He withdrew a few sheets of notepaper, and I was pleased to see my contribution wasn’t limited to providing entertainment for him. “In late 1990, I was shifted to the Policy Planning Bureau at State.”
I said, “I’m not familiar with it.”
“It’s the internal think tank of State. I was working with a few other Sovietologists to help manage the changes.”
“And still handling Arbatov?”
“Some of the time. I’d gotten busy and that was the year he asked me to use Mary as my surrogate.”
“Busy with what?”
“To start with, separatist riots in Georgia were threatening Gorbachev’s grip on power. The conservatives in his government were furious with him, believing his perestroika policies had incited the unrest. Gorbachev tried to mollify the hard-liners and sent the KGB in to handle the protests.”
“I recall something about some massacres, right?”
“Correct.” He looked up from his notes and said, “It was a regrettable move, because it incited more riots and protests. It also undermined Gorbachev’s image as a great reformer. It was the beginning of the end for him. Boris Yeltsin was rabble-rousing in the streets about how it was time for real change.”
“And what position did you take?”
“I wrote a few memorandums predicting Gorbachev was through. I recommended we open channels with Yeltsin.”
“And how was this perceived?”
“Like I shit in the swimming pool. The Bush people had crafted their whole Soviet policy around Gorbachev. They were focused on unifying Germany and were convinced they needed Gorbachev’s support to accomplish that.”
“So… what? How did that impact you?”
“Suddenly a lot less actions were flowing into my in-box, and people stopped inviting me to meetings, the usual bureaucratic signs of a fall from grace. You know the funny thing? It served me in pretty good stead when Bush lost the election.”
“How come?”
“Because the new team read my memorandums and liked what I’d written. They also felt Bush had blown it. By cozying up to Gorbachev, he’d poisoned the well with Yeltsin. Like the Chicken Kiev speech.”
“And what was the Chicken Kiev speech?”
Morrison frowned, put out that he had to explain this. “In the midst of all the upheaval, Bush actually flew to Kiev and gave a public address urging the Soviet peoples to rally around Gorbachev and stay within the Soviet Union.”
“Tell me this is not so. George Bush?”
“Ironic, isn’t it? On the cusp of winning the cold war, our President is in Ukraine beseeching the enslaved to stay in their chains. I was outraged. I sent up several stiffly worded memorandums.”
I said, “And what happened when the new team came in?”
“By a stroke of good fortune, somebody found my memorandums and showed them to the President’s old college roommate, an academician who’d written several books on the Soviet Union and the cold war. He was made an Assistant Secretary of State, and as things later turned out, the White House turned over all the former Soviet states to him.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Are we talking Milton Martin?”
“Yeah, Milt. He brought me in and interviewed me. I made a good impression and he offered me a position.”
“And what position was that?”
“His special assistant.”
“You were Martin’s special assistant?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Right. That’s what you said.” I very curiously asked, “And what did that involve?”
“Well, Milt’s problem was he hadn’t spent any time in government. He was vulnerable. Since I had considerable Washington experience, the idea was that I’d represent him and his views in Washington, which freed him up to travel as much as he needed.”
I kept nodding my head and tried to take this in. The title of Assistant Secretary of Anything is ordinarily a fairly banal position in Washington. Secretaries of Something are walking gods. Deputy and Undersecretaries of Whatever are mystical creatures with lethal wands. But there are so many Assistant Secretaries that they’re like bunnies in the forest, living in the shadow of the redwoods, groping silently around the roots and hoping not to get stepped on.
Milt Martin was an exception to the rule. Actually, the exception. He’d been one of the President’s best chums since they’d roomed together in college, and even the Secretaries of Something trembled when he walked into a room. In Washington, image trumps all, and whether he did or didn’t, everybody believed Martin had the power to pick up the phone and call his old roomie and say, “Yo, boss, you know that jerk you hired to head the Treasury Department? Well, he pisses me off. Fire him.”
Nor did I have to wonder how those critical memorandums worked their way into Martin’s office. Morrison had few equals as a bureaucratic panderer-I’d seen him in action and knew this firsthand. He’d likely found a slick way to have somebody bring them to Martin’s attention.
I said, “And how long were you Martin’s assistant?”
“Four years.”
“Did you travel with him?”
“Not in the beginning. After a year, though, he said I was too indispensable. I handled everything: his correspondence, his speeches, his position papers.”
“Were you still reporting your contacts with Russians?”
“Shit, how could I? On a trip I’d meet hundreds of Russians. I’d be in conference rooms where they were coming in and out. Afterward there’d be a big reception or a dinner with dozens of guests.”
“That’s not good. The prosecution can say you had constant contacts that afforded you ample chances to betray secrets.”
“I was rarely alone. I was almost always with Milt.”
“And he was preoccupied. And he trusted you. He wasn’t watching to see if you were passing microfilms or documents.”
“And what do you expect me to do about that, Drummond?”
“Nothing.” I rubbed my temples as I contemplated the ease with which Eddie could show Morrison’s opportunities for treason. “It’s a vulnerability we have to be aware of. What happened next?”
“After the President was reelected, I told Milt I needed to move on. I explained how the Army worked, that I needed new, increasingly more important positions in order to get promoted.”
“And how did he take that?”
“You know, he said he’d been thinking the same thing. He suggested a position on the National Security Council staff.”
“And you said?”
“Are you kidding? It was perfect. He and I shared a very close personal relationship, were in sync on the issues, and we both knew we’d be watching each other’s backsides.”
“And what did your new duties entail?”
“I headed up the former Soviet Affairs part of the staff. I was the guy who prepared all the interagency policy papers, who briefed the President before trips, who coordinated our positions toward all the former Soviet states.”
I felt a headache start to pulse. Ordinarily an impressive resume is just that: impressive. In his case, it was an anchor tied to his feet. In trying to ascertain what he’d been privy to, I’d learned that for ten years he’d seen everything. I mean, think of what damage Ames and Hanssen had done-both low-level spooks-and all the excitement they’d caused.
I asked, “And what was Mary doing during all those years?”
“Several jobs. She was in Analysis, doing the same kind of work I’d been doing. But when the Ames affair broke, a number of Soviet specialists were caught in the backlash. People who had nothing to do with Ames were beartrapped by other improprieties-cheating on taxes, drinking too much, all kinds of things. Everybody got scrutinized, and the result was a bloodbath. Those who survived became even more valuable because the ranks of trained Sovietologists had been thinned so much.”
“And Mary was one of those survivors?”