Mistress

Now he is offended. “My grandfather as well, yes.”

So he basically just had to make sure he didn’t wet his pants at the interview. He was in before he submitted his application. But better I don’t say that to him. Not yet, anyway. Maybe on the way out.

I raise my hand, a sign of peace. “It’s my resentment showing. I tried for Harvard and didn’t get in.”

That’s not true. I didn’t apply to Harvard. In fact, I didn’t even apply to American University. My dad just informed me one day that my days of private tutors were over and that I was going to American the following fall. But I’ve made Edgar feel just a little bit more superior than he already felt. If that’s possible.

“So, Edgar, you’ve managed to build up quite a list of clients,” I say, looking over a sheet of paper that does not contain a list of anything whatsoever. In fact, it’s blank. “Ah, Alexander Kutuzov, I see here. The billionaire?”

Now we’re back in Edgar’s comfort zone. “Alex has been wonderful to work with.”

That’s one way superior people try to act more superior-using famous people’s nicknames to show their familiarity. Yeah, I was having lunch with Jenny Lopez the other day, and who was sitting at the next table but Bobby De Niro and Marty Scorsese.

“Here in the States,” he says (people refer to the United States as “the States” when they want you to know they’re world travelers), “we’ve helped Alex with licensing and some related litigation over his soccer franchise.”

I point to the same piece of paper that has absolutely nothing on it. If this guy didn’t have his head so far up his ass, he might notice that.

“I see here you helped Mr. Kutuzov with the negotiations on that oil pipeline in Russia. The one that feeds oil to Russia’s neighbors.”

Actually, it was Griffin and Weaver’s London office that handled it, but I’ll bet all my frozen assets that he’s going to take credit for it.

I certainly hope he does.

“Could we chat about that for a minute?” I ask.

Chapter 81

Edgar Griffin, Esquire, rests his hands on his stomach and forms a temple with his hands. “A sensitive negotiation, to be sure, that oil pipeline. The Russian government can be difficult. But we’ve managed to put together a very lucrative arrangement that benefits both sides. We think Alex will have a profitable partnership with the Russian government.”

“We’re talking about a billion-dollar deal?” I ask, like I’m impressed.

“Easily. Tens of billions, ultimately.”

“Wow. I can’t even imagine how much pressure that must be, to negotiate something like that. You’re an awfully impressive guy, Mr. Griffin.”

He seems to agree. We both take a moment to admire him.

“Just out of curiosity,” I say, leaning forward. “I mean, this stuff is way, way over my head, but-just wondering. This recent development, with Georgia and Russia starting to bicker again. What happens with something like that? Like, what if war breaks out and Russia cuts off its oil supply to Georgia?”

He nods and tosses a hand. “There are standard force majeure clauses.”

“Wow,” I say. “Latin.”

Now that it’s clear that we’re on the same page about how impressive he is, Edgar has loosened up considerably. “Actually,” he says with a chuckle, “as long as this is off the record-this is just on background, agreed?”

“Agreed,” I say. On background means I won’t print it or attribute it to him. But Kutuzov’s contract with the Russians is a matter of public record anyway. I found it online, albeit in Russian. Either way, this guy’s ego is way too large to prevent him from giving me information.

Edgar says, “Not only is Alex’s obligation to supply oil terminated in the event of war, but Alex would be compensated handsomely for the interruption.”

“He’d be paid for not supplying oil?”

“Correct.” Edgar is beaming. “He’s guaranteed the same amount of profit, but he doesn’t have to go to the expense of actually pumping the oil.”

“Or he could pump it and sell it to somebody else,” I note. “Double the profit.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow,” I say for the third time. “You served your client well. You really are

a top lawyer. I hope Mr. Kutuzov paid you well.”

Edgar cocks his head, then winks at me and says, “He did.”

“And I suppose if Russia installed a puppet regime in Georgia, that regime could even agree to pay higher oil prices to Alex. I mean, hypothetically.”

He thinks about that. “Well-I hadn’t considered that.”

But your client Alex sure did.

“Well,” I say, “that explains why Kutuzov went along with the side deal.”

Mr. Edgar Griffin, Esquire, shifts ever so slightly in his seat. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse you?”

“A side deal, you said? I’m not aware of any side deal.”

He probably isn’t. No reason the feisty billionaire would share that kind of information with his lawyer in the States.