Permanent Interests Read online

  As a result, there's anger and mistrust. The Chinese start relying totally on their own sources and stop doing business PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  with us across the board. The Latinos automatically assume we're doing a job on them. So they start slicing up everybody in sight, like in a Rambo movie. I got a double Excedrin headache times a hundred. I haven't been able to get a straight answer out of your guy here." He nodded at Dimitrov. "So, what gives?"

  Yakov stopped eating, shifted uneasily.

  "Al, I must offer apology. I also have headaches over this unfortunate development. Problem was at other end.

  At first, I don't know exactly where. I think that maybe competitor in Russia is double crossing me. I go back, with Dimitrov, to Moscow. My colleagues, they also don't know nothing. They say problem is in Azerbaijan. Maybe war there has stopped supplies from transiting. Maybe war in Afghanistan keeps them from getting out at all. I send Dimitrov to Baku. They tell him, problem not with us. Is in Turkey.

  "To make long story short, we go to Turkey. Supplies always go through Turkey after Azerbaijan. We have SVR

  friends in embassy. SVR is new name for KGB. The ones in Ankara embassy, they work for us. So, they say, new boss, he does not approve. He tries to stop SVR to be in business making money. 'To protect Russia is our duty,' he says. 'Business of SVR is not business.' He asks Moscow to investigate, to arrest his own men there in Ankara, Turkey. Also in Russian consulate at Istanbul.

  "Believe me, Al, such people are very rare in Russia now. Honest people. Patriotic people. They earn maybe a hundred, two-hundred dollars a month in Russia. Still they play by rules. Fools. Anyway, I go back to Moscow to talk to SVR friends. They try to stall investigation that Starenkov demands. But they tell me they cannot fire SVR

  Rezident in Turkey. If they try, he will go to Russian Duma and to newspapers to spill the peas."

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  "Beans."

  "Yes, Al, all of the beans. This democracy is good for us in most ways. But in other ways, is pain in ass. If in America, freedom is another word for nothing left to lose, in Russia it is another word for everything to lose, including your money -- or even your life."

  Perhaps aware of the effect the wine was having on him, Yakov stopped and stared into his glass pensively as he slowly swirled the contents.

  "And?" Al asked.

  Yakov's enigmatic Cheshire grin creased across his face.

  He looked Al in the eyes, the smile faded.

  "Comrade Starenkov becomes no longer problem."

  Again, he brushed his palms. "Finished. SVR is now again our partner in Turkey. Comrade Starenkov is victim of Chechnyan fanatics, or maybe Armenians. In any case, he is victim of one of Russia's many little enemies left over from old Soviet Union republics. So says SVR to leadership."

  Al stared a moment at Yakov. This was a very dangerous man, he pondered. A man so ruthless and so lacking behavioral limits cannot be trusted. Italians had Honor, Respect, Omertà, a code for doing things. But these Russians were little different, after all, from the soulless Colombians or Vietnamese or the road warriors who roamed the desolate cityscape of the South Bronx.

  "So, supplies resume?"

  "Immediately."

  They shook hands.

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  CHAPTER TEN

  As was too often the case, the call came at home at 1:00

  am. Innes got more than the normal share of off-hour calls.

  It was one of the growing number of reasons for his wanting to get through with his assignment in the Ops Center and move on to a less demanding job, one with predictable duties and hours such as political officer in a boring, cushy embassy in Europe. This was the only clear thought in his fatigued brain as he picked up the receiver.

  At the other end was one of the junior officer drones doing the night shift. He apologized for waking Innes.

  "The White House called earlier. They asked the Secretary to go over to brief the President on the latest on the Mortimer murder investigation. The Secretary asked Scher to go along. Scher, in turn, wants you to accompany to take notes, etc," he said.

  "And it takes this long to let me know?!" Shaking off sleep, Innes caught himself. "Uh, right. Sure. What time?"

