Permanent Interests Page 7

  FSI was the Foreign Service Institute in suburban Virginia where U.S. diplomats underwent language study and other training.

  Innes sat up with a start.

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  "That's terrific. Show your face around here after you arrive. We can talk about old times. I know a great oriental night club."

  "Can't wait," Colleen replied hesitantly, playing along.

  "It'll be sooner than you think. I arrive this coming weekend. I'll give you a call then."

  Innes caught himself grinning ear to ear as he replaced the receiver. Then forced himself to ask why. A good new-found friend's coming to town, he tried to convince himself. It'll be very useful to get a firsthand readout on how the investigation is playing out in Rome. She's a fine young officer. I'll give her some helpful career counseling tips so that she can avoid some of the pitfalls I made, he thought unpersuasively. Innes was clearly struggling with himself.

  Alexander Vladimirovich Starenkov. SVR Rezident in Ankara. Twenty-five-year veteran of Moscow's espionage service. Distinguished himself in Kabul. Was rewarded with a plum assignment as deputy Rezident at the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, where he was discreet and regularly foiled the FBI's efforts to monitor his movements and communications. Did a stint as an aide on national security matters in Putin’s NSC-clone foreign policy advisory board. Forty-seven, married, two kids.

  Otherwise, an enigma. He was so discreet that it wasn't till Speedy Donner got his file from the bio shop at Langley that he even remembered the name.

  Innes read the dossier quickly but thoroughly. Speedy had sanitized it of highly classified information, but would answer Innes's questions fully based on what little information was available on this man.

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  "Looks to me like this guy was a real pro, not a hotdogger," Innes said as he accidentally dropped a fry onto the file cover.

  "I promised my date in the bio office that I'd return the file sans grease," Speedy said tartly.

  "A date, huh? Guess she hasn't caught on that you live up to your name as a lover."

  Speedy launched an onion ring at Innes's nose.

  "What was his reputation in Turkey?" Innes asked.

  "He hadn't been there long. Had the cover of commercial counselor. The Turkish service told our station chief that Starenkov was actually a very energetic commercial officer. Worked hard to promote Russian exports. Was all over the Turkish business community."

  "Think he was trying to develop cut-outs to steal high tech stuff from us?"

  "No evidence. He mainly cultivated Turkish agro-business types. Food exporters on the one hand and farm machinery importers on the other. Reading about this guy really puts you to sleep. Sort of a spook Al Gore."

  "How many foreign commercial officers are you aware of who've been literally torn apart for trying to sell more tractors?" Innes asked.

  "That's the thing. Neither the Turks nor we nor anybody else can figure out what this guy was into that would land him into this kind of end."

  Their young waitress asked if they wanted another pitcher of Rolling Rock on draft, the favored brew among university students on a tight budget. Customers nursing their drinks generated neither profit nor tips. Speedy and Innes got the message. They ordered another pitcher.

  "The Turks are ready to conclude that some crazed Chechnyan or Azeri did a job on him. Caucasus peoples are like that, they keep reminding us; wild, violent, 74 JAMES

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  vengeful. The Turks should know. They've had a lot of experience of their own slaughtering their neighbors to the east."

  "What's Moscow's reaction to all this?"

  Speedy promptly emptied his glass of Rolling Rock, set the empty glass squarely down on the cardboard coaster and fastidiously dabbed his lips with a cocktail napkin.

  "They're outraged, of course. Turks say they're being hit up both in Moscow and in Ankara for results to their investigation."

  "And?"

  "And the Russian government is convinced that Armenian crazies did it – not Chechnyans. They hate the Russians; the more so since it became public that the Russian army has been channeling arms and ammo to the Azeris covertly. The Turks don't mind pinning the blame on the Armenians either, but they need at least some circumstantial evidence first. The Russians are pressing the Turks to go after members of something called the Armenian Redemptist Army in eastern Turkey."

  "Christ. Doesn't this sound familiar," Innes intoned.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Bernie Scher…uh, I'll tell you later. What do you think yourself, Speedy?"

