We both began playing with our spoons, the way people do who make each other uncomfortable. She said, “But he said we should look more closely at Yeltsin’s reelection in 1996.”
“What specifically?”
“He said that if we go back and check the news accounts, as late as three months before the election, Yeltsin’s poll numbers had him down in the single digits. Three other candidates led him by huge amounts. Every prediction said Yeltsin would lose, that he didn’t stand a chance.”
“So he ran a good campaign.”
“Alexi said that wasn’t it. He said the country was a complete mess. The war in Chechnya was enormously unpopular, the Mafiya had taken over, and Yeltsin’s cronies had stolen or seized every valuable asset in the country. Shootings and murders were hourly occurrences in Moscow. People were freezing and starving, and it was one public scandal after another. Even Yeltsin’s daughter was accused of stealing millions of dollars. Everybody in Russia blamed Yeltsin, his alcoholism, his crookedness, his inability to govern the country. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Then how did he win?”
“This cabal. Hundreds of millions of dollars suddenly flowed into Yeltsin’s campaign chests, bribes were given out everywhere, even the Russian press mysteriously stopped criticizing Yeltsin. Alexi said it was extraordinary, the most massive political fraud in history.”
I recalled that Yeltsin’s reelection had been a huge upset, but the details escaped me. I said, “That’s quite a charge. Does he have evidence, Katrina?”
“He says there is something we should check. In the fall of ’96, at the height of Yeltsin’s unpopularity, the American President came to Moscow and on Russian television gave a speech praising Yeltsin. The visit was deliberately timed to influence the election. The President even went so far as to justify the Chechen War, telling the Russian people it was the same as our own civil war.”
I sat back and fingered my coffee cup. Katrina’s voice, tone, and demeanor conveyed that she believed every word of this. Of course her actions the night before further conveyed that her objectivity got lost somewhere in Alexi’s sheets.
Since I wasn’t sleeping with Arbatov, I hadn’t lost mine, however. A very powerful impulse wanted to believe Arbatov, because if there was such a cabal, and the Morrisons were trying to expose it, well, then, we had a defense to build on. That said, the notion that our own President was a puppet at the hands of this group had sort of drop-kicked this thing fairly far beyond the goalposts of credulity.
I very politely asked, “So he’s saying this cabal arranged the President’s speech?”
“I think what he was suggesting is that the cabal has tentacles into Washington, that it could actually control the White House and our actions toward Russia.”
“Like… what the President says… his policies, whatever?”
“Something like that, yes. Alexi said he was always amazed that Russia could get away with what it was doing, or at least appeared to be doing, in the former republics, and Washington never took any firm stand or action.”
“I see.” I put down the spoon I had been playing with. “That’s a very bold charge. And does he have evidence of this?”
“He said we should go find the President’s speech.”
“That’s it?”
My skepticism was beginning to get on her nerves, and she put down her spoon, too, and said, “Stop it.”
“Stop what? Evidence, Katrina. You’re an attorney. Where’s the evidence?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re pissed because of my relationship with Alexi.”
“Ah, well, now that you’ve raised the issue, it’s in play. In fact, you’re right. It’s unprofessional and perhaps damaging to our client.”
“Unprofessional?”
“That’s what I said.”
She nodded and drew a few deep breaths. “I see.”
I coldly asked, “Now, do you have anything else to report?”
She even more coldly replied, “Only one thing. I told Alexi you were having difficulty believing these things without corroboration. He said that can be very easily cleared up. He said you should speak with the Morrisons and the CIA. It turns out the CIA agrees with him completely. They’ve been hunting for this cabal the whole time as well.”
My jaw dropped, or whatever it is people do when they are experiencing a cold shock. I said, “The CIA agrees with him?”
“That’s what I said.” She stood up and looked down at me. “I have to pack, and if you don’t mind, I’ll take my own taxi to the airport.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Katrina and I arrived at Dulles International Airport at 10:00 A.M. and went straight to baggage claim. The whole plane ride back to America we had sat side by side without exchanging a word. We had watched three lousy movies because it gave us an excuse to ignore each other.
Our relationship was fraying. I’m no expert on women, but the yardstick I have learned to go by is that when they frown and sneer at you more than they smile, love is not in the air. Astounding flash of the obvious you might say, but back in kindergarten those girls who sneered at me the most actually wanted to play doctor. And recall, please, that when it comes to men and women everything is complicated. And of course, generationally, culturally, and otherwise, we were wildly different, and that spilled over also.
I spent a good part of the flight, however, contemplating Alexi’s assertion that the CIA agreed that this mysterious cabal existed and was ripping apart his region. I couldn’t make sense of it. I mean, if the CIA knew such a thing, why hadn’t it been made public? There are things you keep from the public and things you don’t. True, the CIA has this weird thing about secrecy that sometimes goes to extremes, but I couldn’t comprehend how this one could be kept in the bag.
In keeping with Russian efficiency, it turned out our luggage had gone to who-the-hell-knows-where, adding to my already foul mood. After forty minutes of hassling with the lost claims folks, we drove straight to the Virginia office, where Imelda was waiting. Safes were parked everywhere and having run out of wall space, Imelda had begun stuffing them in my tiny cramped office, turning it into an unusable storeroom.
Imelda looked awful-her hair was frazzled, and papers were piled in stacks and mounds everywhere.
She shoved her glasses down on her nose and said, “Hope you two had a great friggin’ time while Imelda been doin’ the real work.”
Sensing that my mood was already crappy enough, she stopped grumbling and said, “Ain’t found nothin’ that’s gonna help, tell you that. We gotta client with a trouser snake problem. They got it on tape, too, him talking to girlfriends and ordering up whores from some escort service.”
“Right… we know. What else?”
“They had him under physical surveillance for a few months, so there’s safes full of logs and reports. Might be twenty or so entries where he went to hotels, sometimes at lunch, sometimes in midafternoons, usually with women who did not resemble his wife.” She rubbed her eyes, another sign of how stressed out and exhausted she was, then added, “The good shit ain’t here yet, though. Golden’s still sittin’ on it.”
I patted her shoulder, and Katrina stayed to help clean up or, more likely, avoid me, while I went into my office and called Eddie’s secretary, saying I was ready to meet.
That distasteful task done, I called Homer’s house to warn him I was coming. In reply, he just hung up the phone. Forty minutes later I pulled into the circular driveway in front of the big white-brick house. The Porsche had a temporary metal fence constructed around it-not wanting to seem too uninventive, I crouched down and let the air out of the rear tires.
