The Kingmaker (20 page)

I took a wild stab anyway. “Maybe Morrison was dealing with somebody else in your organization, too? Or maybe somebody in your SVR learned about him, was jealous of you and your relationship with your boss, and burned him to make you look bad.”

“Then I would be already dead. And why would anybody who learns of Bill burn him? They would”—he paused to search for the right word—“poach?” I nodded that I approved, and he continued, “This is not uncommon in our trade. Is known to happen. But to burn an invaluable resource for reason of jealousy? No, I think not.”

I stared into my coffee and contemplated the realization that I might be over my head here. True to his CIA profile, Alexi Arbatov was frighteningly smart and persuasive.

Foolishly revealing my frustration, I said, “Okay, what do you think happened? Why did a bunch of tough guys show up at the embassy and bag Morrison? The U.S. government doesn’t move on traitors without a truckload of evidence.”

“I am asking myself this same question. Bill has my fate in his hands. If I am to become compromised, it is a most ugly fate.”

“So you keep saying.”

He half-chuckled. “Any day now, this could be proved. I see your three chalk stripes on the statue this morning and I am thinking my game is already up.”

“Explain that.”

“Only Bill and I share this signal. I was expecting entrapment.”

I pondered this dilemma until he said, “But you are intriguing to me. You are only American person who tries to prove he is innocent. Everybody else says he is guilty.”

“So you’re saying what . . . you and I are allies?”

“Perhaps. But there is problem. I have most serious reservations concerning you.”

“Like what?”

“You do not talk like he is innocent. But bigger problem is you are not trained in this game we play.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

He shook his head. “Please not to take offense. This morning, you make your three marks, then you go stand at meeting place like dumb duck in shooting gallery. What if I am discovered and instead of me was SVR counterespionage team coming to arrest you? What if I am really controller for Bill . . . maybe I would just kill you.”

I rubbed my chin and tried to look smarter than I was. He made this a bit difficult as he continued his spycraft for idiots tutorial. “This is not how trained agents do these things. We act like dogs, yes? We mark trees, and then find vantage to watch. Bill and I choose that kiosk for our meetings because of big hotel next door. Bill always comes to meetings dressed as Russian citizen, not like L.L. Bean American. Bill uses false name to check into upper-level room, and watches to know I am alone. He does not come out until I walk into bakery. If I do not go into this bakery, is signal I am being observed, and we are in trap. Bill would then be on next flight to America.”

“Okay, so I’m not a professional spy. What’s your point?”

“You are posing quandary to me.”

“Go on.”

“You know about me. You are well-intended, I think, but dangerous.”

Physical features aside, Alexi Arbatov had a certain
earnestness of manner that made you want to agree with him. I found myself nodding, and then thinking he was right because . . . well, okay, yes, because he
was
right.

Time for a mental slap there, Drummond. For one thing, he was rejecting my qualifications before I even agreed to work with him, which poses something of a cart and horse problem. For a second thing, I didn’t trust him. Okay, he had an alibi or counter for everything, but he was a boy genius in a profession that breeds the world’s biggest backstabbing liars,
and
wasn’t this how my client began his relationship with this guy? Buy into his line of crap and look where it gets you.

On the other hand, I had come all this way to get a firsthand look at Alexi Arbatov, and, well, what now?

Before I could answer that question, however, Arbatov took the choice out of my hands. He stood, neatly collected our coffee cups and napkins, and like a good citizen carried them over to a trash receptacle.

He next sauntered to the counter, where a chubby babushka was filling somebody else’s order. He yelled something in Russian, and she looked up, chortled, and said something back. They both laughed. I didn’t understand a word, but got the general gist. He was complimenting her on the coffee and roll, and she was responding like a thirteen-year-old who just got her hair stroked by the Backstreet Boys.

I was oddly impressed. One wouldn’t expect a bloodthirsty, conniving spymaster to be so convivial toward the hired help. On the other hand, these guys are good. They know it’s the little things that lend legitimacy to their biggest shams.

I caught up with him by the doorway and frantically whispered, “So what’s next?”

