Permanent Interests Read online

  "I empathize," Dennison lied. "Just contain it for now.

  Give it some more time to resolve itself. Stay in touch with my staff. In the meantime, we've all got to concentrate on getting this conference off the ground. The President's credibility is at stake. We can't have a key player like Thailand suddenly losing faith in us. Are we on the same wavelength here, Carter?"

  Wells bit his lip till it bled. "I understand, Mr.

  Secretary. I'll keep working at it. But something's got to be done."

  Dennison's attitude irked Wells. Could the man be that stupid? And why would the Secretary of State take an interest in the nitty-gritty of how he ran his embassy? He shook his head. Micromanagement and lack of vision had marked this as one of the least competent administrations in history. It was exceedingly frustrating to a seasoned professional like Wells. If there was any truth to the old 224 JAMES

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  saw that a diplomat is paid to lie for his country, it was certainly the case now. Wells felt hypocritical defending this fumbling crew.

  Across town in the deteriorating Russian embassy, Oleg Konstantin Vladimirov nervously waited by the phone.

  The SVR Rezident chain-smoked Marlboros and just stared at the phone. Silence.

  The intercom buzzed. The Thai Minister of Trade wanted "Commercial Counselor" Vladimirov to attend a briefing the next day on a trade fair the Thai were planning to give later in the year.

  "No!" Vladimirov yelled at the young SVR aide.

  "No? Sir?" the aide asked timidly as he held one hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Minister Khamhaeng himself on the phone, sir."

  "Uh. Uh. Tell him I'm talking to our Foreign Minister right now. I'll get back to him shortly," Vladimirov said distractedly.

  He looked around his office. The cheap, flowered wall paper was fraying, the furniture upholstery was threadbare.

  A lamp was broken and the vintage air conditioner made a loud, grinding sound. He hadn't been paid in four months.

  His staff was dispirited. Some of the embassy wives, his included, had become Baptist zealots in the post-communist freedom.

  He loathed cover work. He didn't know squat about commercial work and couldn't care less. The real embassy commercial officer was an embittered, drunken Kazakh assigned to Bangkok to interact with his "fellow Asians."

  Half the time, he was getting laid in Patpong, Bangkok's no-holds-barred sex district. Indeed, half the embassy's PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  male staff hung out there now. No more controls. No more cause. The women found religion and the men turned to sex.

  Vladimirov glanced at the official photo portrait of Putin high on the opposite wall. "Shithead," he muttered.

  Number One Shithead of a government of shitheads.

  The phone rang.

  "Mr. Vladimirov? This is Arthur Klausen, of Westerbury Electronics, Inc. I am interested in export opportunities to Russia. Could I make an appointment?"

  "Certainly. How about Wednesday at three o'clock?"

  "Fine. See you then."

  Vladimirov put down the receiver gently. He sported a broad smile. "Arthur Klausen" was the cover name for George Dexter, DEA special agent at the U.S. embassy.

  "Wednesday," fourth day in the week, meant the fourth pre-designated rendezvous point -- a grubby little cafe in the eastern part of the city whose specialty was Lao food.

  "Three o'clock" signified the third day of the week, Tuesday. They had earlier agreed to schedule such meetings at 12:30 pm, lunchtime, a normal time to leave the office. The SVR insisted on such circuitous communications in the interest of "operations security."

  Anyone listening in on the conversation would merely hear a businessman making an appointment with the Russian commercial counselor.

  Vladimirov liked working with Americans, despite more than a decade of scheming against them in Germany, Tokyo and New York, among other places, during the late cold war years. Now Russia and America were friends.

  But Russia was broke and America was not. Socialism was dead. Capitalism was the victor. Time to cash in.

  "Sir," Kurtaev, the young aide, said. "Any outgoing transmissions today?"

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  Poor Kurtaev. So bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Thinks he actually has a future in this business. I haven't the stomach to shake him and tell him that there is no longer a cause, that what we do now here is meaningless; that we serve a government of assholes, in perpetual lock horns with a Duma of fools, all competing for power in a truncated, bankrupt country, an orphan of a hollow former empire. Kurtaev, youth is wasted on this. A young Russian with any brains should live for love and truth, not a sharashka -- a sham operation -- such as this.