  "Hey, remember me? The 'they're-all-out-selling-themselves' theoretician? Everybody in the USG, and probably in the Russian government too, still thinks in cold war terms. An intelligence agent gets shredded to pieces.

  Oh! Must've been a political murder."

  "So, okay. Who would do in a quiet, competent Russian family man who was out to help his country's economy and

  -- by the way -- was also a spy?"

  "I don't know, but I'm working on it. I'm just willing to bet it wasn't political and that it wasn't random violence PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  either. Ergo, he sold himself to somebody out there and whatever the deal was, it went sour and they creamed him.

  Either that or he just got in the way of some sweetheart deal already in progress."

  Innes looked at his watch. "Geez, 10:00 already! My wife'll kill me. She's supposed to be on the night shift by now."

  "How is it with you and Carolyn anyway?" Speedy asked.

  "Like I said before. Sore subject."

  They paid the bill and left, agreeing to stay in touch on any new developments concerning the late Alexander Starenkov.

  Innes and Colleen met at the Nok Lek Restaurant, on Glebe Road, several minutes from the FSI campus at Arlington Hall Station. Colleen was eager to plunge herself into everything Thai, starting with the food. They took a stab at ordering several dishes, neither having much familiarity with Thai cuisine. Nok Lek, or Little Bird in Thai, like so many ethnic restaurants, was a family-run operation. They took up the suggestions of Mrs. Somphat, wife of the owner, and ordered a couple of other dishes on a hunch. Coverless formica-topped tables with simple folding chairs lined either wall of the narrow eatery, lodged between a Payless shoe store on the one side and a CVS

  Drugs on the other in a drab '60's-era shopping center. It was a favorite among the Southeast Asia hands at FSI.

  The first course was tom yam kung, a hot and sour shrimp soup served in a kettle kept warm by a small can of sterno in its belly.

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  "Bob, I'm glad we're together again," Colleen said. She touched Innes's hand slightly. "I still think of our little escapade in the netherworld of Roman nightlife. And you?"

  Her interest made Innes feel good. In retrospect, their little adventure into Rome's less notable nightlife now seemed amusing. It was something they shared, a bonding experience.

  "Hm. Work's a grind and things aren't so hot at home."

  Innes averted his eyes downward and fidgeted with his napkin.

  Colleen's face was the definition of feminine caring.

  Wordlessly, she urged him to open up.

  "You know what I think of the Mortimer investigation.

  On the one hand, I'm convinced that those boneheads are mishandling it. On the other, they won't let me disengage.

  What makes it worse is that I can't help but think that there's much more to it than meets the eye. Just a gut feeling that I can't let go."

  "And at home?"

  Mrs. Somphat brought the first course, satay, barbecued strips of chicken on a stick served with a sweet peanut sauce.

  Innes picked one up, dipped it into the sauce and began to nibble as he focused his thoughts. As a Presbyterian Yankee, Innes was not given to sharing his personal affairs with others, even close relatives and friends
. Stoicism and internalization of emotions were his nature. He studied Colleen's face. Her pouty pink lips and wide, hazel eyes exuded curiosity and concern. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap. She invited trust. Somewhere in his mental firmament, Innes thought that this was a woman in whose soul he could get lost.

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  "Oh, it's pretty complicated…" Innes caught himself.

  He looked deeply into Colleen's eyes and pondered for a moment. "Actually, it's pretty simple, I guess. Carolyn and I have grown distant. I don't know if it's the crazy work hours we're both putting in, or the constant moving from post to post, or contending with the Beltway rat race, or some combination of everything."

  "Do you discuss things with each other?"

  Innes reflected a second. "I suppose we've gotten out of the habit, when I think about it."

  "If you let it drift, it'll only get worse--"

  Innes interrupted and in a rapid staccato, said, "We married while still in college. I try not to dwell on it, but I often can't help but think that we married too young. We grew together, but then began to grow apart. I can't put my finger on it, but the closeness is gone. We each do our own thing. We're only going through the motions now.

  Anyway, ten years and two kids later things just aren't the same any more." Innes felt a rush of blood to his head. He had rarely confided his innermost emotions to anyone. But he welcomed this chance to get off his chest feelings that had been gnawing at him for months, for years. It was cathartic.

