this, I assume because she had Russian blood and was genetically inured from this form of brutal inefficiency. A typically spoiled American guy, I petulantly cursed and moaned the whole time. I’m not graceful in situations like this.
We took a taxi from the airport to a hotel in the center of Moscow that would’ve been considered a fleatrap in New York City, or even Fargo, North Dakota, but I had been told was a five-star by local standards. The lobby was crowded with floozies and whores in cheap, glitzy clothes, and guys wearing black jeans and black leather jackets, all of whom seemed to be chatting on cell phones, and none of whom looked the least bit like choirboys.
After another twenty minutes wasted ironing out the problem that the hotel had somehow lost or misplaced our reservation, Katrina and I took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor and our side-by-side rooms. My room reeked of tobacco smoke and stale sweat, was barely larger than a broom closet, and the TV in the corner looked like something built in the 1950s. I was impressed-imagine all this luxury for only $280 a night, American.
I threw my bag on the bed, punched the remote, and the screen flickered to life, sound at full blast, showing a girl and three guys doing things that give multitasking a whole new complexity. I frantically punched at the remote to try to flip the channel, or turn down the sound, or turn the damned thing off-it was hopeless. The only thing that worked was the on button, and the girl on the screen was making loud noises intended to convey what a great time she was having, although frankly, I wouldn’t want to trade places.
Katrina’s room and mine had one of those connecting doors, and it took forever to find the TV button that turned the damned thing off, Russian sets having different knobs and symbols from ours.
I yelled through the connecting door, “Gee, my TV was preset on that channel.”
I heard her chuckle. “It’s cool. If that’s what turns on you older guys, doesn’t bother me.”
Older guys? I chuckled to show I could take a joke. Bitch.
An hour later, I was showered and changed, and the phone rang. A chipper-sounding United States Army captain named Mel Torianski informed me he was in the lobby, and I knocked on the connecting door and yelled for Katrina to meet us downstairs when she was ready. After she assured me she would, I left and found the elevator.
Torianski was a studious-looking sort, skinny, narrow-shouldered, and bespectacled, a poster child for the military intelligence corps. We did the handshake thing as he said, “Welcome to Moscow, Major. I’m a deputy attache.”
“Lucky for you, Mel. You’re at the embassy, huh?”
“Yes sir. Two years now.”
“I guess you knew the general pretty well?”
“As well as a captain gets to know a general,” he replied with an anguished expression. No need to explain further.
The elevator door opened and out stepped Katrina, although at first I didn’t realize it was her. Rolling Stone magazine had turned into the Wall Street Journal. Gone were the SoHo slut clothes and cartoonish makeup, replaced by a tailored blue business suit with a short skirt that showed long, tantalizing legs, matched with high heels, the sum of which was a female butterfly that could make all the little male butterflies get petrified wings. The only residue of her more natural self was the bead in her nose, and oddly enough, mixed in with her conservative apparel and toned-down makeup it seemed quite sexy, a sly hint that underneath that buttoned-down business suit lurked something more brazen.
I cocked my head and she smiled. I whispered, “My, but don’t you look nice.”
“A Dooney amp; Bourke goddess, huh?”
I swallowed my curiosity and introduced her to Captain Mel Torianski, who was checking her out like a hungry man eyes a slab of tenderloin on a hook. He was a horny little wimp, at least. He had a government sedan parked outside that we all three walked out to, and along the way to the embassy I asked, “So Mel, how’s the embassy taking the arrest?”
He stared straight ahead, no doubt pondering whether he should confide these things to Morrison’s lawyer. He finally said, “We’ve got lots of visitors from Washington. You know what I’m saying here, right, Major?”
I guessed I did. The way these things work, after a spy’s caught, since the government has already gone to the considerable trouble to form a big investigation team-and everybody’s getting bored and antsy-they shift into what’s called the damage assessment phase. Said otherwise, a witch hunt to see who else might be knowingly or unknowingly implicated, the general rule of this phase being that if you shoot everyone, you can be damned sure you get the guilty parties.
I said, “So a bunch of glum-faced guys in black and blue suits are running around the embassy?”
He nodded miserably. “A huge team flew in four days ago. We’re all being interrogated repeatedly, and these aren’t nice guys, if you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant. I asked, “So what’d you think of Morrison?”
“Truthfully?”
“No, Mel, I want you to lie to me.”
That got a nervous chuckle. “Uh… right. He treated us like garbage. It was all about him. You won’t find many folks who worked for him that have nice things to say. I doubt you’ll find any.”
Well, no surprise there. I never expected to.
Katrina asked, “What about Mary, his wife? What did people think about her?”
“Oh, she was real popular. To be truthful, we all sort of wondered how she married such a jerk. A woman like her, you’d think she could’ve done much better.”
Oddly enough, I’d had that very thought countless times. I asked, “So Mel, did you ever see Morrison do anything suspicious?”
“No, but hey, he was my boss, so I wasn’t looking over his shoulder. But no sir, I never saw anything.” He sounded rueful, like he wished he did, so he could help bury him.
We finished the car ride with Mel pointing out landmarks and offering tidbits about life in Moscow. I was struck by how ugly and depressing the place was. It was dirty; not trashy, because I didn’t see any litter, but dirty, like it rained soil. The sky was an oppressive leaden color, and the buildings were mostly gray, blocklike structures that looked like they shared the same architect-a man named Stalin. Frankly, it’s no wonder he hasn’t been written up in Architectural Digest as a guy who brought glory to the profession.
Nor was the U.S. embassy any testament to palatial elegance. It was a modern, big-windowed building that looked like one of those cheaply constructed, minimally decorated high rises you see in low-rent office parks back in the States. Not that it was cheap, being the same embassy that was built with a bit of KGB skullduggery poured into its foundation. The building had been secretly wired and bugged as it was erected, and when that was discovered, to considerable embarrassment, the whole top two floors were ripped off and rebuilt, and the place ended up costing more dollars per square foot than the Trump Tower.
Inside, Mel led us to a bank of elevators and up to the office of the ambassador, who apparently wanted words with us before we spoke with anybody on his staff. We waited about five minutes before three guys came streaming out his door with their pants on fire, and his secretary signaled us to go in.
Allan D. Riser was a fairly big man, meaning tall, and heavy, with a bone-ugly, fierce face resembling a wild boar that had somehow learned how to shave. Unless it was our intention to scare the shit out of the Russians, he wasn’t hired for his looks. His office was decorated with the usual assortment of power photos and trinkets. His booming voice was the first thing I noticed, however.
“Both of you sit down,” he roared, the indication being that we weren’t here to discuss the town’s tonier nightspots.
He gave us what I’m sure he thought was his most steely-eyed look and said, “Drummond, right?”
“That’s me.”
“And you’re Miss Mazorski?” he asked, and received a polite nod. He faced me. “And you’re here to prove Morrison didn’t do it, right?”
“Not exactly, sir. We’re here to investigate the circumstances concerning the charges and his arrest.”
He leaned back in his chair and considered my mealy-mouthed reply. I had the sense that this was a man not to screw with and made a swift mental note to behave. He said to me, “I heard on the news that he slashed his wrists.”
“That’s right.”
“Too bad. I can’t say I liked the son of a bitch, but he was good at his job. I like Mary, though, and she sure
