The Kingmaker sd-3

by Brian Haig

  “I’ll stop by again later. I may need some help on something.”

  “Okay,” he said again, and I inspected his suite to be sure there were no sharp objects or other deadly instruments within reach. Unless he used his IV lines to hang himself, he appeared to be safe for the time being.

  I returned to the house on Colonel’s row, drafted a press release, and told Imelda where to send it. Not that anybody was likely to feel sympathetic about Morrison’s attempt. Most folks would shake their heads and ask, What the hell’s wrong with this picture? That bastard can figure out ten different ways to betray his country but can’t figure out how to snuff himself?

  I next made some calls to Washington, because if I didn’t start making headway on this case, I’d be attending my client’s funeral instead of his trial. I slipped back into his hospital room later that afternoon, got what I needed, and then flew back to D.C. I called Katrina as soon as I returned and told her to pack her bags for Russia.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I’d never been to Moscow, a city that in a perverse way was once the American soldier’s version of Mecca, the capital of the empire that kept most of us employed for about fifty years. It was where revolutions and wars were bred, where devious plots for global domination were hatched, where bushy-browed men in outdated, frumpy, ill-tailored suits stood on reviewing stands and watched the largest military machine in the world march by, the same military we all thought would someday, inevitably, come marching against us.

  My first introduction to Russian efficiency was the two hours after we landed, as we waited on the runway while ground crews scoured around for the mobile steps that would allow us to deplane. Katrina stoically endured this, I assume because she had Russian blood and was genetically inured from this form of brutal inefficiency. A typically spoiled American guy, I petulantly cursed and moaned the whole time. I’m not graceful in situations like this.

  We took a taxi from the airport to a hotel in the center of Moscow that would’ve been considered a fleatrap in New York City, or even Fargo, North Dakota, but I had been told was a five-star by local standards. The lobby was crowded with floozies and whores in cheap, glitzy clothes, and guys wearing black jeans and black leather jackets, all of whom seemed to be chatting on cell phones, and none of whom looked the least bit like choirboys.

  After another twenty minutes wasted ironing out the problem that the hotel had somehow lost or misplaced our reservation, Katrina and I took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor and our side-by-side rooms. My room reeked of tobacco smoke and stale sweat, was barely larger than a broom closet, and the TV in the corner looked like something built in the 1950s. I was impressed-imagine all this luxury for only $280 a night, American.

  I threw my bag on the bed, punched the remote, and the screen flickered to life, sound at full blast, showing a girl and three guys doing things that give multitasking a whole new complexity. I frantically punched at the remote to try to flip the channel, or turn down the sound, or turn the damned thing off-it was hopeless. The only thing that worked was the on button, and the girl on the screen was making loud noises intended to convey what a great time she was having, although frankly, I wouldn’t want to trade places.

  Katrina’s room and mine had one of those connecting doors, and it took forever to find the TV button that turned the damned thing off, Russian sets having different knobs and symbols from ours.

  I yelled through the connecting door, “Gee, my TV was preset on that channel.”

  I heard her chuckle. “It’s cool. If that’s what turns on you older guys, doesn’t bother me.”

  Older guys? I chuckled to show I could take a joke. Bitch.

  An hour later, I was showered and changed, and the phone rang. A chipper-sounding United States Army captain named Mel Torianski informed me he was in the lobby, and I knocked on the connecting door and yelled for Katrina to meet us downstairs when she was ready. After she assured me she would, I left and found the elevator.

  Torianski was a studious-looking sort, skinny, narrow-shouldered, and bespectacled, a poster child for the military intelligence corps. We did the handshake thing as he said, “Welcome to Moscow, Major. I’m a deputy attache.”

  “Lucky for you, Mel. You’re at the embassy, huh?”

  “Yes sir. Two years now.”

  “I guess you knew the general pretty well?”

  “As well as a captain gets to know a general,” he replied with an anguished expression. No need to explain further.

