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  Lydia's thoughts raced with her quickening heartbeat.

  The cup that she grasped began to shake as a tremble entered her hands. She decided to take the offensive. Her speech was barely audible.

  "Yakov. I was frightened. I was--"

  Yakov nodded at Dimitrov. In a quick motion, the latter's coarse fingers grabbed her hair and yanked her head backward. The other hand produced a silvery blade which he held tightly under her jaw. She held her breath, knew better than to struggle.

  Yakov was shaking his head. He lifted himself out of his chair, fixed his eyes downward while pointing his right index finger upward opposite his ear in an admonishing gesture.

  "Lydia. Lydia. Lydia. You don't listen to me. You don't appreciate all I've done for you. You don't take my advice. You don't follow my instructions."

  Before Lydia could protest, Dimitrov locked his grip tighter on her hair, driving sharp pangs into her ears and neck. She felt the blade press harder against her larynx.

  Any more and the skin would break. She knew it.

  "You disappoint me, Lydia. You disappoint me very, very much. Without me, you would still be just another decaying beauty in another lost corner of Russia with vanquished dreams and a bitter life."

  She could barely breathe. The pain and the panic strangely did not dilute her full comprehension of his words nor of the realization that her life may end violently within 152 JAMES

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  the next several seconds. She released the teacup which tumbled and shattered to pieces on the floor.

  "In return for providing you with comfort and a new life, with everything your heart would desire; in return for my request that you be warm to one of the most important men in Washington, you threaten to hurt him. You threaten to hurt him and then to tell everything to the press! "

  He turned on his heel and looked at her squarely. "Are you insane?! Do you want to risk everything that I have given you?! Tell me, my little small town slut, do you wish to die?! "

  She said nothing.

  "What am I to do?" Yakov asked exasperatedly. "I can no longer trust you. You reject my generosity. What am I to do?"

  Lydia shut her eyes. In her brain, she began to prepare for her death by reciting the prayer her mother had taught her. She returned mentally to the Caucasus meadows. She was wearing a frilly yellow dress and was dancing in a circle with other little girls, all giggling in a rapture of innocent girlhood joy. The sun was a gentle warm and the fragrance of spring wildflowers in their braided hair further lifted their spirits. The borderless deep blue sky blanketed them. The distant mountains smiled upon their frolicking.

  Oh! Such sweetness. Leave me here. Where I can again be free, joyful and innocent. Leave me!

  An eerie smile came to her face. She felt at peace. In a deliberate movement, she leaned into Dimitrov's blade. He quickly withdrew it. Yakov moved with a start. For what seemed like an eternity, they gazed at Lydia in puzzled wonderment.

  She opened her eyes and looked directly at Yakov with bitter defiance. He seemed at a loss.

  Finally, he stuttered, "I…I am a patient man."

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  "You are also an impotent man who is incapable of love," she spat.

  In a flash, Yakov lunged at her, grabbed her by the shoulders and hurled her downward. She crashed into an end table holding a large vase of flowers, which smashed onto the floor, breaking into a thousand fragments.

  "You

  shall do my will!" he bellowed. "If you do not, I will scar you for life. And I will search out everything that you love -- your mother, your father, your teachers, your pets -- and I will kill them. Do you understand?!"

  Sprawled on the white marble floor, Lydia covered her eyes with one hand and nodded understanding.

  "Now get her out of here! Take her back." He pointed a finger at Lydia. "You will rest and heal and you will go back to Horvath. You will call him to apologize for your actions and you will beg him to return." Yakov turned and sauntered out.

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The tension in the smooth-lined wood and marble Security Council chamber virtually buzzed like a fractured power line on the verge of snapping. In the minutes preceding convening of the UN's highest body, the five permanent representatives and ten nonpermanent delegates converged in last-minute consulting and lobbying, tugging at coat sleeves, murmuring in ears, driving home points with fingers. The diplomat's hallmark, a sympathetic hearing tempered by a demeanor of careful noncommitment, marked the faces of those on the receiving end.

