We met for a very early breakfast at the Mayflower. Miles Preston was as hearty and charming as I remembered him.
“Did you ever remarry?” he asked over his second cup of coffee. “What happened to Laura in Paris, my God, I don’t know how you ever survived it-”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “I’m married to a woman named Martha Sinclair. A pediatrician.”
“A doctor, eh? Could be trouble, Ben. A wife must be just clever enough to understand her husband’s cleverness, and just stupid enough to admire it.”
“She may be a little too bright for my own good. How about you, Miles? As I recall, you had a rather steady stream of women.”
“Never did the dirty deed. Ah, well, if only you could fall into the arms of a woman without falling into her clutches, hmm?” He chortled quietly and signaled the waiter for a third cup of coffee. “Sinclair,” he murmured. “Sinclair… You didn’t marry the scion of the proprietor of the Company Store, did you? Not Harrison Sinclair’s daughter?”
“That’s the one.”
“Then please accept my condolences. Was he… murdered, Ben?”
“Subtle as always, Miles. Why do you ask?”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me. But in my business, I can’t ignore rumors.”
“Well, I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me on that,” I said. “Whether he was or not, I have no idea. But you’re not the first to suggest as much to me. And it doesn’t make any sense to me-my father-in-law just didn’t have personal enemies, so far as I know.”
“But you mustn’t think in terms of personalities. Think instead in terms of politics.”
“How so?”
“Harrison Sinclair was known to be a vociferous supporter of helping out Russia.”
“So?”
“A lot of people don’t want that.”
“Sure,” I said. “Plenty of Americans oppose throwing money at the Russians-good money after bad, and all that. Especially in a time of global financial difficulty.”
“That’s not what I mean. There are people-no, let’s call them forces, Ben-who want Russia to collapse altogether.”
“What sort of forces?”
“Consider this: Eastern Europe is a total disaster. It’s full of valuable natural resources, and it’s roiling with dissent. Many Eastern Europeans have forgotten Stalinism already, and they long for dictatorship again. So it’s ripe for the picking. Wasn’t it Voltaire who said, ‘The world is a vast temple dedicated to Discord’?”
“I don’t entirely follow your logic.”
“Germany, man. Germany. The wave of the future. We’re about to see a new German dictatorship. And it won’t happen accidentally, Ben. It’s been in the planning for a good long time. And those planners don’t want to see a revived, strengthened Russia. Bear in mind how the German-Russian national rivalry so dominated this century’s two world wars. A weak Russia ensures a strong Germany. Maybe-just maybe-your father-in-law, a strong advocate of a strong, democratic Russia, got in the way. By the way, who’s slated to take his place?”
“Truslow.”
“Hmm. Bit of a stickler, isn’t he, our Alex? Not exactly a favorite of the old boys. Shouldn’t be surprised if he took a little spill himself. Well, I’ve got a squash game. Being a bachelor, you understand, I have to keep in shape. Your American ladies have become so demanding these days.”
An hour later at National Airport, just before I boarded the shuttle to Boston, I left a message with Alexander Truslow’s office, agreeing to meet with him.
FIVE
The taxicab, a battered Town Taxi missing a door handle on the right rear side and driven by a borderline psychotic, pulled up to my house at quarter after nine. I quickly changed clothes-Molly was still at work-and drove the Acura to work. And only fifteen minutes late.
Darlene fixed me with a level stare and said, “You had a nine o’clock conference call, or did you forget?”
“I was detained in Washington,” I said. “On business. Could you call with my apologies, and reschedule?”
“What about Sachs? He waited about half an hour.”
“Shit. Could you get me his number? I’ll call him myself.”
“Also”-she handed me a pink message slip-“Molly called. Said it’s urgent.”
I wondered what could possibly be so urgent that Molly would call at this time of the day, when she’s normally on rounds at the hospital. “Thanks,” I said, and entered my office, brushed past the row of twenty-four three-foot Big Baby Dolls, and sank into my leather desk chair. I sat there thinking for a moment, considered asking Darlene to put through the conference call, and instead dialed Molly’s page number. No response; I left a message with the page operator.
I had work to do, a good bit of it, made all the worse by my lateness, but I was in no condition to concentrate on patent law. I picked up the phone to buzz Bill Stearns’s office, then changed my mind and replaced the handset. My meeting with Truslow was set for tomorrow morning, but then, Stearns probably already knew that.
I have one of those pin sculptures that are impossible to describe unless you’ve seen them. It’s called an “executive toy.” I made an impression of my fist out of hundreds of round-headed pins, then admired the 3-D sculpture for a while. My other executive toy is an electronic basketball hoop on a slick-looking acrylic backboard, mounted on the wall across from my desk. I tossed the black and white leatherette ball, swished it in, and it shouted in a fevered electronic voice, “Great shot!” then emitted a great prerecorded frenzied crowd-cheer. Very out of place in this stuffy firm.
“De nada,” I said.
Ten minutes later, and still no call from Molly.
There was a soft knock on the doorjamb, and Bill Stearns entered, wearing his Ben Franklin reading glasses.
“I’ll meet with Truslow,” I said.
I paused, looked at him sharply, felt my breath catch.
“Alex will be very pleased.”
I exhaled slowly. “That’s nice. But I haven’t decided, yet. I’m agreeing only to talk with him.”
He arched his eyebrows slightly, quizzically.
“How much would his business mean to the firm?” I asked.
Stearns told me.
“I wouldn’t see my share of that until the end of the year,” I said, “after the profits are calculated, right?”
Now his brows furrowed slightly. “What are you getting at, Ben?”
“Simply this. Truslow wants me to represent him, and so do you. I happen to have a rather sudden need for a little cash.”
“And?”
“I want him to pay me. Directly. Up front.”
Stearns removed his glasses, folded them with a flick of the wrist, and put them in his breast pocket. “Ben, that’s highly-”
“It can be done. I’ll see Truslow, sign on with him, and he transfers a six-figure retainer directly to my account. Then we’ve got a deal.”
Stearns hesitated a moment before shaking my hand. “Tough son of a bitch. Sometimes I forget that. All right, Ben. We’ve got a deal.” He turned as if to leave, then turned back. “What changed your mind?” He came into my office, eased himself into one of the leather “client chairs,” and crossed his legs.
“I could get brownie points and say it was your powers of persuasion,” I said.
He smiled. “Or?”
“I’ll go for the brownie points,” I replied, giving a half-smile. I pressed my open palm against the pin sculpture, creating a 3-D cyborg replica of my hand. “Listen,” I said after a moment’s silence, just as Stearns was turning once again to go. “I had a talk with an old Agency friend last night.”