Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

She hesitated, and in a very lawyerly tone said, “Explain that.”

“The evidence suggests Morrison’s been framed. By whom is debatable, but whoever did it wants to keep it that way. You and I have somewhere, somehow, touched something that puts us at risk.”

“Okay,” she admitted, very practically.

“What is it we touched?”

“You’re the one with the theories. Tell me.”

“Try this,” I said, and she bent forward, her eyes searching my face. “What’s this whole thing about? What was Mary working on all those years? What did Morrison’s arrest solve?”

“The mole hunt.”

“Right. The CIA and FBI knew somebody was giving the Russians things… important things… sensitive things. They caught lots of small fish, and even some big fish-Ames and Hanssen-but that didn’t tie all the knots. The molehunters were still stubbornly plugging away, still following clues, still tracking their prey. Eventually, they’d catch him-or her. It was just a matter of time and circumstance. So the Russians fed them Morrison. They framed him with enough things and in such a way that almost any open questions would be answered.”

“So the mole is still operating?”

“And somehow, we’ve touched something that puts him or her at risk.”

The girl behind the counter called out my number, so I went up and got our pizza. We sat and munched for a while. What I’d said made sense. It wasn’t necessarily correct, but it made sense. There were other explanations, but if I was right about Morrison being innocent then you had to seriously consider this possibility.

And if you agreed with that, you’d agreed with this, too: Whoever did the job on Morrison had gone to a lot of time and trouble. They had had somebody tip off the CIA in the first place. They had planted documents covered with his fingerprints in that vault in Moscow, then released them to the CIA.

All of which added up to this: Whoever did this was an intelligence professional with extraordinary resources, somebody in the CIA or the SVR who knows espionage intimately. Possibly, maybe even definitely, somebody with tentacles in both intelligence services.

Katrina finally said, “The FBI won’t believe a word of it. They’ll think we’re a couple of sleazy attorneys trying to get our client off.”

“Yes, they probably will,” I agreed, digging into a particularly greasy slice of pepperoni with sausage, struggling to ignore its resemblance to the gruesome stuff that had splattered out of the killer’s eye an hour before.

She asked, “Any ideas how to handle that?”

Instead of answering that, I said, “How much do you know about lie detectors?”

“What I learned in law school. They’re considered fairly valid. Some study was done that gave them something like a ninety-eight percent accuracy rate.”

“Do you remember what accounts for the other two percent or so?”

“Remind me.”

“Lie detectors work by sensing changes in your body temperature and normal body rhythms. There are chemicals that fool the machine. Supposedly, you can even train yourself to defeat them, like Buddhist meditation techniques, where you disenfranchise your mind from your body.”

“Your point being?”

I swallowed hard once or twice. “Let’s talk about Mary.” My face turned dark as I added, “I went over and had a chat with her last night. It wasn’t pretty.”

“How ugly was it?”

“She admitted she helped take down her husband. They approached her months ago. I don’t know how big her involvement was, but it had to be substantial because they were reporting back to her on what they were finding.” I squirmed around uncomfortably, then added, “She, uh, well, she also admitted she’s one of Eddie’s witnesses.”

Katrina was toying with a slice of pizza and generously avoiding my eyes. “Do you think there was more to it?”

“I don’t know. She said the Agency had a source that tipped off his treason. I don’t know if she was telling the truth or not, and I’m having a little problem trusting her right now.”

Left unsaid was a great deal, but Katrina was a smart girl and could fill in the blanks. For instance, why did Mary beg me to take this case in the first place? Perhaps because she knew she had an emotional grip on me. Perhaps because I was the kind of sucker every schemer dreams of, the lovelorn loser who was so easily manipulated that he refused to see the forest for the trees.

Katrina was wisely not saying anything, so I finally broke the ice. “So, let’s consider Mary.”

“All right, let’s. One, nobody was in a better position to frame her husband. Yes, she was telling him everything she was doing, but he was telling her everything he was doing, too. Two, she could pass in and out of his office every day, steal documents, take whatever she wanted, and never have to worry about a security check. Three, Morrison’s deputy attache said she was involved in everything in the office. She had all kinds of weapons to use against him.”

“When I confronted Mary last night, as I mentioned, she admitted the phone tappers and the trackers were reporting everything back to her. She had her finger on every pulse. She knew exactly what buttons to push, exactly how to make it work.”

Katrina broke eye contact with me and began staring at the tabletop, like she was suddenly distracted.

I said, “What?”

“You met with her last night, right?”

“Right.”

“And she knew we were in Moscow, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

Katrina didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to say anything. She’d given me the hints and knew better than to draw the painful conclusions for me. They were, after all, inescapable, unavoidable, and emotionally crushing. Mary had arranged the hits against us. She certainly had the reach and resources. As the former station chief in Moscow she no doubt knew enough hoodlums she could hire to take us out. And as a resident of the D.C. area all her life, she wouldn’t have any trouble locating some street scum to kill us. Money sure as hell wasn’t a problem.

But why? What had I done that would cause her to want me dead? Was she worried I might expose Alexi? Or perhaps she sensed that Katrina and I were closing in on her? Or both?

Katrina was studying a paper napkin. “Well, what do you want to do next?”

“We’re in way over our heads. We have to tell the FBI.”

She nodded, and I added, “I know a guy. He used to be a JAG officer, got out, tried a big firm, never got picked up for partner, so he signed up with the Feds. Jimmy Belafonte… I haven’t seen him in seven years, but last I heard he’s working in the headquarters here. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’ll do.”

I went to the pay phone and asked the operator for the number to FBI headquarters, then asked the Bureau’s operator to put me through to Belafonte. A secretary answered, “Money-laundering Division.”

“Sean Drummond for Jimmy Belafonte, please.”

I was immediately switched. “Special Agent Belafonte,” a voice answered.

“Jimmy, Sean Drummond. I don’t know if you remember me?”

“Sure. JAG School, right? And according to the news, you’re doing the Morrison case.”

“Same Drummond. I need to meet you-privately.”

“Catch up on old times, huh? Love to, buddy, only I’m busy the rest of this week. How about next Thursday?”

“How about in forty-five minutes somewhere outside your building? I killed three guys this morning and I need to talk about it.”

“Some reason we can’t meet here?” he asked, sounding suddenly alarmed.

“Yeah, I don’t want to get shot by a sniper walking in the front door of your building. I know that sounds paranoid, but believe me, I’ve got good reasons. I’m calling because I trust you, Jimmy.”