Free Under Siege by Stephen Coonts Page B

of the hunt and how it would be.

CHAPTER FOUR
    On Sunday, T. Jefferson Brody woke up comalone in his king-sized bed in his five-bedroom, four-bathroom, $1.6 million mansion in Kenwood. After a long hot shower, he shaved and dressed in gray wool slacks and a tweed sports coat that had set him back half a grand.
    Ten minutes later he eased the Mercedes from the threecar garage and thumbed the garage-door controller as he backed down the drive.
    T. Jefferson Brody should have felt good this morning. Friday he had deposited another fat legal fee in his Washington bank and shuffled another equally fat fee off to the Netherlands Antilles on the first leg of an electronic journey to Switzerland. He had done some calculations on an envelope last night, then burned the envelope. The sums he had managed to squirrel away were significant in any man’s league: he had over four million dollars in cash here in the States on which he had paid income taxes and six million in Switzerland on which he hadn’t. That plus the house (half paid for) and the cars, antiques, and art (cash on the barrelhead) gave him a nice, tidy little fortune. T. Jefferson was doing all right for himself. The fly in the wine of T. Jefferson Brody was that he wanted a lot more. He knew there was a lot more to be made, a whale of a lot more, and it just didn’t seem that he was getting a share commensurate with his contribution. The things he did-the things only he could do-enabled his clients to make mountains of money, yet he was left with the crumbs that dribbled from their napkins. Just fees. Never a percentage of the action. Of course, lawyers traditionally have received fees for their services, but T. Jefferson
    Brody’s services weren’t traditional.
    As he drove down Massachusetts Avenue into the District this morning for breakfast with the representative of his oldest, though certainly not richest, client, T. Jefferson tried to decide if he should announce a fee increase or something equally nebulous that would put more money into his pocket. He would wait, he decided, to hear what the client wanted.
    These people were going to have to realize that T. Jefferson Brody was a very valuable asset to have in their huddle. T. Jefferson delivered. Always. Money talks. and bullshit walks. Somehow he would have to make that point. Professionally and unobtrusively, of course.
    He checked his car with the valet at the Hay Adams Hotel and walked purposefully through the lobby to the elevator.
    Whenever Bernie Shapiro came to town he always stayed in the same suite, a huge corner job with an excellent view of Lafayette Park and the White House.
    Bernie opened the door, grunted once, and closed it behind the visitor. “When’s it gonna get cold down here?”
    “Weird weather,” T. Jefferson agreed as he took off his topcoat and laid it on a handy chair. “Maybe the climate is really getting warmer.”
    “Like hell. Nearly froze my ass off in New York these past two weeks.”
    Bernie Shapiro was a bear of a man. He had been fearsome in his youth; now he was merely fat. The years, however, had added no padding to his abrasive personality.
    He sank into an easy chair and relit the stump of cigar that protruded from his fleshy jowls. “Breakfast’ll be here in a few minutes,” he muttered as he eyed his visitor through the thick smoke.
    The attorney found a chair and took in the luxurious room and the White House, just visible from this angle through the naked tree branches.
    Classical music played on the radio beside the bed a tad too loud for comfortable conversation. This was a normal precaution. The music would vibrate the window glass and foil any parabolic mikes that might be pointed in this direction by inquisitive souls, such as FBI agents.
    The men discussed the Giants” and Redskins’chances this year as they waited for breakfast to be delivered. The knock of the room-service waiter came precisely on the hour. After all, this was the Hay Adams.
    When