Permanent Interests Read online

  They stashed the papers into an old steamer trunk that had been in the Innes family for seventy-five years.

  As stealthily as they entered, Ramirez and Morales slithered back out, taking care to stuff the canine's body into a rucksack and taking it with them back into the night.

  Not a trace. Not a sound. They were gone.

  198 JAMES

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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The UN Security Council vote in Russia's favor had pleased Yakov tremendously; he even felt proud as a Russian. And the stash of secret documents that Malandrino handed over knocked his socks off. All of this showed to his SVR friends that he could deliver -- big time.

  They were impressed. So impressed that Gorygin got headquarters in Moscow to spring for $700,000 to hand over to Yakov through a cutout in the Bahamas. The SVR

  chieftains predictably groused about their tight budget. But this package deal, made possible by the American Secretary of State, was a great bargain, and they knew it.

  As had become customary in these bigger transactions, Gorygin skimmed $90,000 for personal operating expenses.

  New York wasn't getting any cheaper after all.

  Yakov asked for another meeting with Malandrino. This time on neutral ground and private, which suited Al. Both men were leery of pushing their luck with the law, the media or anybody else with a less than charitable curiosity in what the Italian-American and budding Russian mobs were up to.

  The aircraft hangar at LaGuardia was closed for repairs.

  The cold drafts and gray, utilitarian surroundings PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  compelled both men to dispense with pleasantries and banter and to get right down to business.

  "Al, now I know what that old president meant when he said, 'Business of America is business.'"

  "Coolidge."

  "Yes. In any case, Al, vote at UN was…how do young people here say?…Yes, Awesome!"

  "Al Malandrino has friends and he can deliver. But he doesn't come cheap."

  "Of course. Which is why we are here." Yakov snapped his fingers. Dimitrov appeared out of the shadows and produced a small zip-lock bag. Yakov unsealed it and invited Al to sample the white powder inside.

  Al begged off and ordered his "chemical man" to check it. The latter placed a minuscule amount on his tongue, then nodded back to Al.

  "Number One, Super Grade A heroin, my friend,"

  Yakov assured. "From Afghanistan. There is no better.

  But it is potent, eh? The consumers love it, but they must use less. This must be made clear. Or they can die of overdose."

  "So, where is it and when can I expect delivery?"

  "In seven days. But I must know which port."

  "Bayonne…in Jersey. I've got the skids greased. Ricky here will work out the details with your guy. The ship will dock at a pier we designate and be unloaded normally. In the warehouse, the stuff then gets broken out and special handling. Customs is taken care of already. Oh. And don't worry about no Teamsters or any other pains in the asses like last time. We divide the product right there at the site, then go our separate ways. Sixty-forty split like usual."

  Yakov had a questioning look. "You mean we take sixty, you take forty, yes?"

  "Wrong, pal. Other way around."

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  "Al, I thought we agreed sixty for me, forty for you split.

  After all, is our heroin."

  Without batting an eye, Al replied, "And they're my ports." The gauntlet was thrown. The two just stared at each other.

  Al broke the tense quiet. "Yakov, I'm nobody's fool, see? I could ask for a hefty cut of whatever your compadri are giving you for the papers and the vote. But I'll take it out of the junk instead. Street price for the stuff you bring here is good. Real good. So, don't feed me any shit about the cut. You'll take forty. We all come out real good in the end."

  Yakov pondered this a moment. "Okay…for now. But maybe it will change in future."

  Al ignored this.

  Yakov pulled out of his vest pocket a sheet of paper. He studied it briefly, then handed it over to Al.

  "What's

  this?"

  "Wish list for more information. For next time we meet."

  Treating the list as if it were a parking summons, Al handed it to Ricky. "You can't just waltz in here and push a bunch of demands on me--"

  "Not demands," Yakov interjected. "Al, I would like you to listen."

  "Who says I don't listen? Let's get one thing straight.

