Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

Oddly enough, I’d had that very thought countless times. I asked, “So Mel, did you ever see Morrison do anything suspicious?”

“No, but hey, he was my boss, so I wasn’t looking over his shoulder. But no sir, I never saw anything.” He sounded rueful, like he wished he did, so he could help bury him.

We finished the car ride with Mel pointing out landmarks and offering tidbits about life in Moscow. I was struck by how ugly and depressing the place was. It was dirty; not trashy, because I didn’t see any litter, but dirty, like it rained soil. The sky was an oppressive leaden color, and the buildings were mostly gray, blocklike structures that looked like they shared the same architect-a man named Stalin. Frankly, it’s no wonder he hasn’t been written up in Architectural Digest as a guy who brought glory to the profession.

Nor was the U.S. embassy any testament to palatial elegance. It was a modern, big-windowed building that looked like one of those cheaply constructed, minimally decorated high rises you see in low-rent office parks back in the States. Not that it was cheap, being the same embassy that was built with a bit of KGB skullduggery poured into its foundation. The building had been secretly wired and bugged as it was erected, and when that was discovered, to considerable embarrassment, the whole top two floors were ripped off and rebuilt, and the place ended up costing more dollars per square foot than the Trump Tower.

Inside, Mel led us to a bank of elevators and up to the office of the ambassador, who apparently wanted words with us before we spoke with anybody on his staff. We waited about five minutes before three guys came streaming out his door with their pants on fire, and his secretary signaled us to go in.

Allan D. Riser was a fairly big man, meaning tall, and heavy, with a bone-ugly, fierce face resembling a wild boar that had somehow learned how to shave. Unless it was our intention to scare the shit out of the Russians, he wasn’t hired for his looks. His office was decorated with the usual assortment of power photos and trinkets. His booming voice was the first thing I noticed, however.

“Both of you sit down,” he roared, the indication being that we weren’t here to discuss the town’s tonier nightspots.

He gave us what I’m sure he thought was his most steely-eyed look and said, “Drummond, right?”

“That’s me.”

“And you’re Miss Mazorski?” he asked, and received a polite nod. He faced me. “And you’re here to prove Morrison didn’t do it, right?”

“Not exactly, sir. We’re here to investigate the circumstances concerning the charges and his arrest.”

He leaned back in his chair and considered my mealy-mouthed reply. I had the sense that this was a man not to screw with and made a swift mental note to behave. He said to me, “I heard on the news that he slashed his wrists.”

“That’s right.”

“Too bad. I can’t say I liked the son of a bitch, but he was good at his job. I like Mary, though, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve this shit. And to be perfectly blunt, I’m having difficulty believing he did everything they’re saying.”

I looked somewhat astonished, because it is not in the nature of professional diplomats to blurt out exactly what they’re thinking. It makes their toes curl or something. I asked, “Why’s that, Mr. Ambassador?”

He waved his long gangly arms around the air. “Oh hell, I’ve been doing Soviet or Russian affairs for thirty years. Always the same damn thing… they catch one of these guys, then blame everything from Sputnik to nuclear plants in Iran on them.”

“You think they’ve exaggerated it?”

“No, I don’t think that. I know that.”

Katrina gave him a discerning look. “And how could you know that?”

“You two heard all the shit they’re putting on his doorstep?”

“We don’t expect to get the full monty until the prosecutor calls to offer a deal,” I admitted.

He chuckled. “Sometimes we’re worse than the damned Soviets used to be with their show trials. There’s just things he couldn’t possibly have done. He just couldn’t.”

We sat and stared at each other, us hoping he’d say something more enlightening, which he didn’t. Instead, he bent forward, and that menacing expression slammed back into place. “Now, in case you haven’t heard, we’ve got FBI and CIA people climbing all over our asses. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told them. I have an embassy to run. The mostly good people who work in this building are trying to manage the highly delicate relations between two countries that have over twenty thousand nuclear warheads. This is still the one relationship in the world that can obliterate the earth. And we need Russia’s help with this counterterrorism thing, too. Our work takes precedence over everything. Don’t get in our way. Don’t cause us problems. Misbehave or abuse our generosity and I’ll slap your asses on an airplane so fast you’ll wonder if you were ever here. Clear?”

How could it not be clear? I nodded politely while Katrina stared demurely at the floor. We made a lovely couple.

He continued: “That young captain’s got an embassy car and he’s been told to take you anyplace you need to go. There’s a reason for my generosity. Be careful in this town. It’s run by mobsters, there’s Chechen bombs going off sporadically, and you can get fleeced faster than in Times Square in its heyday. Any questions?”

You know those stories you sometimes hear about those effete, limp-wristed State Department types who sip tea with a pinkie lifted and speak in polished riddles? Mr. Riser must have been sick for that day of training.

I replied, “You’ve made everything abundantly clear.”

He chuckled at that, too. “Good. Get out of here and do what you have to do. And remember, don’t abuse our hospitality.”

Mel awaited us in the anteroom. He looked surprisingly cheery and said, “Hey, did you hear the latest thing the general did?”

I said, “No, I, uh, I tried to get the TV in my hotel room to work, but, uh, it was stuck on some channel.”

I was of course looking at Katrina as I reported this, hoping to restore my reputation.

“They’re saying that when he was on the NSC staff and reports would come in on what the Russians were up to, he would modify them and sometimes even add pure distortions to mislead the President.”

I shook my head. “No kidding? That’s what they’re saying?”

“That’s the latest,” Torianski confirmed, leading us back down the hall to the elevators. “Well, what’s next?” he asked, looking at Katrina instead of me, which frankly showed healthy instincts. She was much more invigorating to look at.

I told him, “We want to meet the head of that big investigating team you mentioned.”

There was a choking sound, and his eyes nervously darted around. “Mr. Jackler? You’re sure?”

“Would I have asked if I wasn’t?”

He took us into the elevator, pushed a button, and we were off. The doors opened on the seventh floor, and just as in Eddie’s building, two armed guards were standing straight in front of us. They didn’t have Uzis pointed at our chests, although otherwise the place had the earmarks of an Eddie Golden extravaganza. The whole floor reeked of lethal determination and obnoxious self-importance.

The guard on the left muttered, “What do you want?”

I replied, “We’re Morrison’s attorneys. We want to talk to Jackler, the guy in charge of your show.”

He walked off and left us in the company of the other guard, who was staring curiously at Katrina-not curiously like she was a suspect; curiously, like what was she doing that night, and, uh, maybe she’d like to see what it was like to do the salami dance with a real man. Maybe I should have told him what she does to guys she catches cheating.