“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 really believe it was Morrison who was manipulating American policy? He was a lowly lieutenant colonel… I was the Assistant Secretary of State. It was me. Get the newspapers and I’ll prove it.”
Katrina was suddenly sounding much more amenable. “And how were you, an American big shot, getting these documents to Viktor?”
“That’s the beauty of it. Nobody suspected me. You’re not going to believe how we did it.”
“You had better make me believe how you were doing this,” she said, sounding ominous.
“The mailbox. We created a false mailbox in my apartment building in Washington. Whenever I wanted to send something to Viktor, I just dropped it in that mailbox and a courier dressed as a mailman checked it three times a day. Please, ask Viktor. You’ll be saving yourself. Arbatov’s a traitor and Viktor knows it.”
This seemed to jar Katrina’s suspicion, so she said, “Now I am having big credibility problem with you, Martin. If Viktor is knowing Arbatov is traitor, why is he having him work as number two in my bureau?”
“I don’t know,” Martin said, “but I’m not making it up. I swear. I think Viktor’s running him as a double agent or something. I’ve thought that for a long time. Look, I was the one who warned him about Arbatov.”
She let loose a cynical chuckle. “And how were you knowing about Arbatov?”
“Because Morrison told me. In his opening interview with me ten years ago. He wanted the job so bad, he was trying to impress me, so he bragged about how he was the guy who recruited Arbatov, how he was still his controller. I swear it’s true. Later he even told me about other traitors his wife was controlling. I gave all their names to Viktor. I exposed those traitors to the SVR, not Morrison.”
I looked up at Katrina and she looked down at me. Frankly, we’d learned everything we needed to learn. In fact, we’d learned more than we ever wanted to know.
I yanked the ski mask off my head, and Katrina pulled off her mustache and glasses and wig. Martin’s eyes searched both our faces. Then came the moment when clarity set in. There was this instant when he realized who we were and that he’d just told us enough to get him the electric chair.
In shock, he said, “You’re that lawyer. Drummond?”
I pulled the tape recorder out of my pocket. I clicked the off button. I smiled. Not a happy smile, but I smiled.
Katrina, good New York girl that she was, said, “You’re a scumbag, Martin. And now you’re screwed.”
And I added, “I don’t give a crap how good your lawyer is, you’re going down.”
A silly threat, I know, but what do you expect from a lawyer? Then the two of us left him there, on the muddy ground, a shocked expression still pasted on his face. His scream shot through the forest as we walked away.
Katrina drove while I replayed the tape over and over, considering the full ramifications of everything he’d confessed. We were just getting on 95 South when Katrina said, “We have to get Alexi out.”
I nodded and didn’t say anything. I don’t think she expected me to say anything. Getting Alexi out was impossible. We both knew that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At 7:00 P.M., I called Mary from our hotel room in the Four Seasons.
“The Steele residence,” Homer answered, pronounced like, What the hell do you want?
“Hey, Homer, Drummond here. How’s the Porsche looking?”
“You son of a bitch. I knew it was you. You touch my car again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Speaking of things of yours I’ve touched,” I interrupted, “is Mary there?”
I heard a bang that I assumed was the phone hitting the floor, and almost two minutes later Mary said, “Sean, where you are? Are you okay?”
Her tone was real warm and deferential, like she was genuinely concerned for my health. Of course if you read between the lines, it sounded more like, I’m having you followed and you somehow slipped away, so please fall for my act and tell me where the hell you are.
I said, “In thirty minutes I want you and Harold Johnson to be huddled in his office. I have a tape you both need to listen to, and if you’re not there in thirty minutes, you’ll read the contents of that tape on the front page of the New York Times. It won’t be a good day for you, Mary. Thirty minutes.”
Then I hung up. There’s nothing like bossing around the deputy director for intelligence of the whole CIA. It’s a good feeling knowing you’ve got a tape recording in your pocket that will blow the sides off his building. Thirty minutes later, I went down to the lobby and spied around till I saw a tired-looking businessman with a cell phone hooked to his belt.
I approached him with that overused spieclass="underline" “Have I got a deal for you.”
He gave me a wary, distrustful expression.
I pulled the wad of money out of my pocket. “Here’s the way this works,” I said, peeling off bills. “You get five hundred dollars to let me make one call on your cell phone. It’s local. It won’t cost much. I’ll be right across the lobby, so you can keep your eyes on me.”