The Kingmaker (27 page)

At 5:00
A.M.
, after a night of tossing and turning, I heard her door open and shut, her shower running, and, a few minutes afterward, the sounds of her settling heavily into bed.

Katrina looked like hell at breakfast: limp-haired, rosy-cheeked, eyes bloodshot. I bit my tongue. A deal’s a deal, no matter how hard it is to stomach.

We exchanged a few banal pleasantries of that awkward kind where we avoided each other’s eyes and inner feelings. That done, I shot straight to the subject. “Well?”

“He has no proof. At least nothing definitive.”

“I see.”

We both began playing with our spoons, the way people do who make each other uncomfortable. She said, “But he said we should look more closely at Yeltsin’s reelection in 1996.”

“What specifically?”

“He said that if we go back and check the news accounts, as late as three months before the election, Yeltsin’s poll numbers had him down in the single digits. Three other candidates led him by huge amounts. Every prediction said Yeltsin would lose, that he didn’t stand a chance.”

“So he ran a good campaign.”

“Alexi said that wasn’t it. He said the country was a complete mess. The war in Chechnya was enormously unpopular, the Mafiya had taken over, and Yeltsin’s cronies had stolen or seized every valuable asset in the country. Shootings and murders were hourly occurrences in Moscow. People were freezing and starving, and it was one public scandal after another. Even Yeltsin’s daughter was accused of stealing millions of dollars. Everybody in Russia blamed Yeltsin, his alcoholism, his crookedness, his inability to govern the country. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“Then how did he win?”

“This cabal. Hundreds of millions of dollars suddenly flowed
into Yeltsin’s campaign chests, bribes were given out everywhere, even the Russian press mysteriously stopped criticizing Yeltsin. Alexi said it was extraordinary, the most massive political fraud in history.”

I recalled that Yeltsin’s reelection had been a huge upset, but the details escaped me. I said, “That’s quite a charge. Does he have evidence, Katrina?”

“He says there is something we should check. In the fall of ’96, at the height of Yeltsin’s unpopularity, the American President came to Moscow and on Russian television gave a speech praising Yeltsin. The visit was deliberately timed to influence the election. The President even went so far as to justify the Chechen War, telling the Russian people it was the same as our own civil war.”

I sat back and fingered my coffee cup. Katrina’s voice, tone, and demeanor conveyed that she believed every word of this. Of course her actions the night before further conveyed that her objectivity got lost somewhere in Alexi’s sheets.

Since I wasn’t sleeping with Arbatov, I hadn’t lost mine, however. A very powerful impulse wanted to believe Arbatov, because if there was such a cabal, and the Morrisons were trying to expose it, well, then, we had a defense to build on. That said, the notion that our own President was a puppet at the hands of this group had sort of drop-kicked this thing fairly far beyond the goalposts of credulity.

I very politely asked, “So he’s saying this cabal arranged the President’s speech?”

“I think what he was suggesting is that the cabal has tentacles into Washington, that it could actually control the White House and our actions toward Russia.”

“Like . . . what the President says . . . his policies, whatever?”

“Something like that, yes. Alexi said he was always amazed that Russia could get away with what it was doing, or at least appeared to be doing, in the former republics, and Washington never took any firm stand or action.”

“I see.” I put down the spoon I had been playing with. “That’s a very bold charge. And does he have evidence of this?”

“He said we should go find the President’s speech.”

“That’s it?”

My skepticism was beginning to get on her nerves, and she put down her spoon, too, and said, “Stop it.”

“Stop what? Evidence, Katrina. You’re an attorney. Where’s the evidence?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re pissed because of my relationship with Alexi.”

“Ah, well, now that you’ve raised the issue, it’s in play. In fact, you’re right. It’s unprofessional and perhaps damaging to our client.”

“Unprofessional?”

“That’s what I said.”

She nodded and drew a few deep breaths. “I see.”

I coldly asked, “Now, do you have anything else to report?”

