The Kingmaker sd-3

by Brian Haig

  “Wouldn’t work. Too many other CIA people know about Arbatov.”

  “Of course.”

  “So that’s what I thought before I spoke with Arbatov.”

  “And now you’re thinking something else?”

  “You mean, aside from the fact Morrison looks guilty?”

  “I think we can rely on Golden to make that argument.”

  “Okay, here’s the other possibility. Say Morrison was reporting something very important back to the CIA, something that somebody here in Moscow didn’t want exposed.”

  “Like about this secret organization Arbatov was talking about?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Wouldn’t Mary be reporting the same thing?”

  I nodded. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s a twofer. He goes to the chair, and her career goes into the toilet. Because he was a traitor, everything either Morrison ever reported loses credibility.”

  “But Arbatov’s still around. The secret’s not safe as long as he’s alive.”

  “Exactly. And the next step is to take out Arbatov.”

  “Why didn’t they do that in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a theory rumbling around my brain. But I think it’s what Arbatov’s worried about. He’s next.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words. But why else did he come to my room this afternoon? Why else did he talk to me in the first place? I don’t think he’s getting much sleep.”

  She paced around a moment, taking in all this. She finally said, “Then you need to talk to him again.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my first meeting with him may have been compromised. Maybe I was being followed, or he was being followed. It’s the only thing that explains the ambush.”

  “You think?”

  “I told you, I don’t know what I think. But meeting with him again would be too risky, for him and for us. I stick out like a sore thumb.”

  As I believe I already mentioned, Katrina Mazorski was a very smart girl. Subtle hints weren’t lost on her. She said, “Are you suggesting I meet with him?”

  “I’m suggesting no such thing. It could be dangerous for you as well.” I went over and stared out the window, mumbling, “Of course… we could take steps to minimize those dangers.”

  “And how would we do that?”

  “A terrific disguise. Different hair color, new outfit, the works. Since you speak the language, you’d blend right in. And I would stake out your meeting and make sure you’re not observed or followed.”

  “I see you’ve already thought about this.”

  I shrugged.

  “Is it risky?”

  “Very.”

  She examined me a moment, then said, “What are the odds this is going to help? Tell me I’m not putting my life at risk over a wild goose chase.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There were no chalk stripes beside the commie amazon’s feet at four-thirty the next morning; apparently, Arbatov wiped them off each time he saw the signal. These spies, they think of even the little things. I made three fresh new scrapes and wandered back upstairs to the dismal streets of Moscow.

  I did some furtive dodging around, sort of warming up, and ended up thirty minutes later in a position to observe Katrina enter the coffee shop. Less than a minute later she wandered back out and peeked around, perhaps trying to spot me, which she didn’t. Her hair was dyed blond and she wore thick glasses. She was dressed in a long, oversize parka, too warm and bulky for the season, but it added forty pounds to her slender frame. Had I not picked the outfit myself, I wouldn’t have recognized her.

  Five minutes later, Alexi exited the subway stairwell, and I tracked him with my eyes as he strolled down the street to the kiosk. Nobody emerged behind him. He, too, entered the coffee shop and emerged a moment later, pausing momentarily to read the note Katrina had left with the chubby babushka behind the counter. The note detailed the instructions for his next stop if he wanted to meet with us. If he went back into the subway, he was blowing us off.

  I had broken the normal routine and could see the anxiety and indecision on his face. After a moment, he headed across the street, and I followed along behind him, dodging into alleyways and shop entrances so I wouldn’t be spotted. I saw nobody. He was alone, to the best I could tell.

  He ended up in the middle of a park and stopped by one of those ubiquitous statues of a man on a horse. Russians are really into statues, I was learning. A moment later, Katrina approached him. He looked surprised and tense, then his body relaxed as Katrina explained who she was and why she was there. I saw his lips moving, and I imagined he was probably telling her how much he admired the way I had set this up. Or he could be telling her I was an overcautious idiot.

  Their chat lasted nearly ten minutes. I circled the park a few times and kept an eye out. Aside from a few beggars stumbling around in the morning chill, nobody or anything looked out of place and suspicious.

  Finally they shook hands and then Arbatov walked away, leaving Katrina to her own devices. I followed Arbatov as he returned to the subway. Were he being tracked, it would have to be a team that was electronically connected, passing him from one agent to the next. The whole area would have to be blanketed, taking dozens of agents. It seemed fair to assume Arbatov wasn’t being tracked.

  I took a zigzag route back to the hotel, and a few minutes later there was a knock at my door. It was Katrina, grinning and beaming. Sweat was still running down my face, from exertion and anxiety. I knew enough to be distressed; she obviously didn’t.

  She stepped inside and said, “Well?”

  “Nobody was following. I’m nearly certain of it. And how did your side go?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s it? Fine?”

  “He was very nice.”

  I tapped a finger on my knee. “Did he trust you?”

