The Kingmaker sd-3

by Brian Haig

  The articles weren’t clear on exactly what he did in the years right after he finished his grad work, but it seemed he was trying to make it as a writer. Apparently it took him seven or eight years to find his voice, because that’s when he published his first best-seller, a book on the origins of the cold war that exposed all kinds of underhanded dealings by the CIA and American military in various places around the world. What was striking about that book, most critics agreed, were the shocking revelations of dirty operations that were supposed to have been among the government’s most closely held secrets. It was widely agreed that he had extraordinary sources. No kidding.

  That book led to a series of hearings on the Hill and caused an American President to authorize a bunch of wiretaps to try to find Martin’s sources. When questioned by the FBI, Martin stood behind his First Amendment rights.

  His second book was an expose of America’s secret war in Vietnam and Cambodia, again noted by critics for its inside look at operations that were never supposed to see the light of day. This time the inevitable congressional hearings led to a large number of firings in the CIA, mostly of operatives whose names were included in the book, making them useless as clandestine operators in any regard.

  Martin’s last best-seller concerned arms control, and in it the author exposed the deep fractures in America’s scientific community, as well as its arms control community, making the hawks sound like Stone Age, bellicose morons who played dirty against the humanitarian altruists who were trying to rein in the madness, and how Russia’s doves were marginalized by the policies of America’s hard-liners, preventing the world from achieving sanity.

  He’d never married. His mother died in 1989, and his father in 1995, leaving him a pile of money. He’d taught at five or six universities and was an accepted member of ten or fifteen prestigious institutes and organizations, making him a bona fide member of the Establishment.

  All of which begged the big question: Why would Milt Martin betray his country? He was rich. He was wildly successful. He was respected and accepted. I’d met him and he seemed like a decent enough guy, with none of the rough edges or overweening ambition you smell from some folks-like my own client, for instance. So why?

  I called the concierge and had them order me a rental car to be charged to the room. Katrina and I picked up our bags and went downstairs to wait. It was five hours to New York City and we needed to be in midtown Manhattan by eight. If we drove fast, we’d just make it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We needn’t have rushed. Martin’s black limo didn’t pull up to the front entrance of the Society for International Affairs building until 10:00 A.M. Martin, it seemed, worked banker’s hours.

  He stepped out of the limo carrying a five-hundred-dollar leather briefcase, wearing his Burberry raincoat, that prominent nose of his the first thing to emerge. He turned around and stuck his face back into the car, told the driver what time to pick him up, then spun around to head confidently up the short stairs and into the building: Mr. Establishment arriving for another day at the money mill.

  At that moment, the guy who’d been casually leaning against the building’s wall shoved off and began to walk past him. Martin looked vaguely at the guy but took no particular notice, and in any case wouldn’t have recognized me with my dyed blond hair and glasses, wearing jeans and a bulky parka.

  The trick to kidnapping is speed. Shock value counts for everything: You have to dumbfound your victims, traumatize them, make them too senseless to react, too passive to resist.

  At the instant we passed, the fingers of my right hand drove directly into his throat. He wasn’t expecting it, but it came too fast for him to put up a defense anyway. One second he was walking upright to the entrance, and the next his throat felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t breathe.

  He lurched over and, like a Good Samaritan, I swiftly bent down and slipped an arm around his shoulder to help him. It was New York so a few pedestrians were passing by, barely paying attention. Katrina had been parked down the street in our rental; she came screeching up to the unloading zone in front of the building.

  She wore a blond wig, and a fake mustache, and big black-rimmed glasses, and looked goofy as hell, but it was a great disguise. I’d also taken the precaution of stealing a license plate from a parked car, in case anyone saw us and was inclined to report the kidnapping to the police.

  Martin was desperately trying to struggle away from me, and I was loudly saying, “There, there, buddy, you’re going to be okay. You probably just got a piece of gum stuck in there. Here, I’ll give you a ride to the hospital,” as I maneuvered him toward the car. Katrina leaned back and flung open the rear door. I shoved Martin inside, banging his head against the door frame, which sent his glasses spilling into the gutter and made him howl.

  I piled in, and Katrina pulled out into the street. While Martin was fighting to force some air down his bruised windpipe, I pulled some rope from my pocket and tried to grab his hands. He tried shoving me away, slapping at my face like a little girl, so I popped him hard on the nose, an easy target because the damned thing was so huge.

  His hands flew up to his schnozz and he was whimpering and trying to keep the flow of blood from spilling all over his Burberry, while I began using the rope to tie his hands together. He tried protesting, and I screamed, “Shut up or I’ll kill you!”

  Once I got his hands tied, I pulled out the hunting knife I’d bought at Tysons Corner, held it to his throat, and threatened, “One wrong move and I’ll cut you, asshole.”

  I yanked a ski mask over my head, while he stared at my face, trying to place me, trying to fight his fear, trying to figure out how he got into this nightmare.

  He started to talk, and I told him to shut up or I’d slice open his throat. This also was part of the treatment. I wanted him so scared he’d pee in his pants. Katrina headed uptown for the George Washington Bridge, which would compound our crime by taking us across state lines. But hey, once you’ve just assaulted and kidnapped the most powerful former Assistant Secretary of State in history, why sweat the small stuff?

