Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

The guy kept talking, and I kept shrugging my shoulders and making silly faces. I suppose to any outside observer the whole scene looked nothing short of comical.

Then the door burst open behind them and in walked two more guys in suits. The two detectives stiffened, an indication that the new visitors were important men. They yammered back and forth very briefly, before a detective walked around behind me and unlocked my cuffs. I instantly reached up and massaged my ears, which was what you’d call a really happy moment.

The door opened again and in walked Ambassador Allan D. Riser and an aide. I guessed they’d uncuffed me before he arrived so it wouldn’t look like they’d mistreated me.

Riser had an appropriately concerned look on his face, and he said something to me, to which I intelligently replied, “I’m deaf.”

He nodded, then said something to the detectives. I was then led out of the room, placed in the back of another police car, and then driven straight to a Russian hospital. I was led into a cramped, messy operating room and plunked down on a steel gurney.

The hospital was filthy and run-down and lacked that antiseptic smell that lets you know that germs aren’t welcome there. Soon a harried-looking doctor and two remarkably hefty nurses came roiling in. The nurses laid me out on the gurney and then the doctor began cleaning my leg, spilling a clear liquid on the wound, then roughly wiping it off with a white rag. He pulled out something that looked like calipers and began digging around inside my leg, apparently searching for the piece of shrapnel embedded inside.

Did I mention that he failed to administer any kind of painkiller whatsoever? I sure as hell mentioned it to him and the two sorry-ass nurses fighting to hold my leg steady. I begged them to stop and called them the filthiest names you could imagine. The only remotely good part about this was that I could finally hear my own voice. It made no difference, however. The doctor was ferociously pitiless. It took him nearly three minutes of digging brutishly around, another few minutes to stitch it up, and when he was done, tears were streaming down my face and I was sweating like a drafthorse.

They walked out and left me, moaning and shaking and staring at all the blood on the table. Then the door opened and Katrina came in with the two very important-looking guys I’d seen earlier. There were bandages on her knees and elbows, and somebody had given her a shawl to throw over her torn blouse.

She and the two important-looking men were jabbering in Russian, and although it sounded like people talking underwater, I distinctly heard the sounds of their voices.

I said, “Katrina, what are these two assholes doing here?”

She looked over at me. “Bad move, Sean. They speak English.”

The two men were also staring at me, without what you’d call friendly expressions. I grinned. “Hi guys.”

The suit on the left said, “I am Igor Strodonov, Moscow chief of detectives, and you will meet my assistant, Chief Inspector Felix Azendinski.”

This explained why the two detectives back at the station had suddenly stiffened. The Moscow chief of detectives is like the second biggest wig in the whole city police hierarchy. I said, “Nice to meet you.”

From his expression that was a one-way sentiment. “Miss Mazorski has informed us of what has happened at the site of the very serious accident.”

“You mean ambush.”

“Yes, this was so,” he said, trying to sound like a master of the English language, which he clearly wasn’t. “This is most unfortunate thing. Is great embarrassment for Russian people. The driver captain is dead with bullets in head and American lawyers are injured.”

It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or not. Most cops don’t mind at all when defense lawyers get gunned down in the streets. They think it’s a charming irony. I asked, “Do you have any idea who the shooters were?”

“All are unfortunately dead.”

I personally didn’t think it was the least bit unfortunate. “So you don’t know?” I persevered.

“We have theory. We are checking out now. They are Chechens, which is not good thing. You understand?”

“No, I don’t understand.”

“Chechens very bad… what? Outlaws, yes? They kill Americans to make protest. Was terrorist thing.”

I nodded as if this made sense-actually it made no sense. Not to me. But then I’m no expert on the Russian political scene. I glanced at Katrina, who stood perfectly still, an enigmatic expression on her face.

The chief of detectives said, “You very lucky to live. These Chechens, they kill good.”

Leaving us with that thought, he and his assistant departed. Katrina came over and helped me get off the bloody gurney. Having no idea what to do next, she walked and I limped out of the ward, me swearing that if I got so much as a bellyache before I left Moscow, I’d make them fly me out on a medevac plane.

A black sedan with American diplomatic plates was outside, and the driver climbed out as we exited. We climbed in, and I noticed that this guy had his M16 within easy reach on the seat beside him. You can bet he wasn’t real damned happy to have us as cargo.

The driver, whose name was Harry, had instructions to take us straight to the embassy, which was terrifically inconvenient since Katrina and I needed to get our stories-aka alibi-straight. I insisted he drive to our hotel to let us get cleaned up, and when that didn’t work, I gave him the excruciating details about my recent surgery, and he either got sympathetic or bored with listening to me bitch, because he agreed to make one quick stop at the hotel for me to get some aspirin.

As soon as Katrina and I were headed up in the elevator, I urgently said, “Any thoughts?”

She retorted, “Chechens, my ass.”

We had come to the same conclusion, although presumably for different reasons, and after a fair amount of hesitation, I said, “I, uh, I’ve got a confession.”

“A confession?”

“I believe that’s the right word.” I stared straight ahead and said, “I met with Alexi Arbatov this morning.”

“You what?”

“The last time I saw Morrison, I asked him how he contacted him. It’s one of those discreet-marks-in-the-subway things those spies like to dream up and… well, anyway, I met with him.”

Icicles could hang off the look I was receiving. “I’m sure you had a damned good reason you didn’t include me in that decision.”

“I, well, I had a reason. I thought it was a good one.”

“Tell me that reason.”

“I thought the less that went along the better.”

“Well, fuck you,” she said, which was an appropriate sentiment.

Anyway, we’d reached the doors to our rooms, and I said, “Grab whatever you’re going to change into and come over. And be careful, these rooms could be bugged.”

She emerged seconds later carrying a clean dress, untorn stockings, and a pissed-off expression. I unlocked my door and she and I went in. I flipped on the TV and again there were the sights and sounds of a girl loudly doing the big nasty. If the room was bugged, whoever was listening on the other end had to be impressed, and was probably at that moment turning to his buddy: “Hey, Igor, check this. That American stud comes back from a gunfight and immediately nails his co-counsel. What an animalinski, huh? And just listen to her moan. Christ, no wonder those bastards won the cold war.”

I went to the shrunk and pulled out a fresh uniform, then hooked a finger for her to follow me into the bathroom, where I turned on the shower and got the water flowing in the sink-they do that in the movies, hopefully with good reason.