Murder in the House Page 5

  “Thought I’d grab something at home,” Mac said. “With Annabel. She was sleeping when I left.”

  “Ruth and Molly are down at the shore for the weekend,” Latham said. “I’m tied up this afternoon and tomorrow. Sure I can’t entice you? I make a world-class omelette, Mac. Besides, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “All right. I’ll call Annabel from there.”

  The Latham family home in Washington was one of the more modest houses in the predominantly wealthy Foxhall section of the city, north of Georgetown and Glover Park. When he’d first come to Washington as a freshman congressman from California, Latham rented a small apartment on Capitol Hill, seeing Ruth and the kids only on occasional weekend trips home, and during congressional recesses. But as his personal finances grew along with his political clout, they purchased the Foxhall house and virtually made it their permanent home, keeping the house in Northern California and adding to their real estate holdings later by purchasing a two-bedroom condo on the Maryland shore. Paul Latham had not become rich on his congressional salary of $133,600. But, as he sometimes said, “We’re not missing any meals.”

  After calling Annabel to tell her he’d be home in an hour, Smith settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee while Latham put together the makings of a cheese and mushroom omelette.

  “Where are you off to next?” Smith asked. “Good coffee.”

  “Thanks. California. Do a little politicking. Ruth’s coming with me.”

  “What about Molly?”

  “She’s now officially in the House page program. Living in the page dorm.”

  “Good for her,” Mac said.

  “Yeah. She’s a good kid. Wish I saw more of her.”

  Latham served them and joined Mac at the table. After tasting his breakfast—“You’re right, Paul. Olympic-class omelette”—Smith said, “There’s something you wanted to discuss with me?”

  “That’s right. I’ve only shared this with Ruth and a few close advisors. It’ll stay in this kitchen?”

  “If you’ve shared it with others, I can’t promise that. Ben Franklin had it right: Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. It won’t come from me, Paul.”

  “The president wants to nominate me to replace Jake Baumann as secretary of state.”

  Smith took another bite of omelette. “I hope you weren’t hoping to surprise me, Paul. You haven’t.”

  Latham laughed.

  “The bigger question is whether you’ll accept.”

  “I have to make that decision this afternoon. I’m meeting with the president at five.”

  “You’re still undecided?”

  “Not really. Ruth’s behind me if I decide to do it.”

  “What’s keeping you from just saying you will?”

  “I don’t know. The Senate confirmation process can be tough. You heard what Clarence Thomas said the other day when asked whether he’d consider becoming chief justice.”

  “One confirmation process was enough for a lifetime.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You aren’t concerned, are you, that you wouldn’t be confirmed?”

  “A lawyer asks me that question? Since when is anything certain? Never been surprised by a jury?”

  “Too many times. Well, Paul, all I can say is that if you decide to say yes, the country’s foreign affairs will be in exceptionally good hands.”

  “Thanks. Mac, would you consider being my counsel if I’m nominated?”

  “At your confirmation hearing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why me?”

  “Stature. You don’t carry a brief for any party, as far as I know. You’re my friend. That’s why.”

  “I’m not sure I’d have the time, Paul.”

  “I thought you were on sabbatical.”

  “I am, and never busier. Annabel and I head for Russia in October. Three weeks there. And a ton of book research.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s not to say I couldn’t be your counsel. From where I sit, you’ll breeze through. Your staff will do all the preliminary work. All I’d have to do is sit there and look lawyerly.”

  “Does that mean you will?”

  “What that means, Paul, is that I’ll think about it, run it by Annabel, mull it over. But I won’t start that process until you decide to accept.”

  “Will you be home this evening?”

  “I expect to be, unless we run out for dinner.”

  “I’ll call you after I meet with the president.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Hell of a breakfast, Paul. If the nomination doesn’t work out, you can always open a ham-’n’-egg joint. Have to run. Good luck with your meeting.”

  Latham and the president of the United States sat in the Oval Office.