  A group of aggrieved ex-Soviet republics -- Russia's

  "near abroad" -- banded together to seek the world body's condemnation of Moscow's frequent military interventions within their borders. The Moldovans linked arm-in-arm with the Georgians, Armenians, Estonians, Kirghizians, Tajiks and the independence-seeking Chechens to bring their complaints of Russian aggression before the UN

  Security Council. Given a free hand to intervene up to then, Russia was losing credibility with the international community, which was losing tolerance for Moscow's actions.

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  One of the jokers in the deck was that the current chair of the Security Council, Ghana, was unpredictable and could steer proceedings in either direction. Behind the scenes, ambassador Akobo complained to his SVR case officer that the cash-strapped Russians weren't paying him enough to help their cause.

  It was crucial for Russia that she not be alone in opposing, and vetoing, the draft resolution calling for immediate troop withdrawal and Russian noninterference in the affairs of her neighbors. The overwrought Russian UN

  ambassador, Grigori Kirilenko, worked the "Perm Five"

  energetically. The British, seeing parallels to their involvement in Northern Ireland, were likely not to support the resolution. The French, likewise, were cool to it in light of their own promiscuous military interventions in Africa.

  The two ciphers were the Chinese, who deplored big power interventionism, and the Americans.

  The American representative, Harriet Cortez, listened carefully, but maintained the familiar stoic expression of noncommitment. It was evident that she lacked instructions. Washington sources attributed the American silence to internal divisions over policy toward Russia.

  Policy gridlock. Not an uncommon occurrence in this weak administration. It caused Kirilenko to lose hours of sleep, despite five or six vodka nightcaps each evening.

  Moscow was pulling out the stops on this resolution, which attacked the heart of Putin's foreign policy. The Foreign Minister called Kirilenko almost hourly for status reports and to issue new instructions. After a week of exhaustive lobbying, Kirilenko was ready to give up the ghost, convinced that the Chinese would support the resolution, along with the Third Worlders on the Security Council. A yes vote from the U.S. would go far to isolate Russia diplomatically and further isolate Putin. The potential then 156 JAMES

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  for a right-wing backlash and collapse of democracy in Russia was a terrible reality.

  The death knell of Russian democracy, however, was premature. The Friday morning vote went in Moscow's favor, with the Chinese abstaining, the French and British voting against the resolution, joined by the Americans. In her explanation of vote, Ambassador Cortez, reading a prepared text, stated that peacekeeping was a pillar of UN

  efforts in the post-cold war era, that all nations bore a responsibility to make peacekeeping work, and that Russia was doing her part. She called on Moscow, however, to seek a UN mandate before undertaking such actions in the future. Only three Third World governments supported the resolution in the end. Ghana abstained, Akobo still in a snit.

  Kirilenko accepted congratulations from his staff, then promptly locked himself in his office, poured himself a triple vodka and fell into an instant stupor. Two floors above him in the Russian UN mission building on East 67th Street, SVR R
ezident Anatoly Gorygin leaned back in his chair contentedly. His first instinct was to phone his friend Yakov to thank him for the unique inside information he provided the SVR on the U.S. administration's deliberations on this matter. But he knew better. American intelligence eavesdropped on all phone conversations to and from the mission. No. He would wait till his next meeting with Yakov in a safe location.

  Dennison flew to New York the day after the vote to give an address before the Council on Foreign Relations.

  Except in the fall during opening of the General Assembly, when he and a small army of U.S. diplomats camped out at PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  the Waldorf to carry on chock-a-block meetings and consultations with foreign dignitaries, Dennison stayed at his Fifth Avenue penthouse whenever he was in town. As an investment banker when not working in government, Dennison called New York his home and pulled in big bucks in an old money Wall Street firm, Dickerson, Dennison, Renfrew and Pratt.