  The elevator door opened and out stepped Katrina, although at first I didn’t realize it was her. Rolling Stone magazine had turned into the Wall Street Journal. Gone were the SoHo slut clothes and cartoonish makeup, replaced by a tailored blue business suit with a short skirt that showed long, tantalizing legs, matched with high heels, the sum of which was a female butterfly that could make all the little male butterflies get petrified wings. The only residue of her more natural self was the bead in her nose, and oddly enough, mixed in with her conservative apparel and toned-down makeup it seemed quite sexy, a sly hint that underneath that buttoned-down business suit lurked something more brazen.

  I cocked my head and she smiled. I whispered, “My, but don’t you look nice.”

  “A Dooney amp; Bourke goddess, huh?”

  I swallowed my curiosity and introduced her to Captain Mel Torianski, who was checking her out like a hungry man eyes a slab of tenderloin on a hook. He was a horny little wimp, at least. He had a government sedan parked outside that we all three walked out to, and along the way to the embassy I asked, “So Mel, how’s the embassy taking the arrest?”

  He stared straight ahead, no doubt pondering whether he should confide these things to Morrison’s lawyer. He finally said, “We’ve got lots of visitors from Washington. You know what I’m saying here, right, Major?”

  I guessed I did. The way these things work, after a spy’s caught, since the government has already gone to the considerable trouble to form a big investigation team-and everybody’s getting bored and antsy-they shift into what’s called the damage assessment phase. Said otherwise, a witch hunt to see who else might be knowingly or unknowingly implicated, the general rule of this phase being that if you shoot everyone, you can be damned sure you get the guilty parties.

  I said, “So a bunch of glum-faced guys in black and blue suits are running around the embassy?”

  He nodded miserably. “A huge team flew in four days ago. We’re all being interrogated repeatedly, and these aren’t nice guys, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. I asked, “So what’d you think of Morrison?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “No, Mel, I want you to lie to me.”

  That got a nervous chuckle. “Uh… right. He treated us like garbage. It was all about him. You won’t find many folks who worked for him that have nice things to say. I doubt you’ll find any.”

  Well, no surprise there. I never expected to.

  Katrina asked, “What about Mary, his wife? What did people think about her?”

  “Oh, she was real popular. To be truthful, we all sort of wondered how she married such a jerk. A woman like her, you’d think she could’ve done much better.”

  Oddly enough, I’d had that very thought countless times. I asked, “So Mel, did you ever see Morrison do anything suspicious?”

  “No, but hey, he was my boss, so I wasn’t looking over his shoulder. But no sir, I never saw anything.” He sounded rueful, like he wished he did, so he could help bury him.

  We finished the car ride with Mel pointing out landmarks and offering tidbits about life in Moscow. I was struck by how ugly and depressing the place was. It was dirty; not trashy, because I didn’t see any litter, but dirty, like it rained soil. The sky was an oppressive leaden color, and the buildings were mostly gray, blocklike structures that looked like they shared the same architect-a man named Stalin. Frankly, it’s no wonder he hasn’t been written up in Architectural Digest as a guy who b
rought glory to the profession.

  Nor was the U.S. embassy any testament to palatial elegance. It was a modern, big-windowed building that looked like one of those cheaply constructed, minimally decorated high rises you see in low-rent office parks back in the States. Not that it was cheap, being the same embassy that was built with a bit of KGB skullduggery poured into its foundation. The building had been secretly wired and bugged as it was erected, and when that was discovered, to considerable embarrassment, the whole top two floors were ripped off and rebuilt, and the place ended up costing more dollars per square foot than the Trump Tower.

  Inside, Mel led us to a bank of elevators and up to the office of the ambassador, who apparently wanted words with us before we spoke with anybody on his staff. We waited about five minutes before three guys came streaming out his door with their pants on fire, and his secretary signaled us to go in.

