CHAPTER TWELVE
The Society for International Affairs, or SIA is one of those stodgy old institutions everybody always wants to join as it means you have become part of the Establishment. It was founded back in 1917, according to the shiny brass plaque tacked on the wall beside its entrance, and is a collection of out-of-job diplomats, former power- wielders, and lots of folks with big money who like to make one another’s acquaintance.
The ex-government people like the rich people because they pay the foundation’s bills, allowing the ex- government folks a cushy, prestigious, well-paid nest while they wait for some political patrons to fight their way back into power and give them new important-sounding jobs. The well-heeled bill-payers like the arrangement because it gives them tax writeoffs, and the ex-government types introduce them to people in power overseas, who then help the rich people get richer.
At least this is my understanding of how this kind of nonprofit organization works, which does beg the question of why it’s called a nonprofit, because frankly it strikes me that all kinds of people profit wildly from it.
Anyway, it’s housed in a granite-faced mini-mansion on Park and 54th, and the receptionist inside the door asked if we were expected, and, if so, by whom, to which I politely replied that the “whom” was Mr. Milton Martin, former roommate of a guy who no longer wielded power.
He asked us to wait, which we did, till a fairly attractive, mildly buxom young woman in a conservative blue flannel business suit came down to retrieve us. Her name was Nancy, she pertly informed us with a manufactured smile, and wouldn’t we care to follow her up the marbled staircase?
We took a left on the second floor and ended up in a large suite at the end of the hallway, Katrina asking Nancy things like what does SIA do, and how long had she worked for Martin, and our escort was saying, “You’re so lucky to have caught him in today. He’s in such demand. He’s always traveling. He’s so intelligent and accomplished, and he has such great contacts over there.”
The “over there” obviously being the former Soviet states, because after all, Milt Martin spent eight years managing every tiny particle and pinnacle of our relations with that vast foreign group of lands. And Nancy was wasting her sales spiel on us-we couldn’t afford to rent two minutes of this guy’s time.
I mumbled, “Yeah, we’re just damned lucky.”
She nodded that indeed we were. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll see if he’s free.”
Which I assumed to be an oxymoron, because what Milt Martin was doing since he was no longer a government employee was renting his thick Rolodex to the highest bidder and reeling in the lucre as fast as he could. The word “free” had slipped out of his vocabulary, dictionary, thesaurus, whatever.
I spent my minute studying the assortment of photographs placed strategically on the walls, showing Martin in a variety of poses with a variety of faces I mostly didn’t recognize, aside from a shot of him and Yeltsin playing tennis. The rest I presumed to be the potentates of the other countries created out of the Big Bang. There were also plenty of brass plates and other trinkets that foreign leaders like to present to one another to show folks back home how internationally esteemed they are.
Why had I flown up here to meet with this guy? Well, he had worked beside Morrison for four of the years he’d supposedly committed treason and might be able to shed some light on that. But principally because the first thing every aspiring defense attorney learns is to test the credibility of his client. The problem with our profession is that their lies become your lies. That can be okay if you know they’re lying. It can be less than okay if you don’t but the prosecutor does.
Adding to that, Morrison’s veracity was all the more crucial to us because Eddie was hogging the important evidence, so all we had to go on were Morrison’s insights.
My clever ulterior motive-the only real lead Morrison had given us thus far, aside from Alexi Arbatov, was Milt Martin. Martin was about to become a barometer to Morrison’s integrity, and along the way we’d twist his arm to become a character witness, since he’d obviously liked Morrison enough to make him special assistant and get him a job in the White House. It never hurts to have a world-famous figure say what a great guy you are.
Nancy came back out and primly ushered us into Martin’s office. Over the years, I had seen plenty of pictures of Martin in the newspapers and watched him doing his thing on the talk show circuit, but that still didn’t prepare me for him in the flesh.
He had the biggest nose I’d ever seen. The rest of his features were fairly tiny and ordinary, making his schnozz seem even more extravagantly gigantic. He wore large-rimmed glasses in an obvious effort to deflect attention from his nose, but it was futile. It looked like the Eiffel Tower bent over sideways. If the man sneezed, we’d all be dead.
He popped up from his chair with a big frothy smile and stuck his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You’re obviously Major Drummond, and you’re obviously Miss Mazorski. Please, call me Milt.”
Knowing our names and acting effused to meet a pair of complete strangers is one of the oldest diplomat’s tricks in the books. It is meant to impress and I was, as intended, impressed. This guy was best buddies with presidents and an array of foreign muckety-mucks, and to be treated as the high point of his day was seductive.
I said, “Mist-uh, Milt, thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice. General Morrison told me you two were very close.”
He gave me a surprised glance. “Close? I wouldn’t say we were close. No… definitely not close.”
I took a step back. “Well, isn’t that odd? He gave me the impression you were nearly Siamese twins.”
He appeared perplexed, then suddenly relieved, almost amused. He said, “Why don’t we sit? Nancy, perhaps our guests would like something? Coffee? Tea?”
“Thanks, nothing,” I said, and Katrina waved her off also. We ended up around a big glass table. He smiled at Katrina and said to her, “Please don’t take offense, but you don’t look like a conventional attorney.”
“Who’d want to?”
“Good point.” He chuckled and asked, “So what can I do for you?” He was still smiling, although truthfully, it was damned hard to tell because his nose nearly hid his lips.
I tried to stop staring. “We know you’re busy, so we won’t take up much of your time. We only have a few questions.”
“Questions? I’m afraid I’m confused. The investigators have spent hours with me… I told them everything I knew.”
That shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Anyway, I said, “Right, but they’re from the other team. They don’t share that knowledge with us.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “Ask anything you wish. Whatever I can do to help.”
Katrina said, “Could you start by telling us what you told the investigators?”
“In abbreviated fashion, I told them Bill worked for me a few years, that he was a capable officer, diligent, hardworking, moderately intelligent. I had a generally favorable impression of him.”
I gave him a curious look. “Didn’t he travel with you, handle your correspondence, represent your views in the interagency arena?”
His head was shaking long before I finished. “That’s a terrible exaggeration. True, he was my special assistant, but only after he implored me. He said the Army wouldn’t release him to work for me unless he had an important-sounding title. I was new to Washington and easily hoodwinked.” He scratched his cheek and added, “Well, what’s in a title anyway, right?”
This from a guy whose own former title nowhere near conveyed the havoc he could wreak with one simple phone call. However, it did fit with my impression of Morrison, shamming and finagling for every ounce of prestige.
“So Morrison didn’t do all those things?” Katrina asked.
He half-chuckled. “I hate this term, but Bill was a bag carrier.”
I asked, “Were you personally close?”
His expression became mildly abashed. “I hope this doesn’t sound boastful, but I received weekly invitations to the White House, from heads of state, from every ambassador in Washington. I count among my closest friends the most powerful people in our capital. Bill was one of many people who worked for me. I was friendly toward him,
