Permanent Interests (21 page)

Not be! No! No! No!
He buried his face in his hands.

His intercom buzzed. It was Anita reminding him that he had a luncheon appointment at the Maison Blanche with the Scandinavian ambassadors. He snapped to. But was weighted down by a complete loss of energy.

He hurriedly shuffled through the photos looking for a note, a letter. Something. But there was none. He clutched the cd. Turning his head wildly like some forest beast on the alert for predators, with trembling hands, Horvath stuffed the disk into a small stereo on a side cabinet, frantically put on earphones and pressed the start button.

It seemed an eternity for the sound to come on. It was of a woman screaming. He heard his own voice issuing calm warnings not to struggle. He sounded like a crazy man. Something made of glass smashed. "Stop! Stop!"

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the woman cried. He recognized it as belonging to a young Byelorussian woman he'd been seeing. The sweat continued to pour off Horvath's brow.

There was a slight pause as the first recording segment ended. The next segment came on. He heard Lydia's voice. "Stay away from me, or I'll stab you!…This Russian will fight back!" Then there was his own pathetic voice.

"Lydia, I'm sorry. Please come out."

He couldn't take it any more and stopped the machine.

In his panic and despair Horvath struggled to focus his thoughts. Somebody was out to blackmail him. That was clear.
Oh, Horvath! You thought you were so smart.

You're nothing but an idiot. A stupid, insane fool! And
now you will pay.

The torture was in the waiting. The blackmailers didn't have to write a message to him. They'd be contacting him presently. A real professional job. Horvath was extremely thirsty. And he needed to relieve his bladder badly. He bolted out of his office and rushed to the mess across the way in the ornate Old Executive Office Building. After doing his business, he thrust his head into the men's room sink and repeatedly threw cold water on his face. In the mess, he bought a cold Coke and chugged it. Nearby was a pay phone. Assured that no one was noticing, he lumbered over and pressed a number into it.

"Hello?" Lydia answered.

"Lydia, it's me. What the hell is going on? Who put you up to it?" he demanded.

"I don't know what you mean, Nicky."

"Like hell you don't, you rotten bitch--"

She hung up.

With frenzied hands, he dug into his pocket for another quarter and pressed as if his life depended on it.

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181

"If you don't speak to me like a gentleman, I will hang up again," she warned.

With great effort, he tried to calm himself. "Lydia. I need to see you.
Urgently.
"

"What

about?"

"I think you know."

"No,

I

don't."

Horvath took a deep breath. "Never mind. Can I see you tonight?"

"Okay. I will be here."

Horvath was little more than a zombie for the rest of the day.

She opened the door without uttering a word, turned and walked slowly away from him. The image of her swaying gently forth, hips moving, that sleek body swathed in a black, form-fitting cocktail dress, would have driven him into a frenzy in better times. He followed this time like a scared puppy dog.

She led him through the simple foyer, through the hallway lined with oil paintings, into the living room.

Horvath hadn't felt so frightened and humbled since he was punished by the headmaster in his grade school.

Sprawled comfortably in an overstuffed, patterned arm chair was Yakov. Opposite him, to the rear, was Dimitrov.

In another armchair by the fireplace was a third Russian.

None rose as Horvath entered.

Yakov sported his trademark Cheshire grin. With his left hand, he signaled Horvath to take a seat next to him.

Horvath dutifully obliged. Lydia sat demurely at the far end of the room, her eyes fixed forlornly away from the others.

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"With your permission, I shall dispense with introductions and small talk," Yakov began. "Let us get to business."

"Who are you? KGB?" Horvath stammered.

Yakov took a moment to study Horvath. Again, the serpent sizing up its prey.

"To answer your question, no. There is no more 'KGB.'

Is gone forever. With Soviet Union."

"Then who are you? What do you want from me?"

"Ah, but I am being a terrible host. Please. A refreshment." Yakov gestured to a tray containing bottles, glasses and an ice bucket. "I have Egri Bikaver. Slivovitz.

Even Unicum. All straight from Hungary."

