The Kingmaker (26 page)

She sat back down on the bed, took a sip, and said, “Let’s start with Georgia. How much do you know about it?”

“Let’s see. Small country, south of Russia, Stalin came from there, so they don’t have a lot to brag about. How’s that?”

“I didn’t realize you were such a man of the world.”

“I once watched a three-hour PBS special on political issues in Eritrea. It completely cured me of my compulsive curiosity toward countries I don’t really give a crap about.”

“I see.” She took another sip and no doubt considered the fact that I was a moron. I actually knew more about Georgia than I admitted, like I know the people there speak a language called Georgian, but I don’t believe in showing off.

She said, “You’ll recall that this was where Morrison and Alexi first met, back in 1990 or 1991?” I nodded as she added, “Alexi confessed that, yes, their first meeting was a setup.”

“Why?”

“Because when the KGB and border troops were sent in by Gorbachev to control the riots, they were under strict instructions not to respond violently. If the Georgians turned violent, they were supposed to withdraw. Gorbachev didn’t want them to create an explosive situation. Instead they committed two massacres that incited the rest of the Georgian people and caused the situation to fly out of hand.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Alexi and Viktor suspected that somebody manipulated the situation. Somebody persuaded the KGB to ignore Gorbachev’s order, to create the massacres, and undermine Gorbachev’s position. Alexi wanted to find out what the CIA knew about it.”

“We’re still stuck back in 1991.”

“Don’t get impatient. After the Soviet split-up, the Georgian people turned to Eduard Shevardnadze and asked him to return and lead the country. Are you familiar with him?”

Indeed I was. Shevardnadze had been Gorbachev’s foreign minister during the eighties, had orchestrated the peaceful end of the cold war, and was a huge international hero as a result.

I nodded and she continued, “The Georgians thought that if Shevardnadze took over, he had the international stature to reduce Georgia’s dependence on Russia and open ties with the West. He knew all the world’s leaders and had that fantastic reputation. So he came back, and one of his first steps was to start wooing Western companies to build pipelines across Georgia to carry trans-Caucasus oil and natural gas to the Black Sea. Russia didn’t like that plan. For obvious reasons it wanted the pipelines to go through Russia.”

I yawned. I mean, this was a very interesting history lesson, but it was late at night and Georgia sat right beside Eritrea on my give-a-crap meter.

She somehow detected my growing disinterest and picked up the pace a bit. “The point is that before Shevardnadze could even get his balance, a civil war erupted in Georgia. The Abkhasians who live in the northwest corner of the country somehow got their hands on a large arsenal of tanks and artillery. There was a very short, very brutal war, but because of all these tanks and artillery, it was completely lopsided. By 1995, the Abkhasians had defeated the Georgian army and driven tens of thousands of Georgians out of the Abkhazia.”

“The Abkhasians you say?” She nodded, and I said, “Well, I don’t recall it.”

“Stop being a jerk. When that happened, the Russians
offered to broker a cease-fire, Georgia had no choice but to agree, and Russian troops have been stationed inside Georgia ever since. The effect was to castrate both Shevardnadze and his plans for the pipeline. After all, who’s going to build a multibillion dollar artery through such an unstable country?”

“Okay, got that.”

“What piqued Alexi’s curiosity were the T-72 tanks and BMP fighting vehicles and heavy artillery. Alexi said it was top-of-the-line equipment that just mysteriously appeared.”

“Couldn’t they have bought it? Russia was a mess back then, its troops weren’t being paid or housed, and they were selling anything to feed themselves.”

“I asked him the same thing.”

“And?”

“He said rifles and grenades were for sale on every street corner. But the heavy equipment, tanks and artillery, were strictly controlled and well secured.”

“And there’s a point to this, I presume.”

“Yes, and you should pay better attention because this is where it gets very interesting.”

“I’m paying so much attention my brain’s about to freeze.”

“Wiseass. The point is that Alexi was tasked by Viktor to find out where this equipment was coming from. It was Russian equipment. It had to be manufactured here. He sent out teams to the battlefield to collect serial numbers from destroyed tanks and artillery. They brought back the serial numbers, ran them through the Ministry of Defense’s databases, and none of those serial numbers existed.”

