Permanent Interests Page 19

  "Hear? Through whom?"

  Wentworth and Lydia looked at each other. He took her hand and nodded for her to continue.

  "Horvath."

  Innes squinted. "Horvath? You don't mean the President's National Security Adviser?"

  "Yes. Him."

  She proceeded to recount Horvath's recruitment by Yakov and her role. She described the Russian mob's criminal inroads in the U.S., starting with her own illicit visa, and Yakov's involvement.

  "Yakov is not what we call Vory v Zakone -- a kind of Godfather. But he wants to be." Conspicuously missing was any mention of Al. Wentworth needed time to sort things out in his mind about his boss and his future relationship with him. He and Lydia decided that part could wait a bit longer. Besides, neither knew anything about Yakov's dealings with Al. For all Wentworth knew, they could actually be legitimate. But he had his doubts.

  "Why are you telling me all this? What do you want me to do with this information?"

  Wentworth leaned forward. "She wants out. And we want to get married."

  "And have five children," she added. "And live in South Carolina where I will make pies between making babies."

  They looked lovingly at each other, holding hands tightly.

  Innes fell back in his chair and massaged his forehead with his fingers. "Oy veh!"

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  Berlucci didn't want them to come to FBI headquarters.

  He asked Innes to come alone to receive instructions on where they would all meet. It was an aging, nondescript apartment building on upper Wisconsin. There the FBI had a safehouse flat. He gave Innes the code with which to get through the front door. Innes was to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of Lydia and Wentworth. On a busy rush-hour morning, Innes arrived at 9:00 sharp. Wentworth and Lydia -- he sporting large shades, she a floppy hat --

  slipped through the door precisely a quarter of an hour later.

  With Berlucci were Speedy and a special agent named Hanks whose specialty was Russian and East European crime gangs.

  Innes recapitulated what he had told Berlucci and Speedy at headquarters, bringing Hanks up to speed.

  "Tell us about this Yakov character," Berlucci said without further ado.

  "Yakov is a very dangerous man. And very clever. He reaches to the top and is frightened by no one," Lydia answered. The apartment was obviously not lived in. Its circa 1975 decor and drawn curtains did not put her at ease.

  Neither did a large, whirring tape recorder in front of her on the coffee table.

  "What do you mean by 'reaches to the top'?" Berlucci probed.

  "He stops at nothing to get what he wants. He has seduced some very important people in your government."

  "You mean recruited?"

  "Yes. He traps them. Then he makes them do his will.

  He forces them to give him information."

  "What kind of information?" Hanks asked.

  "I don't know. I never see it. But I believe secrets of your government."

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  Berlucci and Hanks looked at each other gravely.

  "Is Yakov SVR, you know, formerly KGB?" Speedy asked.

  Lydia smiled and looked at the floor. She held her hands demurely in her lap. Wentworth sat in a chair to her left. "I am not expert on these things. But in Russia we see now no difference between SVR and mafia."

  "Can you name names?" asked Berlucci.

  "Yes. Nicholas Horvath. Senator Rory MacDonnell.

  General Cordner…"

  "Jack Cordner? Deputy Army Chief of Staff?" Speedy interrupted.

  "Yes, him." Lydia went on to name several additional officials holding high positions in the Pentagon, State Department, CIA and even one in Justice, as well as several members of Congress and their staff.

  "How does Yakov entrap these people?" Berlucci asked.

  "Different ways. Mostly through women…such as myself." Lydia looked away and wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Wentworth reached over and gripped her forearm. "I am not the only Russian woman who works like this for Yakov. He has houses for us. Nice houses.

  He also has Ukrainian, Byelorussian and Polish women.

  Also in New York. Also in Rome and Berlin."

  "Are you his girlfriend?"

  "No. He likes to show off beautiful women. But he is not capable of loving a woman. He is impotent."

  Speedy was mesmerized, frantically jotting notes.

  Berlucci appeared to hesitate for a moment, then asked,

  "Any FBI people? Has he entrapped anybody from the FBI?"