  "0800 sharp. Secretary Dennison wants to be briefed beforehand at 0700. Scher wants his people assembled at his office at 0600 on the button. Sorry buddy."

  "Uggh."

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  "What is it this time?" Carolyn yawned, barely stirring from her side of the bed.

  "The President wants to be briefed on the Mortimer thing. They want me to be there."

  "Will you be home by supper this time?"

  This rankled Innes. Had he replied that Jesus Christ called personally to let him, Robert Woodruff Innes, be the first to know of His Second Coming, her reaction would have been exactly the same.

  "That's up to the Commander-in-Chief, dear. I'll have to let you know." The sarcasm dripped from his voice like a corroding acid.

  Carolyn muffled a grunt and faded back into slumber.

  The scent of fresh coffee permeated the office of Bernard Scher. A colorless, functional government workplace, the importance of its occupant was nonetheless made clear by its comparatively larger size, its window view and the obligatory ego wall hung with diplomas, awards certificates and photos of Scher shaking hands with presidents, popes and other potentates.

  Sitting in a rough semi-circle were Scher's deputy, Marc Glaston; Dennison's chief of staff, Harrington Fell; the chief of diplomatic security, Ralph Torres; the deputy CIA director, Tom Hunter; the FBI's director of investigations, Dominic Berlucci; Innes's boss -- Operations Center director Bill Platten -- and Innes himself. Each clutched a styrofoam cup of cafeteria coffee, except for Innes, who nursed a can of Coke. All looked sleep-deprived.

  Scher sat in the most comfortable chair, an overstuffed GSA-issued item of mediocre quality and design. He puffed on his ever-present pipe. The billowing hickory PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  smoke made at least half of the attendees, stomachs growling from lack of breakfast, nauseous. In the confines of his own office, the State Department's legal advisor, who apparently viewed himself as above the law, chose to ignore the ban on smoking in the building and no one had the temerity to challenge him on it.

  "As you all know," Scher began, "the President has asked to be briefed on the Mortimer investigation. I want to get the latest and to pick your collective brains on where we should be going from here. At seven-forty-five I'll head out to the White House with the Secretary. I will brief him an hour from now, just before we depart. Mr. Innes, you will be notetaker. The rest of you will brief NSC staffers on details while we're with the President."

  What Scher failed to mention was that the Mortimer murder mystery was leading nowhere and wouldn't go away. Congress kept asking nagging questions as to why no leads had been uncovered, and second-guessing the sincerity of the President and the competence of the concerned government agencies in resolving the case.

  Major newspapers found the case grist for attacking the administration for its policies on terrorism. With a recession on its hands, legislative gridlock in Congress and a foreign policy lacking in direction, the White House, eight months before a presidential election, didn't need any more political problems than it already had.

  "Tom, what do we have on Middle East terrorists?"

  Scher asked. Hunter proceeded to review a panoply of the usual suspects: al-Qaida, Hamas, Hezbollah, Syrians, Iranians, PLO renegades, muslims of varying political persuasions, both domestic and overseas, even Sri Lankan Tamils, who were neither Middle Eastern nor Muslim.

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  was quickly becoming the biggest, running bad joke in Washington for a good
reason. His boss, Platten, gave him a sharp look and signaled for him to take notes.

  "Thanks Tom." Turning to Berlucci, Scher asked,

  "What's the scoop on that guy at Prudential?"

  Berlucci drew a blank, then said, "You mean the former Egyptian student?"

  Scher stared at the ceiling and fidgeted, advertising his impatience. "Yes," he said in a tone of voice he reserved for slow children and stupid bureaucrats. "The radical Islamic extremist who Homeland Security managed to let into the country." The last point was a cheap shot at the agency whose Immigration and Customs Enforcement screened aliens at the nation's border checkpoints.

  Berlucci shrugged. "The guy's clean. And he's making a load of dough. Married a nice American girl. They're pursuing the American Dream in the suburbs."