“That is strange.”

“It gets stranger.” Next came a very long tale about the same kinds of shenanigans in the war between Armenia and Azerbaijan. I didn’t understand what the war was about, or what stake Russia had in the fight, except that somebody mysterious also gave lots of tanks and artillery to the Azerbaijanis, who used them to win. This was followed by an even longer description
about how Yeltsin never wanted to fight the Chechens when they declared independence from Russia until this same cabal organized and supplied an uprising of Russians citizens inside Chechnya that failed miserably and shamed Yeltsin into sending in the Russian army. Indeed, Katrina was in the process of explaining how this cabal also scuttled each of the Chechen War cease-fires, most recently by blowing off bombs in Moscow apartment buildings and blaming it on Chechen terrorists, when I’d finally had enough.

I interrupted her spiel, saying, “Do you believe in this cabal?”

“Yes . . . I think.” With some exasperation, she said, “Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Sure. Russia has been meddling in the affairs of the countries it used to own and doesn’t really want to let go of.”

“That’s how it’s been made to appear, but that’s not what it is. Alexi said the Russian government’s policy was hands off. It was drawn into those situations but didn’t cause them.”

“Katrina, do I need to remind you that these guys in frumpy suits with bushy eyebrows have more experience concocting foreign revolutions and wars than anybody? It’s what they do. Don’t be naive.”

“I’m not. And please recall that my parents fled from this region. I know something about it, and I don’t look at it through rose-colored lenses.”

“Point in your favor.”

“Thank you.”

“Are we done?”

“No, there’s more. A lot more. The same kinds of mysterious things have been happening in Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Belarus, just about all the former Soviet republics. This secretive cabal has been treating them all like banana republics, engineering coups, murders, even wars. These were the things Alexi was reporting to Bill and Mary.”

“I see. Do you mind if I get another drink?”

“Get me one, too.”

As I was reaching into the minibar, I said, “What did you have for dinner?”

“What?”

“For dinner, what did you have?”

“I had venison.”

“And Alexi?”

“A bowl of borscht.”

“And did you drink?”

“We split a bottle of wine.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, why?”

“Big bottle? Small bottle?”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, I’ll stop it. Did Alexi offer any proof?”

“Of course not. If he had proof, he and Viktor would’ve exposed and ended this cabal years ago.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. And damn it, stop condescending to me.”

“I’m not. I’m treating you like a fellow attorney. You, yourself, described this as a fantastic tale. I need evidence, proof, something.”

“I’ll try to get it tomorrow night.”

“What do you mean?”

“We made another date for tomorrow night. Alexi’s taking me to a ballet, then out for drinks.”

I jumped out of my chair and walked across the room toward her. A new and very disturbing thought had suddenly popped into my head. “You made another date? Without consulting me?”

“Relax. Everything went fine tonight.”

“Really? Where were you all night? Don’t tell me you were in the restaurant till this hour?”

“Cool it. I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“You don’t . . .” I drew a heavy breath. “Answer me . . . please.”

“We left the restaurant around nine. I went to Alexi’s apartment, where we continued our talk.”

I shook my head. “And?”

“And what?”

“And did you . . . you know?”

She stood up. She pointed a finger in my face. “Don’t go there.”

“He’s a witness for Godsakes.”

“He’s not a witness. You’ll never get him into a court.”

“Regardless . . . did you . . . you know?”

“Unbelievable.” She put down her wine and shook her head. “You can be so pathetic.”

Me? Pathetic? My definition of pathetic is sleeping with a foreign agent and losing your perspective when you’re supposed to be collecting evidence that can keep your client from getting thirty thousand volts jammed up his ass. But that’s just me. Silly me.

I put my hands on her arms. “Katrina, listen. I know this is intoxicating. A foreign capital, espionage, handsome rogues with mysterious tales to tell, and all that crap. Don’t be fooled.”

She backed away. “You hypocrite. You used to sleep with our client’s wife, and now you’re wondering if I’ve stepped over the line?”