She even more coldly replied, “Only one thing. I told Alexi you were having difficulty believing these things without corroboration. He said that can be very easily cleared up. He said you should speak with the Morrisons and the CIA. It turns out the CIA agrees with him completely. They’ve been hunting for this cabal the whole time as well.”

My jaw dropped, or whatever it is people do when they are experiencing a cold shock. I said, “The CIA agrees with him?”

“That’s what I said.” She stood up and looked down at me. “I have to pack, and if you don’t mind, I’ll take my own taxi to the airport.”

K
atrina and I arrived at Dulles International Airport at 10:00
A.M.
and went straight to baggage claim. The whole plane ride back to America we had sat side by side without exchanging a word. We had watched three lousy movies because it gave us an excuse to ignore each other.

Our relationship was fraying. I’m no expert on women, but the yardstick I have learned to go by is that when they frown and sneer at you more than they smile, love is not in the air. Astounding flash of the obvious you might say, but back in kindergarten those girls who sneered at me the most actually wanted to play doctor. And recall, please, that when it comes to men and women everything is complicated. And of course, generationally, culturally, and otherwise, we were wildly different, and that spilled over also.

I spent a good part of the flight, however, contemplating Alexi’s assertion that the CIA agreed that this mysterious cabal existed and was ripping apart his region. I couldn’t make sense of it. I mean, if the CIA knew such a thing, why hadn’t it been
made public? There are things you keep from the public and things you don’t. True, the CIA has this weird thing about secrecy that sometimes goes to extremes, but I couldn’t comprehend how this one could be kept in the bag.

In keeping with Russian efficiency, it turned out our luggage had gone to who-the-hell-knows-where, adding to my already foul mood. After forty minutes of hassling with the lost claims folks, we drove straight to the Virginia office, where Imelda was waiting. Safes were parked everywhere and having run out of wall space, Imelda had begun stuffing them in my tiny cramped office, turning it into an unusable storeroom.

Imelda looked awful—her hair was frazzled, and papers were piled in stacks and mounds everywhere.

She shoved her glasses down on her nose and said, “Hope you two had a great friggin’ time while Imelda been doin’ the real work.”

Sensing that my mood was already crappy enough, she stopped grumbling and said, “Ain’t found nothin’ that’s gonna help, tell you that. We gotta client with a trouser snake problem. They got it on tape, too, him talking to girlfriends and ordering up whores from some escort service.”

“Right . . . we know. What else?”

“They had him under physical surveillance for a few months, so there’s safes full of logs and reports. Might be twenty or so entries where he went to hotels, sometimes at lunch, sometimes in midafternoons, usually with women who did
not
resemble his wife.” She rubbed her eyes, another sign of how stressed out and exhausted she was, then added, “The good shit ain’t here yet, though. Golden’s still sittin’ on it.”

I patted her shoulder, and Katrina stayed to help clean up or, more likely, avoid me, while I went into my office and called Eddie’s secretary, saying I was ready to meet.

That distasteful task done, I called Homer’s house to warn him I was coming. In reply, he just hung up the phone. Forty minutes later I pulled into the circular driveway in front of the
big white-brick house. The Porsche had a temporary metal fence constructed around it—not wanting to seem too uninventive, I crouched down and let the air out of the rear tires.

That put me in a slightly better mood as I marched up to the front door and rang the bell. You’d think that since I had called, they’d be primed to answer, but two minutes passed before the door swung open. It was Mary, with that toe-curling smile.

I shuffled my feet. “Hey. How’s things?”

She leaned against the doorjamb. “Except for these damned never-ending releases about the things my husband was supposed to have done, okay. Would you like to come in?”

“I’m not in the mood to run into
him
. Let’s walk.”

We studied each other’s faces. One of the things about Mary was that she always could read my mind pretty well. And one of the things about me was that I always could read her face pretty well. So she knew I was troubled, and I knew she knew, if that convoluted trail of logic makes any damned sense. The point being, we were both on notice.

We strolled down the driveway without saying anything until we got to the street and were passing beneath the naked branches of the trees. The fall had been incredibly warm, but the weather was finally turning frosty, and you could smell rotting leaves and the odor of wood burning in fireplaces.

