at me, sometimes to me. He was preoccupied with other problems, I understood that, but I wanted his full attention for the next few minutes—partly for his own good and partly because I needed him to appreciate I was coming clean. However this thing played later tonight, Bernie had to believe my judgment was unclouded by emotional connections rooted in ancient history. The threat of more unwanted media coverage—from an always unwanted source—did the trick. I chose my words carefully.

“I take it Mulholland didn’t have you guys check her out before he popped the question?”

“No! Of course not. Why…”

Bernie sat down and pushed back from the desk again, putting distance between himself and whatever he feared I was about to say. The look on his face was the one of a well-dressed pedestrian as he jumps back from the curb, knowing he’s too late to avoid the muddy splash from the taxi accelerating through a great big puddle.

“Prenup?” I asked.

“None of your damned business,” he growled.

Careful. Bernie took confidentiality seriously. Appearing to pry wasn’t going to help. “True enough. You know she was married before?”

“No. Why is that relevant in this day and age?”

“Mulholland’s her third, at least.”

“So?”

“Second’s named Barsukov.”

The chair slid forward in a flash and Bernie leaned into my face. “Lachko Barsukov?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ. How do you know this?” He was fully in my face now.

“I’m the first.”

I watched all five Kübler-Ross stages pass through his eyes—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—in the time it took him to slump back into his chair. Then anger returned.

“Goddammit!” He banged the desk with both fists. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t know until I saw her this morning. First time since 1989.”

Bernie and I have done business together for nearly a decade. I have always been straight with him, not least because he’s the one who gets me hired, but also because when he was with the CIA, he had the rep as the most astute analyst the Americans had. I’m not sure I could put one over on him if I tried. Since we were on opposite sides for two decades, I assume there’s some little lingering doubt in his mind about where I’m coming from at moments like these. He also doesn’t like surprises. He was taking his time before deciding how to proceed.

“Straight up?” he said.

“Straight up. Our split was anything but amicable, on both sides. That’s what I told her, when I spoke Russian, this morning. If I’d known she was married to Mulholland, I never would have set foot in that apartment.”

He thought about that a few minutes more, and anger was replaced by acceptance. It looked as though I’d come through clean, at least for the time being.

“I need this like another ulcer,” he said.

“What did she tell you, if it’s okay to ask?”

His look said it wasn’t okay.

“Let me guess, then. Something like, she knew me years ago, back before the beginning of recorded time, when she was just an innocent child, ignorant of the ways of the world, and I pulled dark, evil wool over those innocent eyes until the day she found out, to her total shock and horror, that I’m a lying, deceitful, no-good son of a bitch. She probably worked in dead babies’ blood dripping from my teeth for good measure.”

He chuckled, a little. “That’s close. Her description was more robust.”

“So how come I’m still here?”

He sighed. “Too many problems. This was one I could hand off, or so I thought. I figured Rory had hired you, it was his call to fire you. But now…” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes again. I could see the red from across the desk. “I don’t know, Turbo, to tell you the truth. This complicates everything, and I don’t have time to deal with more complications. I guess I could send one of our associates with the money…”

I hadn’t come through so clean after all. He was really reaching. I said, “And explain to his/her wife/husband, girlfriend/boyfriend, mother/father what happened when things go bad. You don’t need that. This whole thing smells bad. You know that as well as I do. Even money Eva’s in on the scam, but I’m not sure that explains it. That’s why I told you what I told you. I’ll handle it, but I may have to improvise if things go wrong.”

He replaced his glasses. “You think Barsukov’s tied up in this?”

“That’s the question I’ve been asking myself all day. Truth is, I don’t know. He hates me, and it’s clear Polina—I mean Felix—is hiding from something or someone, and I’d have to guess that’s him. I haven’t spoken to him in years, and I have no idea if he knows who she’s become.”

“Jesus. It gets better and better. You got any good news?”

I decided not to tell him about Foos’s offer to help the government with its case against Mulholland.

“It could be this isn’t about Felix,” I said, “at least not in the way you think.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This wouldn’t be the first time she and Lachko Barsukov teamed up against me.”

The eyebrow stayed up. “There were a lot of rumors running around Langley back in the eighties about how you and Barsukov got cross-wired. Details were hard to come by. KGB put the lid on. She was part of that?”

“Tangentially. Collateral damage morphed into collateral assault.”

The glasses came off again. “Tell me straight—your willingness to help, this has nothing to do on your part with getting even or anything like that?”

“It was all over long ago.”