I finally asked, “How did it work?”
“Alexi wouldn’t let others be involved. He knew better than Mary and I did how penetrated we were. He made it a stipulation.”
Katrina deduced that my interest in this topic was something more than idle curiosity and decided to join the play, asking, “Weren’t there safeguards or something?”
“Alexi insisted on one-on-ones, but every time we met, the Agency required me and Mary to write extensive reports. It’s a standard procedure.”
“Explain how that works,” Katrina said.
“You compose it immediately afterward to reduce the risk of memory lapses. You try to recall everything that was said, the target’s mental state, the general mood.”
“Who gets copies of these things?”
“Arbatov was so critical, and so sensitive, that distribution was limited to the deputy directors for intelligence and operations. Oh, and a psychiatrist.”
We both looked and were in fact confused, so Morrison added, “Part of our responsibility was to sustain his willingness to feed us, to handle whatever psychoses or neuroses he was experiencing. There are tremendous undercurrents of guilt and fear for a man who’s betraying his country. The shrink would comb through our reports, look for hints of problems, and advise us how to handle him.”
I found this curious and asked, “And was this Arbatov stable?”
“He had his reasons and he thought they were good ones.”
“And what were those reasons?”
Morrison was hunched over, toying with his manacles, and from my perspective, he appeared evasive. Conceivably, he was merely nervous about disclosing such sensitive information. Or conceivably there was something more here.
He finally replied, “I think Alexi selectively gave us things he considered… What’s the best way to put this? If Russia was doing something he felt was morally repugnant, he’d report on that. But, for example, he never gave us the names of American traitors, like Ames or Hanssen. He gave us no counterintelligence information.”
“Did he ask you for information?”
The ugly frown on Morrison’s face implied that he finally realized where this line of query was heading. “Fuck you, Drummond. Of course we discussed things. I always included my responses in my reports, though. I never told him anything that was a betrayal.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mary and I were given firm guidance about what we were allowed to disclose. I never went outside those boundaries.”
Sensing we’d reached an impasse, I said, “Okay, were there others like Arbatov?”
“For me, no. Mary had others, a lot of them, but my principal duties didn’t involve controlling assets.”
“Who brought Mary into it?” Katrina asked.
“He did. After 1991, I had a number of jobs that didn’t allow me to properly control Alexi. He suggested Mary.”
I considered this and concluded that from Arbatov’s perspective it made sense. It kept it all in the family and limited his risk of exposure. I said, “Think hard. Were there any other Russians you stayed in contact with from 1989 to the present?”
“None,” he immediately replied, leaving me wishing he’d at least spent a few seconds scouring his memory.
The molehunters were focused on a trail of espionage that led all the way back to 1988 or 1989. How they came up with those years I didn’t know. I did know this, though: The anonymous leaker said there was only one controller, and by extrapolation that controller had to be acquainted with Morrison from the very beginning.
So maybe they thought that guy was Arbatov-or maybe someone Morrison wasn’t telling me about. I looked over at Katrina and her eyes were locked on Morrison’s face. The intensity of her stare surprised me. Set aside her appearance, her ball busting, and her sarcasm, and what you got was a deceptively sharp and determined woman.
I said, “Okay, General, that’s enough for now. Start mentally organizing the years 1990 through the present. We’ll come again and begin with those years. Okay?”
Morrison nodded but looked troubled.
I said, “What? You got something you want to add?”
“I, uh…” He hunched over, as if in pain. “Listen, Drummond. About Arbatov…”
“What about him?”
“I’m not saying Alexi’s connected to this or anything…”
“But?”
“Well, it, uh, it might be a good idea to look at him closer.”
“And how would I do that?”
“Talk to Mary. See what she thinks.”
I said that we would, and we then departed, leaving our client chained to the table.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Katrina and I cloistered ourselves in the living room of our grand office quarters. I had brewed a fresh pot of coffee, tossed a few logs in the fireplace, and lit a big fire before we settled down in righteous style to ponder our next steps.
I wanted to start with her impression of our client. Lacking a past history with him, she might’ve detected things I was blind to. Doubtful, but worth checking.
She was still getting comfortable as I said, “Well, isn’t he every bit the asshole I warned you he was?”
Always helpful to predispose a witness, right?
She replied, “He, at least, has a good excuse”-intimating, I think, something about me. She added, “It’s this arrested and being charged deal, I suppose. Funny what sets some people off, isn’t it?”
“Not hah-hah funny, no. He’s even more insufferable than I remember him. How could that be possible?”
“You tell me. You know him.”
I struck a thoughtful pose and stroked my chin. “How does anyone get that way?… Spoiled rotten from birth… everything always fell in his lap. He-”
“Good Lord.” She shook her head and said, “Just give me the facts and I’ll make my own conclusions, okay?”
“Okay… the facts. He’s forty-nine years old, was born in Westchester, New York, the son of some big Pepsi bigwig. Had a typical rich kid’s upbringing, went to Andover, became probably the only Yale graduate in modern history to enter the Army, and, as the saying has it, went on to do great things-depending on your perspective, obviously.”
She leaned back onto the cushion and asked, “And how did he meet his wife?”
“I don’t know how he met his wife. I wasn’t there,” I answered, sounding, I suppose, a little annoyed.
“You have a problem with that topic?”
“Me? No… What gives you that impression?”
She picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on the couch. “You’re sure you don’t have a problem with this topic?”
Actually, my problem is with nosy, prying women. I let that thought lie, though, and replied, “They met at work, dated a few months, and got married. Okay?”
She pushed a stray strand of hair off her eyebrow. It obviously wasn’t okay, but she seemed to conclude it was the best she was going to wring out of me. She was right, incidentally. She asked, “Do you believe he’s guilty?”
I folded my hands behind my head and stared at the fire. I hadn’t forced myself to consider it. For one thing, I’d been on a whirlwind since Mary first called, and for another, it’s not a question most defense attorneys want to
