The Kingmaker (23 page)

“
Unapparent
coordination?”

“Yes . . . was made to
appear
uncoordinated.” Realizing he was a little over my head, he explained, “Imagine you are cancer researcher and twenty children from one small village get cancer. You search for similarities in children’s habits, what foods they eat, what liquids they drink . . . nothing can be found. Still, you are knowing something must be there, some force connecting these diseases.”

“Okay.”

“Then there is Yeltsin.”

“Right, then there was Yeltsin. What about him?”

“You never became curious how this secretary of one city
was able to overturn entire political establishment of our Soviet nation? In your country, this would be like your New York City mayor seizing your government, tearing up your Constitution, burning your Bill of Rights, and inventing new government. Except under Soviet system secretaries were even less powerful, less important than your American mayors. How was this possible?”

“Because your people wanted freedom?” I suggested. “Because they were poor and wretched and wanted better lives? Because Communism sucked?”

He shook his head at my sophisticated insight and said, “You do not know Russians. We have famous reputation for suffering. What is your word? ‘Stoic,’ yes? Read our literature . . . is about suffering. Study our history. Consider Russia’s most fabled leaders: Ivan the Terrible, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Lenin, Stalin. In what way all these people are alike? All are mass murderers. Does America have such homicidal icons? Your George Washington, your Abraham Lincoln, your FDR, they were famous killers?”

I guessed he had a good point. “Okay, then how did Yeltsin do it?”

“I never learned, but was connected as well. How else can Yeltsin outmaneuver everybody?”

Until this point, he’d nearly had me convinced, nodding along nicely, following his logic, and so on. I fixed him with a stony look and said, “Look, we have a problem here. According to our intelligence, your boss, Yurichenko, approached Yeltsin near the beginning and struck a deal. Our people say Yurichenko helped him rise.”

“Yes, was true. When Viktor sees him breaking through, we know something is badly wrong, so Viktor cultivates this relationship with Yeltsin. He insinuates himself inside. We know Yeltsin has powerful allies, but who? Viktor was not able to discover this answer.”

“And what? When Yeltsin finally came to power, he rewarded your boss by making him head of the SVR?”

“Was big irony, yes? Viktor was very trusted by Yeltsin . . . this was his reward for Viktor’s help.”

“And you were giving all this to Morrison?”

“Pieces, only. I was not knowing in the beginning what I was looking for.”

“And why’d you go to Bill?”

“This was last resort for me. When I could not find what was happening, I wanted to discuss American interpretations of these developments. Sometimes, those looking into a house see better than those inside, yes?”

I had to take a moment to ponder all this. I had my pants on by then and that helped.

I asked, “Did Yurichenko know you were meeting with Morrison?”

He looked conflicted, as if this was something he was ashamed to admit. “No. Uh, Viktor would never permit this. We are very close, but Viktor is product of our old system and would consider it a most serious betrayal.”

“Do you know who in the CIA got access to your reports, knew of your existence?”

“Bill and Mary, of course. And only deputy directors of intelligence and operations were . . . uh, in the loop? This is correct?”

“I think that’s correct, although Morrison told me a CIA psychiatrist was involved as well. He said it was a standard practice to keep you from going nuts on them.”

“Then you see where I am having big problem?”

I nodded, but as I mentioned before, spies are con men, and maybe the SVR had a bunch of Hollywood types who worked in the basement and cooked up these things. Actually, that was too wild-assed for even me to believe.

He glanced at his watch. “I must now go back to office. I am telling everybody I am at lunch. I have appointments.”

He reached out to shake my hand. I took it, and he promptly sensed my reservations about him, because he gave me a shy, reticent smile, a gesture that conveyed that this was painfully difficult for both of us.

I recalled the description in Arbatov’s dossier, “magnetically charming,” and concluded that the CIA pegged him well. I was annoyed to find that I liked him, trusted him, and even wanted to believe what he told me.

But enough to stake my life on him? Well, no. Nor did I see where his revelation fit in the picture. It explained why he approached Morrison in the first place, but where was the connection to Morrison’s arrest, or to ten years of treachery?

