The Kingmaker

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

You’d think that by the twentieth of April there’d be a hint of warmth in the air. I mean, April is a few weeks into spring-the ground should’ve been thawed, the trees should’ve been budding, and maybe even a few wildflowers should’ve had enough chutzpah to poke their stems out of the ground. Siberia’s different.

I blew hard on my hands and tried to warm them up before I spotted Igor heading in my direction. I quickly picked up my shovel and started doggedly hacking at the frozen earth. Igor had a thing for me, and I didn’t want to exacerbate it. He hit me once or twice a day just on general principle, and if I gave him more than general principle to go on, he beat me silly. I don’t know if Igor was even his real name. He was just so damned ugly that he had to be an Igor.

The other prisoners all kept their distance, I guess because they sensed there was something special about me, and they didn’t want any of that specialness to rub off. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t speak their language, so we had nothing to talk about, nor did we have anything in common since they were mostly thieves, murderers, and Mafiya scum, whereas I was an American Bar Association member who’d seriously underestimated his own limitations. But it was more than that. The guards had instructions to treat me differently, to hurt me on a regular basis, although nothing too serious, because I was supposed to survive. I was supposed to live to a ripe old age in this frozen hellhole with nothing to look forward to except beatings and constant pain, until I either went stone-cold mad or killed myself.

I had thought December in Siberia was bitterly frosty, but by January I realized I didn’t know the meaning of cold. And February was even worse. My piss froze before it hit the ground. I’m not kidding. These yellow icicles were striking the permafrost and shattering into tiny crystals.

I’ve never been particularly big on Russian cuisine, but you wouldn’t believe all the things you can make with cabbage. There are cabbage broths and soups and salads, or just plain raw cabbage itself. Raw fish heads were the big treat, but they only threw those on our plates on Fridays. I tried to make friends by giving mine away, but for some odd reason that never seemed to work.

Anyway, Igor continued to head toward me, so I chipped away at the icy ground even more furiously. I whispered a prayer that he was heading toward somebody else. That’s the thing about Siberian prisons. After a while, you get pretty damned selfish. They’re pretty much dog-eat-dog places.

Every morning the guards came through the barracks and dragged out the corpses of poor buggers who had died of disease, or malnutrition, or had frozen to death in their sleep. And this being a prison, there were a few murders every week as well. We were each issued a single, threadbare wool blanket that had been used by generations of other prisoners. The trick was to try to collect two or three of them, so the multiple layers could protect you from the cold. The barracks were unheated, so in the morning you’d awaken covered by a layer of frost, so damned stiff you could barely climb out of bed. Your blanket would be gone, and you’d have to go through the rest of the barracks and find the culprit, and then you’d have to fight to get it back, because without it, you wouldn’t last long. The training I’d had in the outfit was the only thing that saved me. After I beat up four or five of the biggest badasses in the barracks, nobody wanted to go near my blanket.

Suddenly Igor was right behind me, and I tensed for the inevitable assault. What would it be? A rifle butt in the kidneys or the kick on my backside that would send me flying? Nothing happened. I slowly turned around and faced him. He hooked a finger. I put down my shovel and followed him like an obedient puppy, coughing and hacking the whole way, because I seemed to have caught a very nasty cold.

We ended up at the headquarters, one of only two buildings at Camp 18 that had wood-burning stoves. The second we walked inside I felt like my skin had caught on fire. I hadn’t been near heat in months, and the sudden sensation burned.

Three or four senior guards were huddled around a stove in the corner, and they all looked up when I entered. One got a pissed-off look and climbed off his stool.

“You are Drummond, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised to hear English. None of the other guards spoke English.

He pointed a hand toward a doorway. “You will go in there and take shower.”

I didn’t ask him why, because I’d been trained to comply immediately with every instruction. Given that it was me, it had taken a bit longer than normal to learn that lesson, and I had the scars to prove it.

I nearly passed out in the shower, my first in over five months. There was a small bar of coarse, sandy soap, and it took a lot of hard scrubbing to get all the dirt and grime off my body. I was actually bleeding in a few places, but what did I care?