  You can make requests and I can consider them. But don't start pushing me around. After all, this is my turf. You stick to Brighton Beach. Everything will be fine."

  Yakov didn't know if Al was just having a bad day, or if something more serious was developing. He drew a deep breath. "Al, I ask only that you look at them and, if you can obtain information on them, fine."

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  Al retrieved the paper from Ricky and glimpsed at it.

  Neatly typewritten on a plain sheet, it contained a list which included "notes of Cabinet meetings," "position on expanding NATO," "position on aid to Russia," "travel plans of Secretary of State for next six months," "budget figures for intelligence collection on Russia," "timeline for developing next generation of strategic bomber."

  Altogether, there were some 50 such collection targets.

  Al shifted uneasily in his steel chair. He didn't mind the first such transaction. In fact, he gave it little thought. It was done almost as a favor, a sweetener for a larger, more lucrative deal. He had not anticipated that it would lead to being a regular feature of his relationship with Yakov. Al pulled apart and bent into a new shape an abandoned paper clip that lay on the metal table that separated him from Yakov.

  "Listen pal, you give me dope and I give you access and protection. We split the proceeds. That was the deal.

  Period. A special favor like the UN vote deal I can throw in once in a while as…an extra."

  Yakov remained a steely calm. The squeak of metal against metal echoed against the rafters as a cold breeze snaked through the cavernous structure.

  "But I'm no friggin' spy, see? I love this country. It's made me what I am today. Do we understand each other?"

  "I think so," Yakov replied. "We have other sources."

  He took back the list and stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He produced a stiff smile and resumed the business discussion. The Russian swept the moment of tension under his mental rug. Dimitrov stood in the shadows like a granite pillar.

  "Al, we must prepare for possibility that product from Afghanistan will be interrupted from time to time. I have made arrangements for heroin from Burma to come here 202 JAMES

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  across Pacific Ocean. Also, ten tons of Thai marijuana.

  Thai grass is best. Consumers pay top dollar for it. Is much more powerful than anything grown in Americas."

  This piqued Al's interest. "And you need the same kind of facilitation now on the West coast."

  "Exactly. Can you arrange it?"

  Al jerked his neck toward Ricky, inviting a reaction.

  Ricky shrugged to indicate, "Why not?"

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  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lydia contemplated suicide. She had it all planned. She would obtain heroin through a prostitute-friend who had connections. She would put on Rimsky-Korsakov -- her favorite: Scheherazade; draw a hot bath, sit in it; inject herself with the heroin -- enough for five doses; and she would then lie back and dream of picnics in the foothills beyond Krasnodar. Her last sweet dream.

  Her prayers at St. John the Baptist, only blocks from the Russian embassy, went unanswered. The drama of the Russian Orthodox mass was a temporary escape. She prayed to her grandfather Boris, pleaded for guidance.

  Nothing.

  She continued to see Horvath. This loathsome man was so like other men: weak
and vulnerable beneath a facade of strength. And she no longer had illusions about herself.

  She was a whore. Plain and simple. And her pimp was Yakov, whose tools of coercion were limitless.

  She had a choice. Reject Yakov and face unspeakable pain prior to a death devoid of dignity. Or end her life her own way -- an opiate and Scheherazade.

  The phone rang.

  204 JAMES

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  "Lydia? This is Wentworth…er…uh…Charles, I mean Chuck…Wentworth."

  His boyish awkwardness made her smile and wipe away her tears. He told her how he enjoyed talking with her that night at Pironi's. He hoped she didn't consider it "forward"

  of him to request her phone number. Would she like to accompany him to a Bluegrass concert Saturday night?

  He'd take the train down.

  "Yes. I would," she said softly. "I would."

  He treated her like a lady, a special lady. He exhibited an old-fashioned solicitousness. He opened doors, helped her with her coat, made sure she was comfortable and at ease. Lydia thought back. How long had it been since she'd been with a real gentleman? Volodya. All of nineteen and strapping in his crisp Red Army uniform. So long ago.