More important, was there a connection to the ambush that morning? Regardless, the wise thing to do at that point was call the airline and book tickets. I made reservations for midnight so we could sneak out in the dead of night.

W
ithin moments after Alexi left, Katrina knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to accompany her to the embassy. I recommended that we first stroll around the block so I could tell her what Arbatov and I had discussed. The new and improved Sean Drummond would hold nothing back from the freshly restyled Miss Mazorski. Never mess with a woman who’d stick a man’s dick in a garbage disposal, that’s my motto. I did her a favor, though, and gave her the abbreviated version.

Odd as this may sound, she didn’t seem all that interested. I had the impression she was going through the motions of politely hearing me out, while she was preoccupied with something else. Multitasking is a very useful and admirable skill, but it pisses me off when it’s happening to me.

I said, “Am I detecting a listening problem here? And by the way, why are we going to the embassy?”

“There’s someone we need to talk to . . . Morrison’s secretary.” She paused for a moment, then added, “When you were in
the bathroom the other day, Mel mentioned to me that we might want to have a word with her.”

“About what?”

She began walking back toward the hotel. “He said she might have a few interesting insights.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, and it’s obviously too late to ask him.”

“Right.”

She walked a few more paces, then asked, “Do you notice how I’m sharing this with you?”

“Yes, and it’s very commendable.”

“And you just had another meeting with Arbatov and didn’t include me?”

“Recall that I didn’t plan the meeting. He snuck into my room and woke me up.”

“The circumstances don’t concern me.”

“No, I don’t expect they do.”

“You’ve put my life at risk.”

“Yes, I know. I also said I’m sorry.”

She rubbed her temples and was on the verge of saying something nasty, but settled for, “Don’t exclude me again.”

“Right.” We arrived at the embassy twenty minutes later and went upstairs to the fourth floor, where the attaché’s office is located. We walked into the reception area, and wouldn’t you know?

Parked at a desk directly in front of the office door that read
MILITARY ATTACHÉ
sat one of the most perversely fetching women I ever laid eyes on. She had a face you wouldn’t necessarily call attractive. Sinful, decadent, cruel—these were the words that popped into my mind. She was what we men call an “oh God girl,” meaning the type who’d be digging your flesh out of her fingernails after the two of you did the big nasty. “Oh God” is what you say the second time she asks you out.

She had jet black hair that hung past her waist, dark, sultry eyes surrounded by purple makeup, and a downward pout on
her cherry red lips that let you know she demanded to be spoiled. Upon close inspection, it struck me that she looked remarkably like the woman who’d been performing the virtuoso with the triumvirate on my TV, although I’d gotten only the most fleeting glimpse of that woman. Really.

Katrina awarded me a knowing look. No wonder Mel sicced us on Miss Nasty. Never underestimate a man who has a death wish on his former boss.

Katrina marched right up to the desk and announced, “I’m Katrina Mazorski, and this is Major Drummond. We’re Morrison’s attorneys.”

The woman studied us through a pair of wicked irises that seemed to bore right through your clothes and replied, “And how can I help you?”

“You were his secretary?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re interviewing people who worked with him. We’d like to start with you.”

She gave us a curiously indifferent look, like, What the hell, I’m bored, so why not?

I said, “Do you have a conference room . . . somewhere we could speak in private?”

For an answer she stood up and walked toward a door as if we should know we were expected to follow. I never took my eyes off her, since you never know where you might pick up your next vital clue; maybe hidden somewhere in her miniskirt, her dark net stockings, her high heels, or inside that top that seemed to be pasted to her skin.

For her part, Katrina was rolling her eyes as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Truly, it took a stone-cold idiot to park this girl directly outside his office. Why hadn’t the stupid bastard stuck with a chubby little grandmother, like any responsible philanderer would do?

We ended up inside a small, cramped office that appeared lived-in. A plaque on the wall from some Army training course
drew my eye, and it was made out to Captain Melvin Torianski. Miss Nasty said, “He won’t care if we use it.”