  The main courses arrived, a spicy green curry, a clear rice noodle and shrimp salad laced with little red peppers and tom yam kung soup. Famished, each dug in enthusiastically.

  They ordered a second round of iced coffee. Innes stared at Colleen's face. "You know something? You don't look well."

  "What do you mean?" Colleen asked as she took another large swig of the iced drink.

  "Your face. It looks flushed. You all right?"

  "I feel fine," she insisted.

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  Innes reached over and placed his hand on her forehead, then her cheek. "Yeah, you feel like you've got a fever."

  Innes asked for a glass of ice water. Colleen seconded the order.

  Colleen pulled her compact from her purse and studied her face in the tiny mirror. She raised her eyes to Innes's face. She then reached over and felt his cheek. She began to chuckle.

  "What's the matter?" Innes said, taking another large gulp of cold water. He reflexively grabbed Colleen's compact and looked at himself in the little mirror, half expecting to see a noodle in his hair or a pepper in his nose, considering the way she was laughing between mouthfuls of plain rice and swigs of ice water.

  "We're both burning up!" she blurted in a mixture of mirth and agony.

  "You can say that again."

  "We've o.d'd on hot peppers," she said, fanning her extended tongue with one hand.

  Innes greedily gobbled several ice cubes. "This stuff sneaks up on you."

  Observing the scene like a little girl who had just pulled a prank on her friends, Mrs. Somphat went to their table bearing a plate of sliced, fresh pineapple and bananas.

  "Here. You eat this now. It take the fire away," she ordered her clients between giggles.

  Innes and Colleen devoured the fruit.

  Colleen had to return to class. Innes was late for the office. They paid the bill and exited Nok Lek. Almost oblivious to the press of time, they stood in the parking lot each waiting for the other to bid farewell. She mentioned how she dreaded going back to Dr. Praman, the "Terror of Thai Tones." He mumbled something about the stack of papers Robin Croft had assembled for him; the more crises PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  in the world, the higher the stack got. An awkward silence fell on them. As if on cue, the Bangkok-bound junior officer and the despondent diplomat glanced at their watches.

  Colleen took a step toward him and looked up at him.

  "Bob, this was nice." She took his hand and pressed gently.

  "Don't let it all get you down. You're too nice a guy. Don't give in."

  There was a tingling inside that Innes hadn't felt since he was an adolescent. Her earnestness and caring struck deep.

  He paused as he searched her face. "Can we do this again?

  I really enjoy talking to you. I mean I feel we have a lot in common. Actually, what I want to say is–"

  "Yes. Just call. Or I can call you. Or--"

  "Next Saturday. After I finish the morning shift. The zoo? How about it?"

  Colleen's face brightened. Strands of her auburn hair waved in a gentle breeze. "Yes. One o'clock?"

  "Yes. One o'clock."

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They locked in passionate embrace. It was as if the world were about to self destruct and this was the last chance to experience physical human love. There was such little time. No one should know. It was clandestine, yet so necessary. It started languorously, then accelerated rapidly.

  The long anticipation had made her nervous. At first she was awkward, maladroit, but with the intensity increasing, she lost herself in the act. He applied himself expertly, assertively. He was considerably older. She was very young, very fresh. She had put off this moment repeatedly.

  Finally, she gave in, gave all of herself. Now he was on top of her. His weight was oppressive, yet the vigor of his passion drove her naturally, almost unthinking.

  The surroundings were less than ideal. A cheap hotel room in an undesirable section of the city. Drab, colorless curtains she could see, along with a worn, colorless carpet.

  A sagging bed with gray sheets and stained pillows. He quickened and became forceful. Oh, God, let it be finished, she screamed in her mind. The traffic noise from the street was distracting, annoying. A bus belched grumpily as it pushed through the tight alleyway three stories below. The radio was on. The Bee Gees ran through one of their weird, PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  falsetto tunes of the mid-70's. She struggled to control her emotions. Finish. Finish. Now. Now. I must think of what will come, she shouted silently to herself. Make him finish. Help him to finish. She concentrated, her face contorted, shut out reality. Her eyes rolled back into her sockets, the lids and brows scrunched unrevealing as to whether the cause was deep pleasure or deep pain. She moved as she was supposed to. Now! Now! Now!

