David Duffy - Last to Fold

Another knock. We all stood as the door opened and six men in suits came in, all looking this way and that before their eyes settled on the three of us.

“Rory Mulholland?” the largest of the men in suits said.

“That’s right.”

“You’re under arrest. Come with us, please. Taylor, read him his rights.”

I’d heard Mulholland say “FBI,” but it hadn’t registered he meant that FBI. The idea of him being hauled away in handcuffs was too incongruous. These men clearly belonged to the SUVs downstairs, though, and they were here on official business. I looked at my watch. Almost ten thirty. What had they been waiting for? The Cheka would have hauled Mulholland out of bed in the middle of the night, locked him in Lubyanka or Lefortovo, and not let him sleep again until he confessed to whatever crime they were convinced he had committed. But this was America. Perhaps the Justice Department had its rules of etiquette. Bankers should not be busted prior to ten o’clock in the morning.

Taylor took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Mulholland crossed the big carpet at his own pace, head high. I had to give him credit. He probably never in his life expected to be arrested, certainly not in his own home, and he was doing his damnedest to carry it off dignity intact. I had an unkind thought about how long he’d maintain the decorum once he got fingerprinted, mug-shotted, and stripped, then reminded myself that his impending humiliation was something millions of innocents had been put through—and worse. It was nothing to gloat over.

Mulholland stopped at the desk to check the computer screen. He might have slumped a little then but recovered quickly. Bernie’s phone buzzed as the FBI men led Mulholland outside. He looked at the screen and grunted. The gears of his brain upshifted a speed as he opened the phone. Bernie doesn’t get angry often. This morning, he was seriously pissed off.

“Goddammit, Victoria, what the hell is going on?… You can skip the goddamned pleasantries… I can see that, I’m right here with him. I thought we had a deal… What do you mean, changed? What the hell changed?”

He listened for a few minutes, almost breaking in a few times, but thinking better of it. Finally he said, “Victoria, if you weren’t my former partner, I’d tell you exactly what I think of you. As it is, I’ll just say you’re full of shit, and we’ll prove it—to your embarrassment.”

He listened again. Then, “Okay, do me a favor, huh? Take him in the back, skip the perp walk. He doesn’t deserve… Oh, come on, Victoria, you can make… What happened to innocent before proven… Goddammit!”

He jammed the cell phone into his pocket, muttered, “Bitch,” and followed his client out the door.

I hesitated. I’m no stranger to sudden arrests—no Russian of my generation is. Still, I was now an unwanted observer—no one had invited me to watch this. The last time I’d been witness to the authorities arriving unannounced, I’d been on the other side. I was the instigator then, but fate plays nasty tricks, and what I ended up instigating was the unraveling of my career, my marriage, and my family. I thought I’d locked that memory away, in the cell of unwanted reminiscences, but Mulholland and the FBI had set it loose. I had the unpleasant feeling fate was about to intervene again. If I’d had the slightest premonition of how, I’d have stayed right there and barred the door.

Out in the entrance hall, Mulholland stood surrounded by the men in suits. Bernie pushed his way through.

“Victoria says something changed, won’t say what. I tried to get her to forgo the perp walk, but—”

“I understand,” Mulholland said. “We’ll beat this thing. They’ve got nothing because there’s nothing to have. This is just a feeble attempt at intimidation.”

“I’ll call Tom and Walter,” Bernie said.

“Let’s go,” one of the suits said.

Having waited as long as they’d waited, the Feds now seemed in quite a hurry to drag Mulholland downtown. They were working to some kind of schedule. Had someone tipped off a local TV news crew or two to be ready outside Police Plaza at eleven o’clock or thereabouts? Bernie thought so, and he’d said as much on the phone. No question Mulholland in his Savile Row suit, tie, and handcuffs, being led inside for booking, would make a good clip for the evening news.

Survivors learn early in the camps never to let anything occupy their full attention. Trouble was all around, and it could come from any direction, take any form—a malevolent guard, another prisoner with a grudge, a new arrival who coveted the patch of straw on the floor you slept on, a lifelong jailbird who coveted you. Staying alert was one way to stay alive. You developed a sixth sense. Mine was sending signals before I heard her voice—but the FBI suits and Mulholland blocked the door. Nowhere to run.

The voice came from above, halfway up the curved staircase. Its steely sharp edge sliced down my spine. I never expected to hear it again. I certainly never expected to hear it here. I’d spent a decade and a half building a new life. It had its faults, but it was mine by design, and I was largely content with it. It took only an instant for her to cut it to shreds.

“Rory? What’s going on? Who are these men? Rory! Are those handcuffs?”

They teach you in spy school how to keep control, never show emotion, especially surprise, regardless of circumstance. I’d actually learned that lesson years before, playing cards with the urki scum in the Gulag, where losing the game could mean losing a pound of flesh—literally, of the winner’s choosing. I don’t think anyone saw the double, triple, or quadruple take I did as she came down the curved stairs. My head didn’t move. At least I don’t believe it did. Just my eyes—and my brain, which started vibrating as if plugged into an electric socket.

Mulholland took a step in her direction, but two suited arms held him back. Bernie hurried across the hall instead.

“Don’t worry, Felix. Everything’ll be fine. There’s been… There’s been a misunderstanding. It’s all going to be worked out.”

“Misunderstanding? I’m not a fool, Bernie, don’t treat me like one. These men are police, aren’t they?”

Bernie nodded as she brushed past until she was a few feet from the group of suits. She moved with purpose. She hadn’t seen me yet. I was out of her field of vision, standing by the library door.

“I’d like to see some identification, please,” she said.

The big man took a wallet with an ID card from his breast pocket and held it in front of her face.

“What’s the charge against my husband?”

“Mail fraud, wire fraud, securities fraud, obstruction, lying to federal officers in pursuit of an investigation. And money laundering. So far.”

I could have been imagining things, but her face changed at the words “money laundering.” Something—surprise? fear?—passed through, and she all but stepped back as if shoved. Whatever it was vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Where are you taking him?” she said.

“Downtown. Foley Square.”

“What about bail?”

“Not my department, ma’am. You’ll have to talk to the judge.”

“Rory…”

He took her hands in his. She wore two rings—a gold wedding band and a rock the size of an onion dome. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay, like Bernie says. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“But…”

“Bernie’s already got lawyers on the way. They’ll take care of everything.”

“Let’s go, Mulholland,” the FBI man said. “People are waiting to talk to you.”

Mulholland nodded and let go of his wife’s hands. She stood aside.