Permanent Interests (15 page)

Innes caught "no need to worry," "just a matter of time,"

and "no doubt it's political."

Two aides arrived, young staffers, a male with a shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead, about 30, and a black female, somewhat younger. Each was decked out in J. Crew
cum
L.L. Bean attire. She appeared to try to offset the preppy image with oversized, jangling earrings made somewhere in the Third World.

Next entered a smug-looking character in a light, double-breasted suit and silk shirt, whom Innes immediately recognized as Nicholas Horvath, the President's National Security Adviser. They all shook hands. The youngsters identified themselves as Wynn Kearnan and Prudence Harding, special assistants to the President for domestic constituencies and public liaison, respectively -- members of President Corgan's "brat pack,"

infamous for their combination of activism and inexperience.

The meeting's host strode in unannounced and with such naturalness that several of the attendees almost overlooked him. In his wake was his chief of staff, Howard Selmur.

The President took his seat and asked for a quick summary.

Drawing from Scher's earlier briefing at State, Dennison proceeded to explain to President Corgan that, while there were no big breaks in the case as yet, the investigation was going forward at a vigorous pace, etc., etc.

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Henry Corgan listened patiently, leaning back in his chair, twirling his reading glasses. He had a reputation as a no-nonsense, let's-get-down-to-brass-tacks politician. His p.r. spin doctors had to soften a cutting, aggressive image which, according to the exit polls, cost him votes in the last election, especially among women.

"Who did it then?" he asked simply.

After a pause, Dennison stated with forced confidence,

"Well, the intel people and FBI are narrowing the field of probable suspects."

Corgan cut Dennison short, fixed his eyes on Karlson and asked, "Is that so?"

Sensing an awkward moment, Karlson collected his thoughts. "Mr. President, we've got a long way to go in this investigation."

"You mean you got zilch, is that it?"

Karlson nodded. "Mr. President. We need to broaden the scope of inquiry. Maybe terrorists are responsible.

Maybe not. We need to take a fresh look at other possibilities."

"For

instance?"

"Criminal. Personal."

Dennison's stomach was churning. "Mr. President, to go off in these other directions would only invite more criticism from the media. Without some proof that--"

Corgan stopped him. "Look, gentlemen -- and lady -- all I want is results. We can't have this dragging on with absolutely nothing to show. One of my ambassadors gets knocked off. Hell, he gets butchered. And we can't find squat."

Kearnan, Harding and Innes scribbled furiously in their notebooks.

The President looked at Horvath. "Nick, I want you to stay personally on top of this. Stay in touch with Misters 128 JAMES

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Levin and Wilkins as well as with Mr. Dennison and Mr.

Karlson. Whoever else. I want a status report at my morning briefing every day."

The meeting was over. It had lasted barely fifteen minutes. Corgan was gone in a flash.

The others huddled.

Dennison, Levin, Wilkins and Scher went off to one side with Horvath and Selmur. Dennison was driving home a point animatedly as the others listened intently with their arms folded.

Innes went to the young presidential assistants. They asked him his views.

Innes recounted his escapade in Rome, how he thought Scher and company were chasing wild geese, that, once the truth -- whatever it was -- about Mortimer came out, it might be unsettling to the administration. They scribbled away. They asked that Innes stay in regular touch with them on developments.

"That depends on my bosses," he said, pointing to the klatsch of self-important functionaries at the other side of the room.

Bob Innes was seeing more of Colleen. Frequently, their get-togethers were over lunch, the time most easily available, and safe, for Innes. The more they saw each other, the more they laughed. She began teaching him Thai. During a stroll along the elm-lined Reflecting Pool one Friday in late winter, she taught him, "
chan rak khun
,"

I love you. Caught speechless, he stopped, looked deeply into her soul, put his arms around her gently and kissed her.

The world was spun faster and faster. It must have been, for they both toppled to the ground, which created yet more PERMANENT INTERESTS

129

laughter, and a second kiss, this time anchored in the earth.

Joggers, passing tourists and old people feeding the pigeons laughed with them. "Atta way, you lovers!" shouted a tattooed Vietnam vet manning a nearby POW/MIA awareness kiosk.