  He kept the morning free. On arrival at his apartment, he told his security detail that he wanted to catch up on some rest whereupon he retired to his bedroom and secured the door. The Secretary of State then changed into slacks, a sweatshirt and sneaks, donned a knit cap and a polyester parka and slipped into a side servant's entrance which led through the kitchen and thence out into a hallway. A cargo elevator conveyed him to the tradesmen's entrance. He dashed out onto 57th Street where a gray Buick LeSabre collected him and proceeded through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, into the functional, low-rise neighborhoods of Astoria.

  A half-hour later, the LeSabre pulled up to Sal and Vicki's Deli on Broadway. Dennison jumped out of the vehicle, entered the shop through the front door, walked briskly past the capacolas, provolone, sopresattas, past the brewing cappuccino and fresh almond cookies, beyond the single restroom and into a door leading to a back room. A self-assured-looking fat man sitting in the corner acknowledged Dennison's presence with a slight nod. The young counterman kept focused on making a "Hero Napolitano." The Secretary familiarly turned right and ascended a set of low stairs. As soon as he reached the top, the door opened. It was Bags.

  The little room, cluttered with stocks of meat cutting equipment and paper products, was illuminated by one ceiling fluorescent bulb. A small formica kitchen table 158 JAMES

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  with plastic-covered chairs occupied the center of the room.

  Standing by it with his right hand outstretched was Albert Joseph Malandrino clad in a stiff, three-piece blue suit and tie. The paradox of a formally dressed mafia don greeting the U.S. Secretary of State in a backroom of a marginal delicatessen in a working class neighborhood of Queens apparently hadn't occurred to either man as they warmly shook hands and sat down to conduct their business. Al dismissed Bags.

  "Mr. Secretary, it's great to see you again." Al was clearly ill at ease and, unusually, at a loss for words.

  Dennison mumbled something about it also being nice to see Al again, glanced conspicuously at his watch, and, fitting for the venue, wasted no time at getting to the meat of the matter.

  "Al, as I promised when we saw each other last month, I got for you the information you requested." He pulled out of his parka a large yellow envelope stamped, "Department of State, USA Official Business Only."

  Al accepted the envelope with both hands and a wide grin and, with a meat dressing knife, opened it. He pulled out the thick contents. On top was an analytical study marked "SECRET" and titled, "'Changing Drug Trafficking Patterns: Counternarcotics Operations Reassessed', Directorate of Intelligence, Central Intelligence Agency."

  Beneath it was a lengthy confidential Department of State cable captioned for restricted distribution from U.S.

  Embassy Moscow, the subject of which was, "The Future of the Putin Administration: Implications for U.S. Policy."

  There were notes of Cabinet meetings with the President, DEA reporting, Coast Guard operational plans, an FBI memo outlining efforts to increase law enforcement cooperation with Italy, Germany and Russia against organized crime and a couple of Presidential Decision PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  Directives setting forth U.S. policy on Russia and on arms control.

  "Mr. Secretary, it's always a pleasure." He produced a black attaché case and slid it across the table to Dennison.

  The Secretary did not tarry in prying it open and examining the contents which he counted quickly but efficiently.

  Twenty stacks each containing one-hundred crisp $100

  bills.

  "Mr.

  Secretary--"

  "Al, at this point, let's dispense with formalities once and for all. Call me Roy."

  "Yeah, right. Uh, Roy. You know, I followed the debate on that Russia thing at the UN yesterday. It went good. I was worried that Washington wouldn't let you go along with it. Me and my clients were really enthused with the outcome. I don't know how you pulled it off, but--"

  "Al, let's cut the bullshit. I didn't do it because I'm Vladimir Putin's Number One Fan. And this time, I'm not asking for the usual kind of payment. I sweat bullets on this one. I had to fight a battle royal with Secretary Wilkins at DoD and CIA Director Levin. And that bitch ambassador at the UN, Harriet Cortez, lobbied the White House hard to support the resolution. Said, as a Cuban refugee, she knows freedom and Russian interference better than the rest of us. Fortunately, the President's NSC

  Adviser was my ally. The President required a real hard sell. Our argument that a vote for the resolution could spell doom for democracy in Russia and help revanchist, hardline elements there finally swayed him. I can't be sticking my neck out like this too often. This one comes with a high price tag, Al."

