Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

“And did you drink?”

“We split a bottle of wine.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, why?”

“Big bottle? Small bottle?”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, I’ll stop it. Did Alexi offer any proof?”

“Of course not. If he had proof, he and Viktor would’ve exposed and ended this cabal years ago.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. And damn it, stop condescending to me.”

“I’m not. I’m treating you like a fellow attorney. You, yourself, described this as a fantastic tale. I need evidence, proof, something.”

“I’ll try to get it tomorrow night.”

“What do you mean?”

“We made another date for tomorrow night. Alexi’s taking me to a ballet, then out for drinks.”

I jumped out of my chair and walked across the room toward her. A new and very disturbing thought had suddenly popped into my head. “You made another date? Without consulting me?”

“Relax. Everything went fine tonight.”

“Really? Where were you all night? Don’t tell me you were in the restaurant till this hour?”

“Cool it. I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“You don’t…” I drew a heavy breath. “Answer me… please.”

“We left the restaurant around nine. I went to Alexi’s apartment, where we continued our talk.”

I shook my head. “And?”

“And what?”

“And did you… you know?”

She stood up. She pointed a finger in my face. “Don’t go there.”

“He’s a witness for Godsakes.”

“He’s not a witness. You’ll never get him into a court.”

“Regardless… did you… you know?”

“Unbelievable.” She put down her wine and shook her head. “You can be so pathetic.”

Me? Pathetic? My definition of pathetic is sleeping with a foreign agent and losing your perspective when you’re supposed to be collecting evidence that can keep your client from getting thirty thousand volts jammed up his ass. But that’s just me. Silly me.

I put my hands on her arms. “Katrina, listen. I know this is intoxicating. A foreign capital, espionage, handsome rogues with mysterious tales to tell, and all that crap. Don’t be fooled.”

She backed away. “You hypocrite. You used to sleep with our client’s wife, and now you’re wondering if I’ve stepped over the line?”

“Don’t confuse the issues.”

“No, I’ll leave it to you to do that.” We traded nasty stares until she said, “And no, I didn’t sleep with Alexi.”

Oops. She lifted her purse off the bed and left me, alone, stammering something incomprehensible. I gave her a minute to get back inside her room, remove her earrings, get settled, and so forth. I knocked gently on the door that connected our rooms, and said, “I’m sorry.”

After the fifth time I said it, I realized it was a lost cause and went to bed.

Brian Haig

The Kingmaker

Later that day was worse. Katrina was coldly and efficiently avoiding me. I knocked on her door a dozen times and called on the phone two dozen times. No answer. She was there, though. She was walking on her tiptoes, but I could hear her breathing and the toilet flushing.

I called Imelda, briefly explained what happened, and sought her advice. She was a woman and should be able to offer a solution to this mess. She said I should kill myself in some extravagantly excruciating manner and leave a note explaining I was sorry. She said it wouldn’t buy forgiveness but would show that my heart was in the right place. She further informed me that the calls from Eddie’s office were now incessant, and he was threatening to withdraw the offer of a meeting if I didn’t get back to D.C. immediately.

I called the embassy and spoke with the same lousy political officer who had given the green light for our extended stay. I told him to send Golden a message confirming our situation or I would call a judge back in D.C. and have the officer cited for impeding our case.

I finished the Jackie Collins novel. The heroine ended up with the sensitive, handsome guy who was hung like a horse and made love like a tireless animal-big surprise.

At five o’clock I yelled through the connecting door, “Katrina, I know you’re in there. And I know you’re leaving any moment. We need to talk before you go. This is business, Katrina. Be professional about this.”

No answer. Not a peep of acknowledgment.

Ten minutes passed before there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and she stared up at me, deadpan expression, hair still blond and swept up, a new dress, this one passionately red in color, and although slightly less revealing, still sexy enough to have men tugging at their crotches. I, however, had learned to keep my prudish observations to myself.

I smiled very charmingly and said, “Hello.”

“I have to leave. What do you want?”

Goodness. “You look… well, great.”

“Thank you.”

Didn’t sound like thank you. Sounded like screw you. I said, “Can you step in a moment… please?”

She did, as I said, “Look, I got out of line last night. I’m sorry.”

“What else?”

“About tonight…”

“What about it?”

“I’ve thought about everything you told me. Look, I’m not saying it’s not true.”

She appeared mildly surprised. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m a typical American, and what the hell do I know about this region? Maybe it’s just like Arbatov says.”

“Are you humoring me?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Then you agree with me?”

“Not yet. Tonight, you need to press Arbatov for substantiation. Katrina, it’s a wild story, and you and I are inclined to want to believe it. Golden won’t be. And a jury won’t be. We need to get something hard out of him.”

She regarded me a moment, still rather coldly. “Have you even considered Alexi’s position in this?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been working with our government for over a decade. He has done this as a matter of conscience. Now he could be in serious trouble.”

“And as the defense attorney for a man accused of treason, I’m in serious trouble. What’s your point?”

“Now he’s working with us to save Bill. He’s risking these meetings with me and disclosing everything he knows, out of loyalty to Morrison.”

“And please be sure to tell him I appreciate that.”

“What I’m telling you is that he is a remarkable man.”

“Yes he is. I agree.”

“Courageous, principled, and noble.”

“All the above.”

She studied my face to see if I was serious. I was, and she said, “No curfews.”

“Uh… okay.”

“No second-guessing what I do.”

“No guessing at all. Honest.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Breakfast it is.”

“You’re buying. And fresh flowers on the table would be nice.”

“Roses. A dozen of them.”

“You can’t get roses in Moscow in November.”

“Right… ragweed or whatever.”

She walked out, leaving me with the uncomfortable sensation that I had somehow agreed to something below the surface of our conversation. It struck me that she might be infatuated with Alexi Arbatov. It further struck me that the problem with a civilian contract employee is that you have very little leverage over them. Were she a soldier, I would have reminded her of her duty and my rank, and that would be that.

At 5:00 A.M., after a night of tossing and turning, I heard her door open and shut, her shower running, and, a few minutes afterward, the sounds of her settling heavily into bed.

Katrina looked like hell at breakfast: limp-haired, rosy-cheeked, eyes bloodshot. I bit my tongue. A deal’s a deal, no matter how hard it is to stomach.