Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

“You know the old Army saying about the three Bs?”

“No.”

“ ‘Booze, bucks, and broads will get you every time.’ Usually because they lead to the fourth B-blackmail.”

Put two and two together and we had a king-size problem. Those transcripted telephone taps Imelda was slogging through no doubt proved that Bill Morrison had a dick instead of a brain. Nothing else explained how the investigators learned Morrison was a flagrant philanderer. Or why Eddie included the comparatively minor imputation of wife cheating among the litany of other charges.

Motive, motive, motive. Damned hard to prove with traitors, and Eddie now had two golden-oldie classics-the proverbial favorites lust and greed. My client had screwed his way through an opponent’s capital, and there was that fat wad of inheritance passed down from his father, and through his mother, a manner of money laundering that was both cunning and tax free.

I hate to sound like a whiny complainer, but it had been an all-around crappy day: an ambush, a dead American officer, an operation performed by a doctor named Josef Mengele, and now this. I thought it couldn’t get worse until I recognized the guy loitering beside the elevator-the same detective who had unlocked my cuffs back in the police station. And beside him stood a slick-haired putz in a well-cut Western suit, looking smugly self-important.

They marched up to Katrina and me; the putz impudently shoved a business card in my face and announced, “I am Boris Ashinakov of the Foreign Ministry. I must have a word with you. In private.”

We stepped away from the elevator and he led us to a quiet corner of the lobby. He began, “On behalf of my ministry I extend our deepest apologies for the shooting incident this morning. Moscow is a very peaceful city and we find it very distressing. And of course embarrassing.”

Moscow was anything but peaceful, his politeness was phony, and I wondered what this was about. I smiled back, however, and very nicely replied, “Thank you. It’s very kind of you to stop by. And, well, we’d love to stay and chat but we have to get upstairs to pack. A late flight… I’m sure you understand.”

“Actually, Major, there’s no hurry.”

“And why would that be?”

He scratched an eyebrow, pointed at his partner, and said, “Detective Turpekov and his colleagues are continuing their investigation into this terrible incident. There are procedures that must be followed before this case can be closed. You two are the only living witnesses.”

“Fine. I’ll give you the number back in the States where we can be reached.”

He shook his oily head. “I think not. We must request you to remain here.”

“No.”

He was grinning, and really enjoying himself, and it struck me I was becoming tired of power-hungry little bullycrats. He said, “I insist. Our customs officials have already been instructed not to let you out of the country. As long as nothing unexpected turns up, it shouldn’t take longer than forty-eight hours.”

“I don’t have forty-eight hours.”

“You do now.” He smiled and stuck a pudgy finger on my chest. “Moscow is a lovely city filled with wonderful places to visit. What is it you say in America? Stop and smell the roses.”

Moscow was anything but a lovely city, and the only odors I’d smelled so far were cordite and the stench of homeless people needing showers. I said, “I intend to lodge a protest with the embassy.”

“Please do.” He picked a piece of lint off his jacket sleeve and added, “But I perhaps forgot to mention that this matter was already discussed with your embassy’s political officer. He understood perfectly.”

He awarded me another unctuous smile, tipped his chin at Katrina, and said, “Enjoy your stay,” before he and the detective walked away.

As I cursed, Katrina said, “We don’t need this, Sean. We really can’t afford it.”

“That might not be the worst of our problems.” I turned and looked her in the eye. “Have you considered that somebody might be trying to keep us in Moscow to kill us?”

“You think?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

And truthfully, I didn’t. Police departments spell bureaucracy better than most institutions, and allowing material witnesses to flee beyond Russia’s jurisdiction before the case is closed would be stupider than dirt. So there was that. Then there was this: That very morning, somebody tried to kill us and suddenly we were being ordered to stay within the spider’s web.

The fretful look on her face indicated the full import had just struck home. She said, “To get the Foreign Ministry to do their dirty work, it would have to be somebody very powerful, wouldn’t it?” I nodded, and she added, “Such as your new friend Arbatov?”

“He’s not my friend,” I clarified. “But I don’t see it.”

“You don’t?”

“If the man wanted to kill us, why the visit to my room? Why that story about this secret plot? It doesn’t fit, does it?”

“Then you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone in his line of work. I just don’t think he’s trying to kill us.”

“Then who?”

“Look, I don’t even know if somebody is trying to kill us. Maybe the ambush really was about Mel.”

She somewhat skeptically replied, “Maybe.”

“But you see my point? If it wasn’t Arbatov, who else had a reason to kill us?”

“With your penchant for making friends, the line of suspects is staggering.”

I chuckled to let her know I thought that was very funny. She remained poker-faced, but surely she was laughing inside.

Then I thought of big, bad Eddie, and my chuckling stopped. Apropos of that, Katrina and I began batting around ideas for something productive to do. There actually was something I had wanted to do before somebody used us for target practice and getting the hell out of Russia loomed as the only sane course of action. Of course circumstances had changed once again and so perhaps…

But my new plan required Katrina’s enthusiastic involvement. The problem was I hadn’t done much to inspire her confidence, and as already noted, the ambush that morning had given her cause to doubt my credibility and competence, which meant I had to soft-shoe my way into this.

So I kept our game of verbal badminton going until Katrina finally suggested, “Why don’t you meet with Arbatov again? If Morrison was reporting on this organization he told you about, maybe there’s something there.”

I replied, quite innocently, “Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, let me see. The idea is that somebody framed Morrison, right?”

“So he claims. But why?”

“That’s why I wanted to speak with Arbatov in the first place. He was my number one suspect.”

“How intriguing. Why would he do that?”

“Well, I don’t think that anymore.”

“Then why did you suspect that in the first place?”

“Because when it comes to spies, what you see is never what’s there. Cloaks and daggers… their whole world is about lies, betrayals, and backstabbing.”

“Okay.”

“Everything is counterintuitive. You’ve got to pull back the curtains. Truth is never really the whole truth. It could be the opposite or anywhere on the spectrum in between.”

“Sean… this is so educational… really. Could you please tell me why you suspected Arbatov?”

“I’m just warning that-”

“I’ve got it. I’m a street lawyer. All my clients lied.”

“Okay, Bill Morrison said he was Arbatov’s controller, right?” She nodded and I continued, “Say it was really the other way around. Say all those years when they were meeting, it was a subterfuge so that Morrison could turn over things to Arbatov, who was actually his controller.”