  “Well?” Scott said.

  “I’d be honored to serve as your secretary of state, Mr. President.”

  “Good. I’ll announce it Monday morning. I have a press conference scheduled at ten. This should spice it up. You’ll have a statement ready?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I wish. Run it by Sandy tomorrow night.”

  “All right.”

  “Ruth’s onboard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve been friends a long time, Congressman.”

  “That we have.”

  “We know a lot about each other.”

  Latham nodded.

  “But we don’t know everything about each other.”

  “We can’t know everything about anyone, Mr. President.”

  President Scott swiveled in his chair so that he looked out the window.

  “Mr. President, I know what you’re getting at. Is there anything in my life, personal or professional, that might be used against me during the confirmation process?”

  The president again faced his friend. “Is there?” he asked, his face without expression.

  “No.”

  “No pretty little girls coming out of the woodwork to claim you dipped their pigtails in the inkwell?”

  Latham laughed and snapped his fingers. “I forgot about them, Mr. President,” he said, his voice still carrying the laugh. “Ruth and I planned to go back to California on Monday. I suppose we’d better cancel.”

  Scott nodded, stood, stretched, and came around the desk to shake Latham’s hand. “Welcome to the cabinet, Mr. Secretary.”

  “A little premature.”

  “Piece a cake. Love to Ruth.”

  “Mac. Paul Latham.”

  “Hello.”

  “Where did you have dinner?”

  “How did you know we did?”

  “Got the machine.”

  “There was no message.”

  “I didn’t want to leave one. My meeting went well.”

  “We ate at Pesce. The rockfish with artichoke and escarole was wonderful. Glad to hear it. It’s all set?”

  “Looks like it. Ruth’s coming back from the shore first thing in the morning. I’ll be huddled all day with staff. Writing a statement, that sort of thing.”

  “When’s it being announced?”

  “Monday morning at a press conference.”

  “Well, all I can say is congratulations. Deeply felt.”

  “Thank you. What did Annabel have to say?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t mention it.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. But now I will. Feel like stopping over? I pour a mean brandy.”

  “Another time. We’ve canceled the trip home. I’ll stay in touch. Let me know what you decide.”

  “I certainly will. Again, congrats, Paul. It’s much deserved. You’ll make a world-class secretary of state.”

  Smith’s conversation with Annabel about functioning as Latham’s counsel during Senate hearings lasted five minutes.

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said.

  “No reservations?”

  “None. It’s great
that Paul will be secretary of state, and I’m excited you’ll sit with him during the hearing. I may even see you on C-SPAN.”

  “You see me in person all the time.”

  “But TV has a certain cachet. I always wanted to be married to a media star.”

  Rufus plopped his large head on Mac’s lap. “What do you think, my friend?” he asked the Dane.

  Rufus pulled back, leaving drool on Mac’s pants.

  “That’s what I love about Rufus, Annabel. He lets you know exactly what he thinks. Come on, big guy, time for a walk. She’s too easy. I need to discuss this further with you.”

  6

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  A white stretch limousine with darkened windows delivered Warren Brazier and two of his aides to the sector of San Francisco International Airport servicing private and corporate aircraft. The industrialist set a brisk pace across the tarmac to his private jet, an Airbus 300A model commercial aircraft that had been modified to carry enough fuel to reach almost any point on the globe. BRAZIER was emblazoned in red along both sides of the black fuselage. A red B rose up along the vertical tail surface.

  When the aircraft was in commercial use, its spacious interior accommodated more than two hundred passengers. Brazier Industries’ transformation of it for private use took advantage of the space to create two large bedrooms, a boardroom, a dining room, two marble baths, a kitchen, and conventional airline seating for twenty. Its interior was a rich amalgamation of lemon and orange wood, leather and gold.

  At various times during the flight to London, aides were summoned to meet with “the boss” to discuss specific business issues. Executives of Brazier Industries learned early on to have their facts straight, and to present them concisely and speedily; leave the adjectives at home. Brazier was equally terse and quick with his decisions. He hadn’t built one of the world’s most prosperous industrial empires by being indecisive.