I slipped back into my ratty, smelly clothes and walked out ten minutes later. The guards were all huddled around the stove again. The same guard got up, snapped cuffs on my wrists, then led me outside to a small truck with big tires. We climbed in the back and left. After about an hour, the truck stopped and we climbed out at an airfield, the same one I’d landed at five months earlier. Was it really only five months before? A big military Tupelov airplane was idling on the tarmac, and the guard led me stumbling toward the plane.

We took off a few minutes later, and while it was a long flight, I don’t remember much of it, because I was floating in and out of la-la land. I’d wake up every few minutes hacking and coughing, and it dawned on me that it wasn’t a cold but pneumonia. I hadn’t recognized the chills and fever before because I was always chilly and shivering anyway.

We landed at a military airport I didn’t recognize and left the plane for a military sedan. I had no idea what was going on nor did I ask. Russian prisons teach you that, too. Don’t ask questions: You might not like the way the answer’s delivered.

We drove into a big city I suspected was Moscow. Spring had made more of a dent here. At least there was no snow on the ground. I hadn’t seen bare earth since I left.

We pulled to a stop in front of a big building that looked like it had once been a former palace of some sort. I climbed out of the sedan, but not until the guard ordered me to, because, like I said earlier, I’d been thoroughly housebroken. We entered the building and went up two flights of stairs. The guard walked ahead of me and opened a pair of double doors, then indicated with an arm wave that I was to enter.

The heat from the building gave me that uncomfortable burning sensation again. Four people were gathered around a long table. On one side sat Harold Johnson, my old friend from the CIA, and General Clapper, my old boss. On the other sat Viktor Yurichenko and an older man I didn’t recognize.

Johnson and Clapper looked up when I entered. Clapper’s eyes popped open, because I’d changed somewhat since the last time we saw each other. I was skinnier, for one thing. Much skinnier. I’d guess I’d lost at least thirty pounds, and I wasn’t heavy to begin with. I looked like a dazed bird that had forgotten to head south for the winter and paid dearly for it. For a second thing, like all Camp 18 prisoners, my head was shaved to the skin. For a third thing, being continuously outdoors in subzero temperatures isn’t recommended by dermatologists. I had cold sores on my lips and my skin had cracked open in places, and the vitamin deficiency hindered the healing process. Finally, the steady beatings meant I was always sporting a black eye, or swollen lips, or a fresh bruise here and there.

“Jesus, Sean!” Clapper yelled. “What the hell have these bastards done to you?”

Johnson peered across the table at Yurichenko. “Viktor, this is unacceptable.”

Yurichenko finally turned and looked at me also. “Russian prisons are harsh places, Harold. I don’t make them this way.”

Johnson nodded back, then he turned and looked at me again. “Sean, your boss and I are here to try to negotiate your release. This is a very delicate matter. You’re being charged with three counts of murder and espionage. Those are serious crimes.”

I stood perfectly still. The espionage charge was obviously the most problematic. I had helped get Alexi out of Russia-guilty as charged. The three counts of murder baffled me until I realized this had to do with me killing the three hit men who tried to take me out. Very clever.

“That’s right, Sean,” Clapper quickly added. “The other gentleman here is the equivalent of a Russian superior court judge. He can take your case to the president to arrange a pardon, or he can decide there’s not enough evidence to have a trial.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting? I’d been in prison over five months, and now they were considering a trial. I stood mute, sensing I really had no role in this proceeding, that a great deal of discussion had already occurred, and I sure as hell didn’t want to harm the chances of success. I wouldn’t be standing here if they didn’t have something cooked up.

Yurichenko was giving me his grandfatherly smile, the one intended to warm the cockles of your heart. I felt a chill. I dreamed of getting my hands around his neck and choking the bastard to death.

Johnson ignored me and turned back to face Viktor, evidently continuing the conversation I interrupted when I came in. “The point is, Viktor, our President would consider it a very big favor if you would drop this. He asked me to emphasize how very beneficial this would be for both sides.”

Yurichenko was shaking his head, but mildly, like he wasn’t quite sure how that logic worked. “But, Harold, you have nothing to trade. Please forgive me for being selfish, but I must see some quid pro quo. We are both pros in this game. We both know how it works. I cannot give you something for nothing.”

“And do you have something in mind?”

“A simple trade-in-kind would be ample. I want Alexi back. Return him, and you can have Drummond.”