  "No. At least I know of none."

  Berlucci appeared relieved.

  Innes spoke up. "Do you know the name Dennison?"

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  "Yes. He is your foreign minister, yes?"

  "But, has Yakov recruited him?" The FBI men leaned forward in their chairs.

  "I do not know. I am not sure."

  Innes nodded pensively. His brow furrowed in concentration. The session continued till past midnight.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Horvath looked nervous. Normally, Dennison's White House counterpart would attack his food with gusto. This luncheon, he barely picked at his salad and declined wine, opting instead for two double vodkas.

  Horvath talked languidly and disjointedly about Africa and Japan. He appeared distracted. Unusually, Horvath wasn't noticing the shapely waitresses of Les Nigauds.

  "Senator Weems says he's going to try to slash State's budget. Has it in for us more than ever, the son of a bitch,"

  Dennison said. "I've got a contact who's sleeping with his top legislative assistant. He tells me that Weems is trying to pull in his chits with foreign leaders to get their businesses to buy more tobacco from Weems's state. I'm passing the message back that if he goes after our budget, I'm gonna gin up the anti-tobacco lobby and embarrass the fucker to blue blazes."

  Horvath was hearing, but not listening. His mind was focused on the previous evening. He had rendezvoused with Yakov through a now set procedure. He walked his Samoyed in Rock Creek cemetery where Dimitrov picked him up and drove him off to a safehouse near Dupont Circle. Yakov ordered him to recruit Dennison. When PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  Horvath protested, Yakov flashed an evil grin which made very clear what the alternatives were. "Don't worry,"

  Yakov added. "He's as squalid as you are. It will be a cinch."

  "Roy, how're things looking for the campaign? What are the plans for organizing things?" Although he was one of highest officials in the administration, Horvath, as a foreign policy professional from academia, didn't normally get involved in party matters or domestic affairs.

  Dennison was surprised by Horvath's abrupt change of subject. "Well, uh, not too good so far. The President's way down in the polls. People are already deserting. It's going to take a lot of money this time around. Much more than before."

  "Where's it going to come from?"

  "That's a difficult point. But we're working on it."

  "What is needed?" Horvath persisted, "Hundreds of thousands? Millions? What?"

  Dennison fished out and gobbled the green olive from his martini glass. "More like the latter. Why?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I just thought that I'd do my bit this time."

  Dennison blinked. "Do your bit? What do you mean?

  Campaigning? Speeches? You haven't really been the garden variety political partisan, Nick."

  "With funds. Contributions. You know."

  Dennison looked at him hard. "Nick, we're talking big money. Really big money. Your government salary and your pension or whatever you get from Harvard isn't going to make a dent. Nice of you to offer though."

  "I can find 'big money' for you." Horvath cleared his throat.

  Dennison looked dubiously at his lunch mate.

  "I know a rich…uh…financier. He wants to h
elp."

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  "Who?"

  "He, uh, wants to remain anonymous for now. But he's willing to give a lot." Horvath mopped the sweat from his forehead.

  "Just like that. That's it? Is he angling for an ambassadorship? That's no problem at all. Does he have a college education?"

  "No. Nothing like that. He wants information."

  Dennison pondered this a few seconds.

  "Information, like inside information? On the administration?"

  "And

  more."

  Dennison quickly caught on. "Tell him it's a deal. But it won't come cheap."

  Horvath couldn't believe his ears. Just like that. The Secretary of State just agreed to sell state secrets, no ifs, ands, or buts. "Roy, you sure you understand me? What I'm asking?"

  "You bet. Ohh! Look. We don't have to give away the store. We selectively pick out some marginal stuff. Stuff that's in the papers every day. Add to that some made-up stuff on the President's thinking, crap like that. Listen, I know politics. The important thing is to get the best guy re-elected. You have to bend the rules sometimes. You don't think the other side's not up to their own tricks?

  What's that theory that made you famous? 'Controlled inevitability'? It's like that. We steer events to the desired outcome, making it look inevitable, but sacrificing as little as possible along the way. This is what makes democracy stronger and healthier."