  After a two-hour layover at Heathrow for Brazier to meet onboard with staff from his London office, the group, augmented by two employees of the London office, left for Moscow, where they were met at Sheremetevo-2 airport, twenty-five miles outside of the city, by three men in Mercedes limousines. Besides the drivers, there were three armed plainclothes private security guards. Brazier and entourage were driven to the National Hotel, on the corner of Tverskaya Ulitsa, across the street from Red Square. The National, built in 1903, was reopened in 1995 after years of painstaking renovation. Whether it or the venerable Metropole represented Moscow’s finest hotel was the subject of ongoing debate. Brazier preferred the National because of its top-floor fitness center and swimming pool. He was fond of swimming there late at night when the crenellated top of the Kremlin and the cupolas and domes of its multiple cathedrals were awash in light.

  The Brazier contingent always reserved rooms on the same high floor, with Brazier occupying a corner suite. The security men took up positions in the hallway. After an hour of freshening up, everyone met in the rococo lobby at the foot of the sweeping marble staircase, climbed into the waiting limos, and were driven to a modern high-rise building across from the new American Embassy, on the banks of the Moscow River near Presnia Station. Brazier Industries had been a major partner in an American-British-Canadian consortium that had financed the building’s construction in 1994. Prior to moving into its new quarters, Brazier Industries’ Moscow office, and its hundred employees, had been housed in an old brick building near Red Square.

  People stood at their desks when Brazier stepped off the elevator and strode through the offices of the company bearing his name. He greeted them warmly but quickly—“hello” or “zdrastvuitye”—not stopping to chat. The staff who’d traveled with him kept pace, eyes straight ahead, smug authority dispensed with each step.

  Brazier’s private Moscow office was kept vacant in his absence. Knowing he was coming, his staff had placed vases of colorful flowers in it, as well as a tea and coffee service, and a plate of blinchiki s’varenem, jam pancakes, for which Brazier had developed a taste. There was never any alcohol served in his presence. He was a teetotaler. Nor did he smoke, presenting an especially difficult situation for his Russian employees, for whom tobacco was an integral part of life. They sneaked their cigarettes outside, out of sight.

  He secluded himself in his office, allowing staff members who’d traveled with him to catch their breath. They were bone-weary from the long trip. Brazier, who’d just turned sixty, operated from a seemingly bottomless well of energy. He’d trained himself to stave off fatigue with frequent catnaps—no longer than ten minutes—an ability those on his staff had not been able to master, although God knows they tried. For them, staying awake and alert on such trips was more a matter of dogged determination than acquired skill.

  Twenty minutes after arriving, Brazier buzzed for Elena, his personal assistant, a solidly constructed middle-aged Russian woman who’d sat poised outside his door. “Get everyone in the conference room,” he said. “Ten minutes.”

  It wasn’t a difficult directive for her to follow. Brazier’s traveling staff had already camped in the conference room, joined there by four of the Moscow office’s senior execs. But her announcement prompted them to remove their feet from chairs and the edge of the twenty-foot-long leather-inlaid conference table, check their clothing, and sit at attention.

  “Good afternoon,” Brazier said crisply as he took his seat at the head of the table. “Everyone feeling fresh?”

  There was muffled laughter.

  “I suggest you suck it up. We have a lot to accomplish in the next twenty-four hours.”

  A half hour was spent with Brazier receiving updates on company projects underway in Russia. The reports were short and to the point: a new shopping center on Tverskaya Ulitsa, the road from Moscow to St. Petersburg; a hotel in the Kitai Gorod area of the city; a joint oil-drilling venture with the French and Russians on Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, a Russian island north of Japan and site of the Russian Far East’s only known offshore energy field (it wasn’t going well; the report on its progress was a few minutes longer than the others); and assorted smaller ventures.