  “Of course. He thought using me was brilliant. He said he’s got a lot of information to pass to us, and this was much more workable than meeting with you.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  She smiled. “He said he had spotted a strange man following him, who was at that very moment circling the park and watching us.” She pointed a finger at me. “Oh my God, you’re dressed just like the guy he described.”

  Very, very funny. “What else?” I grumbled.

  “He said he knows a great restaurant that serves genuine Russian cuisine, and that I’ll love it.”

  “He… what?”

  “We made a date. He’s taking me to dinner.”

  “A date?”

  “Look it up in the dictionary.”

  “I know what a date is. This wasn’t in the plan.”

  “You have a problem with this?” She crossed her arms and smiled. “Is this because you didn’t think of it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Perhaps you like it better when you get to skulk around, lurking behind bushes and acting like a real-life spy. Did I spoil your fun?”

  She was pulling my chain, I detected. I started to say, “Look, this is-”

  She was shaking her head. “Don’t even try arguing against this. We can have one more rushed ten-minute session in the park or I can spend an entire evening listening to what he has to say.”

  She was right. And I knew that in most ways it was even a very good idea. But I had a misgiving I just couldn’t shake.

  Something in my expression must’ve communicated this, because she said, “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

  “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried for him.”

  She chuckled.

  I groaned.

  She left and I looked around at the walls. I have never been good at killing time, particularly when I am keyed up and trapped in a hotel room in a strange and miserable country I don’t want to be in. The third time I used the phon
e to call Imelda with nothing new to discuss or report, she informed me that she was ridiculously busy and if I bothered her again she would climb on the next plane and come kill me. The shop in the hotel lobby had two American books, a trashy novel by Jackie Collins and a thick biography of Ronald Reagan titled Dutch by Edmund Morris. I chose the trash. After one hundred pages of Hollywood murders and affairs, I went numb and fled. I went outside and walked around, trying to get someone to follow me, or ambush me, or whatever. Did I mention that I was bored?

  At six o’clock, Katrina knocked on my door and I opened it. She stepped inside, and I… well, I froze. She looked breathtaking, ravishing, and most problematically, dripped with sex appeal. Her hair was still dyed blond, and she wore it up like a diva. She had apparently slipped out and bought a dress, because she wore this very lovely black number that stopped about seven inches short of her knees and a few micrometers from her nipples. If she sneezed or even laughed hard, Arbatov was in for an eyeful. She wore stockings and high heels, and makeup tastefully applied, and a very nice perfume, and as we say in the Army, she had cleaned up right nicely.

  I like eye candy as much as the next guy, but her timing and judgment was awful. Inconspicuous was the code word for the evening and she was anything but. Katrina Mazorski was going to draw plenty of stares, and she was going to be remembered everywhere she went.

  I very grumpily said, “You look like you got confused. This isn’t a real date.”

  She smiled. “But it has to look like one. Don’t I look genuine?”

  It struck me that she was getting into this gig a bit too well, and I decided a firm note of caution was in order.

  “Katrina, let me remind you that Alexi Arbatov is the number two in Russia’s spy agency. This is the real world. He is not James Bond and you are not Moneypenny. When people get their throats slit in this studio, they don’t bounce back up when the director screams ‘Cut.’ In short, this is not a game, and what you are doing is very, very dangerous.”

  She leaned against the door and patiently heard me out. In a light tone I found immensely irritating, she said, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

  “No, you’re an amateur. Don’t forget that.” I gave her a fierce stare until she stopped grinning, then said, “Now, your instructions. Be back by midnight at the latest. If you’re not back by then, I’m going to call the embassy and tell them you’re missing. Got that?”

  “Midnight at the latest.”

  “Listen to everything he says carefully, but skeptically. I’m not saying he’s lying, but these people are weaned on treachery and duplicity, and we still don’t know what his game is. I expect to be briefed on everything the second you return.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t smart-ass me. I don’t approve of this.”

  “You’re worried about me?”

  “Damned right.”

  “How sweet. Really, I’m touched.”

  I shook my head. “This date was his idea, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Think about that.” I gave her a hard stare and added, “And be damn sure he picks up the tab. This is Russia and these cheap bastards will stiff you every time.”

  She giggled and fled. I paced around my room awhile. I felt guilty that I’d gotten her into this, anxious about her safety, and angry that she seemed to consider this a lark. I went back to Jackie Collins. Another hundred pages of murder and sex later, I went downstairs to the bar. I watched a soccer game on the television, drank some genuine Russian vodka, watched a pair of slick whores move in on two flabby American businessmen, and returned to my room at eleven-thirty to await Katrina.

  At one I gave serious thought to calling the embassy. But to say what? My co-counsel just happened to be going out on a date with the number two spy of this country, you know, the top foreign asset none of you are cleared to know about, and now she’s missing? By two, I was frantic, pacing the floor, kicking the bed, punching a wall, and regretting that I ever bought into this stupid, risky idea. Katrina had no idea what dirty games these people played. I had visions of her strapped to a chair in a dingy, dirty room with six big goons huddled over her, truncheons gripped in their meaty fists, blood and teeth flying in all directions.

