The Kingmaker (14 page)

“He impressed me.” Katrina then said, “But was he telling the truth, or just trying to get his distance from Morrison? Which one speaks with forked tongue?”

I reminded myself to quit underestimating her. Without prompting she’d figured out the purpose of the interview.

I replied, “You heard what he said. Morrison’s at the very least an exaggerator.”

“But who wouldn’t want to crawl as many miles from him as they possibly could?”

“There’s that. He must feel like the elephant that got raped by the butterfly.”

So what was the truth? Was Morrison his indispensable right hand or a distant groom with an inflated title? Truthfully, the exaggerations fit with my view of Morrison. However, I didn’t want to be swayed by my prejudices and I knew how to find out.

The moment we landed back at Ronald Reagan Airport, we rushed back to the office. I called Mary, but of course, Homer answered, and I said, “I need to talk with your daughter, the girl I tell everybody in Washington I used to sleep with.”

I heard the gagging sound in his throat as he threw the receiver down and fled. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid for this.

Mary finally came on and started with, “Hi, Sean. Listen, please, you’ve got to stop taunting my father. He said he thinks you’re putting dents in his car, but I insisted it couldn’t be you. I told him you’re not that immature or vindictive. He’s not as young as he used to be.”

I chuckled. “All I do is say my name and he gets all red and puffy. Between you and me . . . I don’t think he likes me.”

I could hear her sigh.

“Listen,” I said, “I just got back from New York, where I met with Milton Martin.”

“Bill’s old boss.”

“Right. A most delightful guy. Now, Bill told me he used to be Martin’s Cato. He said the two of them were inseparable, the Siamese twins of the State Department. Martin said that’s a big, nasty lie. He said your husband was a bag handler, a factotum with an inflated title, who went around exaggerating his value to his boss and blowing so much hot air it eventually got embarrassing. He said that’s why he kicked him upstairs to the White House. I’m just trying to see which one’s the dirty rotten liar.”

The line was quiet so long, I finally said, “Mary, you still there?”

“Sean, I don’t know what the truth is.”

“You don’t?”

A pained, even resentful tone crept into her voice. “Bill has a few flaws. Everybody does. I have to be frank with you about this, though, because I brought you in, and I don’t want you having illusions. Bill wasn’t always truthful about things. He’s very ambitious. He wasn’t above taking credit for things he had little to do with.”

“Isn’t everybody like that?”

“Bill is . . . more like that than others. I used to warn him about it, and he always insisted that’s how the game’s played in Washington. The meek never inherit the earth, not in D.C., he would always respond. He even took credit for some of my work. It was maddening, but what could I do? He was my husband.”

“So he wasn’t close with Martin?”

“He told everybody he was. I really don’t know, Sean. It’s, uh, well, it’s possible Bill thought it was truer than it was. He’s very vain. He could fool himself about his own importance.”

Note how tactfully she couched it. She was his wife, and therefore wasn’t going to blurt out the obvious—the man was a lousy, lying, self-inflated weasel.

“Okay.” I paused, and then said, “One other question. Your 1996 tax form listed an inheritance of nine hundred grand. Where’d that come from?”

“That was the year Bill’s mother died. She and her husband were well-to-do. His father died back in 1994 and everything passed to her. When she died, the estate passed to Bill.”

“His father was a Pepsi exec, right?”

“Yes. His name was William also. I adored him. In fact, he was the one who got Bill interested in the Soviet Union in the first place.”

“How so?”

“You may recall that Pepsi was the first big Western conglomerate to open operations in the Soviet Union.”

“That somehow escaped my notice.”

“Way back in 1961, the co-founder of Pepsi, Don Kendall, actually met with Khrushchev and talked him into letting Pepsi build a few plants. It was a big thing at the time, the first American corporation to get a foothold in the Communist capital of the world.”

“And this had something to do with Morrison’s father?”

“Bill’s father was in charge of the whole operation. He oversaw the construction of those first plants, marketed the products, oversaw the whole thing. It was his life’s work.”

“And did he speak Russian?”