Their hushed passion blossomed when they held each other during increasingly frequent rendezvous at her small apartment in Arlington. He didn't want to leave her side during these trysts, to face the walking dead at his workplace, the cold woman to whom he was married, the loveless life that sucked him deeper into self-doubt and despair. The white softness of Colleen's neck held the warmth and mystery of womanhood; her eyes, the inspiration of love; her hands, the strength of beauty. In her he could get lost forever.

For Colleen, it was a forbidden love, one with only question marks at the end of the road. But she chose to suspend thinking about these troubling enigmas and decided to live and love for the present. But she prayed to God that it would all somehow work out in the end.

In her small bed, they stroked each other tenderly.

She turned on her stomach and propped her chin in one hand. "My grandfather from County Mayo used to tell us Irish legends and tales. My favorite was of Cuchullain, a grand knight, and his lady, Emer. They lived in the wondrous and peaceful land ruled by King Conchobar."

"Did they live happily ever after?"

"It wasn't so simple. He had to end a relationship with another woman, and she had to contend with the disapproval of her family. Together they defended the kingdom from foreign enemies. They almost died doing so."

"What kind of--?"

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Deep in thought, she signaled Innes to keep quiet. "I'll never forget what they always said to one another after a harrowing adventure: She: 'May God make smooth the path before you.' He: 'And may you be safe from every harm.'" She looked at Innes with a bemused expression.

Innes smiled back.

Silence enveloped them like a cold fog.

Stark reality rudely raised its formidable head. Alas, it was not olden times, nor could they inure themselves from the hard facts of modern times. And Innes was married.

With children of his own.

Colleen turned on her side. She tried to conceal the tears streaming down her cheek onto the pillow. Innes stared into space for answers that were not there.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Innes wrote up a detailed summary of the presidential briefing. He concluded with a recommendation that the investigation change course and begin to delve into facets of Mortimer's personal life. He added highlights of his own side investigation in Rome, but left out any reference to Colleen, for her own protection.

His report won eager reception, but not from his superiors. A stick'um note plastered on Innes's computer screen confronted him as he dragged himself into his cubicle at 7:30 am. "See me NOW," it announced in red ink. It was signed "Platten."

Innes sensed a changed atmosphere in the Ops Center.

People took discreet notice of his presence, some following him with their eyes. It was the feeling one had upon showing up with a black eye or a bad haircut. The attention people paid was not positive, however subdued it might be.

Robin Croft's was the only face reflecting overt sympathy. "Bob. I just want you to know that I'm behind you. If I can be helpful, just let me know."

With the profound uncertainty that comes with facing a firing squad, Innes shuffled into Platten's glass-enclosed cubicle.

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Platten didn't look up from the stack of morning traffic.

His face was as gray as his thinning hair.

"Ahem," Innes coughed nervously.

"I know you're here," Platten said stiffly.

Innes felt awkward. Memories of fifth grade and the principal's office swept through his mind.

Platten tossed a document across his desk. "What is this?"

"My

memo."

"Your

memo."

"Yes. That's right. My memo."

"Who else has it?"

"The usual suspects."

"This is no laughing matter, mister!"

"Sorry. I circulated it around for clearance. Seven, eight offices, I guess."

"Multiply that by at least ten. The photocopiers are working overtime as every secretary, every staff aide, every bored civil servant with a dirty mind cranks out copies of
your
memo."

"I don't get it," Innes said.

"You

don't

get
it, huh? How about this?" Platten snatched up Innes's memo and clutched it with both hands before his eyes. "Our investigation turned up numerous incidences of sexual misconduct by Ambassador Mortimer.

For example, at a February 13, 2006 banquet, he chased a 16-year old girl, the daughter of a prominent Italian industrialist, to her hotel room and tried to break the door down. As a result of liaisons with Roman prostitutes, Mr.

Mortimer contracted herpes. Only the direct intervention of the Italian leadership prevented a newspaper from printing the allegations of a Brazilian transvestite who said s/he had…" Platten flung the memo to the floor. "Just what was in your mind? You can't write such drivel--"

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"It's

true."