It made Horvath's blood boil. Only Russians knew how to humiliate with kindness. Horvath hesitated. Yakov mumbled an instruction to Dimitrov. The latter poured the potent Slivovitz apricot brandy into a small vodka glass and handed it to Horvath. The latter took it and slugged it down. Dimitrov poured another.

"Please not to preoccupy yourself that we are spies. I assure you we are not."

Horvath shook his head as if not comprehending.

"We are…entrepreneurs. We provide services…for a fee. And you have a problem. We can help you with your problem."

"So, then, you are…"

"Friends. From now on we are your friends. You can always rely upon us. And we on your cooperation."

"And you are Russians."

"We are newcomers. Here to pursue the American dream."

"I fought against Russians. In Hungary. From the United States. I will not betray my country!" Horvath said bravely. Nicholas Horvath, freedom fighter.

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183

"Ah, yes. The little guerrilla fighter. And my father was there. He helped liberate Hungary in 1956. And my uncles drove out Nazis from Budapest in the Great Patriotic War.

So, my friend, we have something in common. And so, we meet today."

Horvath paused to collect his senses. "What do you want then?"

"Information! No surprise there,
tovarishch.
"

"And if I don't cooperate?"

"But you will. You have your family, yes?" Yakov leaned forward. "But more important. You have career.

You have reputation. You have money. In America, nobody sacrifices these. Are you prepared to spend the rest of your life as a poor mouse? As a man of shame? As nobody, with no respect, no money, no future?"

Horvath gazed at the floor, speechless.

"Of course not!" Yakov continued. "So, we work together from now on. You fulfill our requests and we help you whenever you have problems. Like today." Yakov saluted Horvath with a glass of vodka and knocked it back.

"Now. Here is Mr. Smith." He pointed at Dimitrov.

"And there," gesturing to the third Russian, "is Mr. Jones."

Mr. Jones was Igor Rokovsky, SVR colonel, an American specialist. In the course of his regular duties at his embassy, Rokovsky, like many of his colleagues, moonlighted for extra cash as a free-lance agent. Yakov had recently taken him on. "Mr. Jones will be your contact.

And your friend."

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Colleen had just finished a grueling two hours of Thai.

The tones, four of them, were the hardest thing to master.

"Ma," for example, could mean horse, dog, or come, depending on the tone placed on it. Likewise, "kai," could mean near or far. And on it went for nearly every conceivable monosyllable.

She went to collect her mail and messages from her pigeon hole. A single yellow telephone message slip was there. "Call: Mr. D.S. Warren," it said, and listed a phone number.

She called. Mr. Warren, in the bureau of diplomatic security, asked her to come by to answer a few routine questions. They probably wanted to update her clearances, she thought.

D.S. Warren occupied a small partitioned cubicle in State's annex office building across from the Department on E Street. Mr. Warren himself was one of those security functionaries who instilled insecurity and fear by feigning calm and congeniality. Furthermore, his J.C. Penney blue, three-piece suit and brylcreamed hair made him a dead give-away as a security man, or at least the stereotype that most "substantive" officers had of them.

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"Miss McCoy. Like I said on the phone, I have just a few routine questions I'd like to go over with you." Colleen could never figure out whether, by using "Miss" in lieu of

"Ms.," the notoriously sexist security guys were advertising their contempt for feminism, or were simply as slow and plodding as everybody liked to make them out to be.

"It's come to my attention that you claim to have some special information concerning the murder of Ambassador Mortimer."

Routine questions, my eye
, she thought.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, you reportedly have stated that you believe the ambassador was killed for something he did, or people he knew. Is that right?"

A little inner voice told Colleen to be on guard. "I have no idea who killed him, or why. That's your task to resolve, isn't it, Mr. Warren?"

"Is it also true that you believe our government is seeking to cover up the circumstances of his murder?"

It hit Colleen like a ton of bricks. Amy! Her good friend and confidante had leaked what Colleen had told her about the Mortimer case.

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Like you said, it's our job to investigate. If you have some relevant information, we'd like to know."

"I told the RSO in Rome everything I knew."

"And about this alleged government cover-up?"

"Beats

me."

