Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(88)

“I haven’t talked to them.” Farquist checked his watch again.

“Come now, they clearly had permission to enter Ms. Glinka’s home and business and pack up any compromising material. Otherwise they would be guilty of larceny.”

“If that’s a question, and it seems to be mere rhetoric, I’m at a loss to respond.”

“Obviously, your investigators quickly made contact with Svetlana Glinka, and I’m putting it to you that she was paid off to cooperate and remain silent.”

Farquist directed a weary look up at the ceiling. “That’s an interesting but blatantly false supposition, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“In fact, your investigators met with Ms. Glinka in France in a further effort to buy her silence.”

“I have not seen their reports.”

“Then how did you hear about Mr. Sabatino’s alleged role in this?”

Hesitation. “Someone told me. I can’t remember.”

Arthur spoke quietly to his junior. “Ms. Banerjee, would you kindly attend to the issuing of subpoenas for Mr. Puhl and his two investigators? Thank you.”

That might, just possibly, cause his opponents some concern. Nanisha packed up some papers and headed off to the court registry. Arthur hoped it was still open — he wanted those subpoenas out fast. He wanted Puhl’s agents to sweat through the weekend.

He looked at his own watch: nearly four o’clock on this cruel Friday, another half hour to go and he was running out of ammunition. If he could keep Farquist under oath until they resumed on Monday, something might come up. Some miracle.

Should he bring up Glinka’s role as a Russian asset? Farquist would be armed for that, thanks to Pierette’s telephone tap. But nothing ventured . . .

“Mr. Farquist, you conceded that you occasionally took work to your chalet on weekends.”

“Rarely, I said.”

“And that work would include confidential government documents?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“And any visitor could have chanced upon them?”

“I never entertained visitors at Lac Vert. As I have said, it was my sanctuary.” Another peek at his watch.

“You are aware, of course, that Svetlana Glinka, this person you claim not to know, was a paid Russian informer.”

“She seems the sort of conniving person who might be.”

“Don’t speculate,” Cowper said sharply. “If you don’t know, say so.” The normally unflappable barrister was riled. His startled reaction to Arthur’s question suggested he wasn’t privy to the illegal phone intercept.

“I know nothing about her being a Russian agent. It sounds preposterous.” Fiddling with his Rolex.

“Are you in a hurry to go somewhere, Mr. Farquist?”

“I’m late for an important staff meeting, but I’m prepared to endure this to the end.”

Arthur affected magnanimity. “Okay, we don’t want you distracted by the important matters weighing on you. Let us finish up on Monday.”

He began packing away his papers. Cowper clearly would have preferred his client to be off the hook, but gave in to Farquist’s eagerness to bolt. And bolt he did, pulling on his coat as he made for the door, joining his aide in a foot race to the elevator. Margaret and Pierette broke off a quiet conversation to watch them. Arthur ventured an encouraging smile, a lie. Margaret rewarded him with an air-kiss.

“Perhaps you and I can have a moment,” Cowper said. The court reporter packed up her gear. Cowper’s nervous junior checked his phone as he followed her out, leaving the two senior lawyers alone.

There followed an exchange of weary woes about their disrupted holiday season, their absence from home and family in snow-clogged Calgary. They grumbled about the demanding tasks barristers must undertake, the weary hours of preparation, the discomfort of conflict, the waste of it all, the agonizingly delicate handling of clients, with their unerring tendency to stick to fixed positions.

“Especially in emotional issues such as this, wouldn’t you agree, Arthur?”

This seemed a lead-up to an offer of settlement — Arthur hadn’t expected it so soon. “And what might you suggest, George, that would soften those fixed positions?”

“Let’s explore that.” But Cowper sidestepped. “By the way, excellent work on your part — as was entirely to be expected — but I hope we can agree that Emil stood up under fire very well indeed. Given his firm denials, you may also want to concede that your defence of justification lacks any evidentiary foundation. And frankly I am loath to put Ms. Blake through the discomfort of a distasteful trial at which, regrettably, she must be accused of a maliciously false accusation.”

A pause, then he added, “We probably can’t expect judgment for the full amount claimed, and I believe I have persuaded Emil of that. After all, he seeks no personal compensation — he has committed himself to donate the bulk of his winnings, so to speak, to a hospital fund, less his out-of-pockets. He seeks exoneration, but that must come at a cost.”

The out-of-pockets doubtless included a substantial legal fee. Maybe a million or more. The Puhl Agency did not come cheap. And Farquist had underlings to pay off, like the wiretapper. Between legal costs, paying off Glinka, and a pricey leadership campaign, he must be almost tapped out, and likely more keen to get this case behind him than Cowper wanted to admit.