The Kingmaker (13 page)

“Define huge,” said I, not all that nicely.

“Sometimes five thousand dollars.”

“Mary’s a professional woman,” I replied in her defense. “Impressions are important in her line of work.”

“Of course they are,” she responded. Then she said, “The point is, nothing jumped out at me, and I doubt anything jumped out at them.”

I added, “And you have to figure, Mary’s father is sitting on a big pot of gold, and she’s an only child. Instead of all the hassle involved in treason, Bill could’ve just bumped off the old bastard and ended up filthy rich overnight.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Katrina agreed.

“So, let’s not waste more time on money,” I ordered, and they both nodded. This might not sound like any great leap forward, but when you’re facing infinite possibilities, anything that ushers you into the realm of the finite is a huge relief. If Eddie tried
to claim Morrison sold his loyalty, I felt fairly confident we’d stick that where the sun never shines.

I looked at Imelda. “Get the evidence and inventory under control, then start wading through it.”

Katrina said, “Some of the tapped phone conversations are in Russian. Dog-ear those and give them to me.”

Imelda blew some bubbles, flapped her elbows, and stomped out to get started. Katrina shot me an anxious look. She said, “That’s a lot of boxes to go through. And there’s more coming.”

“It’ll be a cakewalk for Imelda,” I assured her with the kind of bold self-confidence that comes only when it’s someone else doing the work.

I then shooed her out of my office and called a think tank up in New York City. I made an appointment to be there at three o’clock, and then called and booked two seats on the shuttle.

T
he society for International Affairs, or SIA is one of those stodgy old institutions everybody always wants to join as it means you have become part of the Establishment. It was founded back in 1917, according to the shiny brass plaque tacked on the wall beside its entrance, and is a collection of out-of-job diplomats, former power-wielders, and lots of folks with big money who like to make one another’s acquaintance.

The ex-government people like the rich people because they pay the foundation’s bills, allowing the ex-government folks a cushy, prestigious, well-paid nest while they wait for some political patrons to fight their way back into power and give them new important-sounding jobs. The well-heeled bill-payers like the arrangement because it gives them tax writeoffs, and the ex-government types introduce them to people in power overseas, who then help the rich people get richer.

At least this is my understanding of how this kind of nonprofit organization works, which does beg the question of why it’s called a nonprofit, because frankly it strikes me that all kinds of people profit wildly from it.

Anyway, it’s housed in a granite-faced mini-mansion on Park and 54th, and the receptionist inside the door asked if we were expected, and, if so, by whom, to which I politely replied that the “whom” was Mr. Milton Martin, former roommate of a guy who no longer wielded power.

He asked us to wait, which we did, till a fairly attractive, mildly buxom young woman in a conservative blue flannel business suit came down to retrieve us. Her name was Nancy, she pertly informed us with a manufactured smile, and wouldn’t we care to follow her up the marbled staircase?

We took a left on the second floor and ended up in a large suite at the end of the hallway, Katrina asking Nancy things like what does SIA do, and how long had she worked for Martin, and our escort was saying, “You’re so lucky to have caught him in today. He’s in such demand. He’s always traveling. He’s so intelligent and accomplished, and he has such great contacts over there.”

The “over there” obviously being the former Soviet states, because after all, Milt Martin spent eight years managing every tiny particle and pinnacle of our relations with that vast foreign group of lands. And Nancy was wasting her sales spiel on us—we couldn’t afford to rent two minutes of this guy’s time.

I mumbled, “Yeah, we’re just damned lucky.”

She nodded that indeed we were. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll see if he’s free.”

Which I assumed to be an oxymoron, because what Milt Martin was doing since he was no longer a government employee was renting his thick Rolodex to the highest bidder and reeling in the lucre as fast as he could. The word “free” had slipped out of his vocabulary, dictionary, thesaurus, whatever.

I spent my minute studying the assortment of photographs placed strategically on the walls, showing Martin in a variety of poses with a variety of faces I mostly didn’t recognize, aside from a shot of him and Yeltsin playing tennis. The rest I presumed to be the potentates of the other countries created out of the Big Bang. There were also plenty of brass plates and other trinkets that foreign leaders like to present to one another to show folks back home how internationally esteemed they are.