D.S. Warren was visibly irritated. "Okay. Let's move on." He opened a dossier and studied it for a moment.

"You are currently cohabitating with Mr. …Robert Innes.

Is that correct?"

Colleen blushed. "What business are my personal affairs of yours?!" she shot back.

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"Everything, Miss McCoy. We're security, after all."

He resumed examining the dossier, slowly turning page after page. "Relax. It's strictly routine. The regs state that you must report to us any long-term, steady romantic relationships. We all have to."

"I don't believe this is happening!" Colleen protested.

"Here are two copies of Form OF-174, 'Report of Relationship.' One is for you. The other for Mr. Innes.

Please complete them and return them by the fifteenth."

"And if I don't?"

"You risk having your clearances suspended. No security clearance, no Bangkok, Miss McCoy. Please cooperate. On the other thing, we know that you've been insinuating that there's more to Ambassador Mortimer's death than is apparent and that you believe there is some kind of conspiracy to squelch it. Does Mr. Innes believe this also?"

Colleen rose. "Mr. Warren, I think that ends this conversation. If I have any divine inspirations on the Mortimer case, I'll be sure to let you know." She turned around abruptly and walked out.

Colleen immediately called Innes. "Bob, this is eerie.

And it frightens me. Now everybody knows what we know. And think. If they're out to mess up your life, what will they do next? And now to me?"

Innes paused to reflect. "Toby Wheeler."

"Huh?"

"The

Post
guy who was doing those stories on Mortimer and criminal connections with the government."

"What about him?"

"He's now off the story."

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187

"Oh?"

"He's in the hospital. Somebody attacked him. He may never walk again. What a coincidence, huh?"

Colleen needed a moment to collect her thoughts. "Bob.

This is getting really scary. Should we go to the papers?

Or to Congress? Or sit still? Or what?"

"Berlucci."

"Who's

Berlucci?"

"I'll explain later. Gotta go now."

Dom Berlucci agreed to see Innes immediately. Innes ran the five blocks to FBI headquarters. He arrived on time, but out of breath and perspiring. He related the latest happenings to the FBI man.

Berlucci listened intently while Speedy took notes.

"Bob, you and I see eye-to-eye on Mortimer's death. The guy was involved with some definite sleazeballs. It's criminal. No doubt about it. The Director has asked me to go full steam ahead on developing leads. But all this business about a cover-up and some cabal within the administration to do people in. I don't know. Sounds pretty far-fetched. What proof do you have?"

"I guess it's only circumstantial at this point," Innes replied. "But look at it. After my memo gets leaked, everything in my life takes a nose-dive. Then Toby Wheeler gets hit. Now they're after Colleen."

Berlucci looked skeptical. "And Scher? Is he part of this…this conspiracy?"

"Scher? Scher's just an idiot. Maybe they're using him to throw monkey wrenches in the works. Otherwise, he's just one of those guys who runs in circles all the time. And he's a vain egotist trying to make a name for himself."

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"So then, who's pulling the strings?"

Innes rubbed his chin, searched his brain. "I don't know at this point. Maybe…Dennison. And the White House."

Berlucci shot a quick, doubtful glance at Speedy. He strained to appear attentive.

"You guys think I've gone off the deep end, don't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"But I can read it on your face."

"Bob, look. Work with us on the criminal investigation.

Drop this other stuff. We'll eventually get to the bottom of this case. That's our business."

Innes nodded in resignation. "Yeah. Right. Uh, I'll be in touch. Okay?" He got up to leave.

Berlucci stood and approached Innes. "Bob. Cool it.

And keep your head low." Berlucci poked a punch playfully at Innes's chin and smiled. "You got anything to pass along, contact Speedy here. He knows how to reach me."

"Sure." Innes departed without making any assurances.

Innes called the young presidential aides he'd met at the White House briefing, Wynn Kearnan and Prudence Harding. "I don't ask you to buy on to my thesis at this stage," he told them. "But the President should know that his people, especially Dennison and Scher, are botching the investigation. I think Dennison, at least, is doing everything in his power to sidetrack it. The White House can turn things around by banging heads and reassigning tasks."