Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

She was right. And I knew that in most ways it was even a very good idea. But I had a misgiving I just couldn’t shake.

Something in my expression must’ve communicated this, because she said, “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried for him.”

She chuckled.

I groaned.

She left and I looked around at the walls. I have never been good at killing time, particularly when I am keyed up and trapped in a hotel room in a strange and miserable country I don’t want to be in. The third time I used the phone to call Imelda with nothing new to discuss or report, she informed me that she was ridiculously busy and if I bothered her again she would climb on the next plane and come kill me. The shop in the hotel lobby had two American books, a trashy novel by Jackie Collins and a thick biography of Ronald Reagan titled Dutch by Edmund Morris. I chose the trash. After one hundred pages of Hollywood murders and affairs, I went numb and fled. I went outside and walked around, trying to get someone to follow me, or ambush me, or whatever. Did I mention that I was bored?

At six o’clock, Katrina knocked on my door and I opened it. She stepped inside, and I… well, I froze. She looked breathtaking, ravishing, and most problematically, dripped with sex appeal. Her hair was still dyed blond, and she wore it up like a diva. She had apparently slipped out and bought a dress, because she wore this very lovely black number that stopped about seven inches short of her knees and a few micrometers from her nipples. If she sneezed or even laughed hard, Arbatov was in for an eyeful. She wore stockings and high heels, and makeup tastefully applied, and a very nice perfume, and as we say in the Army, she had cleaned up right nicely.

I like eye candy as much as the next guy, but her timing and judgment was awful. Inconspicuous was the code word for the evening and she was anything but. Katrina Mazorski was going to draw plenty of stares, and she was going to be remembered everywhere she went.

I very grumpily said, “You look like you got confused. This isn’t a real date.”

She smiled. “But it has to look like one. Don’t I look genuine?”

It struck me that she was getting into this gig a bit too well, and I decided a firm note of caution was in order.

“Katrina, let me remind you that Alexi Arbatov is the number two in Russia’s spy agency. This is the real world. He is not James Bond and you are not Moneypenny. When people get their throats slit in this studio, they don’t bounce back up when the director screams ‘Cut.’ In short, this is not a game, and what you are doing is very, very dangerous.”

She leaned against the door and patiently heard me out. In a light tone I found immensely irritating, she said, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you’re an amateur. Don’t forget that.” I gave her a fierce stare until she stopped grinning, then said, “Now, your instructions. Be back by midnight at the latest. If you’re not back by then, I’m going to call the embassy and tell them you’re missing. Got that?”

“Midnight at the latest.”

“Listen to everything he says carefully, but skeptically. I’m not saying he’s lying, but these people are weaned on treachery and duplicity, and we still don’t know what his game is. I expect to be briefed on everything the second you return.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t smart-ass me. I don’t approve of this.”

“You’re worried about me?”

“Damned right.”

“How sweet. Really, I’m touched.”

I shook my head. “This date was his idea, right?”

“Right.”

“Think about that.” I gave her a hard stare and added, “And be damn sure he picks up the tab. This is Russia and these cheap bastards will stiff you every time.”

She giggled and fled. I paced around my room awhile. I felt guilty that I’d gotten her into this, anxious about her safety, and angry that she seemed to consider this a lark. I went back to Jackie Collins. Another hundred pages of murder and sex later, I went downstairs to the bar. I watched a soccer game on the television, drank some genuine Russian vodka, watched a pair of slick whores move in on two flabby American businessmen, and returned to my room at eleven-thirty to await Katrina.

At one I gave serious thought to calling the embassy. But to say what? My co-counsel just happened to be going out on a date with the number two spy of this country, you know, the top foreign asset none of you are cleared to know about, and now she’s missing? By two, I was frantic, pacing the floor, kicking the bed, punching a wall, and regretting that I ever bought into this stupid, risky idea. Katrina had no idea what dirty games these people played. I had visions of her strapped to a chair in a dingy, dirty room with six big goons huddled over her, truncheons gripped in their meaty fists, blood and teeth flying in all directions.

At two-thirty there was a light knock on my door and it was her. I grabbed her by the arm and flung her into the room. She landed on the bed.

At first I said nothing. I shook with rage and tried to murder her with a perfectly malevolent glare.

She peered back with the kind of expression little girls get when they know Daddy is angry and about to take away the car keys.

I pounded a forefinger on the watch on my wrist. “Midnight! I said midnight! You heard me. I even made you repeat it.”

“Cool down. Take three deep breaths and cool down.”

My head jerked forward. “Don’t… just don’t. I trusted you.”

She stood up and went over to the minibar. She opened the door and pulled out a tiny bottle of scotch. She turned around and said, “On me. I’m sorry, okay? We lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” I stomped around the room a few times. She watched me with that insouciant expression she sometimes got, as I fought the impulse to strangle her, and frankly it could have gone either way.

She finally said, “I have the most amazing story to tell you.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Sit down, drink your scotch, and get in the mood. My knees are still shaking.”

Was she playing with me or what? I got a glass, poured in the scotch, and knocked it back in one swig. She went back to the minibar and got another. She said, “I think I see why somebody wanted Morrison taken down.”

I fell into the chair by the bathroom door, she brought me the bottle, and then she went and sat on the bed. She gave me another moment to compose myself, before she very calmly asked, “Are you ready?”

“I’m… yes, I’m ready.”

“Alexi said he already told you about this cabal that has been manipulating Russia’s foreign policy, starting wars, performing assassinations, and overthrowing governments at will. This is what he has been reporting to the Morrisons since 1991, when he first met Bill.”

I sipped from my scotch and considered this. Arbatov had obviously told me about this cabal, but he had mentioned nothing about it being active after ’91. Katrina suddenly had my undivided attention. “He says it’s still around?”

“Definitely.”

“Like active today?”

“Like for the whole past twelve years. He says it’s a hidden group of men with enormous power, money, and resources that has been operating like a hidden hand. His boss has had him searching for it the whole time.”

“This is Viktor Yurichenko?”

She nodded and said, “He compared it to the British East India Company, which used to make its own foreign policy and led Great Britain around by the nose. Or like our American Fruit Company, which used to run the banana republics and manipulate our policies in Latin America. Only this group is completely hidden. He and Viktor have hunted it for years and never discovered who’s behind it.”