“Don’t confuse the issues.”

“No, I’ll leave it to you to do that.” We traded nasty stares until she said, “And no, I didn’t sleep with Alexi.”

Oops. She lifted her purse off the bed and left me, alone, stammering something incomprehensible. I gave her a minute to get back inside her room, remove her earrings, get settled, and so forth. I knocked gently on the door that connected our rooms, and said, “I’m sorry.”

After the fifth time I said it, I realized it was a lost cause and went to bed.

L
ater that day was worse. Katrina was coldly and efficiently avoiding me. I knocked on her door a dozen times and called on the phone two dozen times. No answer. She was there, though. She was walking on her tiptoes, but I could hear her breathing and the toilet flushing.

I called Imelda, briefly explained what happened, and sought her advice. She was a woman and should be able to offer a solution to this mess. She said I should kill myself in some extravagantly excruciating manner and leave a note explaining I was sorry. She said it wouldn’t buy forgiveness but would show that my heart was in the right place. She further informed me that the calls from Eddie’s office were now incessant, and he was threatening to withdraw the offer of a meeting if I didn’t get back to D.C. immediately.

I called the embassy and spoke with the same lousy political officer who had given the green light for our extended stay. I told him to send Golden a message confirming our situation or
I would call a judge back in D.C. and have the officer cited for impeding our case.

I finished the Jackie Collins novel. The heroine ended up with the sensitive, handsome guy who was hung like a horse and made love like a tireless animal—big surprise.

At five o’clock I yelled through the connecting door, “Katrina, I know you’re in there. And I know you’re leaving any moment. We need to talk before you go. This is business, Katrina. Be professional about this.”

No answer. Not a peep of acknowledgment.

Ten minutes passed before there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and she stared up at me, deadpan expression, hair still blond and swept up, a new dress, this one passionately red in color, and although slightly less revealing, still sexy enough to have men tugging at their crotches. I, however, had learned to keep my prudish observations to myself.

I smiled very charmingly and said, “Hello.”

“I have to leave. What do you want?”

Goodness. “You look . . . well, great.”

“Thank you.”

Didn’t sound like thank you. Sounded like screw you. I said, “Can you step in a moment . . . please?”

She did, as I said, “Look, I got out of line last night. I’m sorry.”

“What else?”

“About tonight . . .”

“What about it?”

“I’ve thought about everything you told me. Look, I’m not saying it’s not true.”

She appeared mildly surprised. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m a typical American, and what the hell do I know about this region? Maybe it’s just like Arbatov says.”

“Are you humoring me?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Then you agree with me?”

“Not yet. Tonight, you need to press Arbatov for
substantiation. Katrina, it’s a wild story, and you and I are inclined to
want
to believe it. Golden won’t be. And a jury won’t be. We need to get something hard out of him.”

She regarded me a moment, still rather coldly. “Have you even considered Alexi’s position in this?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been working with our government for over a decade. He has done this as a matter of conscience. Now he could be in serious trouble.”

“And as the defense attorney for a man accused of treason, I’m in serious trouble. What’s your point?”

“Now he’s working with us to save Bill. He’s risking these meetings with me and disclosing everything he knows, out of loyalty to Morrison.”

“And please be sure to tell him I appreciate that.”

“What I’m telling you is that he is a remarkable man.”

“Yes he is. I agree.”

“Courageous, principled, and noble.”

“All the above.”

She studied my face to see if I was serious. I was, and she said, “No curfews.”

“Uh . . . okay.”

“No second-guessing what I do.”

“No guessing at all. Honest.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Breakfast it is.”

“You’re buying. And fresh flowers on the table would be nice.”

“Roses. A dozen of them.”

“You can’t get roses in Moscow in November.”

“Right . . . ragweed or whatever.”

She walked out, leaving me with the uncomfortable sensation that I had somehow agreed to something below the surface of our conversation. It struck me that she might be infatuated with Alexi Arbatov. It further struck me that the problem with a
civilian contract employee is that you have very little leverage over them. Were she a soldier, I would have reminded her of her duty and my rank, and that would be that.