Fall of the House Of von Kloberg

A 1992 Spy magazine piece, "Publicists of the Damned," famously exposed his elastic sense of morality. A writer, posing as a representative of a group espousing neo-Nazi goals (including the reannexation of Poland), dangled the prospect of a $90,000 fee.

"Well, since I'm of German origin, I could not agree with you more. . . . And I believe in many of the tenets that you believe in. So we are not very far apart, my dear," von Kloberg said in a taped conversation. Later he claimed to be just toying with the poseur. (As for his clientele, he told Spy, "I don't have any problem sleeping at night.")

Bad publicity didn't seem to hurt. He spun his representation of thuggish clients by pointing out that they were, at the time, allied with the United States or seeking diplomatic openings to Washington. "In the American tradition, every person is entitled to representation," he was fond of saying. "My job is to give my clients the best advice: the truth. If they're a basket case, they need to know it."

He also took credit for pushing nations such as Benin, Cape Verde, Djibouti, Lesotho and Suriname toward reform and democracy. He coordinated the 1991 state visit of Nicaragua's post-Sandinista president, Violeta Chamorro. His sizable roster of clients, 80 nations in all, gave him a measure of legitimacy.

And his genteel touch was renowned: He sent flowers to newly arrived ambassadors. At the dinners he hosted at his penthouse near Washington National Cathedral, he insisted on enforcing the "EVK quadrille," which had guests changing seats between courses to spark conversation. He hosted legendary lunches and parties at power spots including the Cosmos Club, Georgetown Club, Jockey Club and Duke Zeibert's.

"Ed could have been in a room with his shadow and he'd be working it," recalls Joseph Szlavik, a lobbyist who got his start with von Kloberg. "The more trouble the client was in, the better the party: frogs' legs, champagne."

He was expert at angling into the proximity of the most influential people in the room. Among his most treasured possessions: a grip-and-grin photograph of him with the first President Bush. He got a small in-flight magazine called Executive Class to put it on the cover for a 1997 puff piece (written by one of his employees) that declared von Kloberg "a master of diplomatic mixing and mingling."

His office cranked out sheaves of reprinted news clips that highlighted von Kloberg's name and quotes in red ink. His friend Ken Mullinax, a former press aide to a congressman, told von Kloberg that he knew of only two people in history whose quotes were written in red: "You and Jesus Christ."

Responded von Kloberg: "Well-deserved, young man. Well-deserved."

The Other 'Baron'

In 1998, von Kloberg was holding court with friends in New York at the Townhouse, a gay bar favored by an older clientele. A rakish, red-haired fellow in his mid-twenties was working behind the bar. After a night of heavy boozing, von Kloberg ended up giving him a $500 tip.

His name: Darius Monkevicius, a Lithuanian who'd left his homeland in the early 1990s. He had a background as a masseur but aspired to a much higher station. He said he'd once worked in Rome as a private assistant to a Lithuanian ambassador. He liked to talk about his roots in nobility, which he said could be traced back to 1523.

Within a year, von Kloberg hired Monkevicius and bestowed upon him the title "executive vice president and partner for United Nations outreach" at the Washington World Group. They also became lovers.