She asked, “How was Moscow?”

“You knew I was there?”

“I tried calling you at your office. Some grumpy female sergeant told me where you were.”

“Crappy, disappointing, and dangerous.”

“Why was that?”

“There was an ambush. Katrina and I got caught in the middle of it.”

She grabbed my arm. “Oh my God, Sean. What happened?”

“We were in an embassy car when a truck blocked our way. When I turned around there were three goons holding guns.”

“But you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, but an Army captain named Mel Torianski isn’t. Forever isn’t, if you get my meaning.”

Her expression turned sad. “I knew Mel. He worked for Bill. He was always very nice. God, I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“The ambush was intended for him . . . one of those wrong-place-at-the-wrong-moment deals for Katrina and me.”

Okay, yes, I was lying to her. Shame on me for that, but I was offering her plausible deniability. Given her employer and those lie detectors, she might need it. On a more selfish note, the fewer people who knew of Katrina’s and my little conspiracy to conceal the truth, the better. As I mentioned earlier, I’m a lawyer.

Anyway, she was shaking her head. “Poor Mel. I always liked him. I don’t get it, though. Why would anybody want to kill him?”

“I don’t know. The Russian police said it was Chechens. Some of your spook buddies were looking into it, but obviously weren’t sharing their theories with us.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

I drew a few breaths and wondered how to approach this next point, because frankly it was delicate, delicate, delicate. Unfortunately, there just wasn’t any way to soft-shoe into it.

“Mary, I’ve also learned a great deal about your marriage.”

She didn’t say anything, so I continued, “For example, about Janet Winters, and how you played hardball to get rid of her.”

“That was years ago,” she replied.

“Yes, it was. And I learned that Bill subsequently screwed around on you more times than I’ve brushed my teeth. I learned all about the Siberian Nights Escort Service, and all the other women he was sleeping with. You knew about them, too, didn’t you?”

“I do now,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you warn me about this?”

She looked away and replied, “How did you learn about it?”

“Adultery is on the list of charges. Bill put us on to his former secretary, and folks in the embassy told us about the rest.”

She turned back to me with a sad, resigned smile. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you. I thought about it a few times.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No, you’re right. Which reason do you want to hear? The one that will make me sound good or the truth?”

“Start with the truth. If that’s too ugly, we’ll take a stab at the prettier one.”

She started walking. “All right, truth—Bill wasn’t the man I thought I was marrying. You’ve never heard that one before, right? When we were dating he seemed so damned perfect—kind, solicitous, witty. He can be incredibly charming when he wants to.”

“But he changed afterward?”

“Not really, no,” she said, seeming perhaps confused, or maybe troubled. “He was a good husband. Parts of him were hard to take . . . his vanity, his ambition. Irritating things, certainly, but in the scheme of things, not worth wrecking a marriage over.”

“And when you discovered Janet Winters?”

She looked at the ground and chuckled. “There was a bad day. I learned about her from the charge card entries. Do you believe it? I don’t know what made me madder—her or the prosaic way he let me discover it.”

“Her, would be my guess.”

She nodded. “I confronted him, of course. We’d just had Courtney a year or two before. I was shocked . . . heartbroken . . . every stereotypical thing you expect a cuckolded wife to be. And he was everything you expect a cheat to be. He swore it was the first time, that he’d been stupid, crazy, was sorry, and the rest. He promised it wouldn’t ever happen again.”

“And you believed him?”

“I wanted to. I went through the next phase every wife who’s been cheated on goes through. I wondered what I did
wrong, how I wasn’t meeting his needs, the whole list of insipid questions.” She paused to chuckle again, I suspect not because she thought it was funny, but the opposite. “I went on a diet, opened an account at Victoria’s Secret, took cooking lessons. You wouldn’t have recognized me.”

“And then Moscow?”

She nodded. “The second time around you don’t get hysterical. Trust me, I’ve read every pop psychology book there is on the subject. The second time, you either divorce them, kill them, or become resigned to it. I obviously didn’t divorce or kill him, so you know the second half of this tale.”