  Allan D. Riser was a fairly big man, meaning tall, and heavy, with a bone-ugly, fierce face resembling a wild boar that had somehow learned how to shave. Unless it was our intention to scare the shit out of the Russians, he wasn’t hired for his looks. His office was decorated with the usual assortment of power photos and trinkets. His booming voice was the first thing I noticed, however.

  “Both of you sit down,” he roared, the indication being that we weren’t here to discuss the town’s tonier nightspots.

  He gave us what I’m sure he thought was his most steely-eyed look and said, “Drummond, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “And you’re Miss Mazorski?” he asked, and received a polite nod. He faced me. “And you’re here to prove Morrison didn’t do it, right?”

  “Not exactly, sir. We’re here to investigate the circumstances concerning the charges and his arrest.”

  He leaned back in his chair and considered my mealy-mouthed reply. I had the sense that this was a man not to screw with and made a swift mental note to behave. He said to me, “I heard on the news that he slashed his wrists.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Too bad. I can’t say I liked the son of a bitch, but he was good at his job. I like Mary, though, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve this shit. And to be perfectly blunt, I’m having difficulty believing he did everything they’re saying.”

  I looked somewhat astonished, because it is not in the nature of professional diplomats to blurt out exactly what they’re thinking. It makes their toes curl or something. I asked, “Why’s that, Mr. Ambassador?”

  He waved his long gangly arms around the air. “Oh hell, I’ve been doing Soviet or Russian affairs for thirty years. Always the same damn thing… they catch one of these guys, then blame everything from Sputnik to nuclear plants in Iran on them.”

  “You think they’ve exaggerated it?”

  “No, I don’t think that. I know that.”

  Katrina gave him a discerning look. “And how could you know that?”

  “You two heard all the shit they’re putting on his doorstep?”

  “We don’t expect to get the full monty until the prosecutor calls to offer a deal,” I admitted.

  He chuckled. “Sometimes we’re worse than the damned Soviets used to be with their show trials. There’s just things he couldn’t possibly have done. He just couldn’t.”

  We sat and stared at each other, us hoping he’d say something more enlightening, which he didn’t. Instead, he bent forward, and that menacing expression slammed back into place. “Now, in case you haven’t heard, we’ve got FBI and CIA people climbing all over our asses. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told them. I have an embassy to run. The mostly good people who work in this building are trying to manage the highly delicate relations between two countries that have over twenty thousand nuclear warheads. This is still the one relationship in the world that can obliterate the earth. And we need Russia’s help with this counterterrorism thing, too. Our work takes precedence over everything. Don’t get in our way. Don’t cause us problems. Misbehave or abuse our generosity and I’ll slap your asses on an airplane so fast you’ll wonder if you were ever here. Clear?”

  How could it not be clear? I nodded politely while Katrina stared demurely at the floor. We made a lovely couple.

  He continued: “That young captain’s got an embassy car and he’s been told to take you anyplace you need to go. There’s a reason for my generosity. Be careful in this town. It’s run by mobsters, there’s Chechen bombs going off sporadically, and you can get fleeced faster than in Times Square in its heyday. Any questions?”

  You know those stories you sometimes hear about those effete, limp-wristed State Department types who sip tea with a pinkie lifted and speak in polished riddles? Mr. Riser must have been sick for that day of training.

  I replied, “You’ve made everything abundantly clear.”

  He chuckled at that, too. “Good. Get out of here and do what you have to do. And remember, don’t abuse our hospitality.”

  Mel awaited us in the anteroom. He looked surprisingly cheery and said, “Hey, did you hear the latest thing the general did?”

  I said, “No, I, uh, I tried to get the TV in my hotel room to work, but, uh, it was stuck on some channel.”

  I was of course looking at Katrina as I reported this, hoping to restore my reputation.

  “They’re saying that when he was on the NSC staff and reports would come in on what the Russians were up to, he would modify them and sometimes even add pure distortions to mislead the President.”