  Scher's utter contempt filled the atmosphere in the cluttered office with the volatile tension of a fuel-air explosive just before ignition. He looked icily at Berlucci, puffed methodically on his pipe.

  Scher turned to Torres. "How about you?"

  "The RSO in Rome reports that the Italian police are getting increasingly worried about rising numbers of Kosovo extremists popping up on Italian soil. As long as Kosovo is denied formal independence, they're worried that the Kosovars will become the next Hamas and will start tossing bombs all over Europe."

  Platten added, "State's European Bureau agrees. They see a return of Balkan terrorism along the lines of the Serbian and Bosnian anarchists before World War I."

  Scher's face lit up. He leaned forward. "That's interesting. Very interesting. What solid evidence do we have?"

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  Torres and Platten looked at each other, then to Hunter, then back to Scher.

  "We've made it a top collection priority for our stations in Europe," Hunter replied.

  "Meaning you've got birdshit," Scher sneered. "We've got to develop some solid leads fast. We have to show that there is momentum to the investigation, that State and the other agencies are pushing ahead, meticulously sifting through the evidence, leaving no stone unturned. I want the public to see our efforts in a positive light so that they'll draw comparisons with the 9/11 investigation."

  "As for the FBI, we see no evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, to link this murder with Kosovars. Or with any other organized political grouping," Berlucci said.

  "What are you getting at?" Scher demanded coolly.

  Berlucci turned his palms upward and shrugged as to indicate that it was obvious. "In law enforcement, whenever we exhaust leads in one area, we open another channel of investigation. And we broaden the circle of possible suspects, to include people who wouldn't come to mind at first blush. Right down to the victim's grandmother, if necessary." With his wrestler's physique and agile mind, Berlucci radiated confidence and competence. "And not least important, nobody’s come forth to claim credit for the killing. Nobody. Usually, these groups jump out of the woodwork to claim responsibility. This leads us to believe that even the craziest of the crazies don’t see a political hook they can latch onto in the Mortimer case."

  "I think he has a point," Innes said. "It's clear that we aren't getting anywhere in the direction we've been heading.

  Maybe Ambassador Mortimer was the victim of other --

  more conventional -- perpetrators with entirely different motives from what we've been looking at."

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  Platten looked reprovingly at Innes. In the hierarchical State Department culture, subordinates were expected to leave all the talking to their bosses. And the greatest sin was to question or contradict the party line as laid down from on high.

  Scher looked at his watch, put down his pipe and shifted in his chair.

  "Look. Until somebody can show me solid evidence to the contrary, the leads we're pursuing are that Ambassador Mortimer was killed by politically motivated elements.

  Anti-American elements, terrorists, who, for whatever hare-brained political agenda, wanted to hit at this country.

  This is the most logical tack. I can't be having this investigation going off in nineteen different directions looking at Mortimer's Aunt Tilly or anybody else who doesn't fit a logical profile of an envoy killer. The media, not to mention Congress, will devour us. And the President won't stand for it. We have to show results. And the sooner the better."

  He then laid down a framework for briefing Secretary Roy Dennison and the President: the investigation was going great guns; all legitimate leads were being pursued; the list of probable suspects was being narrowed as the intelligence agencies continued their relentless collection and analysis of data; and the pressure would be maintained on the Italian government to follow suit leading up to arrests as soon as possible.

  Innes had been to the White House before. When he was younger, he joined as one in a cast of hundreds of government workers invited to act as cheering, flag-waving greeters on the South Lawn to welcome third-tier foreign PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  leaders -- the presidents of Finland, Cameroon, Paraguay came to mind. On a more substantive level, he'd attended meetings at the NSC, both in the Old Executive Office Building, adjoining the White House, and in the West Wing. He had attended a reception in the Rose Garden in 1988 commemorating "Captive Nations Week," a big deal for President Reagan in those days before the communist bloc evaporated. Innes, however, had never seen the Oval Office or any other inner sanctum in the power house on Pennsylvania Avenue, nor had he ever met a president much less briefed one.