  About every five minutes I reached over and slapped or punched Martin, sometimes in the face, sometimes in the stomach, not because I’m a cruel bastard but to keep him terrified. He needed to know I was pitiless. He needed to feel pain. The more helpless he felt, the quicker and easier we’d get this done.

  I could see Katrina wince every time I hit him, and she no doubt was regretting she’d ever agreed to my plan. But her role during this stage was to be perfectly silent, to be the mysterious lump in the front seat. I just kept reminding myself of Mel Torianski’s exploding head and the three guys who tried to murder Katrina and me, and my qualms abated.

  We took the Palisades Parkway exit and headed toward Bear Mountain State Park. The drive took about forty minutes, with me smacking Martin every few minutes, Katrina shaking her head, and Martin mewling like a lamb dancing with the big bad wolf.

  We crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge and took a left, heading toward Garrison. After about two miles I told Katrina to pull over at the next dirt road leading into the woods, which she did. I reached across Martin, swung open the car door, and shoved him out into the mud. He flew out face first and yelped. I came out right behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of his fancy Burberry raincoat, and dragged him into the woods. Katrina followed.

  She asked, “Where you are taking him?” using a fabricated Russian accent.

  “Where nobody can see me cut his throat,” I yelled. The shock of that registered instantly on Martin’s face.

  Then we were into the bushes. I dragged and shoved Martin through the thick underbrush and every time he tried to stop, I slapped him across the head, the loud whacks echoing through the forest. We moved like this for half a mile, him occasionally slipping and falling onto the ground, and me kicking him in the ass every time he did, because Martin was a guy who’d never been humiliated in his life, never been subjected to such indignities, a
guy who’d led a perfectly spoiled existence-Groton, Yale, a comfortable writer’s life.

  I finally grabbed his collar from behind and threw him stomach first onto the ground. He let out a loud “whoomph,” then looked up, his expression hurt and terrified. “W-what do you want? Money? I’ll pay you. I’ll never tell anybody, I swear.”

  This is the standard plea of all kidnap victims, trying to regain some sense of power, some control over their destiny. It’s a natural response to try to negotiate, to find your tormentor’s motive, to assert any kind of grip you can get on the situation.

  I kicked him in the chest so hard that he went somersaulting backward and onto his stomach. I reached down and lifted him by his collar and the back of his pants, then hurled him through the air. He came down on his stomach with a loud scream.

  He had to know I was much stronger than him, that he was powerless, that negotiation was out of the question. He had to know he had no control. He had to feel the sheer terror of being in the hands of a wildman.

  I bent down on my haunches and put my face squarely in front of his. I flashed the hunting knife.

  His eyelids stretched open, while Katrina said, “Oh, God, I cannot watch this. I must return back to car. I will be getting sick.”

  Martin’s eyes darted from me to her. You knew exactly what he was thinking, because the thoughts scampering through his addled head were exactly what he was meant to think. What was with this woman’s accent? And she was obviously his only chance against the pitiless bastard with the knife. If she left, he was dead.

  He yelled something in Russian, his voice trembling with fear.

  Katrina said something back, and I yelled, “You two stop it! Speak goddamn English.”

  Katrina coldly said, “He begs us not to kill him. He says he can make it worth our while.”

  I let loose a nasty chuckle. “And your government would find us and kill us. Let’s get this over with.”

  The shock of that registered very clearly on Martin’s face. “The Russian government?” he asked, sounding dismayed. “Please, there has to be a mistake. W-what are you talking about?”

  I inched closer like I had no intention of discussing this with a man I intended to butcher.

  “Please,” Martin begged, looking imploringly into the eye-slots of my ski mask. “You’re making a mistake. The Russians don’t want me dead.”

  I was shaking my head, while Katrina swiftly said, “The order I have been given is most clear. You are to be disposed of. Is no mistake.”

  “No, no, it’s wrong. I work for the Russians,” he squealed, literally howling as I positioned the knife against his throat.

  Katrina barked, “Stop! Not yet.” Then to him, “What are you talking about?”

  As scared as he was, he was no fool. In that instant he realized that Katrina was the boss of this operation, and that I was most likely a local hire under her employ.

  His eyeballs shifted in her direction. “Please,” he sniveled. “Please listen to me. This is a mistake. I work for the Russians. I swear I do. Your people don’t want me dead.”

  I snorted with disdain, while Katrina looked puzzled. “You are being ridiculous. You do not work for us.”

  “No, no. I swear I do,” he said, completely confused, because he did work for the Russians, and if she did, too, then what was the deal here?

  I moved the knife a centimeter to the left, enough to draw a little blood, enough to make his whole body shudder.

  “Don’t listen to his bullshit,” I growled. “Let me cut his throat and collect my damn money.”

  “You will be doing what you are told,” said Katrina in a most commanding and imperious tone. She took a few steps to get closer to us.

  She put her hands on her hips and bent over Martin. “I am SVR agent. I have been ordered by Alexi Arbatov to dispose of you. Nobody has been making mistake here.”