  Al studied Dennison's patrician WASP face carefully.

  He had been doing business directly with this man since Mortimer's demise, some six months now. But he didn't 160 JAMES

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  feel comfortable about it. Here was one of the most senior people in Washington in charge of the most sensitive and prestigious area of government, foreign policy. And he was selling secrets to the mafia for money. In the back room of a Queens deli no less. Now he was about to raise the ante. It was a paradox that deeply disturbed Al. We were all creatures, and sometimes victims, of our respective cultures. By a stroke of fate Albert Joseph Malandrino was born to Italian immigrant, blue-collar parents and raised in a scruffy neighborhood where everybody hustled for a living. To keep the neighborhood clean, safe and protected from outsiders -- as a sort of SDI, a missile defense shield -

  - certain individuals took on the responsibility of maintaining an ancient, transplanted code. The greater risks incurred naturally entitled these centurions of order to greater rewards. Contrary to the claims of some stragneri -

  - strangers, outsiders -- like the public prosecutors and sensation-mongering newspaper reporters, the dons and their caporegimes, lieutenants and soldiers were not parasites on society. Rather they were guardians of a way of life based on time-tested, ancient and moral traditions.

  A pre-destined warrior caste. They were a necessity. Al was born into it and accepted it.

  But the Dennisons and their ilk had had three-hundred years to wash out the binding vestiges of their Old World ways. They were looked upon, and up to, by the newer immigrant groups literally as "the Americans," the model citizens for the rest of society. Al liked history in school and he listed ,as among his heroes Thomas Jefferson, George C. Marshall and Dean Rusk, all former Secretaries of State and pillars of the WASP Establishment. He also considered himself to be a patriot. But, while his success was owed to playing the game according to his rules and PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  not those of the Establishment, this was different, almost unholy, like taking bets from a bishop.

  "Well, Mr. Sec--, er, Roy, our business relationship has always been to our mutual benefit. Name your price and I'll see what I can do."

  Dennison sat with one arm over the next chair and with one leg crossed o
ver the other, richly self-assured and unjustifiably fearless. He focused intently on Malandrino.

  Behind the icy blue eyes cold calculations were going on, like a missile's computer dispassionately selecting a target.

  After several moments of such reflection, Dennison leaned forward with both elbows planted on the table and his eyes locked onto Al's.

  "Al, you know that we both work in risky and dangerous environments. We're always having to protect our behind while, at the same time, moving forward and negotiating the shoals ahead. One slip and we're sunk. We've each got internal enemies as well as outside adversaries. You've got people in your organization to keep in line. So do I.

  You've got to contend with rival competitors within your own loose constellation of families. I've got Congress and other Federal agencies. You're constantly having to deal with outside gangs that want to diminish the power of the Italian-based network. I have to deal with foreign threats.

  We both have to fight the media as well. I think you'll agree with me that they constitute a serious menace to our respective work."

  Al had become more relaxed. He sat back taking in every word of Dennison's homily. The Secretary spoke the same language as Al. Indeed, they were both purveyors of power who used their power to safeguard essential interests.

  "And sometimes we do what we've gotta do to make sure things go in the right direction," Al offered. "Just like 162 JAMES

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  Uncle Sam went after Castro. We went after Joey Gallo.

  Bad apples."

  "Exactly."

  "Who

  are

  you

  after?"

  Dennison leaned back and took a deep breath. "You read the Washington Post?"

  "'Fraid not, Roy. But I watch CNN and the networks.

  And my pals are all talking about these stories about our late friend Mortimer. About his ties to 'organized crime figures' and to your boss too."

  "You're quick, Al. And very perceptive. How'd you like an ambassadorship to a nice place?"

  Al snickered at this tongue-in-cheek suggestion. "Hey.