  Wentworth visited every weekend for a month. They shared a liking for art, spending hours together at the National Gallery and the other museums of the capital. He introduced her to his favorites: the Americans, Thomas Eakins and John Singer Sargent. The discipline of detail and studied composure of their subjects very much reflected Wentworth's own demeanor, she came to realize.

  And she told him so. She, in turn, became lost in the diffuse moods of the Impressionists. He said she looked like she just stepped out of a Cézanne painting. They laughed.

  He showed her another favorite, Thomas Cole's

  "Voyage of Life." Four allegorical paintings, the first depicted infancy in the form of a cherub entering a bright, pure world full of wonder. The second, of youth, showed the opportunities and challenges of life in the form of a castle in the sky. The third, of middle age, portrayed the vicissitudes and punishments of that stage in the voyage.

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  Finally, old age and death were seen as an old man in a damaged vessel at the end of the river of life supplicating himself before angels who beckoned heavenward.

  Tears began to stream down Lydia's face.

  "Lydia. What is it?" Wentworth took her gently into his arms.

  She turned her face away. "Oh, it is as it should be."

  "What is?"

  "The Voyage of Life."

  Wentworth looked utterly perplexed.

  "If you do not -- on purpose -- complete the voyage as planned for you, what happens then?"

  "You mean if you take your own life?" Wentworth said in a barely audible voice.

  "Yes." She sobbed in a handkerchief.

  "Well, I don't know. The Bible says that those who take their own lives cannot enter the kingdom of God."

  Lydia pressed against Wentworth's chest and cried on his shoulder. Her body trembled. A guard approached and asked if she needed a doctor.

  Lydia raised her head and stifled her weeping. "No. I am…really…all right." She wiped her eyes. They departed the gallery.

  They strolled to the Tidal Basin. The Japanese cherry trees were in early bud. The bright afternoon sun dissipated the coolness of the day. Lydia stopped at the concrete edge of the basin and looked out on the water with pain in her eyes.

  "Lydia, you must tell me what's bothering you."

  "Chuck. You are so kind, so warm and good to me."

  She turned to him and continued haltingly. "I think I am falling in love with you."

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  Wentworth stood looking at her. She was intrigued by a bemused half-smile on his face. An enigmatic male Mona Lisa. Slowly, he came closer to her and touched her hair.

  "That's good. You should be happy." He embraced her and kissed her softly.

  "There's so much you don't know." She again turned away. "My life…my life is so…complicated."

  "The only way to deal with problems is to share them with those whom you trust and love."

  "Oh, but Chuck, these problems are so huge and so unbelievable. I feel trapped and there is no way out. The hurt is so great that I have wanted to…" She stopped herself.

  Wentworth held her firmly by the shoulders. "Lydia.

  What is it? Let me help you. You can trust me."

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the Tidal Basin. She stopped under a cherry tree and folded her arms tightly in front of her as if suddenly chilled by an itinerant breeze. "Chuck, I am a very bad woman. So bad…you will not believe."

  He placed his fingers on her lips. "It can wait." They strolled silently, hand-in-hand across the Mall, past the Lincoln Monument and the Vietnam Memorial. The rambling, sterile State Department building confronted them like an oncoming storm.

  Wentworth paused and reflected.

  What are you thinking?" she asked.

  "The past. My past. What a distance I've come."

  Innes no longer blended into the gray mass of civil servants all around him. Until recently he was just another close-cropped, superficially chipper, frustrated diplomat PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  plodding the maze of corridors and cramped offices of the faceless-ambitious. Now he stood out. Hair streaming down his neck, over his ears and forehead, a faceful of stubble, jeans, Levi shirt and construction boots caused people to assume he was the guy to fix the toilets or to wax the floor. His former workmates shunned him. He ate alone in the cafeteria. He realized that he'd become a white collar leper. Screw them all! He fancied purchasing an earring. A pirate in the Fudge Factory!