  "He wants to know your travels over the coming months."

  "Piece of cake. Here." Dennison fished out a piece of paper from a jacket pocket. "Take this. It outlines where PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  I'm scheduled to go till mid-August. Of course, surprise trips come up. Others get dropped, and so on. Uh, that'll cost your friend ten grand. There's other stuff I'm getting that you're probably not. You name when and where for delivery every week and I'll name the price."

  He slapped Horvath on the shoulder. "Hey! Welcome to the rough and tumble club of domestic politics. But it's all hush-hush. Got me?" Dennison winked as he gulped the last of his martini.

  The Secretary of State suddenly took a keen interest in counternarcotics policy. He wanted the troubled administration, of which he was a key player, to make some headway in a high-profile area like drugs. He called back to Washington for urgent consultations his ambassadors to Afghanistan, Bolivia, Colombia, Pakistan, Burma, Thailand, Laos and other countries where narcotics production or trafficking figured prominently.

  He held pow-wows as well with the chiefs of the major law enforcement agencies involved with fighting narcotics trafficking, and with top Coast Guard, Pentagon and intelligence officials. He put State's public affairs machinery into overdrive to get media coverage. He got other governments to agree to send their foreign ministers to an international conference on counternarcotics cooperation in Miami in June. As a preliminary step, he obtained their consent to broaden intelligence-sharing on the drug trade. Dennison designated the State Department's Bureau of Intelligence and Research to be a repository of this data, as well as CIA, DEA, NSA, Coast Guard and Defense Department narcotics intelligence. And he tasked the Bureau with providing him with a seemingly endless 218 JAMES

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  stream of not only finished analytical overviews, but also raw intelligence. This included top secret plans to interdict couriers and knock out production labs, and transcripts of high-tech electronic eavesdropping of American and foreign crime figures. The workabee analysts who put it all together could only scratch their heads as to why the Secretary would want so much detailed data. But they and his staff dutifully packaged the stuff in black binders embossed with the gold State Department seal and passed it up the chain.

  No Secretary of State could escape having to lug work home. Dennison was no exception. Each evening a black attaché case bulging with a treasure trove of narcotics intelligence accompanied the Secretary home. The same attaché returned with Dennison to the State Department every morning -- empty.

  Al's problems were compounding, despite his best efforts to set things straight. He phoned Dennison's office for the eighth time in two days.

  "The Secretary's office," answered the "personal assistant" -- the glorified term for secretary -- a woman in late middle age with an accent straight out of National Public Radio.

  "Yeah. Look. This is Mr. Goodnough again," Al answered, using the pseudonym he and Dennison had concocted for their phone conversations.

  "Yes. I remember, Mr. Goodnough. The Secretary has been very, very…"

  "Yeah, I know. 'Busy.'" Al countered impatiently.

  "I assure you that Mr. Dennison will get back to you--"

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  "'…when he gets a free moment.' But you got to understand, this is an urgent private business matter--"

  "'…which requires his immediate attention,'" she retaliated.

  "Like, right now," he snapped.

  "The Secretary is aware. Good day!" The personal assistant abruptly ended the call.

  Al slammed down the receiver. He sat, arms folded on his desk, glowering at the phone. Erin McNamara, Al's own "personal assistant," was afraid to breathe. It usually took twenty minutes to a half-hour for his temper to cool.

  Until then, everybody at Al-Mac steered clear of their boss.

  The phone rang. Erin picked up the receiver. With trepidation, she squeaked, "Al, it's for you."

  Snapping out of his hypnotic state, Al asked quickly,

  "Who is it?"

  "Mr. Leventhal at Coralsco Supplies--"

  Al jumped from his chair and exploded, "Tell him to go to hell!! I'm not talkin' to nobody today! Got it? Hold all calls. Tell 'em I've gone fishin' in Calabria. And if that goddamn Dennison phones, tell him I said he's a worthless windbag. And screw him and the ugly whore who gave birth to him! Tell him he's fulla shit and…"

  Erin ran from her desk fed up, leaving Al screaming at the walls. The employees at Al-Mac Construction had an instinctual urge to take a collective coffee break. They streamed from the building like a herd of gazelles sensing an approaching lion.