Why had I flown up here to meet with this guy? Well, he had worked beside Morrison for four of the years he’d supposedly committed treason and might be able to shed some light on that. But principally because the first thing every aspiring defense attorney learns is to test the credibility of his client. The problem with our profession is that their lies become your lies. That can be okay if you know they’re lying. It can be less than okay if you don’t but the prosecutor does.

Adding to that, Morrison’s veracity was all the more crucial to us because Eddie was hogging the important evidence, so all we had to go on were Morrison’s insights.

My clever ulterior motive—the only real lead Morrison had given us thus far, aside from Alexi Arbatov, was Milt Martin. Martin was about to become a barometer to Morrison’s integrity, and along the way we’d twist his arm to become a character witness, since he’d obviously liked Morrison enough to make him special assistant and get him a job in the White House. It never hurts to have a world-famous figure say what a great guy you are.

Nancy came back out and primly ushered us into Martin’s office. Over the years, I had seen plenty of pictures of Martin in the newspapers and watched him doing his thing on the talk show circuit, but that still didn’t prepare me for him in the flesh.

He had the biggest nose I’d ever seen. The rest of his features were fairly tiny and ordinary, making his schnozz seem even more extravagantly gigantic. He wore large-rimmed glasses in an obvious effort to deflect attention from his nose, but it was futile. It looked like the Eiffel Tower bent over sideways. If the man sneezed, we’d all be dead.

He popped up from his chair with a big frothy smile and stuck his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You’re obviously Major Drummond, and you’re obviously Miss Mazorski. Please, call me Milt.”

Knowing our names and acting effused to meet a pair of complete strangers is one of the oldest diplomat’s tricks in the books. It is meant to impress and I was, as intended, impressed. This guy was best buddies with presidents and an array of foreign muckety-mucks, and to be treated as the high point of his day was seductive.

I said, “Mist—uh, Milt, thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice. General Morrison told me you two were very close.”

He gave me a surprised glance. “Close? I wouldn’t say we were close. No . . . definitely not close.”

I took a step back. “Well, isn’t that odd? He gave me the impression you were nearly Siamese twins.”

He appeared perplexed, then suddenly relieved, almost amused. He said, “Why don’t we sit? Nancy, perhaps our guests would like something? Coffee? Tea?”

“Thanks, nothing,” I said, and Katrina waved her off also. We ended up around a big glass table. He smiled at Katrina and said to her, “Please don’t take offense, but you don’t look like a conventional attorney.”

“Who’d want to?”

“Good point.” He chuckled and asked, “So what can I do for you?” He was still smiling, although truthfully, it was damned hard to tell because his nose nearly hid his lips.

I tried to stop staring. “We know you’re busy, so we won’t take up much of your time. We only have a few questions.”

“Questions? I’m afraid I’m confused. The investigators have spent hours with me . . . I told them everything I knew.”

That shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Anyway, I said, “Right, but they’re from the other team. They don’t share that knowledge with us.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “Ask anything you wish. Whatever I can do to help.”

Katrina said, “Could you start by telling us what you told the investigators?”

“In abbreviated fashion, I told them Bill worked for me a few years, that he was a capable officer, diligent, hardworking, moderately intelligent. I had a generally favorable impression of him.”

I gave him a curious look. “Didn’t he travel with you, handle your correspondence, represent your views in the interagency arena?”

His head was shaking long before I finished. “That’s a terrible exaggeration. True, he was my special assistant, but only after he implored me. He said the Army wouldn’t release him to work for me unless he had an important-sounding title. I was new to Washington and easily hoodwinked.” He scratched his cheek and added, “Well, what’s in a title anyway, right?”

This from a guy whose own former title nowhere near conveyed the havoc he could wreak with one simple phone call. However, it did fit with my impression of Morrison, shamming and finagling for every ounce of prestige.

