of our Soviet nation? In your country, this would be like your New York City mayor seizing your government, tearing up your Constitution, burning your Bill of Rights, and inventing new government. Except under Soviet system secretaries were even less powerful, less important than your American mayors. How was this possible?”
“Because your people wanted freedom?” I suggested. “Because they were poor and wretched and wanted better lives? Because Communism sucked?”
He shook his head at my sophisticated insight and said, “You do not know Russians. We have famous reputation for suffering. What is your word? ‘Stoic,’ yes? Read our literature… is about suffering. Study our history. Consider Russia’s most fabled leaders: Ivan the Terrible, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Lenin, Stalin. In what way all these people are alike? All are mass murderers. Does America have such homicidal icons? Your George Washington, your Abraham Lincoln, your FDR, they were famous killers?”
I guessed he had a good point. “Okay, then how did Yeltsin do it?”
“I never learned, but was connected as well. How else can Yeltsin outmaneuver everybody?”
Until this point, he’d nearly had me convinced, nodding along nicely, following his logic, and so on. I fixed him with a stony look and said, “Look, we have a problem here. According to our intelligence, your boss, Yurichenko, approached Yeltsin near the beginning and struck a deal. Our people say Yurichenko helped him rise.”
“Yes, was true. When Viktor sees him breaking through, we know something is badly wrong, so Viktor cultivates this relationship with Yeltsin. He insinuates himself inside. We know Yeltsin has powerful allies, but who? Viktor was not able to discover this answer.”
“And what? When Yeltsin finally came to power, he rewarded your boss by making him head of the SVR?”
“Was big irony, yes? Viktor was very trusted by Yeltsin… this was his reward for Viktor’s help.”
“And you were giving all this to Morrison?”
“Pieces, only. I was not knowing in the beginning what I was looking for.”
“And why’d you go to Bill?”
“This was last resort for me. When I could not find what was happening, I wanted to discuss American interpretations of these developments. Sometimes, those looking into a house see better than those inside, yes?”
I had to take a moment to ponder all this. I had my pants on by then and that helped.
I asked, “Did Yurichenko know you were meeting with Morrison?”
He looked conflicted, as if this was something he was ashamed to admit. “No. Uh, Viktor would never permit this. We are very close, but Viktor is product of our old system and would consider it a most serious betrayal.”
“Do you know who in the CIA got access to your reports, knew of your existence?”
“Bill and Mary, of course. And only deputy directors of intelligence and operations were… uh, in the loop? This is correct?”
“I think that’s correct, although Morrison told me a CIA psychiatrist was involved as well. He said it was a standard practice to keep you from going nuts on them.”
“Then you see where I am having big problem?”
I nodded, but as I mentioned before, spies are con men, and maybe the SVR had a bunch of Hollywood types who worked in the basement and cooked up these things. Actually, that was too wild-assed for even me to believe.
He glanced at his watch. “I must now go back to office. I am telling everybody I am at lunch. I have appointments.”
He reached out to shake my hand. I took it, and he promptly sensed my reservations about him, because he gave me a shy, reticent smile, a gesture that conveyed that this was painfully difficult for both of us.
I recalled the description in Arbatov’s dossier, “magnetically charming,” and concluded that the CIA pegged him well. I was annoyed to find that I liked him, trusted him, and even wanted to believe what he told me.
But enough to stake my life on him? Well, no. Nor did I see where his revelation fit in the picture. It explained why he approached Morrison in the first place, but where was the connection to Morrison’s arrest, or to ten years of treachery?
More important, was there a connection to the ambush that morning? Regardless, the wise thing to do at that point was call the airline and book tickets. I made reservations for midnight so we could sneak out in the dead of night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Within moments after Alexi left, Katrina knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to accompany her to the embassy. I recommended that we first stroll around the block so I could tell her what Arbatov and I had discussed. The new and improved Sean Drummond would hold nothing back from the freshly restyled Miss Mazorski. Never mess with a woman who’d stick a man’s dick in a garbage disposal, that’s my motto. I did her a favor, though, and gave her the abbreviated version.
Odd as this may sound, she didn’t seem all that interested. I had the impression she was going through the motions of politely hearing me out, while she was preoccupied with something else. Multitasking is a very useful and admirable skill, but it pisses me off when it’s happening to me.
I said, “Am I detecting a listening problem here? And by the way, why are we going to the embassy?”
“There’s someone we need to talk to… Morrison’s secretary.” She paused for a moment, then added, “When you were in the bathroom the other day, Mel mentioned to me that we might want to have a word with her.”
“About what?”
She began walking back toward the hotel. “He said she might have a few interesting insights.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, and it’s obviously too late to ask him.”
“Right.”
She walked a few more paces, then asked, “Do you notice how I’m sharing this with you?”
“Yes, and it’s very commendable.”
“And you just had another meeting with Arbatov and didn’t include me?”
“Recall that I didn’t plan the meeting. He snuck into my room and woke me up.”
“The circumstances don’t concern me.”
“No, I don’t expect they do.”
“You’ve put my life at risk.”
“Yes, I know. I also said I’m sorry.”
She rubbed her temples and was on the verge of saying something nasty, but settled for, “Don’t exclude me again.”
“Right.” We arrived at the embassy twenty minutes later and went upstairs to the fourth floor, where the attache’s office is located. We walked into the reception area, and wouldn’t you know?
Parked at a desk directly in front of the office door that read MILITARY ATTACHE sat one of the most perversely fetching women I ever laid eyes on. She had a face you wouldn’t necessarily call attractive. Sinful, decadent, cruel-these were the words that popped into my mind. She was what we men call an “oh God girl,” meaning the type who’d be digging your flesh out of her fingernails after the two of you did the big nasty. “Oh God” is what you say the second time she asks you out.
She had jet black hair that hung past her waist, dark, sultry eyes surrounded by purple makeup, and a downward pout on her cherry red lips that let you know she demanded to be spoiled. Upon close inspection, it struck me that she looked remarkably like the woman who’d been performing the virtuoso with the triumvirate on my TV, although I’d gotten only the most fleeting glimpse of that woman. Really.
Katrina awarded me a knowing look. No wonder Mel sicced us on Miss Nasty. Never underestimate a man who has a death wish on his former boss.
Katrina marched right up to the desk and announced, “I’m Katrina Mazorski, and this is Major Drummond. We’re Morrison’s attorneys.”
The woman studied us through a pair of wicked irises that seemed to bore right through your clothes and