  "No, Kurtaev. Thank you. Go home early. Spend more time with your wife."

  It would be only this one deal, Vladimirov told himself.

  A cool half a million dollars from Thai narcotics producers, through their middle man, Dexter. Another half-million from those on the receiving end, Semion Mogilevich, the number one Vory v Zakone -- literally "thief-in-law" -- the top made man in the Russian mob. Possessing a degree in economics, he is also known as the "Brainy Don."

  Commercial Counselor Vladimirov would arrange the delivery via cargo ship. He had put the whole thing together. He'd build a sprawling dacha on the Black Sea.

  The kids would go to foreign universities. He and his family could live comfortably and without worries. Just this one time.

  The phone rang again. "Call from New York, sir. Mr.

  Yakov," Vladimirov's secretary said through the intercom.

  Vladimirov hesitated, then picked up the receiver.

  "Oleg Konstantinovich, long time no hear, eh?"

  "Ah, yes, I've been meaning to get hold of you. You know that I have this aversion to phones." The connection was crystal clear. Yakov ignored his barely veiled message not to conduct business via the open phone line.

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  "We have a business agreement, my dear Oleg. I have made all the necessary arrangements with my partners at this end," Yakov said, referring to his deal with Malandrino to ensure passage of the heroin and marijuana shipments through a western U.S. port.

  "I see." Vladimirov was beginning to hyperventilate.

  "Uh, you see. I wasn't certain that you could help us in marketing the, uh, caviar. In the meantime, another broker has come along who has firmed up all the arrangements, including, uh, customs formalities."

  The silence that ensued from the New York end didn't mask Yakov's wrath toward the SVR Rezident. After what seemed like an eternity, Yakov responded.

  "We don't tolerate double-crossers, Oleg. When you make a pact with the devil, it's a contract for life. And if the rumors that I hear are true, I will make sure that you are worse than useless to Mogilevich. Do you understand me?"

  Vladimirov quickly hung up. He pulled a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from his desk and poured a large glass, spilling some with his trembling hands. He gulped it down and poured another.

  All that Ambassador Wells could do was to shake his head in amazement. He took off his reading glasses, set them on the report and looked across his desk to Harry Crestow, the embassy's chief of security.

  "Does anyone in their shop know about this?" Wells asked.

  "No one. We did it all ourselves. Even the Station doesn't know. Just as you instructed."

  "Good job, Harry."

  228 JAMES

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  "What

  now?"

  "Stand by. We'll talk again tomorrow."

  Crestow departed. Wells called for his secretary to take dictation. "This is a cable -- back channel, Pamela…"

  SECRET

  TO: THE WHITE HOUSE IMMEDIATE

  FOR NSC ADVISER HORVATH - EYES ONLY - FROM

  WELLS

  SUBJECT: CORRUPTION IN THE BANGKOK DEA OFFICE

  1. SECRET - ENTIRE TEXT.

  2. TO MY GREAT D
ISTRESS, WE HAVE

  UNCOVERED GRAVE MALFEASANCE IN OUR DEA OFFICE. OUR SECURITY PEOPLE HAVE POSITIVE

  PROOF THAT AT LEAST ONE DEA OFFICER HERE

  IS CONNIVING WITH THAI GANGSTERS AND

  CORRUPT THAI OFFICIALS TO SMUGGLE

  NARCOTICS INTO THE UNITED STATES. WE DO

  NOT KNOW THE ESTIMATED VALUE OF THESE

  DEALS, BUT GUESS THEY REACH INTO THE TENS

  OF MILLIONS OF DOLLARS. THE DEA SHOP HERE

  HAS BEEN IN A CONSTANT STATE OF DISORDER

  SINCE THAT AGENCY'S CURRENT BANGKOK

  OFFICE DIRECTOR ARRIVED HERE NINE MONTHS

  AGO. INCOMPETENCE AND CORRUPTION REIGN

  IN THE LARGE DEA OPERATION HERE. IT HAS

  NOW REACHED A POINT WHERE IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THIS STATE OF

  AFFAIRS BECOMES KNOWN, WITH ALL THE

  CONSEQUENT REPERCUSSIONS THAT

  REVELATION WILL HAVE ON U.S.-THAI

  PERMANENT INTERESTS

  229

  RELATIONS, TRUST ON THE PART OF CONGRESS, AND OUR COUNTRY'S IMAGE BEFORE OUR OWN

  PEOPLE AND THE WORLD.

