Permanent Interests (29 page)

The sommelier popped open a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck champagne and filled three glasses.

Already tipsy from pre-dinner cocktails, Dennison rose unsteadily from his chair in Les Nigauds' privatest room, lifted his champagne glass and said, "Here's to three clever guys, the sharpest powermeisters in all of Washington. All for one and one for all!"

Selmur followed suit, spilling half of his champagne before adding his own self-congratulation. "Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee, that's why they call us the Magnificent Three! After we leave public service, I propose we form a lobby outfit called Dreamworks DSH."

Horvath sat staring into his untouched glass, seemingly losing himself in the sparkling liquid.

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"Hey, Nick!" Selmur called. "Wake up, buddy.

Celebrate!"

"Yeah!" Dennison chimed in. "We're on the way to turning the tide for our man. Corgan will be re-elected and we'll have it made. Instead of collecting unemployment!"

He laughed uproariously at his own lame joke.

A waiter brought in a tray of Beluga caviar nestled in a bowl shaped out of fantail shrimps on a mound of glistening crushed ice --
joyaux de la couronne
, a specialty of Les Nigauds.

The Secretary and Chief of Staff plunged in, immediately destroying the fishy crown jewels in a fit of unapologetic gluttony.

"Hey Nick, dig in!" Dennison said through his stuffed mouth.

Horvath didn't flinch. His eyes remained transfixed on the bubbly wine.

Dennison approached Horvath and slapped him on the back. "Hey, Nick! Nick!! What's wrong, you tired, or what?"

Horvath sat motionless. His lips moved.

"What's that? What'd you say?" Selmur asked.

"
Szabadság
," Horvath muttered barely audibly.

Selmur and Dennison exchanged worried looks.

Dennison knelt in front of Horvath and, with his hand, gently shook Horvath's head by the chin. "Nick? You all right? Say something, Nick."

"
Szabadság
," he whispered.

Selmur put down his glass. He grabbed Horvath by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Nick!" he shouted.

A waiter ran into the room.

"Oh, it's okay. We don't need anything--" Dennison began.

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257

"
Szabadság!!"
Horvath shouted at the top of his lungs.

But his eyes didn't move from the glass before him.

"Freedom," the young waiter said.

Selmur and Dennison turned to him.

"He said 'freedom,'" the waiter continued. "My father's Hungarian. I spent my junior year there.
Szabadság
is Hungarian for freedom."

"Er, yeah, we know," Selmur ad libbed. "Our buddy here is teaching us some Hungarian. Aren't you Nick, ol'

pal?" Selmur affectionately massaged Horvath's shoulders and then patted him on the back.

Picking up the charade, Dennison added, "That's right.

He's not having much success though, ha, ha." He placed a comradely arm around Horvath's shoulders. "Poor guy.

Can't hold his booze. Better get him home to the little lady."

Selmur winked at the waiter. "Everything's fine, son.

Think we'll call it a night." He slipped a twenty into the boy's hand. The waiter left the room.

They rushed in front of Horvath, knelt and studied the National Security Adviser's face.

"What do you think, Roy?"

"I don't know. He's spaced out." Selmur waved his hand before Horvath's unresponding eyes.

"He hasn't had a drop to drink," Dennison said.

"Exhaustion," Selmur said worriedly.

"A nervous breakdown, you mean?"

"Don't know. I say we take him home and see how he is in the morning."

"
Szabadság
," Horvath repeated to his glass.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The more Dennison thought about Horvath, the more anxious he became. When he and Selmur dropped Horvath off at his house afterward, the NSC adviser still hadn't come out of his trance. Mrs. Horvath took him and put him to bed. But Dennison worried that Horvath had either experienced a change of heart or that he had truly flipped out. He hoped that Horvath was simply exhausted and would recover quickly. But the uncertainty kept him awake most of the night. At 5:00 am, he phoned Horvath.

"I'm fine," Horvath answered unconvincingly. His voice had a metallic tone.

"Do you recall last night?" Dennison pressed.

"Yes."

"And?"

No

response.

