Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

Morrison nodded but looked troubled.

I said, “What? You got something you want to add?”

“I, uh…” He hunched over, as if in pain. “Listen, Drummond. About Arbatov…”

“What about him?”

“I’m not saying Alexi’s connected to this or anything…”

“But?”

“Well, it, uh, it might be a good idea to look at him closer.”

“And how would I do that?”

“Talk to Mary. See what she thinks.”

I said that we would, and we then departed, leaving our client chained to the table.

Katrina and I cloistered ourselves in the living room of our grand office quarters. I had brewed a fresh pot of coffee, tossed a few logs in the fireplace, and lit a big fire before we settled down in righteous style to ponder our next steps.

I wanted to start with her impression of our client. Lacking a past history with him, she might’ve detected things I was blind to. Doubtful, but worth checking.

She was still getting comfortable as I said, “Well, isn’t he every bit the asshole I warned you he was?”

Always helpful to predispose a witness, right?

She replied, “He, at least, has a good excuse”-intimating, I think, something about me. She added, “It’s this arrested and being charged deal, I suppose. Funny what sets some people off, isn’t it?”

“Not hah-hah funny, no. He’s even more insufferable than I remember him. How could that be possible?”

“You tell me. You know him.”

I struck a thoughtful pose and stroked my chin. “How does anyone get that way?… Spoiled rotten from birth… everything always fell in his lap. He-”

“Good Lord.” She shook her head and said, “Just give me the facts and I’ll make my own conclusions, okay?”

“Okay… the facts. He’s forty-nine years old, was born in Westchester, New York, the son of some big Pepsi bigwig. Had a typical rich kid’s upbringing, went to Andover, became probably the only Yale graduate in modern history to enter the Army, and, as the saying has it, went on to do great things-depending on your perspective, obviously.”

She leaned back onto the cushion and asked, “And how did he meet his wife?”

“I don’t know how he met his wife. I wasn’t there,” I answered, sounding, I suppose, a little annoyed.

“You have a problem with that topic?”

“Me? No… What gives you that impression?”

She picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on the couch. “You’re sure you don’t have a problem with this topic?”

Actually, my problem is with nosy, prying women. I let that thought lie, though, and replied, “They met at work, dated a few months, and got married. Okay?”

She pushed a stray strand of hair off her eyebrow. It obviously wasn’t okay, but she seemed to conclude it was the best she was going to wring out of me. She was right, incidentally. She asked, “Do you believe he’s guilty?”

I folded my hands behind my head and stared at the fire. I hadn’t forced myself to consider it. For one thing, I’d been on a whirlwind since Mary first called, and for another, it’s not a question most defense attorneys want to answer about a client. The preservation of ambiguity has almost irresistible appeal in our line of work.

I finally suggested, “It doesn’t exactly fit with my view of him.”

“Now that’s enlightening.”

“Look… he just doesn’t fit.”

“You can be very annoying.”

“Okay, for those who need lengthy explanations, Morrison doesn’t fit the crime.” Ticking down my fingers, I added, “He’s a pathologically ambitious prick. He’s an oily bastard and an inveterate bully. But a traitor? I could be wrong, but they’ve got the right kind of man for the wrong kind of crime.”

“Trying to cram an oval into a round hole?”

“That works for me.”

“Did you attend the wedding?”

“Damn it, what is it with you?”

She looked down her nose. “It was a perfectly innocent question. Am I missing something here?”

Innocent, my ass. I replied, “Why do you want to know?”

“Until a minute ago, it was idle curiosity. Now I’m wondering if there’s a tar pit here.”

“There’s no tar pit here. I was invited, but, uh, I… I was too busy to attend.”

“Too busy?”

“Exactly.”

“Not too bothered? Too busy?”

“I was in Panama, helping track down some asshole named Noriega.”

“You’re serious?”

“The wedding invitation was in my P.O. box when I returned from the war. It’d been sent a month before.”

She said, “Boy, that sucks.” And she was right; it did suck. Then she asked, “Would you have gone?”

The woman was like a dog with a bone. Stubbornness can be a virtue. At the right place and time, it can also be a king-size pain in the ass.

Anyway, the right and proper thing to say, obviously, was, Well, yes, absolutely. All’s fair in love and war, and so forth. I wouldn’t have sat in a front-row pew, where I could hear their lips smack when the preacher got to that “man and wife” part: I would’ve been there, though, the classic good sport, rooting for the bride and wishing her everlasting love and happiness with the idiot she chose.

I was fairly certain that lie wouldn’t sell, however.

“I don’t know,” I said, and tried my best to sound convincing, while sensing from her expression that I was wasting my time.

Having squeezed more out of that response than I wanted her to, she asked, “Can you adequately defend him?”

“I won’t know that until we hear the full charges and see the evidence.”

“Nice try. Deal with your compatibility issues.”

“Oh… that. Yes, I can represent him.”

She sipped quietly from her coffee and let that one drop off a cliff. I said, “Can you adequately defend him?”

“It’s going to be a challenge. This whole world of the Army and espionage is completely foreign. I’ve been handling street criminals.”

“And what makes you think this is different?”

“It is different.”

“Why?”

“The people I’ve been defending have miserable, hopeless lives. I come from the street and can get into their heads. People who work in espionage are different.”

“Not really. Just think greed, larceny, jealousy.” I smiled and added, “And since we’re delving into my personal life, what about yours?”

“What about it?”

“You’re what-twenty-nine and still single?”

“And you’re what-thirty-nine and still single?”

“In the event you’re not aware of it, age is irrelevant with guys.”

For some reason, this struck her as hilarious. She slapped the pillow and nearly choked to death. “You’re a piece of work.”

My smile widened. “I just want to know who I’m working with.” Okay, I know. It sounded lame even to me.

She smirked and said, “Then let me help. Do I have a boyfriend? No. Have I ever? A few. Am I desperately seeking? Not. Did I miss anything?”

Like I needed this. “No. That’s fine, thank you.”

“Maybe you want a description of what I’m looking for?”

“Fine. What are you looking for?”

“Definitely not some chest-thumping meathead who spends his weekends knocking down six-packs and screaming obnoxious things at the football jocks on his TV. Masculine, but the right kind of masculine-the kind that knows the difference between a flute and a piccolo.”

This sounded more like a dickless canary than a man to me, although I do know the difference between a flute and piccolo: Spelling.

She continued, “Good-looking… but the right sort. California beach boys are a turnoff. Back hair is a turnoff. I’m inclined toward the dark-haired, worldly, charming types.”