“So Morrison didn’t do all those things?” Katrina asked.

He half-chuckled. “I hate this term, but Bill was a bag carrier.”

I asked, “Were you personally close?”

His expression became mildly abashed. “I hope this doesn’t sound boastful, but I received weekly invitations to the White House, from heads of state, from every ambassador in Washington. I count among my closest friends the most powerful people in our capital. Bill was one of many people who worked for me. I was friendly toward him, but professionally friendly . . . not personally friendly, if you understand the distinction.”

Put that way, yes, I did understand. Martin moved in a rarefied world, and, really, why would he befriend a guy like Morrison? Indeed, in any world, why would anyone. . . but, I digress.

Katrina said to him, “Didn’t you help Morrison get a job on the NSC staff?”

“Yes, that’s true. When the investigators came by, they even showed me copies of the letters I sent to the National Security Advisor recommending him. But Bill worked under me for four years, and frankly, I tend to be loyal to people who work for me. It can be a fault, but there it is. And truthfully, I was, well . . . relieved to see him go.”

I asked, “And why’s that?”

“He was becoming, um, what’s the right way to couch this? He was telling people around town how important he was to me. The word kept filtering back. He was exaggerating our relationship and his importance in our government. From your questions, it sounds like he’s still doing it.”

Indeed, it did. I asked, “Did you trust him?”

“Yes, actually. His exaggerations bothered me, but it’s an unfortunate trait of many people in Washington. I never suspected him of something like this.” He paused and gave me a rueful grimace. “I probably should have, shouldn’t I? I feel so stupid now. I was a fool.”

“One more question.” I tried to look endearing, friendly, whatever, and asked, “Would you agree to testify to his character?”

“I, uh . . . well, I don’t think I can do that.”

“I don’t mean to be difficult, but when he stopped working for you, you sent letters of recommendation to the National Security Advisor. You thought highly enough of him to believe he should work in the White House. Assume he’s innocent of these charges. Assume it’s all some big foul-up. Would you still refuse to testify?”

He looked confused. “I, I don’t think I can. I’ve already agreed to testify for the prosecution. I don’t think I can testify for both sides.”

I traded quick glances with Katrina, who was obviously thinking the same thing I was. I said, “I see.”

He held up both hands in helpless acknowledgment. “They approached me weeks ago. I told them I don’t have any knowledge of Bill’s treachery. They said that’s fine. They want me to testify on his tendency to exaggerate.”

Katrina asked, “And when was that?”

He looked at the ceiling. “Two weeks ago. A Wednesday, I believe. If it’s important I can have Nancy pinpoint it exactly.”

There was no need. We knew enough. Eddie hadn’t missed a beat. Aware that once they arrested Morrison he’d get a lawyer, and that that lawyer would root around for friendly character witnesses, they’d swept up as many as they could before the defense ever had a chance, before the arrest even happened.

I suppose I looked deflated. Martin peered at me and said, “Look, if there’s anything else I can do to help you, please let me know. My position in this whole affair is embarrassing. If Bill is vindicated, I’ll be elated. He worked for me . . . I helped him get his job in the White House. You understand?”

“I understand.”

He was shaking his head. “I still find it hard to believe Bill did this. He certainly never struck me as the type.”

On our way out, a flock of guys in turbans and robes were waiting by Nancy’s desk. She was busy saying, “. . . to have caught him in. He’s really a very busy man . . .” And so on.

As soon as we climbed into a cab for the ride to La Guardia, Katrina said, “Nice guy. That nose, though. If he could carry a musical note, he’d be rich.”

I chuckled. “He is rich. A smart guy, too. You never read any of his books?”

She shook her head.

“I never did, either. He wrote a few best-sellers that caused a big stir in conservative circles.”

“And would you happen to know what the stir was about?”

“If I recall, one revealed a bunch of dirty CIA operations in Vietnam, and another poked holes at our cold war strategy. Anyway, he speaks Russian, has lots of prestigious degrees, and was held in very high esteem in Russia. They say he could twist their arms to do things even the President couldn’t deliver.”