We crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge and took a left, heading toward Garrison. After about two miles I told Katrina to pull over at the next dirt road leading into the woods, which she did. I reached across Martin, swung open the car door, and shoved him out into the mud. He flew out face first and yelped. I came out right behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of his fancy Burberry raincoat, and dragged him into the woods. Katrina followed.
She asked, “Where you are taking him?” using a fabricated Russian accent.
“Where nobody can see me cut his throat,” I yelled. The shock of that registered instantly on Martin’s face.
Then we were into the bushes. I dragged and shoved Martin through the thick underbrush and every time he tried to stop, I slapped him across the head, the loud whacks echoing through the forest. We moved like this for half a mile, him occasionally slipping and falling onto the ground, and me kicking him in the ass every time he did, because Martin was a guy who’d never been humiliated in his life, never been subjected to such indignities, a guy who’d led a perfectly spoiled existence-Groton, Yale, a comfortable writer’s life.
I finally grabbed his collar from behind and threw him stomach first onto the ground. He let out a loud “whoomph,” then looked up, his expression hurt and terrified. “W-what do you want? Money? I’ll pay you. I’ll never tell anybody, I swear.”
This is the standard plea of all kidnap victims, trying to regain some sense of power, some control over their destiny. It’s a natural response to try to negotiate, to find your tormentor’s motive, to assert any kind of grip you can get on the situation.
I kicked him in the chest so hard that he went somersaulting backward and onto his stomach. I reached down and lifted him by his collar and the back of his pants, then hurled him through the air. He came down on his stomach with a loud scream.
He had to know I was much stronger than him, that he was powerless, that negotiation was out of the question. He had to know he had no control. He had to feel the sheer terror of being in the hands of a wildman.
I bent down on my haunches and put my face squarely in front of his. I flashed the hunting knife.
His eyelids stretched open, while Katrina said, “Oh, God, I cannot watch this. I must return back to car. I will be getting sick.”
Martin’s eyes darted from me to her. You knew exactly what he was thinking, because the thoughts scampering through his addled head were exactly what he was meant to think. What was with this woman’s accent? And she was obviously his only chance against the pitiless bastard with the knife. If she left, he was dead.
He yelled something in Russian, his voice trembling with fear.
Katrina said something back, and I yelled, “You two stop it! Speak goddamn English.”
Katrina coldly said, “He begs us not to kill him. He says he can make it worth our while.”
I let loose a nasty chuckle. “And your government would find us and kill us. Let’s get this over with.”
The shock of that registered very clearly on Martin’s face. “The Russian government?” he asked, sounding dismayed. “Please, there has to be a mistake. W-what are you talking about?”
I inched closer like I had no intention of discussing this with a man I intended to butcher.
“Please,” Martin begged, looking imploringly into the eye-slots of my ski mask. “You’re making a mistake. The Russians don’t want me dead.”
I was shaking my head, while Katrina swiftly said, “The order I have been given is most clear. You are to be disposed of. Is no mistake.”
“No, no, it’s wrong. I work for the Russians,” he squealed, literally howling as I positioned the knife against his throat.
Katrina barked, “Stop! Not yet.” Then to him, “What are you talking about?”
As scared as he was, he was no fool. In that instant he realized that Katrina was the boss of this operation, and that I was most likely a local hire under her employ.
His eyeballs shifted in her direction. “Please,” he sniveled. “Please listen to me. This is a mistake. I work for the Russians. I swear I do. Your people don’t want me dead.”
I snorted with disdain, while Katrina looked puzzled. “You are being ridiculous. You do not work for us.”
“No, no. I swear I do,” he said, completely confused, because he did work for the Russians, and if she did, too, then what was the deal here?
I moved the knife a centimeter to the left, enough to draw a little blood, enough to make his whole body shudder.
“Don’t listen to his bullshit,” I growled. “Let me cut his throat and collect my damn money.”
“You will be doing what you are told,” said Katrina in a most commanding and imperious tone. She took a few steps to get closer to us.
She put her hands on her hips and bent over Martin. “I am SVR agent. I have been ordered by Alexi Arbatov to dispose of you. Nobody has been making mistake here.”
“No, you… you’re wrong,” he assured her, struggling to cringe away from the knife. “P-please, I swear it. Arbatov’s a traitor. He works for the Americans.”
Katrina reached down and pulled my knife hand away from his throat. Still bent over, she stared down at him curiously and let loose a most convincing snort. “Alexi Arbatov is deputy head of SVR. He is Viktor Yurichenko’s protege. And you are saying he is traitor?” She let go of my hand. “Go ahead and kill him.”
“No, I swear!” he yelled, speaking rapid-fire. “Arbatov’s been giving the Americans information for ten years. Yurichenko knows that. I’m Viktor’s man. I’ve been working for him for twenty years. I swear. Please, don’t kill me. Just ask him. He’ll vouch for me. You’ll see.”
And in that instant, Katrina and I both froze. Martin was working for Yurichenko? And Viktor knew about Alexi? This wasn’t what we had expected to hear. I had figured Martin was working for Russian military intelligence or one of Russia’s other intelligence agencies, but for Viktor? For that sweet little old man who had adopted Alexi? Were it not for that ski mask, Martin would’ve seen an expression of shock and horror on my face. I glanced at Katrina. She had spun away from Martin, as though she were thinking this through, a very facile feint to hide her face.
As it was, Martin detected something in our physical responses to his confession. Fortunately, he mistook it for progress.
“Don’t you see?” he nearly screamed, feeling his chance coming into reach. “Why did Arbatov tell you he wanted me dead? What did he say I did?”
Katrina faced him, and I had to give her credit, she gave no hint of her horror. “Reason is simple. You helped expose the American general Morrison, who was most valuable SVR asset, and you are critical to American case to convict him. Unless you disappear. We owe Morrison this for his brave service, yes?”
“No, no,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Morrison was never a Russian spy. Morrison was set up. He was my cut-out. Viktor and I picked him ten… twelve years ago. That’s why I hired him to work for me. That was our plan from the start. The whole idea was to make him my bureaucratic twin so we could use him to cover me. Don’t you see?”
I edged the knife back closer to his throat. “This is bullshit, lady. You’re not going to let this worm lie his way out of this, are you? For Chrissakes, I want my money.”
Katrina held up her hand, slapping a leash on her overeager killer. She appeared to be pondering this matter, like she wasn’t sure what in the hell was happening here.
“Listen,” Martin said, his voice now cajoling, “if you kill me, when Viktor finds out, he’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. Believe me. He’s like a father to me.”
“Convince me this is true,” Katrina ordered.
“I’ve known Viktor thirty years, ever since I was in college. I wrote three books,” Martin said, still speaking rapidly, his brain and mouth in overdrive, trying desperately to convince her. “He told me to write the books, for Godsakes. He gave me the names of American CIA agents to put in them. He told me about CIA operations so I could expose them to the American people. He let me listen to wiretaps of American officials debating arms control policies. I swear to God it’s true. You can check. For Godsakes, all three books were best-sellers.”
“I do not have time to check this,” Katrina said.
A fresh idea struck him. “Then check the newspapers for everything they’re saying Morrison gave them. I can tell you the story behind every document I sent to Viktor. I was the President’s best friend, for Godsakes. Do you