  Brazier listened passively, interrupting only to ask an occasional question delivered with the sharpness of a surgical knife. After everyone at the table had had their say, Brazier issued a series of orders. He looked at his watch, stood abruptly, and walked from the room, four of his staff following, two who’d traveled to Moscow with him from San Francisco, and two from the Moscow office. They were joined by four heavyset men carrying automatic weapons under their suit jackets. Warren Brazier was, among many things, a careful man. The rampant crime in Russia had generated a thriving industry for security consultants to businessmen traveling there. Brazier Industries had on retainer one of the world’s best security firms, augmented by the company’s own large and well-trained security staff.

  Not a word was said as they descended to the lobby and climbed into the waiting Mercedes. Brazier turned to one of his Russian aides. “He knows why we’re meeting?”

  “Yes, sir. I made it clear.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Noncommittal. Simply said he would be there.”

  “Have the funds been moving freely?”

  “Da.”

  “His position is still secure?”

  “Da. As far as I know.”

  Brazier looked at him hard. “ ‘As far as you know?’ And how far is that?”

  “I am reasonably sure that—”

  “I don’t pay you to be reasonably sure, Misha. I pay you to be certain.”

  Misha coughed and glanced nervously at the other two aides in the back of the limo before replying, “I am certain, Mr. Brazier, that the deputy prime minister’s position is secure.”

  Brazier directed a question at another staff member. And another. The Q-and-A was cut short when the limousine pulled up in front of the Radisson Slavjanskaya, next to the Kiev Railway Station, its western amenities making it the hotel of choice for many American business trave
lers.

  Surrounded by the four armed men, Brazier and his small group walked past two guards at the entrance and into the imposing two-story lobby lined with restaurants and shops. An assistant manager had been awaiting Brazier’s arrival. He quickly crossed the lobby and extended a nervous hand, matched by a tentative smile. “Dobry vecher, Mr. Brazier. Good evening. Welcome. Welcome.”

  They rode in silence to the eleventh floor. The door to a corner suite was open. The manager stepped aside, bowing annoyingly. The security men waited in the hall as Brazier and his aides entered the large living room and stopped in the middle of the green-carpeted floor.

  Two men sat in a corner, one young, one older. A smoky haze hung over them like an aura; the younger man smoked a long black cigar, the older gentleman a cigarette. A half-dozen glasses and a silver bucket containing ice and a bottle of vodka were on a table between their chairs. A platter of zakuski—sliced sturgeon and fatty sausage hors d’oeuvres—appeared to be untouched. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts.

  For a moment, it appeared that neither group would acknowledge the other. But then the older Russian stubbed out his latest cigarette and stood. “Zdrastvuitye, Brazier,” he said, extending his arms as though about to hug his visitor.

  Brazier shook hands with Platon Mikhailov, deputy minister of finance in the Commonwealth of Independent States’ Congress of People’s Deputies, the government that had taken the place of the former Soviet Union. Mikhailov, a lifelong Communist, had managed to sustain his power through the party’s forty percent hold on the new Congress. Yeltsin might have won the presidential election, but the Communists still controlled a majority in the legislature, as slim as it was.

  “Sit. Have a chair,” Mikhailov said. To his young aide, sternly: “A chair for my guest.”

  Platon Mikhailov was an imposing man physically, especially when compared with Brazier’s diminutive stature. Approaching seventy, he’d held a variety of positions within the party throughout his life. Born in 1927, three years after the death of Lenin, he first became active as a teenager in the party’s youth movement. He was a zealous Communist, happiest when playing a direct role in the brutal Cheka, Stalin’s version of Ivan the Terrible’s Oprichniki, a militia and intelligence agency answering only to its leader. Even as a teen, Mikhailov firmly believed in the Cheka’s creed: “No other measures to fight counter-revolutionaries, spies, speculators, ruffians, hooligans, saboteurs and other parasites than merciless annihilation on the spot of the offence.”