  At two-thirty there was a light knock on my door and it was her. I grabbed her by the arm and flung her into the room. She landed on the bed.

  At first I said nothing. I shook with rage and tried to murder her with a perfectly malevolent glare.

  She peered back with the kind of expression little girls get when they know Daddy is angry and about to take away the car keys.

  I pounded a forefinger on the watch on my wrist. “Midnight! I said midnight! You heard me. I even made you repeat it.”

  “Cool down. Take three deep breaths and cool down.”

  My head jerked forward. “Don’t… just don’t. I trusted you.”

  She stood up and went over to the minibar. She opened the door and pulled out a tiny bottle of scotch. She turned around and said, “On me. I’m sorry, okay? We lost track of time.”

  “Lost track of time?” I stomped around the room a few times. She watched me with that insouciant expression she sometimes got, as I fought the impulse to strangle her, and frankly it could have gone either way.

  She finally said, “I have the most amazing story to tell you.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Sit down, drink your scotch, and get in the mood. My knees are still shaking.”

  Was she playing with me or what? I got a glass, poured in the scotch, and knocked it back in one swig. She went back to the minibar and got another. She said, “I think I see why somebody wanted Morrison taken down.”

  I fell into the chair by the bathroom door, she brought me the bottle, and then she went and sat on the bed. She gave me another moment to compose myself, before she very calmly asked, “Are you ready?”

  “I’m… yes, I’m ready.”

  “Alexi said he already told you about this cabal that has been manipulating Russia’s foreign policy, starting wars, performing assassinations, and overthrowing governments at will. This is what he has been reporting to the Morrisons since 1991, when he first met Bill.”

  I sipped from my scotch and considered this. Arbatov had obviously told me about this cabal, but he had mentioned nothing about it being active after ’91. Katrina suddenly had my undivided attention. “He says it’s still around?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Like active today?”

  “Like for the whole past twelve years. He says it’s a hidden group of men with enormous power, money, and resources that has been operating like a hidden hand. His boss has had him searching for it the whole time.”

  “This is Viktor Yurichenko?”

  She nodded and said, “He compared it to the British East India Company, which used to make its own foreign policy and led Great Britain around by the nose. Or like our American Fruit Company, which used to run the banana republics and manipulate our policies in Latin America. Only this group is completely hidden. He and Viktor have hunted it for years and never discovered who’s behind it.”

  “What kinds of things is this group doing?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Where do I begin?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s late, so begin.”

  She went to the minibar and got herself a bottle of red wine. It was a Russian vintage and probably tasted like rotten vinegar. I sipped from my scotch and hoped it gave her a splitting headache.

  She sat back down on the bed, took a sip, and said, “Let’s start with Georgia. How much do you know about it?”

  “Let’s see. Small country, south of Russia, Stalin came from there, so they don’t have a lot to brag about. How’s that?”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a man of the world.”

  “I once watched a three-hour PBS special on political issues in Eritrea. It completely cured
me of my compulsive curiosity toward countries I don’t really give a crap about.”

  “I see.” She took another sip and no doubt considered the fact that I was a moron. I actually knew more about Georgia than I admitted, like I know the people there speak a language called Georgian, but I don’t believe in showing off.

  She said, “You’ll recall that this was where Morrison and Alexi first met, back in 1990 or 1991?” I nodded as she added, “Alexi confessed that, yes, their first meeting was a setup.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when the KGB and border troops were sent in by Gorbachev to control the riots, they were under strict instructions not to respond violently. If the Georgians turned violent, they were supposed to withdraw. Gorbachev didn’t want them to create an explosive situation. Instead they committed two massacres that incited the rest of the Georgian people and caused the situation to fly out of hand.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Alexi and Viktor suspected that somebody manipulated the situation. Somebody persuaded the KGB to ignore Gorbachev’s order, to create the massacres, and undermine Gorbachev’s position. Alexi wanted to find out what the CIA knew about it.”

  “We’re still stuck back in 1991.”

  “Don’t get impatient. After the Soviet split-up, the Georgian people turned to Eduard Shevardnadze and asked him to return and lead the country. Are you familiar with him?”

  Indeed I was. Shevardnadze had been Gorbachev’s foreign minister during the eighties, had orchestrated the peaceful end of the cold war, and was a huge international hero as a result.

  I nodded and she continued, “The Georgians thought that if Shevardnadze took over, he had the international stature to reduce Georgia’s dependence on Russia and open ties with the West. He knew all the world’s leaders and had that fantastic reputation. So he came back, and one of his first steps was to start wooing Western companies to build pipelines across Georgia to carry trans-Caucasus oil and natural gas to the Black Sea. Russia didn’t like that plan. For obvious reasons it wanted the pipelines to go through Russia.”

  I yawned. I mean, this was a very interesting history lesson, but it was late at night and Georgia sat right beside Eritrea on my give-a-crap meter.