“Fluently. He made countless trips over there. He even had an apartment in Moscow and another in Leningrad. When Bill was younger, he took him over a few times.”

I was getting a truly sickening feeling. If Eddie and his goons got wind of this, it spelled big trouble. The conclusion was inescapable—Morrison’s father was the perfect conduit for the Russians to make their payments.

Perhaps I’d been hasty overruling greed as a motive. Even if it wasn’t Morrison’s motive, the Russians would probably have insisted he take some cash. In every spy novel, spymasters invariably try to use money as the hook in the fish’s gullet. Then, if Morrison got cold feet, they could blackmail him into staying in the business.

But how to channel those payments? Well, there’s always the rub.

Aldrich Ames made himself vulnerable when he began driving to work every day in a flamboyant new Jaguar sedan. That car should have brought all kinds of suspicions in his direction—it didn’t, but it should have. Hanssen had better sense and lived frugally, while he had the Russians open a Swiss account, and buy him diamonds, and stockpile his earnings like a squirrel saves his stash of acorns for winter. The problem with that tack is that you don’t realize the benefits of your crime. There you are, slaving away and betraying your nation’s secrets, but where’s the instant gratification we Americans are so well-known for?

The problem is hiding or justifying those big lump-sum payments, because anytime a check larger than $10,000 gets cashed, federal law requires the bank to report it. And pretty soon the federal government’s knocking on your door, wanting to know why you’re not paying taxes on hidden income, and why there are no W-2 statements accompanying all those big payments. But if the payoff gets shuffled through your father’s account, probably one that was with a Russian bank in the first place, and lands in
your
lap as an inheritance, you’ve bypassed that scrutiny.

Money may not have been Morrison’s main motivation, but who’s going to turn down free cash when it’s offered? Not me: I rummage through public pay phones for wanton quarters.

I said, “Well, thanks.”

“Okay. Listen, I’m just telling you Bill has some fairly serious warts.”

“Right.” Maybe bigger warts than either of us knew.

“Sean, I, uh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”

It didn’t help when I got back to my apartment that night and the late news revealed the newest government release on Morrison’s crimes. According to that voluble unnamed source, he’d not only given the Soviets the names of two of their agents whom we’d turned—both of whom were recalled and executed—but he’d also provided the Russians with our negotiating position toward the North Koreans on the nuclear issue, which the Russians had then generously passed along to the North Koreans.

A commentator came on and claimed that armed with that information, the North Koreans were able to persuade us to build them two nuclear plants for power generation while they continued building a nuclear bomb in a secret underground facility, which that secret document informed them we did not know about.

True or not, it sounded awful. I drifted off to sleep dreading the next nasty revelation. With Eddie, they’d only get better.

W
e caught the early bird to Kansas City the next morning. As the few leads Morrison had passed us failed to pan out, it was time to consort with our client again to see if we could coax something more useful out of him. Less technically, he’d screwed me, and I was going to put his nuts in a vise.

Katrina drew her usual assortment of stares and ogles as we boarded and passed down the aisle to our seats. This morning’s ensemble included hip-hugging, skintight, bell-bottomed jeans that were torn at strategic locations and a black spandex long-sleeved shirt that had only one shoulder and sleeve. The shirt came that way, too, and I’ll bet she paid full price.

No sooner were we belted in than Katrina pulled out an MP3 player, jammed a pair of earphones in her ears, cracked open a copy of
Rolling Stone
magazine, and stuffed her beaded nose inside. Overhearing the low throb of some kind of music, and with a profound sense of mature superiority, I dug into a newspaper filled with screechy articles and poisonous editorials about the pathetic bastard I was representing. I was tired and surly, and the
flood of damning publicity heightened my gloomy mood. I was chewing with a vengeance the peanuts the stewardess brought me.

Katrina eventually yanked out her earphones, leaned over, and whispered, “You’re attracting attention. In case you haven’t heard, people are spooky on airplanes these days.”

I popped another fistful into my mouth.

She looked slightly amused. “I think you need to get laid.”