He ignored me, walked out, and got about ten steps before he looked back. “Nothing is to be next. Good-bye.”

He disappeared into the crowd, obviously having made up his mind. I could scrape all the chalk stripes on that statue I wanted; I would never see him again.

O
ver breakfast, Katrina filled me in on the latest revelation released by Eddie. He had turned up the heat again—or, perhaps torched up would be more apropos. In addition to everything else, Morrison was now accused of giving the Russians copies of the President’s and Secretary of State’s briefing papers and talking points in advance of every U.S.-Russian summit and meeting.

This whopping revelation had really set the Beltway back on its heels. It’s one thing to give the Russians technical secrets, or to betray their betrayers, or even to pervert the American decision-making process. It’s another thing altogether to provide the President’s and Secretary of State’s scripts to the Russians in advance of all their meetings. Consider some of the guys and gals who work in those offices, who frankly are glued to those scripts like coma patients connected to life-support systems.

Katrina said the newspapers and news channels were filled with outrage, innuendos, and theories regarding the release. Devise all the silly theories you want, the average schmo on the
street had the bubble. No President or Secretary of State had talked to the Russians anytime lately where the Russians didn’t know exactly what he was going to mutter in advance, exactly how far he was willing to go, how much was bluff and how much bluster. As diplomatic catastrophes go, it would be hard to imagine worse. The Russians had been inside the minds of our national leaders for years.

Eddie had to be delighted by his latest little release, and it did not escape notice that he was finding ways to get his name on the front page almost every single day. Katrina reported that the latest copy of
People
magazine was in the hotel lobby, and Eddie’s gorgeous mug graced the cover. I nearly blew chunks all over my limp bacon and undercooked eggs. Clapper had to be delighted. His beloved tarantula was becoming the poster boy of the JAG Corps.

At nine o’clock, Mel arrived in a black embassy car to take us to the embassy. I climbed into the front and Katrina got in the back. Mel immediately made a few gleeful wisecracks about the latest revelations, taking sadistic joy in the continuing humiliation of his former boss. The man must’ve been a real bastard to work for.

Mel had just pulled off the main highway and turned down a side street, when all of a sudden a big truck careened out of an alley and blocked our way. He jammed on the brakes and nearly threw Katrina and me through the windshield—followed by a very quiet moment while we sat and stared at the truck. It wasn’t moving.

I spun around just in time to see three men climbing out of a car at the end of the street we’d just come down. They were dressed in suits, which somehow looked outrageously incongruous, because they were all holding Kalashnikov rifles in their hands, sort of casually adjusting their stances, the way golfers prepare to tee off.

I shoved Katrina’s head down and yelled, “On the floor!”

Mel spun around and saw what I was looking at. He froze.

I screamed, “Weapons? Do you have any weapons?”

He was just starting to reach across me when the first rounds came spraying through the rear windshield. I was splattered with glass and blood as Mel’s head appeared to explode and his body flopped over and landed in my lap.

I instinctively shoved him off and dove for the floor as bullets pelted against the car. That’s when I saw what Mel had lunged for—an M16 rifle strapped to the underside of the passenger seat, two metal clips holding it in place. I quickly undid them and yanked the M16 to my body, straining to pull back the charging handle and unlock the safety, ordinarily simple things to accomplish, except when your body’s all scrunched up and keeps involuntarily flinching from the sounds of bullets striking around you.

Two possibilities struck me—I could stay in the car, pray no bullets hit me, and wait till the shooters walked in our direction to perform the coup de grâce. Or I could try to get out of the car and pray nobody shot me. Staying in the car posed one problem. Sometimes, bullets cause a fuel ignition and you get one of those Hollywood moments that just mess up your plans for the evening.

Option two had drawbacks also. If I threw open my passenger door and simply rushed out, the three shooters would nail me. They were maybe forty yards away. They couldn’t miss. I yelled, “Katrina!” and through the sound of loud bangs I heard her say, “Yes.”

“Open your door. And stay inside.”

“Okay!” she yelled.