  3. I REQUEST THAT THE WHITE HOUSE GIVE ME

  THE GREEN LIGHT TO IMMEDIATELY REMOVE

  THE DEA CHIEF AS WELL AS OTHER DEA

  OFFICERS ON WHOM WE HAVE INCRIMINATING

  INFORMATION. SECRETARY DENNISON IS AWARE

  OF MY VIEWS. I TAKE THE UNUSUAL MEASURE

  OF CONTACTING YOU DIRECTLY ON THIS

  MATTER OUT OF MY CONVICTION THAT ACTION

  IS REQUIRED AND IS NEEDED NOW.

  WELLS

  Horvath wasted no time alerting Dennison about Wells's cable. They met late at night at Dennison's sprawling horse ranch in the rolling hills of northwest Maryland.

  Dennison's study fit the classical stereotype of an establishmentarian's inner sanctum: an old oak desk with an antique brass lamp. Bookshelves packed with moldering tomes on the law and history. Walnut wainscoting, dark green wall covering. Paintings of race horses lined the room. A dozen or so ego photo portraits of The Secretary in the company of the Aga Khan, some foreign presidents, a king or two, Mother Theresa, Bono and other luminaries, each bearing a personal handwritten encomium to "My friend, Roy."

  "What do I do, Roy?" Horvath asked anxiously.

  "Send a message back thanking him for the information, adding that you're 'taking it under advisement' or some such baloney like that."

  230 JAMES

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  Horvath took the snifter of Hennessy eagerly and swallowed half. He wiped perspiration off his forehead with a cocktail napkin.

  "I can't just put the guy off. He'll smell something funny. He'll go to the Hill. Or, worse, the media. Who knows? Oh, Christ! Christ! This is getting out of hand!

  What do we do?" Horvath finished the brandy, then helped himself to another.

  "Get hold of yourself!" Dennison commanded.

  Horvath slumped into a high-back, brown-leather chair.

  "I don't know, Roy. I'm under so much pressure lately.

  And now this."

  "What about our new friends? Have you told them yet?"

  Horvath took another swig of Hennessy. "Hah. 'Our friends' are eating us alive. Like something out of a science fiction movie."

  "Bullshit. We control things. We just use them. We toss them a few bones and they throw back kings' ransoms at us."

  "Yeah. Just like turning tricks. We're whores, Roy.

  Whores!" Horvath stared misty eyed into space.

  Dennison planted himself squarely in front of the President's National Security Adviser, bracing his arms on the chair's armrests.

  "Listen, Nick, and listen good. We're in this together.

  And it's not like we're crooks either. This is for a good cause: re-electing Dan Corgan President of the United States. Sometimes, in order to make an election freer, you've got to alleviate the constraints. In this case, it's money."

  Horvath began to cry uncontrollably with his head almost in his lap.

  Dennison grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

  "Snap out of it, goddamn it!"

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  Horvath blew his nose. "You know, I came to this country because I wanted freedom. Freedom to do and say what I wanted. Freedom to vote for the person I thought was best. Now, look at me. I'm no better than those communist stooges in Budapest, cynically manipulating the system. I fought them! Now…look at me."

  "Listen up, my friend. We're both in this deep. You call your contact. Give him the cable. Tell him we stand ready to do what we can to put a lid on Wells and that whole mess out there." Dennison shook Horvath again, harder.

  " Do you hear me? " he shouted.

  Horvath slowly nodded.

  He was indistinguishable from any other Swiss businessman disembarking the Lufthansa flight into the sweltering Bangkok heat, coolly determined to conquer the vast, mercantile reaches of booming Southeast Asia. Clad in a pressed, pin-striped, three-piece suit, clutching a black-leather brief case, clearly focused through wire-rim glasses, he marched forward into Don Muang airport -- shiny and efficient, like him.

  "Rudolf Schnitzler, Geschäftsmann/commerçant" read the red-jacketed Swiss passport. The bored immigration officer processed him through quickly. Customs wasn't interested in examining his baggage and waved him through.