  The entourage met in the State Department basement.

  The Secretary of State arrived first, having zoomed down in his reserved elevator. The others scrambled down the stairs, victims of the Department's chronically malfunctioning lifts. Scher accompanied Secretary Dennison in his dedicated, armored vehicle. Armed Diplomatic Security guards followed this car closely in their own armored Chevy Blazer. The rest squeezed into two of the Department's small fleet of chauffeured dark blue Crown Victorias. They unconsciously took their places in strict rank order, which meant Innes was crammed into the last limo along with Marc Glaston, Platten and Berlucci.

  With cops diverting traffic and the DS Chevy's emergency dome light whirring, it was a five-minute drive through the three blocks to the west gate. Having been precleared, they entered after a cursory inspection by the Secret Service uniformed guards manning the entrance.

  On the way, Glaston said something about how the intel agencies needed to hustle more and get results quickly on this case. Without missing a beat, Berlucci told him not to hold his breath. Innes had an instant liking for the FBI man.

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  Dennison, Scher and Innes were ushered into a West Wing conference room. They were joined by Defense Secretary Wilkins, CIA Director Levin, FBI Director Karlson and Chief of Staff Selmur. Each took his seat, again according to hierarchical rank. Innes sat against the wall behind Dennison and Scher. Scher sat at Dennison's right elbow. He kept up a non-stop patter in a low voice.

  Innes caught "no need to worry," "just a matter of time,"

  and "no doubt it's political."

  Two aides arrived, young staffers, a male with a shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead, about 30, and a black female, somewhat younger. Each was decked out in J. Crew cum L.L. Bean attire. She appeared to try to offset the preppy image with oversized, jangling earrings made somewhere in the Third World.

  Next entered a smug-looking character in a light, double-breasted suit and silk shirt, whom Innes immediately recognized as Nicholas Horvath, the President's National Security Adviser. They all shook hands. The youngsters identified themselves as Wynn Kearnan and Prudence Harding, special assistants to the President for domestic constituencies and public liaison, respectively -- members of President Corgan's "brat pack,"

  infamous for their combination of activism and inexperience.

  The meeting's host strode in unannounced and with such na
turalness that several of the attendees almost overlooked him. In his wake was his chief of staff, Howard Selmur.

  The President took his seat and asked for a quick summary.

  Drawing from Scher's earlier briefing at State, Dennison proceeded to explain to President Corgan that, while there were no big breaks in the case as yet, the investigation was going forward at a vigorous pace, etc., etc.

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  Henry Corgan listened patiently, leaning back in his chair, twirling his reading glasses. He had a reputation as a no-nonsense, let's-get-down-to-brass-tacks politician. His p.r. spin doctors had to soften a cutting, aggressive image which, according to the exit polls, cost him votes in the last election, especially among women.

  "Who did it then?" he asked simply.

  After a pause, Dennison stated with forced confidence,

  "Well, the intel people and FBI are narrowing the field of probable suspects."

  Corgan cut Dennison short, fixed his eyes on Karlson and asked, "Is that so?"

  Sensing an awkward moment, Karlson collected his thoughts. "Mr. President, we've got a long way to go in this investigation."

  "You mean you got zilch, is that it?"

  Karlson nodded. "Mr. President. We need to broaden the scope of inquiry. Maybe terrorists are responsible.

  Maybe not. We need to take a fresh look at other possibilities."

  "For

  instance?"

  "Criminal. Personal."

  Dennison's stomach was churning. "Mr. President, to go off in these other directions would only invite more criticism from the media. Without some proof that--"

  Corgan stopped him. "Look, gentlemen -- and lady -- all I want is results. We can't have this dragging on with absolutely nothing to show. One of my ambassadors gets knocked off. Hell, he gets butchered. And we can't find squat."

  Kearnan, Harding and Innes scribbled furiously in their notebooks.

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  Levin and Wilkins as well as with Mr. Dennison and Mr.