Johnson suddenly stared down at the tabletop, as though what he was about to say was very difficult. “We can’t do that. It’s not even negotiable. Besides, there’s a bit of a problem here.”

“And what would that be?”

“Before he came over here, Drummond made some tapes. They’re embarrassing for both of us, but they’re much more embarrassing and problematic for you. If those tapes get out, our relations would be grievously wounded. All these areas where we’re cooperating-the missile reduction pact, NATO participation for Russia-it would all go up in smoke.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, obviously surprised. “Tapes? What is on these tapes?”

“The whole thing,” Johnson grimly admitted, appearing greatly pained.

Yurichenko looked over at me. His eyes roved from my shoes to the bald tip of my skull. I was a most unlikely-looking suspect to have found a way to outsmart him. He seemed to be thinking furiously about how to handle this.

He asked Johnson, “And you really think these tapes would be a problem?”

Which actually was a clever way of saying, “Hey, I’m not really buying this. And you better not be bluffing or Drummond over there will think he just spent five months vacationing on the Riviera compared to what I’ll do to him.”

“Oh for Godsakes, Viktor. They detail attempted murders by you inside our country, as well as the murder of an American officer in Moscow. On one of them, Martin admits to everything. He names you as his controller. He admits it was your idea to frame Morrison. Do you know what would happen if all that got out? If the American people learned that for eight years you were actually running our foreign policy toward your country, they’d go wild. The President asked me to tell you he’d be left with no choice. He’d have to cut off everything. He’s not exaggerating, Viktor. You have no idea what those conservative pricks on the Hill are like. We’re talking endless investigations here. This was your doing, not ours. It was your operation. You owe us something for keeping it quiet. That’s the quid pro quo.”

Viktor looked like somebody just threw a glass of ice water down the back of his shirt. It took him a moment to recover. “But there is still a problem, Harold. Even if we released Drummond, we have no guarantees it won’t come out. Look at him. Imagine the anger in his head. The moment he stepped off the plane, he would tell everything.”

Almost on command, Johnson and Clapper pivoted their necks and faced me. Clapper said, “That’s why we insisted on having Drummond here for this meeting. He’ll have to swear to give back those tapes and that he’ll never utter a word about any of this.” His eyebrows came down about two notches. “I’m sure you’ll be willing to do that. Right, Sean?”

Now, here’s the truth about what was running through my head at that very instant. The whole five months I spent in Siberia, I’d known this moment was coming. It was the only thing that kept me sane, that let me withstand the constant beatings, and the incredible loneliness, and the bitter cold. Those tapes were my only source of hope.

They were a ticking time bomb. They’d do incalculable damage to American-Russian relations. The American people don’t like being played for suckers. They get real grumpy about that. And frankly, given what I now knew about Yurichenko’s plot, that might even be the best thing that could happen. But was it worth the rest of my life?

I leaned my back against the wall. I was suddenly pensive.

Knowing me as he did, Clapper said, “Don’t even think about it, Sean. There’s no real choice for you. If you say no, those tapes will still never see the light of day. Trust me on this.”

There was something in his tone, a slight intonation, as if he knew something I didn’t know. Okay, I had to consider that. But the other thing I considered was that with or without those tapes, I could still accomplish a great deal of good by telling the CIA and, if they didn’t listen, the American press, all about Viktor and his cabal. And frankly, that was much bigger news than another spy scandal anyway. That was the news that would blow the top off everything.

“Okay,” I mumbled, and Johnson and Clapper relaxed back into their seats.

As if by some hidden cue, the door behind me opened and the guard yanked me back out of the room, so the grown-ups could be left in privacy to discuss whatever the hell it was they needed to close the deal.

I was led back to the sedan and then driven to a local jail, where I was given my own cell. I lay down, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep. I couldn’t, though. Between my hacking coughs and my troubled thoughts I was still wide awake at three in the morning, when two guards and two Americans in dark gray suits came to get me. I stared out the windows at Moscow’s streets the whole drive to the airport. The usual assortment of beggars and crippled vets were roaming around, all those poor bastards who never realized they were the pawns on the chessboard whose fates were being decided by men like Viktor Yurichenko. I actually had tears in my eyes as they loaded me on an American C-130 and it took off.