  In the rear-view mirror, the taxi driver couldn't help but notice one particular feature on "Herr Schniztler": a nasty gash across his face.

  Dimitrov checked into the Arnoma Swisshotel. A desk clerk handed him a package which had arrived two hours earlier. He opened it in his room and pulled out the 232 JAMES

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  components. Within minutes, he assembled a stripped down 7.62mm Dragunov sniper rifle with scope and test-fired it, unloaded. He went about methodically opening the secret compartments on his matching leather bags. From his suitcase's all-metal bottom, he carefully slid out one mirrored dagger and four small throwing knives.

  Schnitzler/Dimitrov was ready for business.

  Despite his smoking habit, Vladimirov was an avid jogger. It was one of a number of new tastes and pastimes he'd acquired during his three-years at the Soviet UN

  mission in New York in the early '80s. Others included Nintendo games -- he had quite a collection -- and an affinity for chili dogs.

  Every day at dawn Russia's top intelligence officer in Thailand would pull his creaky frame out of bed, don his prized J. Crew jogging suit and trot to Bangkok's only sizeable public recreation area, Lumpini Park. He would jog around the ponds and sculpted gardens and return to shower and change before the heat of the tropical sun reached its full morning strength.

  While the running made him feel good, the city's polluted air, laced with the putrid smell of stagnant water in the remnants of canals, and garbage awaiting collection, made him somewhat nauseous. But he soldiered on down the jagged sidewalks, into Bangkok's congested streets when the sidewalks ran out, past the capital's proliferating skyscrapers, through crowds breakfasting at open-air sidewalk stalls.

  Vladimirov used this time of exerted energy to organize his thoughts for the day ahead. These days it wasn't so difficult on the work front. The Rezident hadn't received a PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  non-routine message from Moscow in weeks. The collapse of the communist regime in 1991 had removed a cause to serve, and the severe budget shortfalls made operations virtually impossible anyway. Moscow paid little attention to Asian outposts such as Bangkok, even regarding things like personnel matters. So, morale at the embassy was worsened by not knowing when one was scheduled for reassignment. Need to ding Moscow again with another cable.

  Ambassador Chayevsky was a good man -- for a Putin supporter. He and his wife worked assiduously at trying to keep embassy morale above the meltdown level by holding discussion and reading groups, organizing outings and arranging Russian cultural events for the Thai. Make sure to sit down with
him this afternoon to exchange ideas.

  Henry! Now there was one crackerjack son with a future. So smart -- Moscow University has already accepted him for its law program. But it is best to get him into Harvard or another outstanding American University.

  After all, I named him after Henry Kissinger, unbeknownst to the paranoid KGB. Ha! Ha! He should also study history. And American literature. Must talk to him tonight over dinner.

  As he did every morning, Vladimirov rounded a small hillock in a far, secluded corner of the park with plenty of shade trees. There he would pause and do stretch exercises before returning to his apartment.

  The blade came so swiftly that he saw the blood spilling from his groin before he felt the pain. Another slash caught him in the upper neck, just under his lower jaw. The jogger slumped into a growing pool of warm blood. There was no death struggle, little pain. It came that quickly. Dimitrov, after all, knew his business. Like a wisp of the city's smog, 234 JAMES

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  he metamorphosed and disappeared as silently as he had come.

  On Wireless Road, the American Ambassador's residence was one of the few remaining traditional Thai structures in Bangkok. Encircled by a moat and swathed in lush shade trees, the expansive wooden house, with its canopied windows and inviting verandas and entrance ways, stood in stark contrast with the concrete and chrome high-rise office buildings which, over the years, have grown across the cityscape like a malignant disease.

  As he did every afternoon just before dinner, Ambassador Wells played a couple of sets of tennis on the courts adjoining the residence, in full view from the street.

  Today, his opponent in a singles match was a senior Thai palace official.

  It was deuce and Wells, drawing on his notorious competitive streak, was determined to hammer home a tie-breaker hard enough to cause his opponent to lose his nerve. It was one of Wells's secret tactics which he never revealed to anyone, except his daughter, Lauren. Got to practice with her tomorrow.

  Back arched, right heel up, right arm stretched taut like a fishing rod. On three, he would bring up the ball with his left hand and smash it for all he was worth. One…two…