"Nick. Maybe you should see a doctor. A quick check-up. Use our medical unit."

"No. Not necessary, Roy. I'm fine." His voice was hollow. Horvath hung up.

Dennison next phoned Selmur.

"Howard, I'm worried about Nick. I just talked to him."

"Did

he

respond?"

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259

"Yeah."

"Then he's obviously okay. He looks like he could use a break, though. I'll suggest that he take a little vacation. Go off to the Caribbean or someplace with his wife."

"Right. But I don't know. He just didn't sound normal, Howard. Last thing we need now is another Mortimer.

Flipping out on religion, or something equally bizarre."

Dennison and Selmur agreed that a close eye was needed on Horvath.

A chauffeured White House car picked Horvath up at precisely 5:30 am, as it did every day. The driver handed Horvath a locked dark leather satchel, as he did every morning. It contained the latest classified cables from U.S.

diplomatic posts and military commands worldwide as well as the CIA's and State Department's morning intelligence summaries, and selected news clippings. Horvath placed the satchel on the seat beside him, unopened. His interest was directed instead at a ragged, old, army duffle bag which he held securely on his lap.

The car entered the west gate after a cursory check by uniformed Secret Service guards. Clutching the duffle close to his body, Horvath sprinted out toward the West Wing where his office was located. The driver shouted his name and ran to catch up to him.

"You forgot this, sir," he said, holding the leather satchel with an outstretched arm. Horvath took it without comment. He proceeded past a guard seated just inside the West Wing main entrance. He entered his office and shut and locked the door after him.

At 7:00 he briefed the President in the Oval Office. This morning he had little to say. Horvath told his secretary to 260 JAMES

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cancel all appointments, and to forward no calls. At 9:30, President Corgan left the White House to meet with Congressional leaders at the Hyatt Regency. Minutes later, Horvath strolled back to the Oval Office. He carried the army duffle in one hand, as he would a brief case. Again, Secret Service personnel let him pass freely. The National Security Adviser had virtual free run of the Executive Mansion.

Once in the Oval Office, Horvath quickly opened the duffle and pulled out two quart bottles. He twisted off the caps and proceeded to splatter animal blood all over the President's desk -- originally Teddy Roosevelt's; on the Remington paintings and Catlin prints along the walls, across shelves of books containing original editions of Alexis de Tocqueville's accounts of his travels in early 19th century America, biographies of Jefferson and Hamilton, an early Webster's dictionary autographed by Webster himself, and so on. He smeared blood on a photo of Corgan taking the oath of office. Having emptied the bottles, Horvath smiled admiringly at his work. He snatched the duffle and departed the Oval Office at a leisurely pace.

Horvath proceeded toward the First Family's living quarters. He explained to Secret Service agents manning its access that he wished to leave a briefing paper personally with Mrs. Corgan. He declined escort, adding that he would merely leave the document with staff if the First Lady were not around. Once inside, Horvath ducked into the Rose Suite, facing northwest onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and locked the door. He darted to the windows overlooking the broad, now traffic-free boulevard, and flung them open.

Out of the duffle bag, he retrieved a World War II-vintage German Schmeisser submachine gun. For a PERMANENT INTERESTS

261

moment he paused to admire it. He had used one just like it to kill Russians in '56. He polished the receiver housing with his jacket sleeve.
Szabadság
, he murmured.

Outside along the sidewalk and down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, Horvath could see tourists gathering for the White House tour; others gawked or took pictures of the most famous residence in America. Vacationers, office workers and vagrants strolled comfortably in the late springtime sun. An environmental group numbering some dozen or so individuals demonstrated peaceably against the destruction of America's forests.

Horvath raised the Schmeisser, released the safety and took careful aim. Through the bead, his eye saw Red Army troops. Oh, how he hated them. Kill some, his Free Hungary commanders had told their men. Demonstrate to the world how vulnerable they were, and America would come to Hungary's rescue. America would save the Magyars. And freedom would be theirs again.
Szabadság
.