  The only human being on the planet daring enough to approach Al during such outbursts, Ricky, calmly entered his uncle's office with his hands in his pockets.

  "Uncle Al." He shrugged his shoulders. "What is it?"

  Al paused and focused on Ricky. His breathing eased.

  "That fuckin' Dennison. Won't even return my calls."

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  "Why

  not?"

  "How the hell do I know? Maybe he's playing in a polo tournament with his no-good-for-nothing, blue-blood friends. Maybe he's decided he doesn't like Italians after all. How'm I supposed to know what motivates the prick?"

  "So, screw him. What's the big deal?"

  "What's the big deal?! The big deal is this! The inside information that strons' gets us equals money. Get it?" Al threw a stack of correspondence toward a corner of the office, creating a small devil-wind of paper. Ricky didn't move.

  "Mr. American Flag and Apple Pie ain't deliverin' any more. That rotten hypocrite cut off the pipeline. Now we got no more low-down on what the Feds are up to. They planning on a bust somewheres? We don't know squat about it. The other families'll think we're chumps. All that coordination the government's always doing with the Colombians? Now we got nothing to feed to our buddies in Cali. They find we got nothing, they won't waste another minute on us. They'll drop us like a hot gnocchi.

  Our supplies dry up. Our customers go away. My credibility goes zip! That means we're outta business.

  We're back to juke boxes and numbers. Get it?"

  "So, let's pull the plug on the prick. Let the world know what he's been into. Let him sink," Ricky said.

  "Humph! You gotta lot of learning to do, nipote. Don't you see? We got him and he's got us. We go down together. He had the cozzi once to tell me that what we got is 'mutual assured destruction.' Just l
ike in nuclear war."

  Ricky pondered a moment. "Why do you think he's stopped?" he asked.

  Al slumped into the overstuffed, dark leather sofa opposite his desk and twirled a toothpick between his teeth.

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  His gaze was distant. "Somebody, or something, got to the son of a bitch," he said calmly.

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. It sure ain't his conscience. It's something else. I don't know."

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "Mr. Ambassador, it's the Secretary! On line one." H.

  Carter Wells liked a lot of things about his veteran secretary. But her excitability wasn't one of them.

  Obviously, if the Secretary of State called, you dropped everything and paid close attention. But, short of a nuclear war, the cool-headed Kentucky colonel just wouldn't get flustered. His granddaddy used to say that Wells men honed the trait from being under fire at Antietam. Brothers of the Wells family had fought on both sides. It could be your own kin throwing all that lead at you. Best to be cool.

  "Mr. Secretary, the Thai are on board. Foreign Minister Wichit assured me last evening that he will attend the conference. The Thai government is giving one-hundred percent cooperation."

  "Great job, Carter," Dennison replied. "I don't have to remind you that a lot is riding on this conference. I've got a commitment from the President that he'll give the keynote speech. This has got to come off without a hitch and make the administration look good in the process."

  Wells promised that he would do his part.

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  "Now Carter, there's one other thing. To pull this thing off, we don't want to be airing dirty laundry. It'll give the wrong impression, if you know what I mean."

  The American ambassador to Thailand knew exactly what he meant. Dennison had given him an earful in Washington the week before. Only in the house of mirrors of American politics would your superiors urge you to violate your conscience for the sake of image. Wells wanted to clean house in his DEA shop in the embassy before the corruption and incompetence got out of hand.

  "Mr. Secretary, I feel strongly that the DEA chief here should be sent back. He hasn't been sober since he got here. As a result, that whole shop is out of control. Half are banging in doors, acting like this was the South Bronx instead of a sovereign nation. The other half are either sleeping at their desks or, I fear, are on the take. We just have too much incontrovertible evidence."