  “No, you… you’re wrong,” he assured her, struggling to cringe away from the knife. “P-please, I swear it. Arbatov’s a traitor. He works for the Americans.”

  Katrina reached down and pulled my knife hand away from his throat. Still bent over, she stared down at him curiously and let loose a most convincing snort. “Alexi Arbatov is deputy head of SVR. He is Viktor Yurichenko’s protege. And you are saying he is traitor?” She let go of my hand. “Go ahead and kill him.”

  “No, I swear!” he yelled, speaking rapid-fire. “Arbatov’s been giving the Americans information for ten years. Yurichenko knows that. I’m Viktor’s man. I’ve been working for him for twenty years. I swear. Please, don’t kill me. Just ask him. He’ll vouch for me. You’ll see.”

  And in that instant, Katrina and I both froze. Martin was working for Yurichenko? And Viktor knew about Alexi? This wasn’t what we had expected to hear. I had figured Martin was working for Russian military intelligence or one of Russia’s other intelligence agencies, but for Viktor? For that sweet little old man who had adopted Alexi? Were it not for that ski mask, Martin would’ve seen an expression of shock and horror on my face. I glanced at Katrina. She had spun away from Martin, as though she were thinking this through, a very facile feint to hide her face.

  As it was, Martin detected something in our physical responses to his confession. Fortunately, he mistook it for progress.

  “Don’t you see?” he nearly screamed, feeling his chance coming into reach. “Why did Arbatov tell you he wanted me dead? What did he say I did?”

  Katrina faced him, and I had to give her credit, she gave no hint of her horror. “Reason is simple. You helped expose the American general Morrison, who was most valuable SVR asset, and you are critical to American case to convict him. Unless you disappear. We owe Morrison this for his brave service, yes?”

  “No, no,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Morrison was never a Russian spy. Morrison was set up. He was my cut-out. Viktor and I picked him ten… twelve years ago. That’s why I hired him to work for me. That was our plan from the start. The whole idea was to make him my bureaucratic twin so we could use him to cover me. Don’t you see?”

  I edged the knife back closer to his throat. “This is bullshit, lady. You’re not going to let this worm lie his way out of this, are you? For Chrissakes, I want my money.”

  Katrina held up her hand, slapping a leash on her overeager killer. She appeared to be pondering this matter, like she wasn’t sure what in the hell was happening here.

  “Listen,” Martin said, his voice now cajoling, “if you kill me, when Viktor finds out, he’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. Believe me. He’s like a father to me.”

  “Convince me this is true,” Katrina ordered.

  “I’ve known Viktor thirty years, ever since I was in college. I wrote three books,” Martin said, still speaking rapidly, his brain and mouth in overdrive, trying desperately to convince her. “He told me to write the books, for Godsakes. He gave me the names of American CIA agents to put in them. He told me about CIA operations so I could expose them to the American people. He let me listen to wiretaps of American officials debating arms control policies. I swear to God it’s true. You can check. For Godsakes, all three books were best-sellers.”

  “I do not have time to check this,” Katrina said.

  A fresh idea struck him. “Then check the newspapers for everything they’re saying Morrison gave them. I can tell you the story behind every document I sent to Viktor. I was the President’s best friend, for Godsakes. Do you really believe it was Morrison who was manipulating American policy? He was a lowly lieutenant colonel… I was the Assistant Secretary of State. It was me. Get the newspapers and I’ll prove it.”

  Katrina was suddenly sounding much more amenable. “And how were you, an American big shot, getting these documents to Viktor?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. Nobody suspected me. You’re not going to believe how we did it.”

  “You had better make me believe how you were doing this,” she said, sounding ominous.

  “The mailbox. We c
reated a false mailbox in my apartment building in Washington. Whenever I wanted to send something to Viktor, I just dropped it in that mailbox and a courier dressed as a mailman checked it three times a day. Please, ask Viktor. You’ll be saving yourself. Arbatov’s a traitor and Viktor knows it.”

  This seemed to jar Katrina’s suspicion, so she said, “Now I am having big credibility problem with you, Martin. If Viktor is knowing Arbatov is traitor, why is he having him work as number two in my bureau?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin said, “but I’m not making it up. I swear. I think Viktor’s running him as a double agent or something. I’ve thought that for a long time. Look, I was the one who warned him about Arbatov.”

  She let loose a cynical chuckle. “And how were you knowing about Arbatov?”

  “Because Morrison told me. In his opening interview with me ten years ago. He wanted the job so bad, he was trying to impress me, so he bragged about how he was the guy who recruited Arbatov, how he was still his controller. I swear it’s true. Later he even told me about other traitors his wife was controlling. I gave all their names to Viktor. I exposed those traitors to the SVR, not Morrison.”

  I looked up at Katrina and she looked down at me. Frankly, we’d learned everything we needed to learn. In fact, we’d learned more than we ever wanted to know.

  I yanked the ski mask off my head, and Katrina pulled off her mustache and glasses and wig. Martin’s eyes searched both our faces. Then came the moment when clarity set in. There was this instant when he realized who we were and that he’d just told us enough to get him the electric chair.