  He collapsed and remained on her, unmoving, but breathing hard. Her head exploded in a supernova of emotions, the intense energy of which was being channeled into one direction as she began to regain herself: Go! Go!

  Get out!! This was wrong. Wrong. Yet she remained frozen. Tears streamed along her cheeks. She sobbed almost soundlessly.

  Finally, he stirred himself and raised his wet body from her. Immediately, he reached for his watch and squinted to see the time. He sprang from the bed and leapt to the tiny bathroom. After three minutes he returned to the side of the bed and looked down at his conquest as he zipped his trousers.

  "You were good, very good. You pass." He touched her cheek roughly and laughed hoarsely, cruelly.

  She had turned on her side and was staring blankly at the grinding radiator.

  "Go see Sasha. He will tell you what to do next."

  She remained silent.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Yes." She was still.

  "Go to Sasha. I think we can take you on." He put on his jacket, opened the door of the little room. "We must do this again sometime!" His voice was mocking, denigrating.

  And he slammed the door.

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  She came from a good family. Her father had a supervisory position in the Rostov Oblast public health administration. Her mother was an accountant at a steel plant. Her paternal great grandfather was a senior functionary under the czar, a fact which the family was proud of, but kept hidden during the seventy-three years of Soviet communism. Sh
e completed four years of university, having obtained a degree in accounting, following in her mother's footsteps. Yet times were hard in Russia. Very hard. Making ends meet on the equivalent of forty dollars a month was impossible. People scraped, stole and hustled.

  Lydia Puchinskaya was in the same boat as everyone else. She could labor in a legitimate job -- her mother pulled strings to get her a junior bookkeeper's position at her factory. And try to buy and sell this and that on the side just as most of her friends were doing. But for a bright lady of 22, the gritty, industrial southern Russian city of Rostov, on the Don River, offered nothing but bleak uncertainties. The old social welfare net was gone.

  Everyone was out for himself. With the collapse of Soviet communism, there came a monolithic vacuum. No direction for society. Nothing to believe in.

  Lydia contrasted this with the incredible glimpses of the outside world which she saw on television and in the movies. She saw a documentary several months ago on Paris. The reporters zoomed in on shops that were stuffed with wonderful meats, sausages, varieties of breads, cheese, toys, clothes. They filmed the City of Light's beautiful broad, tree-lined boulevards which channeled the metropolis's plethora of nice cars and chic people. But what truly captured Lydia's imagination were the fashion shows. How breathtaking, the beautiful women clad in cutting-edge fashions. Gold, black, silver, tropical PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  splashes. And their hair done up so daring or so simple.

  But two things struck to her core: the absolutely self-assured expressions on their faces, as if to dare the world to call into question their individual self-worth, and the air of assertive freedom. People were giving their adulation not only to the young models' beauty, but also their style, their sassiness, their ease of movement under obvious pressure to perform well. Lydia wanted the chance to aspire to such marvelous things. She wanted out of Russia.

  And, while Sasha was not exactly a white knight in shining armor, he did come to her rescue. The tall, handsome Sasha with the velvety voice and fine manners and seemingly limitless quantities of both charm and money to sway a girl. Sasha, in his ankle-length mink coat and black BMW, blowing into gray, torpid, decaying Rostov like a devil's wind into the desert, sweeping up anything that lay in his path. No one had to ask what his profession was. Object of both envy and scorn, Sasha was representative of the new class of post-communist entrepreneur in the new Russia. A clever young man who knew how to advance in a system suddenly devoid of controls and in which everyone had a price. A master of blat -- "pull," influence. In the Dodge City of the new Russia, the Sashas were both sheriff and bad guys. With money and muscle they cajoled or threatened government ministers and kiosk vendors, generals and janitors. The distinction between mafia and mere capitalist was a vague blur. The now chatty newspapers screamed mafia at them.