"How the hell do you know?!"

"Our

investigation?"

"
Our
investigation?"

"I mean, my investigation -- that is." Innes cleared his throat. His body erupted in beads of cold sweat.

Platten let out a deep sigh and shook his head. "You digressed from your instructions, Bob. As we speak, DS

agents are swooping down on office after office in a vain effort to confiscate and destroy copies of your memo. Lie detector tests are next. Dennison's personal orders. It goes to show how furious the Secretary is over this. Not to mention Scher."

Innes looked away. Images of fishing on sparkling Adirondack lakes rushed into his brain. Escape. Escape from the Washington Circus of Pathos and Paranoia. He wasn't crazy. Nor wrong. They were.

To Toby Wheeler, it was all very amusing and, by the way, a great story. It didn't take forty-eight hours for a draft to land on the desk of the diplomatic correspondent of the
Post
. Wheeler was a thoroughgoing professional who knew the meaning of constraint as well as opportunity. But inside his devilish little soul, he relished the prospect of making the White Washington Establishment squirm a little. As a rare black reporter on a lily white beat, he'd encountered more than his share of slights, gross misassumptions regarding his abilities and scoops slipped to colleagues from competing papers simply because they fit the established profile of a "diplomatic correspondent."

A black face, southern drawl and a degree in communications from Southern Baptist University just 134 JAMES

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didn't cut it. And the denigration wasn't limited to American society. When the
Post
sent him as a young reporter to man the Moscow bureau in the waning days of the Soviet era, Wheeler saw first-hand how unenlightening seventy years of communism were for the Russian people in the area of race relations. He'd been spat upon, denied service and called nigger.

It broke on a Monday morning, good timing for stretching a story over a week of otherwise slow news.

Slain American Envoy Linked to Organized Crime
, proclaimed the headline. Wheeler went on to recount the content of Innes's report, augmented by interviews with government officials both in Washington and overseas. It painted a picture of a gross incompetent, Roland Mortimer, appointed as U.S. envoy to a major ally, whose leaders essentially ignored him. The story of Mortimer's chasing an underage ingenue to a hotel room made it into the report as well as the late ambassador's nocturnal outings alone into Rome's less savory entertainment areas. The
pièce de
résistance
was an exposé of Mortimer's reported links to organized crime figures -- set against his cozy friendship and strong political ties with the President and a host of other senior administration officials. Finally, Wheeler reported on Dennison's clumsy attempts to quash the story, this following on a botched and misdirected investigation.

An accompanying editorial on the op-ed page denounced the crony system of political payoffs that resulted in sending unqualified ambassadors to represent America abroad. It ended by calling the Senate to task for turning a blind eye in the confirmation process.

Dennison and the White House mobilized the p.r.

machinery. The investigation was continuing apace, they told reporters. All legitimate avenues would be vigorously pursued, they assured. There was no evidence that PERMANENT INTERESTS

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Mortimer had links to organized crime, they said solemnly.

Yes, he led perhaps not the most circumspect personal life.

But these were the 2000’s after all. Mortimer was a true patriot and served the President loyally and capably. Blah, blah, blah.

Innes felt like vomiting as he read the headline and first few paragraphs the next morning. The children's breakfast burnt in the toaster. Carolyn unplugged it just in time. She read the story and remained silent for several minutes.

"Guess you're going to have an exciting day at work," was her unhelpful comment as she poured coffee for herself.

Innes was given the OES account. The Oceans, Environmental and Scientific Affairs Bureau was a necessary, yet bit player in the Department of State. Most Foreign Service officers shunned duty in a bureau manned by techno-geeks who were fascinated by such things as fisheries, cooperation on weather reporting, saving the whales and negotiating scientific exchanges. Innes started chugging "Jolt" cola -- "All the Sugar and Twice the Caffeine!" -- to stay awake. His previous duties were divvied up among Robin Croft, who no longer worked for him, and several others. Innes realized that he was being sidelined to bureaucratic Siberia. He actually welcomed some boredom and predictable duties, but pondered the likely end of his career.