Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

I rang the bell and we waited about forty seconds. That’s why I don’t own a big house like this. Someone knocks on your door, and it takes forever to hike your way from the back parlor to the front entry.

Suddenly, Homer was staring at me with that squeamish look some women get when a big, nasty cockroach prances across their kitchen counter. I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Steele. My associate, Miss Katrina Mazorski. Your daughter’s expecting us.”

His eyes took in Katrina’s outfit, which today consisted of a short skirt and an old cardigan over what looked like a camisole. He appeared to be on the verge of vomiting.

His eyes shifted to my Chevrolet. “Is that where you parked the other day?”

“I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”

He spun around, slammed the door, and stomped off to get his daughter. Was this fun or what?

A few moments later the door opened and there stood Mary, wearing jeans and a simple white sweater that came down to her thighs, looking like an ad for Casual Living or some such thing.

I said, “Hi, uh, Mary, this is my associate, uh, uh, uh, Katrina Mazorski,” experiencing this sudden odd difficulty, a sort of mental paralysis.

Mary and what’s-her-name shook hands, and then Mary bent forward, squeezed my arm, and pecked my cheek. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Please, come in.”

She led us through some long hallways to the sunroom in the back. We got ourselves seated, and I could see Katrina’s eyes watching the two of us, obviously trying to take the temperature of our relationship. Behind that sarcastic, laid-back, cocky playfulness was more curiosity about things that were none of her damned business than was good for her, or me, or whatever.

Mary bent forward and studied my face. “Sean, what happened to your nose? And your eyes?”

“I… well, I walked into a wall,” I said, which was true; I did walk into a wall-full speed-with a little help. Only I wasn’t about to mention the rest of the story to either Mary or her husband. I had my reasons and believed they were sound.

She reached over and squeezed my nose. “You must’ve been moving pretty fast. Your nose looks broken.”

That squeezing hurt like hell, but I’m a guy, and she’s a good-looking girl, so I smiled, which looked pathetically stupid, as my eyes welled up with tears.

“I guess. Anyway, we spent yesterday with your husband.”

“How is he?”

“Angry, but better. He thinks he’s been framed.”

At first, she didn’t reply. She appeared shocked, then curious, then asked, “By whom?”

“He claims to be completely baffled by the whole thing. Mary, he’s just throwing darts in the dark… Believe me, we defense attorneys hear it all the time.” Especially from perps who know they’re guilty as hell, I politely failed to mention. “Anyway, we went back over his career. The papers are claiming his betrayal began back in ’88 or ’89.”

She was shaking her head. “I read the articles. It’s ludicrous. It would mean he started within months after we married. It’s impossible, believe me.”

“The articles also mentioned he had a single Russian controller over all those years. We therefore reviewed what he was doing, looking for contacts he made with Russian citizens.”

“That’s a logical approach, but I’m sure you discovered it was hopeless. Our whole careers were centered around Russians.”

I nodded and then paused for a brief moment. “Mary, he told us about Alexi Arbatov.”

Her eyes suddenly widened and her whole body convulsed forward. “Oh my God. Sean, he should never have mentioned that name. You have no business knowing about that. What in the hell is Bill doing?”

“Defending himself. Don’t worry, Katrina and I have proper clearances. Your secret’s safe,” I insisted, conveniently forgetting to mention that little incident about the tapes.

“Your clearances are meaningless. Knowledge about… about him is the tightest compartment in the Agency. Less than ten living people know about him. Forget that name. Please.”

I allowed Mary a polite interlude to realize that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. I had expected her to be uncomfortable, however, she appeared to be almost distraught.

She finally burst out, “You’ll have to be read on to the compartment.”

I chuckled-she didn’t.

“Sean, it’s not funny. This is the most sensitive secret in Agency history. You’ll have to be read on”-she glanced at Katrina and insisted-“both of you.”

“Mary, we’re not going to be read on. We’ll never be allowed to mention anything about this again. This guy Arbatov’s the only Russian your husband knew all those years. He might be a link to what’s going on here.”

“Oh God, Sean, can’t you see what Bill’s doing? He fed you that name because he knew how much it would frighten the Agency. I want him to be innocent, but this is dangerous.”

“Look, what I hoped was, we could have a long, candid conversation about Arbatov. This could be important for you, too. You were meeting with him also.”

“Don’t you understand?… I can’t speak with you about… well, about this topic.”

“And why can’t you?”

“I take polygraphs. I’m subject to prosecution. If I mention that name, I could go to prison. I have two young children. You see that, don’t you?”

I suddenly did-with a clarity that brought a rush of blood to my face. Merely bringing this up, I put her in peril. But then, her husband had to know that, too. So why had that conniving asshole sent me to ask Mary about Arbatov?

While I tried to reason through this, Katrina swiftly asked, “Didn’t Bill take polygraphs also?”

“No. As an Army officer he was immune from that.”

I abruptly stood up and mumbled, “Listen, we’ve got to get going. We’ve got all kinds of things that have to get done.”

Said less adroitly, it was time for a clumsy exit to match the even more clumsy mistake I’d just made. Nobody argued with me. No surprise there, right? Mary politely followed us out and at the doorway, put a hand on my arm and said, “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Sean. I want to help. Please believe that. I have to think of the children, though.”

“It was my fault.”

“It was not. Outsiders have no idea what it’s like to be hooked up to those detectors. I know one girl who literally begins shaking about a week before her annual sessions.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall at her confessions?”

I appreciated that in her typically gracious way she was trying to take the sting out of my embarrassment. But the only thing that would help at that moment would be to get my hands around her husband’s throat.

Mary smiled at my co-counsel and said, “Katrina, it was a real pleasure meeting you. I really wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Likewise. Listen, sorry about your husband. How are the children handling it?”

“They still don’t know. I’m trying to keep it that way. We’ve canceled my father’s newspaper subscriptions, and the cable TV hookups have been disconnected.”

“They don’t know?”

“I told them he’s on a trip. Maybe it’s a mistake… they’ve been yanked away from their school and home and friends in Moscow. They’re only kids. How much do you inflict on them at once?”

Then I received a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and we were off.

Once we were settled in the car, Katrina studied my face for a moment. “You think it was deliberate, don’t you?”

“He had to know.”

“Maybe he was using you to sound her out. Maybe it was a loyalty test. Or maybe he’s just desperate.”

“Or maybe he’s just an asshole,” I opined, putting the car in drive and peeling out of the driveway. I didn’t think it was any of the three reasons she just suggested. I thought he was trying to make me look like an idiot in front of Mary. And I walked right into it. From a personal standpoint, it pissed me off. From a professional standpoint, I found it alarming. This case was difficult enough without my client arranging emotional ambushes to show he’s the better man.