Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

Martin’s last best-seller concerned arms control, and in it the author exposed the deep fractures in America’s scientific community, as well as its arms control community, making the hawks sound like Stone Age, bellicose morons who played dirty against the humanitarian altruists who were trying to rein in the madness, and how Russia’s doves were marginalized by the policies of America’s hard-liners, preventing the world from achieving sanity.

He’d never married. His mother died in 1989, and his father in 1995, leaving him a pile of money. He’d taught at five or six universities and was an accepted member of ten or fifteen prestigious institutes and organizations, making him a bona fide member of the Establishment.

All of which begged the big question: Why would Milt Martin betray his country? He was rich. He was wildly successful. He was respected and accepted. I’d met him and he seemed like a decent enough guy, with none of the rough edges or overweening ambition you smell from some folks-like my own client, for instance. So why?

I called the concierge and had them order me a rental car to be charged to the room. Katrina and I picked up our bags and went downstairs to wait. It was five hours to New York City and we needed to be in midtown Manhattan by eight. If we drove fast, we’d just make it.

We needn’t have rushed. Martin’s black limo didn’t pull up to the front entrance of the Society for International Affairs building until 10:00 A.M. Martin, it seemed, worked banker’s hours.

He stepped out of the limo carrying a five-hundred-dollar leather briefcase, wearing his Burberry raincoat, that prominent nose of his the first thing to emerge. He turned around and stuck his face back into the car, told the driver what time to pick him up, then spun around to head confidently up the short stairs and into the building: Mr. Establishment arriving for another day at the money mill.

At that moment, the guy who’d been casually leaning against the building’s wall shoved off and began to walk past him. Martin looked vaguely at the guy but took no particular notice, and in any case wouldn’t have recognized me with my dyed blond hair and glasses, wearing jeans and a bulky parka.

The trick to kidnapping is speed. Shock value counts for everything: You have to dumbfound your victims, traumatize them, make them too senseless to react, too passive to resist.

At the instant we passed, the fingers of my right hand drove directly into his throat. He wasn’t expecting it, but it came too fast for him to put up a defense anyway. One second he was walking upright to the entrance, and the next his throat felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t breathe.

He lurched over and, like a Good Samaritan, I swiftly bent down and slipped an arm around his shoulder to help him. It was New York so a few pedestrians were passing by, barely paying attention. Katrina had been parked down the street in our rental; she came screeching up to the unloading zone in front of the building.

She wore a blond wig, and a fake mustache, and big black-rimmed glasses, and looked goofy as hell, but it was a great disguise. I’d also taken the precaution of stealing a license plate from a parked car, in case anyone saw us and was inclined to report the kidnapping to the police.

Martin was desperately trying to struggle away from me, and I was loudly saying, “There, there, buddy, you’re going to be okay. You probably just got a piece of gum stuck in there. Here, I’ll give you a ride to the hospital,” as I maneuvered him toward the car. Katrina leaned back and flung open the rear door. I shoved Martin inside, banging his head against the door frame, which sent his glasses spilling into the gutter and made him howl.

I piled in, and Katrina pulled out into the street. While Martin was fighting to force some air down his bruised windpipe, I pulled some rope from my pocket and tried to grab his hands. He tried shoving me away, slapping at my face like a little girl, so I popped him hard on the nose, an easy target because the damned thing was so huge.

His hands flew up to his schnozz and he was whimpering and trying to keep the flow of blood from spilling all over his Burberry, while I began using the rope to tie his hands together. He tried protesting, and I screamed, “Shut up or I’ll kill you!”

Once I got his hands tied, I pulled out the hunting knife I’d bought at Tysons Corner, held it to his throat, and threatened, “One wrong move and I’ll cut you, asshole.”

I yanked a ski mask over my head, while he stared at my face, trying to place me, trying to fight his fear, trying to figure out how he got into this nightmare.

He started to talk, and I told him to shut up or I’d slice open his throat. This also was part of the treatment. I wanted him so scared he’d pee in his pants. Katrina headed uptown for the George Washington Bridge, which would compound our crime by taking us across state lines. But hey, once you’ve just assaulted and kidnapped the most powerful former Assistant Secretary of State in history, why sweat the small stuff?

About every five minutes I reached over and slapped or punched Martin, sometimes in the face, sometimes in the stomach, not because I’m a cruel bastard but to keep him terrified. He needed to know I was pitiless. He needed to feel pain. The more helpless he felt, the quicker and easier we’d get this done.

I could see Katrina wince every time I hit him, and she no doubt was regretting she’d ever agreed to my plan. But her role during this stage was to be perfectly silent, to be the mysterious lump in the front seat. I just kept reminding myself of Mel Torianski’s exploding head and the three guys who tried to murder Katrina and me, and my qualms abated.

We took the Palisades Parkway exit and headed toward Bear Mountain State Park. The drive took about forty minutes, with me smacking Martin every few minutes, Katrina shaking her head, and Martin mewling like a lamb dancing with the big bad wolf.

We crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge and took a left, heading toward Garrison. After about two miles I told Katrina to pull over at the next dirt road leading into the woods, which she did. I reached across Martin, swung open the car door, and shoved him out into the mud. He flew out face first and yelped. I came out right behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of his fancy Burberry raincoat, and dragged him into the woods. Katrina followed.

She asked, “Where you are taking him?” using a fabricated Russian accent.

“Where nobody can see me cut his throat,” I yelled. The shock of that registered instantly on Martin’s face.

Then we were into the bushes. I dragged and shoved Martin through the thick underbrush and every time he tried to stop, I slapped him across the head, the loud whacks echoing through the forest. We moved like this for half a mile, him occasionally slipping and falling onto the ground, and me kicking him in the ass every time he did, because Martin was a guy who’d never been humiliated in his life, never been subjected to such indignities, a guy who’d led a perfectly spoiled existence-Groton, Yale, a comfortable writer’s life.

I finally grabbed his collar from behind and threw him stomach first onto the ground. He let out a loud “whoomph,” then looked up, his expression hurt and terrified. “W-what do you want? Money? I’ll pay you. I’ll never tell anybody, I swear.”

This is the standard plea of all kidnap victims, trying to regain some sense of power, some control over their destiny. It’s a natural response to try to negotiate, to find your tormentor’s motive, to assert any kind of grip you can get on the situation.

I kicked him in the chest so hard that he went somersaulting backward and onto his stomach. I reached down and lifted him by his collar and the back of his pants, then hurled him through the air. He came down on his stomach with a loud scream.