And they’d be furious because to pinpoint and repair the damage, the government needed to know everything he gave to the Russians. Corpses don’t speak.
And so I waited in selfish agony for a doctor to come out and tell me he was dead. Or alive. Or still hovering in that testy netherworld in between.
At 9:50 a chubby, grim-faced surgeon approached. “Major Drummond?”
“Unfortunately,” I dolefully admitted.
“General Morrison is resting peacefully. It was damned close. He lost so many pints, he had a minor infarction.”
“But he’s going to be okay?”
“He should be. But whatever idiot let him have a TV should be shot. What were they thinking?”
Yeah, what were they thinking? I asked, “Can I see him?”
“If you’d like. Make it quick, though. We have him on tranquilizers, so he’ll be in and out.”
He led me down a few hallways to a door with two MPs standing beside the entrance. Inside, Morrison lay in bed with two or three IVs pumping various fluids into his body, his head turned sideways, his face ashen and flushed, like his new blood hadn’t yet worked its way to the surface.
I sat on the edge of the bed. He mumbled, “Shit,” which fairly well summarized our common view-him because he was still breathing, and me because that meant I was still his attorney.
I said, “That was really, really stupid.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yeah… I lived.”
“You’ll make it through this.”
“Yeah? How?”
“You just do.”
He stared at the wall and said, “Drummond, a week ago, I was…” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Shit, did you know I was on the two-star list?”
“So what?”
“ ‘So what?’ ” He rolled his eyes in disbelief. After a pause, he asked, “What are my odds?”
“At this stage, we don’t know.”
He turned and looked at me, his eyes haunted. “I saw the reporting on TV. I’ve already been convicted.”
“You saw a bunch of Beltway assholes throwing around opinions. It takes ten officers and a shitload of evidence to convict you.”
He thought about this a moment and then asked, “How could this have happened?”
“Well, either you did what they’re claiming or somebody’s made a really big mistake.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Let’s just say I met your former secretary yesterday. And you might recall I was at your award ceremony for the Silver Star.”
He turned away again, refusing to look me in the eye.
For good measure, I added, “And on a more personal note, you’re an asshole for cheating on Mary.”
“So I fucked up, Drummond. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Mary is. She didn’t deserve that.”
He let loose a raw chuckle. “You stupid asshole. She’s not perfect. Christ, you have no idea.”
“Wrong. I have a very good idea.”
“You weren’t married to her. You have no idea what a bitch she can be.”
This conversation could only go downhill from here, aside from which he seemed to be on the verge of losing consciousness, and there was pressing information I needed out of him. I said, “When you worked for Martin, what was your relationship with Commerce’s export control office?”
His eyes were closing. “Huh?”
I squeezed his arm. “The export control office. The guys who say whether U.S. companies can export their crap to foreign countries.”
“I never worked with them. They’re part of Commerce.”
“I see.” I pondered this a moment, then took a shot in the dark. “Do they have some sister office in State?”
“The Office of Munitions Control?”
“Right, those guys.” I guessed that’s what I was talking about. I mean, other than guys like Morrison who spend most of their careers in Washington, who in the hell knew where all the tentacles of government flow and interlock? No wonder the Republicans want to cut the size of our federal institutions. At least then, when a new team comes to power every four years, they don’t spend their first two studying wiring diagrams and trying to figure out who all those frigging people are and what they do.
The befuddled look was still on his face. “I didn’t do any work with them. Why?”
“Last night’s release said you handed over hundreds of requests that were turned down by that office.”
He shook his head, although I sensed his mood had shifted from outrage to resignation.
I added, “They said you turned over blueprints, tech assessments, the works.”
He started that mirthless chuckle again. “Christ, who’d ever think of giving them the rejects from that office? It’s ingenious.”
“Ingenious?”
His head flopped over, he faced the wall again, and explained, “Those requests go all over town. Commerce, State, CIA, DOD, NSA, everybody has a whack at them. It’s a big veto ring.” He took a long, labored breath. “Dozens of offices… hundreds of people are involved-you’d never know who did it.”
“So the leak could’ve come from any number of sources?”
“Of course.”
I touched his shoulder. “Okay, listen, I promised the doc I wouldn’t stay long. So you promise me something.”
“What?”
“No more of this suicide crap. If I’m going to work my ass off on your case, I don’t want any more late-night phone calls about your health.”
I couldn’t see the expression on his face or the look in his eyes. “Okay.”
“I’ll stop by again later. I may need some help on something.”
“Okay,” he said again, and I inspected his suite to be sure there were no sharp objects or other deadly instruments within reach. Unless he used his IV lines to hang himself, he appeared to be safe for the time being.
I returned to the house on Colonel’s row, drafted a press release, and told Imelda where to send it. Not that anybody was likely to feel sympathetic about Morrison’s attempt. Most folks would shake their heads and ask, What the hell’s wrong with this picture? That bastard can figure out ten different ways to betray his country but can’t figure out how to snuff himself?
I next made some calls to Washington, because if I didn’t start making headway on this case, I’d be attending my client’s funeral instead of his trial. I slipped back into his hospital room later that afternoon, got what I needed, and then flew back to D.C. I called Katrina as soon as I returned and told her to pack her bags for Russia.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’d never been to Moscow, a city that in a perverse way was once the American soldier’s version of Mecca, the capital of the empire that kept most of us employed for about fifty years. It was where revolutions and wars were bred, where devious plots for global domination were hatched, where bushy-browed men in outdated, frumpy, ill-tailored suits stood on reviewing stands and watched the largest military machine in the world march by, the same military we all thought would someday, inevitably, come marching against us.
My first introduction to Russian efficiency was the two hours after we landed, as we waited on the runway while ground crews scoured around for the mobile steps that would allow us to deplane. Katrina stoically endured
