Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

“So the leak could’ve come from any number of sources?”

“Of course.”

I touched his shoulder. “Okay, listen, I promised the doc I wouldn’t stay long. So you promise me something.”

“What?”

“No more of this suicide crap. If I’m going to work my ass off on your case, I don’t want any more late-night phone calls about your health.”

I couldn’t see the expression on his face or the look in his eyes. “Okay.”

“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.

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where revolutions and wars were bred, where devious plots for global domination were hatched, where bushy-browed men in outdated, frumpy, ill-tailored suits stood on reviewing stands and watched the largest military machine in the world march by, the same military we all thought would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.”