I gave her a two-second head start before I threw open my door. Her door was on the other side of the car, and the second it opened, it became a bullet magnet as the three shooters tried to hit whoever rolled out. I leaped out my side, and as soon as I hit the ground I scrambled for the front of the car. I could feel chips of concrete striking my legs, but I made it.

I got on my belly and scooted until I could peek around a tire. The shooters still stood casually out in the open, unaware I
had a weapon, believing they were invulnerable. One was calmly changing magazines while the other two nonchalantly plunked away at our car.

The obvious choice was to take out the two who were firing. I pushed the semiautomatic selector on the M16, stuck it around the corner, took quick aim, and swept it across the two shooters. The first folded over like he suddenly got a bad bellyache, while the second was flung backward and landed on the concrete.

The guy reloading scurried behind his car—I fired two shots, but missed. At least I think I missed, although I saw no movement and there was no firing. I had expended about ten rounds, and the M16 had a twenty-round magazine, so I had maybe ten bullets left. Harassing fire wasn’t an option.

I aimed my weapon in his direction and yelled, “Katrina, get out of the car!”

I hoped she was still alive to hear me. Five or so seconds passed and there was nothing, no sound from her, no movement.

Then I saw her land on the cement and scramble in my direction. At nearly the same instant, I saw the Russian pop over the top of his car, and I fired a quick burst. I had no idea whether I hit him. I was too fixated on the little round cylinder he’d thrown that was sailing in our direction.

I jumped up, tackled Katrina, and ended up on top of her. Then came the explosion. The thing about being in a narrow street is that sound does not escape. A loud boom sends its first shock wave into your eardrums, followed by an almost instantaneous aftershock from ricocheted waves.

My ears were ringing as I rolled off Katrina. She had her hands over her ears, and her elbows and knees were bloody from the effects of my tackle. Something in my left leg stung as I got up and dragged her to the front of the car.

I sat and tried to appraise our situation. The smell of cordite was heavy in the air, and there was a fair amount of smoke, but
all I could hear was a loud ringing. I looked over at Katrina, and her lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word.

What next? Check to see if the last shooter was dead? Wait right there and hope he didn’t have another hand grenade and better aim?

After all the noise and racket, surely the Moscow police had to be on the way. Katrina was staring down at my leg and pointing at a spot below my knee. When I pulled up my trouser leg, blood was pumping out in tiny spurts, an indication a significant vein had been punctured. She slapped a palm over the wound and tried to stem the flow.

She began tugging on her dress sleeve, trying to rip it, until I finally reached over and gave her a hand. I yanked too hard, because I nearly tore off the whole top of her blouse.

She tied the cloth around my leg. Three or four minutes had passed, and while I was still too deaf to hear any sirens, no police had shown up yet. I worked my way around the side of the car and ducked in long enough to drag out Mel’s body. I tugged his corpse around to the front of the car, flipped him over, and found his cell phone. I didn’t know the number to the embassy, but it was one of those fancy Motorola models where you push a few buttons on the side and pretty soon his favorite numbers pop onto the screen.

I handed it to Katrina. “Call the embassy.”

Or that’s what I think I said. It might’ve been “order a pizza” for all I know, because it’s damned hard to speak when you can’t hear your own voice. She studied the screen and punched in some numbers, and I could see her lips moving, so she was obviously talking to somebody.

We waited some more. I was fuming. I couldn’t believe that in a major metropolitan area like Moscow, the police wouldn’t be alerted to a major firefight right in the middle of the town and wouldn’t respond right away. Russian inefficiency has to have its limits, right?

Perhaps another three minutes passed before the first police
car arrived. The dicey part was the moment the first two cops came around the side of the shooter’s car with pistols in their hands. I could see Katrina’s lips moving, and I presumed she was yelling something in Russian, like, “Hey, we’re the good guys, so please don’t shoot.”

They didn’t shoot. That, however, was the limit to their kindness. They kicked the M16 out of my hands. Katrina started to stand up, but one of the cops quickly flung her against the car, and before I could do anything, the other cop grabbed me by my shirtfront, lifted me off my feet, and threw me against the car, too. They roughly patted us down, and then had our arms trapped behind our backs as they slapped handcuffs around our wrists.