  I shook my head. “No kidding? That’s what they’re saying?”

  “That’s the latest,” Torianski confirmed, leading us back down the hall to the elevators. “Well, what’s next?” he asked, looking at Katrina instead of me, which frankly showed healthy instincts. She was much more invigorating to look at.

  I told him, “We want to meet the head of that big investigating team you mentioned.”

  There was a choking sound, and his eyes nervously darted around. “Mr. Jackler? You’re sure?”

  “Would I have asked if I wasn’t?”

  He took us into the elevator, pushed a button, and we were off. The doors opened on the seventh floor, and just as in Eddie’s building, two armed guards were standing straight in front of us. They didn’t have Uzis pointed at our chests, although otherwise the place had the earmarks of an Eddie Golden extravaganza. The whole floor reeked of lethal determination and obnoxious self-importance.

  The guard on the left muttered, “What do you want?”

  I replied, “We’re Morrison’s attorneys. We want to talk to Jackler, the guy in charge of your show.”

  He walked off and left us in the company of the other guard, who was staring curiously at Katrina-not curiously like she was a suspect; curiously, like what was she doing that night, and, uh, maybe she’d like to see what it was like to do the salami dance with a real man. Maybe I should have told him what she does to guys she catches cheating.

  The other guy returned a minute later and led us around a few corners to a small office at the back of the building. Mel, like the courageous lion of lore, let Katrina and me go in and then stopped at the doorway, like, Hey, I’m with these two, but not really with them.

  Jackler, the man behind the desk, made no effort to get up. He looked to be about fifty, and in terrific shape for his age-or any other age, for that matter. He had a crew cut and a nose that had been broken with extreme prejudice, as they say in the trade, and looked incredibly like Sergeant Joe Friday, if you added fifty pounds of hard muscle, a misshapen snout, and made his personality even less scintillating. It was a great face for an inquisitor.

  He didn’t invite us to sit down in the chairs in front of his desk, but stared at them, willing us to sit. So we did.

  His chilling eyes examined me. “You’re Drummond, right?”

  “I’m afraid so. And this is my co-counsel, Katrina Mazorski.”

  He did this funny thing with his face that was akin to a nod, only without moving his head. It was a gestu
re every aspiring badass really should master, and I tried to do something with my face, too, only it made my earlobes itch, so I don’t think it created the impression I wanted.

  “You asked for this meeting,” he said in a severely icy tone.

  “Right. No doubt we’ll be interviewing the same people, and I don’t want to get anything confused.”

  “I knew you were coming,” he informed me.

  “I’m sure you did. A guy like you probably knows everything.”

  He was looking at me quizzically. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  It was probably best not to answer that, so instead I asked, “Who do you report to? The Agency or the prosecutor’s office?”

  “We run everything through Golden first, then he decides what goes forward. Why’s that? He a buddy of yours?”

  “Oh yeah. Like this,” I said, twisting two fingers together. “Of course we ended up on different sides this time.”

  This earned a big guffaw. “Yeah, and he’s really gonna kick your butt, too.”

  “Well, yeah,” I chuckled. “Except the other guy should take some of the heat off my client.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “What? You’re kidding, right? Eddie hasn’t told you what we’ve got?”

  “He hasn’t told me shit. With him it’s always take, take, take.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, shaking my head in commiseration. “I mean, I love him like a brother, but the boy’s got a few kinks and flaws. You might find this hard to believe, but some JAG guys think he’s a real prick.”

  “Do tell,” he said very impatiently. “What’s this shit about this other guy?”

  I winked at him. “Why do you think we flew all this way? We get the name and we trade it to Eddie for a big sentence reduction. A few more small details to wrap up, and then, badda-bing, the big press conference.”

  “Aw, you’re shittin’ me.”

  Katrina suddenly bent forward with a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry, I’m a private citizen. Don’t you government people… well, don’t you share these things?”