“I’m already getting screwed, thank you.” An old line but appropriate to the occasion. I waved the newspaper at her. “One asshole’s killing us with leaks while the other’s got us chasing our own tails. I spoke with Mary last night, incidentally. She said her husband wouldn’t know the truth if he tripped on it.”

“Is that why I get the impression you’re going to create a big, nasty scene when we get there?”

I replied, “Any day, Eddie’s going to call with his deal. What do we say? ‘Gee, between your hogging all the key evidence, and our client telling us a bunch of big fibs, we’re a little confused.’ ”

“And kicking his head in is going to help?”

“It will make me feel better.”

“I see.” She stared at me a long moment, as though I were a bottle of nitroglycerin she’d better not shake too hard. Then she put the earphones back in, somehow leaving me the impression we weren’t in mutual accord here.

Morrison was already shackled to the table when we arrived. Without the slightest ado, I announced, “We met with Milt Martin. We’re experiencing a credibility crisis here. He said you were a lackey. He said you bullshitted everybody in town about what a bigwig you were. He said the most important thing you ever did for him was shine his shoes.”

Morrison looked up in utter shock, more or less the expression I had hoped to elicit. Only a dose of emotional electrocution was going to jar some honest words out of his mouth.

He finally sputtered, “That prick. That lying bastard.”

Obviously, it was time to turn up the voltage. I walked across the room. “This morning’s papers say you gave the Russians the names of two guys they called home and shot. And you gave them our negotiating positions on the North Korean nuclear issue, which they then helpfully provided their old chums in Pyongyang.”

“That’s bullshit, Drummond. God damn it, listen to me. I didn’t even have access to the North Korean stuff.”

I straddled the chair across from him. “The prosecutors wouldn’t have told the press unless they had substantiation. We need to know what that evidence is. We need any decent leads you can give us. But you know what we really need?—quit lying to us.”

His lips were trembling, and his eyes were wild and wet, on the verge of tears. The veins were sticking out of his neck, from the pressure of blood boiling with frustration.

“God damn it, I
am
telling you the truth, asshole! I’m not making this up.”

Katrina suddenly bent across the table, between us. “Would you two mind if I stepped outside?”

I said, “What?”

“The testosterone level in here is killing me.”

I shook my head. “You think you can do better than me?”

She looked at me and replied, “Which part? Pissing off our client? Trading insults? Getting nothing done?”

A big, satisfied smirk was on Morrison’s face.

“All right, smartass,” I said, “proceed.”

She dropped into the chair next to me. She studied our client and he studied her back. She said, “We can do better than this, right?”

He nodded.

“Good. You say Martin lied. Who can verify that?”

He considered this, then said, “My secretary, Janet Winters.” He paused. “I’m not sure she’ll help, though.”

“Why won’t she?”

“She was the one who claimed we had an affair. She was, well, she was bitter when it was over.”

“Why?”

“I was fighting for my career. I had to hire a civilian lawyer who specializes in these things. She lost her security clearance and was fired.”

Being a lawyer, I had a fairly good inkling what he was talking about. As did Katrina, who tried to look unruffled, but it wasn’t hard to guess her position, her being a woman and all. There’s some unwritten sisterhood code that in these kinds of things all the benefit of the doubt anatomically flows to the side with boobs.

Morrison sensed it, too. His new buddy was slipping away. He awkwardly said, “Look, the lawyer said it was the only way. I’m not proud of how it went down. She was my secretary for three years, and I, uh, I probably let it get too close. But she was lying . . . Christ, I never slept with her.”

“Why did she claim you did?” Katrina asked.

“She fell in love with me. She started asking me out. I stopped by her apartment once or twice when I came back from trips, just to pick up things, and she was all over me.”

“Did Mary know?”

“She was the one who told me to get rid of her. When I tried to fire Janet, that’s when she brought the charges. Do you see why I had to defend myself?”

Rather than dwell further on this point, Katrina swiftly said, “Okay, is there anyone else who can confirm what you were doing?”

“Ask Mary, my wife.”

I shook my head.

“What, Drummond? Why are you shaking your head?”