They killed Russians, quite a few considering their limited means. But the Americans never came. East Europeans equated America with freedom. The two were synonymous. But the Americans didn't come, they didn't help Hungary. So, like many of his co-combatants, Horvath escaped to America to experience its freedom for himself. And now he knew.

The first burst cut down an old man and his two grandchildren. The second ripped into a klatsch of high school field trippers. The third mowed down four office workers. Another abruptly felled several of the demonstrators. Subsequent shots were wild and scattered.

He loaded another magazine and began firing again. A homeless man in Lafayette Park caught a round in the abdomen. A Secret Service guard fell to the ground as rounds caught him in the legs. People were running in all 262 JAMES

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directions. They were scrambling for cover at the base of the White House fence, behind trees and the mounted statues in the park. Traffic on 17th Street flanking the White House and Old Executive Office Building on the west, came to a halt as cars careened into each other; drivers braked in the middle of the street and ducked behind the dashboard. The wail of police and ambulance sirens approached.

Horvath heard someone check the bedroom doorknob to see if it was locked. Then the gleaming blade of an ax cracked through the door, followed by a sledgehammer against the lock. Five Secret Service agents burst into the room with assorted arms and flew to the floor and to the sides. They took instant aim with their weapons. The scene fell strangely silent, except for the metallic clicking sound of Horvath pulling the trigger of his now-empty submachine gun, the barrel of which was buried deep in his mouth.

"Click, click, click." The agents were sprawled on the floor and taking cover behind the poster bed and Victorian chairs. With their guns firmly aimed, a hair-trigger's instant from obliterating Horvath, they appeared stunned at the sight of the President's top adviser on foreign affairs cowering against a wall, with a machine gun jammed into his mouth, mechanically pulling the trigger. "Click, click."

One of the agents, keeping his revolver fixed on Horvath's head, cautiously approached him. Horvath did not react, lost, as he was, in another world. Gently, the agent took the Schmeisser away from Horvath. The other agents surged forward and immediately wrestled Horvath to the floor, stripped his jacket, shirt and belt off, and manacled him. More agents rushed into the room. Two lifted Horvath up like a doll and whisked him out of the family quarters, out of the White House and into a waiting PERMANENT INTERESTS

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security van. The vehicle, lights whirring and siren screaming, sped out the gate, with motorcycle escorts clearing away the traffic.

Ambulances arrived to collect Horvath's victims, the unconscious grandfather and his little ones, weeping highschoolers soaked in blood, the homeless man writhing in agony; wounded tourists, some limp with shock, others crying with pain; office workers, themselves bleeding, helping the more seriously wounded; the Secret Service guard, his legs tourniqueted by his colleagues, placed on a stretcher. Municipal police sought to untangle the twisted traffic on 17th Street. Multitudes of onlookers competed with aggressive reporters and TV news crews to observe the carnage.

The President called an emergency meeting of what he called the "inner cabinet" -- a core of trusted cabinet officers, most long-time personal friends of Corgan's who had been with him through all of his political campaigns.

These included Selmur, Dennison, Wilkins and Levin.

Karlson was also invited as was Secretary of Homeland Security Lewison, under whose purview the Secret Service fell.

Corgan appeared pale and shaken. His hands trembled.

Was it rage, fear or shock? The atmosphere in the Cabinet Room was one of gloom and palpable horror. Corgan rubbed his tired face with both palms, and ran his fingers backward through his hair.

"This tragedy…this incident…this…" Corgan stumbled for words, but couldn't find them. He stopped, stared at the ceiling as if searching for a thought in the ether. A tear ran down a cheek.

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"My wife is safe, thank God. Anything could have happened. Those poor people…How could this happen?

How?"

"Mr. President, I am initiating a full investigation--"

Corgan's face flashed anger. "You're out. You're fired.

As of immediately," Corgan commanded.

Lewison appeared stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

Corgan raised his voice. "Get out! You allowed this to happen. Go!!"

The withering blast caused the others to cringe. A pallor crossed their faces.

Lewison rose and strode out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him.

The inner cabinet waited in trepidation for their President's next move.