Brian Haig - The Kingmaker

We drove into a big city I suspected was Moscow. Spring had made more of a dent here. At least there was no snow on the ground. I hadn’t seen bare earth since I left.

We pulled to a stop in front of a big building that looked like it had once been a former palace of some sort. I climbed out of the sedan, but not until the guard ordered me to, because, like I said earlier, I’d been thoroughly housebroken. We entered the building and went up two flights of stairs. The guard walked ahead of me and opened a pair of double doors, then indicated with an arm wave that I was to enter.

The heat from the building gave me that uncomfortable burning sensation again. Four people were gathered around a long table. On one side sat Harold Johnson, my old friend from the CIA, and General Clapper, my old boss. On the other sat Viktor Yurichenko and an older man I didn’t recognize.

Johnson and Clapper looked up when I entered. Clapper’s eyes popped open, because I’d changed somewhat since the last time we saw each other. I was skinnier, for one thing. Much skinnier. I’d guess I’d lost at least thirty pounds, and I wasn’t heavy to begin with. I looked like a dazed bird that had forgotten to head south for the winter and paid dearly for it. For a second thing, like all Camp 18 prisoners, my head was shaved to the skin. For a third thing, being continuously outdoors in subzero temperatures isn’t recommended by dermatologists. I had cold sores on my lips and my skin had cracked open in places, and the vitamin deficiency hindered the healing process. Finally, the steady beatings meant I was always sporting a black eye, or swollen lips, or a fresh bruise here and there.

“Jesus, Sean!” Clapper yelled. “What the hell have these bastards done to you?”

Johnson peered across the table at Yurichenko. “Viktor, this is unacceptable.”

Yurichenko finally turned and looked at me also. “Russian prisons are harsh places, Harold. I don’t make them this way.”

Johnson nodded back, then he turned and looked at me again. “Sean, your boss and I are here to try to negotiate your release. This is a very delicate matter. You’re being charged with three counts of murder and espionage. Those are serious crimes.”

I stood perfectly still. The espionage charge was obviously the most problematic. I had helped get Alexi out of Russia-guilty as charged. The three counts of murder baffled me until I realized this had to do with me killing the three hit men who tried to take me out. Very clever.

“That’s right, Sean,” Clapper quickly added. “The other gentleman here is the equivalent of a Russian superior court judge. He can take your case to the president to arrange a pardon, or he can decide there’s not enough evidence to have a trial.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting? I’d been in prison over five months, and now they were considering a trial. I stood mute, sensing I really had no role in this proceeding, that a great deal of discussion had already occurred, and I sure as hell didn’t want to harm the chances of success. I wouldn’t be standing here if they didn’t have something cooked up.

Yurichenko was giving me his grandfatherly smile, the one intended to warm the cockles of your heart. I felt a chill. I dreamed of getting my hands around his neck and choking the bastard to death.

Johnson ignored me and turned back to face Viktor, evidently continuing the conversation I interrupted when I came in. “The point is, Viktor, our President would consider it a very big favor if you would drop this. He asked me to emphasize how very beneficial this would be for both sides.”

Yurichenko was shaking his head, but mildly, like he wasn’t quite sure how that logic worked. “But, Harold, you have nothing to trade. Please forgive me for being selfish, but I must see some quid pro quo. We are both pros in this game. We both know how it works. I cannot give you something for nothing.”

“And do you have something in mind?”

“A simple trade-in-kind would be ample. I want Alexi back. Return him, and you can have Drummond.”

Johnson suddenly stared down at the tabletop, as though what he was about to say was very difficult. “We can’t do that. It’s not even negotiable. Besides, there’s a bit of a problem here.”

“And what would that be?”

“Before he came over here, Drummond made some tapes. They’re embarrassing for both of us, but they’re much more embarrassing and problematic for you. If those tapes get out, our relations would be grievously wounded. All these areas where we’re cooperating-the missile reduction pact, NATO participation for Russia-it would all go up in smoke.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, obviously surprised. “Tapes? What is on these tapes?”

“The whole thing,” Johnson grimly admitted, appearing greatly pained.

Yurichenko looked over at me. His eyes roved from my shoes to the bald tip of my skull. I was a most unlikely-looking suspect to have found a way to outsmart him. He seemed to be thinking furiously about how to handle this.

He asked Johnson, “And you really think these tapes would be a problem?”

Which actually was a clever way of saying, “Hey, I’m not really buying this. And you better not be bluffing or Drummond over there will think he just spent five months vacationing on the Riviera compared to what I’ll do to him.”

“Oh for Godsakes, Viktor. They detail attempted murders by you inside our country, as well as the murder of an American officer in Moscow. On one of them, Martin admits to everything. He names you as his controller. He admits it was your idea to frame Morrison. Do you know what would happen if all that got out? If the American people learned that for eight years you were actually running our foreign policy toward your country, they’d go wild. The President asked me to tell you he’d be left with no choice. He’d have to cut off everything. He’s not exaggerating, Viktor. You have no idea what those conservative pricks on the Hill are like. We’re talking endless investigations here. This was your doing, not ours. It was your operation. You owe us something for keeping it quiet. That’s the quid pro quo.”

Viktor looked like somebody just threw a glass of ice water down the back of his shirt. It took him a moment to recover. “But there is still a problem, Harold. Even if we released Drummond, we have no guarantees it won’t come out. Look at him. Imagine the anger in his head. The moment he stepped off the plane, he would tell everything.”

Almost on command, Johnson and Clapper pivoted their necks and faced me. Clapper said, “That’s why we insisted on having Drummond here for this meeting. He’ll have to swear to give back those tapes and that he’ll never utter a word about any of this.” His eyebrows came down about two notches. “I’m sure you’ll be willing to do that. Right, Sean?”

Now, here’s the truth about what was running through my head at that very instant. The whole five months I spent in Siberia, I’d known this moment was coming. It was the only thing that kept me sane, that let me withstand the constant beatings, and the incredible loneliness, and the bitter cold. Those tapes were my only source of hope.

They were a ticking time bomb. They’d do incalculable damage to American-Russian relations. The American people don’t like being played for suckers. They get real grumpy about that. And frankly, given what I now knew about Yurichenko’s plot, that might even be the best thing that could happen. But was it worth the rest of my life?

I leaned my back against the wall. I was suddenly pensive.

Knowing me as he did, Clapper said, “Don’t even think about it, Sean. There’s no real choice for you. If you say no, those tapes will still never see the light of day. Trust me on this.”