penalty of death. He's booked at the Hay-Adams Hotel, and for security reasons, he's traveling and staying under the name A. Ames."
"No shit?"
"Viktor's got a real keen sense of humor that way. Last time he came, he used the pseudonym Rosenberg, if you can believe it."
"Buddy, I do owe you."
"You're right. You do."
I hung up, informed Katrina, and then I called Imelda, who was still back in the Virginia office, and informed her also, before I asked if it was possible to rearrange our tickets in the event we decided to come back to D.C.
Imelda immediately snapped, "Get your asses to the airport right now. I'll handle them tickets."
"Well, I haven't made up my mind yet," I said.
"He's a witness, right?"
"Well, he obviously knew all about it. He's in charge of all external intelligence operations. Morrison's material would've gone to his agency."
"So drop a subpoena on his ass."
I looked over at Katrina. "Imelda says to slap him with a subpoena."
She shrugged. "I don't think that's possible."
I said to both of them, "He's surely traveling with a diplomatic passport and thus is invulnerable to our laws. Not to mention, no judge is going to allow us to slap a subpoena on the head of Russia's intelligence agency."
To which Imelda said, "You think I didn't think of that? Serve papers on Ames. This guy Yurichenko checks in under an alias, you got the right to nail him. Besides, you ain't arrestin'him, but requestin' his presence as a witness. Draw up the papers and find the right judge."
I said, "Have the papers prepared before we get back."
It was a wild outside shot, but the game was winding down and I'd shoot from the bleachers at this point.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EVERY DECENT LAWYERknows a judge or two who's willing to bend the rules a bit. Maybe they're lenient by nature, or they're sloppy and you know you can slip one past them, or they know you and feel sympathy for your plight.
I happen to be the one lawyer who doesn't know anyone like that. What I did know was a world-class drunk named Colonel Andrew Cleaver, who by six o'clock every evening could be found at the Fort Myer officers' club bar, guppered to the gills. He was a sly devil who brought bottled-water containers filled with gin and then spent the evening ordering tonic water. He mixed his own under the table, thinking nobody knew, but everyone did know, because lawyers watch judges like hawks and trade rumors like old ladies in a knitting club.
At 7:00P .M. I made my entrance into the bar. Imelda had done an expert job of preparing the packet, having made out the top sheets against A. Ames. Tucked six sheets down in the stack was a mealy-worded statement that vaguely implied A. Ames might be an alias for Viktor Yurichenko.
I plopped into the chair across from Cleaver and said, "Evening, Judge."
The judge--a tiny man with a tight, pinched face and a potbelly that pushed hard against the buttons of his shirt--was one of those drunks who could look at you perfectly straight-faced and clear-eyed, even though his brain was swollen up like a blowfish. He replied, "Evening Drummond. Care to join me? I'm a bottled-water man myself."
I waved for the waiter, who rushed over. I told him, "Scotch on the rocks." And he left to retrieve it. I needed Cleaver to feel chummy and hospitable.
I nonchalantly slid the packet across the table. "I, uh, I hate to bother you after hours, but I need to get this subpoena authorized this evening. Nothing serious, and I might not even have to use the guy as a witness, I just have to go through the motions."
He was sipping from his glass and staring at the shapely derriere of a young female officer at the bar. "What case is it?"
"Morrison's, Your Honor. He's being tried in the Military District, so you can authorize it. Some guy he used to work with in Moscow just flew in, and he's expected to leave tomorrow. I wanted to serve him while he's still here."
"Morrison, huh? What's that bastard like?"
"A first-rate prick, but as they say, he's my client."
He chuckled at that. "God, we see some assholes, don't we?"
"We sure do," I admitted, taking my glass from the waiter.
He began patting his pockets looking for a pen, and I quickly reached into my breast pocket and whipped one out. He took it.
He asked, "Think this Ames guy knows something relevant?" He was going through the motions