  Colleen stuck by him, knowing that this too would pass.

  Robin Croft remained loyal as well.

  Innes spent long lunch hours sitting on a bench at the Reflecting Pool to escape the Thelma Tuckers of the world.

  The Lincoln Memorial loomed nearby at the west end of the Mall. He enjoyed reading Dostoyevsky under the budding elms, with Honest Abe peering out sagely from his massive seat anchored in the ages. The great Russian master's "House of the Dead" struck a special chord. Innes could relate to those in a tsarist gulag. He didn't wish to hurt Colleen. His mind wandered. He closed his eyes and savored the first fresh breezes of spring. Sensing that he was being watched, Innes opened his eyes and looked about. Just the usual crowds of joggers, strollers, tourists and goof-offs like himself. He closed his eyes again. I'm becoming paranoid. Why would they surveille me? Don't start losing it Innes! He entered that twilight zone between consciousness and slumber.

  Rome. Airport. Colleen. Gift shops. Seductive perfume. Beautiful Slavic woman…"Signore Innes?"

  Innes jerked awake. She was there. Directly in front of him. Leggy, blonde, mysterious. Wrapped in a black, fur-lined coat.

  "Mr. Innes?"

  "Yeah."

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  "Do you remember me, Mr. Innes?"

  "Fiumicino." Innes rubbed his face and pushed his hair back with his fingers. "You…warned me about Mortimer."

  "Yes. For your own good…and safety."

  "What are you doing here? Who are you? How'd you find me here?" Innes sat up and took Lydia in with wide eyes.

  She sat beside him. "It is, as you say in English, a long story, Mr. Innes."

  "Call me Bob. And you are…"

  "Lydia. Lydia Puchinskaya. I am Russian. I live now in Washington. I phoned the State Department. They told me that you worked here. I have been observing you." She giggled. "I am not a spy. I have only seen you when you go to work and when you come out here, at lunchtime. I wanted to choose the best moment to talk to you."

  Innes nodded deeply, taking it in.

  "I have information. Very important information which I want to give to you."

  "Me? Concerning what? Mortimer?"

  "Yes. And mo
re. About some people. Also important."

  Innes's long dormant mental computer began clicking.

  He became alert, his mind raced.

  "Wait. Don't tell me. Criminals and spies and the U.S.

  government."

  She nodded.

  "And Russians. You're Russian. Mortimer. Was he a spy? Who killed him? The mafia? SVR? Pimps?"

  "Bob. We need time. Can you come with me? I want you to meet someone. Another American. We can discuss this. All of it. Do not be afraid."

  They flagged a taxi.

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  Al's generous bonuses were making Wentworth a moderately rich man. He and Lydia took a suite at the Four Seasons in Georgetown. There they could be reasonably sure that the rooms weren't recording studios. After the initial shock that came with Lydia's revelations about herself, Wentworth resolved to help her. He'd asked her to marry him.

  Innes knew he had seen Wentworth somewhere before.

  They shook hands. Before Innes could ask, Wentworth replied, "Marine detachment, Embassy Rome, 2000 to '02.

  Lieutenant Charles Wentworth. Now just Mr. Wentworth.

  Call me Chuck."

  "Now I remember. Small world."

  "Bob, Lydia's in a real fix. She's got some serious dirt on some significant people in this administration. She, we, need help."

  "Hold on. Why me?"

  Lydia sat close to Wentworth on a sofa. "In Rome, I remembered that you were the only American who seemed to know where to look for the truth on Ambassador Mortimer," she said. "You were the only person who was interested in the truth. When I spoke to you at the airport, I warned you to not pursue your investigation. I did not want you to get hurt."

  "By whom?"

  "By Russian mafia."

  "Did they kill Mortimer?'

  "I believe so."

  "What about the Italian and American mafias?"

  "I am not sure."

  "SVR?"

  "Russian mafia and SVR are the same, Mr. Innes."

  "CIA?"

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  "No. I don't hear much."