Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

She had remembered seeing the exact same pair of shoes on a woman at her departure gate at Logan Airport in Boston that morning. She knew that red soles were a trademark of Christian Louboutins. And she remembered because she’d noticed how scuffed-up the soles were. She’d thought: They must be well-loved, those shoes .

She looked from the scuffed red soles up to the woman’s face. She was a bland-looking person, forgettable — short brown hair, glasses, a dowdy brown suit. The sort of person who blends into the background. She was dining with a man who was equally forgettable.

Juliana’s eyes met the woman’s, and her stomach clenched and her heart started thudding.

The woman quickly looked away, and Juliana continued on to the restroom. There, she stared at herself in the mirror above the sinks.

It was no coincidence that the woman with the Louboutins was here, next to their table, maybe listening in.

She’d seen this woman before. She was sure of it.

And she wondered how much of her lunchtime conversation had been overheard.

By the time Juliana got back to the table from the restroom, the woman in the Louboutins was gone. So was Hastings. Aaron Dunn apologized profusely. “I didn’t know it was that bad in the bureaucracy. The so-called Deep State. Plus, back when Hastings and I played poker, he was sort of a no-bullshit kind of guy. Someone who wouldn’t put up with crap. I guess staying there too long changes you.”

She walked him back to the Justice Department. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, though of course she’d flown to Washington just for this meeting. “What about Capitol Hill? Do you know any members of Congress, or senators?”

The Walk sign came on, and she was about to step off the curb when a bus came blasting by, through the red light, brakes squealing. She thought of that solicitor in London, killed in a bus accident, and it took a moment for her pulse to stop racing.

“I know some chiefs of staff,” he said. “What were you thinking?”

“Anyone you could get me in to see this afternoon?”

“Now?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s a very big ask. Which is fine, but I don’t have anyone I could call for a favor like that.”

Martie , she thought. She knows everyone.

After she said good-bye to Dunn, she took out her phone and hit Martha Connolly’s number.

“Martie, I need a big favor.”

“Anything,” Martie said immediately.

“No, this is a big one. I need a few minutes of an influential senator’s time.”

“Who?”

“Whoever you know who’s on the Senate Intelligence Committee. Who has a link to the intelligence community. And has clout.”

“Okay. To talk on the phone?”

“In person would be much better. Even if it’s just five minutes.”

“How soon?”

“This afternoon.”

Martha didn’t laugh. “Time sensitive, is it? Well, it would be good for you and Senator Hugh Comstock to get to know each other a bit. Let me see what I can do.”

Senator Hugh Comstock agreed to be pulled out of a staff meeting for ten minutes to meet with Judge Brody. It was a testament to Martie’s remarkable clout.

He had a long, thin nose and a prominent jaw. He sat behind his desk, an antique mahogany hulk, and listened with rapt attention as Juliana talked.

“The lead investor, and the person controlling the company, is a guy named Yuri Protasov,” she said.

“Okay,” the senator said guardedly, and she could see his interest flag at once.

He was a senator from Illinois, on the Senate Intelligence Committee. Martie thought he’d be interested in what Juliana had to say. Juliana had done some research on her phone, looked up who Senator Comstock’s biggest donors were, and didn’t see Protasov’s name. That had been a relief. If Protasov was a major contributor of his, he’d be unable and unwilling to help. Instead, Comstock’s biggest corporate donor was a Chicago-based biopharm company.

“But the reason I think he’s taking such pains to keep his ownership a secret is that the money he used to buy Wheelz was wired to his company from a Russian bank that’s under US sanctions.”

The senator nodded, examined his fingernails. No longer paying attention.

She told him about the deaths that she suspected were connected. He didn’t seem to react.

Then she said, “So I have a plan that I think—”

“Okay, let me cut you off here,” Senator Comstock said. “Save you a little time.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re someone who Martha Connolly thinks is worth listening to. She thinks you’ve got the Supreme Court in your future.”

“Martie is sometimes prone to hyperbole.”

“So I don’t understand why you’d want to throw it all away.”

“How would I be throwing it away?”

Her phone started ringing. She ignored it.

“By going after Yuri Protasov. Do you know who he is? Let me tell you who he is. He is the genie who grants your wishes. He is not someone you go to war with.”

“I’m not talking about a war—”

“You want to go after him on some, what, grade D SEC misdemeanor? A violation of sanctions that no one pays attention to anymore? This man is an icon. He’s a great man. He may be from Russia, but he’s become an integral part of American life.” Now he was looking right at her, pointing at her, surprisingly impassioned. “My wife was treated for ovarian cancer at the Protasov Cancer Institute at Sibley Hospital, okay? I’m on the board of the Protasov Family Foundation.”

“I didn’t know that.” Dammit, she hadn’t checked the list of board members.

“When people put me down, they call me the ‘senator from biopharma.’ Because my biggest support comes from the pharmaceutical industry. And I don’t mind that at all. I’m proud to be the senator from Oncopharm. They’re in the business of saving lives.”

“Oncopharm is—”

“The majority shareholder is Yuri Protasov.”

“I see.”

“A man who has given away a billion dollars of his own money.”

“So I’m told.”

“Oh, sure, his rivals have tried to smear him. All those rabidly anti-Russia people. I’m afraid you’ve been bamboozled by the fake news.” The senator shook his head. “It so happens that if you run a charity, a museum, or a hospital, part of your job description is sucking up to a gentleman named Yuri Protasov. So I don’t think you’re getting the message here, Ms. Brody. You don’t go after a man like Yuri Protasov. You send him thank-you notes.”

After she left Senator Comstock’s office, Juliana checked her phone. A voice message and a text from Martha Connolly. The text read, I’ve got someone else for you.

The Old Saloon, on Fifteenth Street, was a Washington institution, established in the mid-nineteenth century, and known for its oysters and its crab cakes and its rude waitresses. It was the oldest saloon in Washington. The bar was made from solid mahogany, and the antique gas fixtures had been electrified. The Old Saloon was also known as a watering hole for CIA types.

Juliana quickly found the man she was meeting. It wasn’t hard; he would stand out in any crowd. He was wearing a blue-and-white seersucker suit and a navy bow tie. He looked as though he’d walked out of another era. She gave him a smile and sat at his two-top. She thought: What kind of undercover CIA operator actually wants to stand out in a crowd?

“Should I say ‘Your Honor’?” he said. She’d lost count of how many times someone had asked her that, socially. People were sometimes intimidated by judges and dealt with it by joking around.