It’s always touching to see grief-stricken coworkers mourn the loss of a friend. Katrina slid over another chair, and the two of them eyed each other like a pair of hungry lionesses. I sat behind the desk, pulled out the tape recorder, and retrieved a yellow notepad from my briefcase, to sort of dramatize the atmosphere.

I began, “For the record, what’s your name?”

“Tina Allison.”

We established that she was a U.S. citizen, a GS-9 employee of the State Department, twice divorced, no children, and lived in embassy housing. I then asked, “And how long have you known General Morrison?”

“Eighteen months.”

“How did you end up working for him?”

“The attaché’s office was looking for a new secretary, they sent a request back to Washington, I was interviewed, and I was hired.”

Katrina swiftly asked, “Who interviewed you?”

“Morrison. He was on a trip back to D.C. and the interview was arranged.”

Well, no surprise there. I said, “How well did you know him?”

“Well enough.”

“Would you describe your relationship as professional, as friendly, as . . . ?” Katrina asked, allowing that thought to drift off so Tina could fill in the blank however she wanted.

Her lips curled up the tiniest bit. “He was my boss. We saw each other every day.”

Katrina said, “Did you know his wife?”

“I saw her around.”

“Were you friends?”

“I’m a secretary. We were in different social circles.”

I asked, “Did you ever see General Morrison do anything you considered suspect?”

“No.”

And Katrina jumped in with, “Did you socialize with him?”

“Define ‘socialize,’ ” she replied, again with that taunting tilt to her lips. A Mensa invitation definitely wasn’t lurking in her future, but she was obviously picking up on the thread here.

Katrina asked, “Did you go over to his quarters for dinner, go out for a movie together, any contact outside the office?”

“No. Never.”

Then, very calmly, “Were you screwing him?”

I thought she’d howl, but instead she leaned back into her chair and with surprising calmness replied, “No.”

“You’re sure?”

This apparently struck her as hilarious. “There’s some way you can
not
be sure on something like that? Oh, don’t get me wrong—I could’ve had him anytime I wanted.”

“Really?” Katrina replied. “Why didn’t you?”

“Not my type.”

“Why wasn’t he your type?”

“He’s a horny, married jerk. I prefer my jerks horny and unmarried.”

For clarity’s sake, I asked, “But you never had an affair with him?”

She looked at me. “Nope.”

I was just beginning to feel relieved when Katrina asked, “Did anyone else?”

She suddenly looked hesitant, so Katrina bent toward her and said, “There’s a harder way to do this. We’ll ask a judge to issue a subpoena and ask you this same question in an interrogation room back in the States.”

Her indecision seemed to evaporate. “He had some girlfriends, yeah.”

“Some? As in more than one?”

“He belonged to a Russian escort service that provided him with girls. He went out with a few Russian girls on the side, too.”

A heavy silence hung for a few moments as Katrina and I exchanged glances, tried to maintain our composure, and generally sought not to appear as shitty and dismayed as we felt. The issue was motive for treason, and this sounded like
it
. A senior intelligence officer screwing his way through Moscow, of all places, was an invitation to blackmail.

Katrina asked her, “Did his wife know about them?”

“No.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because I never told her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“She was a nice lady. I figured, what she didn’t know, didn’t hurt her.”

Katrina said, “How did you find out?”

“I get the phone bills for the office, and Russian phone companies charge for local calls. When I don’t recognize a number, I track them down. That’s how I learned about Siberian Nights Escorts, and the girls he’d call. But I never told anyone. At least not until the investigators brought it up.”

The important point here being that Russia’s intelligence agencies also had access to those phone records. And the shocking point being that Eddie apparently knew also.

To be clear on that last point, I asked, “They already knew?”

“Oh, they knew.”

“How?”

“How would I know? Ask them.”

On that note, Katrina shot me another of those knowing looks as she asked, “Did Morrison have any good friends here . . . anybody we should talk to?”