Permanent Interests (3 page)

"Yes, Mrs. Dennison?"

"Now, we don't want to receive any more calls from you tonight, you hear? I don't know what it is, but it can wait five more hours, y'understand now?" she drawled in her unapologetic Alabama delivery.

"I'll try not to, ma'am." Click. "Dumb cracker!" he cursed after hanging up.

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Upon being told the news, the only thing that Ralph Torres, the Department's head of diplomatic security, could bring himself to utter was an uninterrupted string of emphatic "Goddamn"-s.

Innes could hear Torres struggling to control his breathing. "How in hell could Kobalski let that…that neophyte out of his sight?" he seethed. Leonard Kobalski was Embassy Rome’s RSO – Regional Security Officer.

"This has gotta be an al-Qaida hit all right. Those friggin'

Italians are worthless against terrorism!"

Innes could see where this was leading to. It was called

"CYA" in bureaucratic parlance: Cover Your Ass. The buck was already passing at lightning speed. Lesson number one in government: Career comes first. And accept accountability only when glory is at stake.

It was this kind of behavior in the senior ranks that caused Innes to be increasingly disillusioned with his career. At 34 and with eleven years in the Foreign Service, Innes had advanced fairly rapidly until he hit a dead stall in the upper end of the middle grades. With a wife and two small kids and no marketable skills for the private sector, Innes had pretty much come to the conclusion that he was a government lifer. On the bureaucratic treadmill, drawing a decent wage and benefits, but going no place fast. At least the Foreign Service, one of the few remaining bastions for the generalist, offered a unique line of rarely boring work, lots of world travel and still a modicum of prestige.

Innes's shift in the Ops Center ended at 8:00 am.

Slouched at his work station, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. Innes rubbed the fatigue from his face with the palms of his hands and yawned deeply. He couldn't recall whether he had made love with his wife this month.

A nurse also working shifts, she was always returning home either while he was asleep or on his way to work.

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"Passing ships in the night…" he murmured to himself.

"God, I hate Washington."

"You say something, Bob?" asked Robin. Her curly, flaming red hair accentuated a coed's face that beamed energy and ambition.

"Nah, just going crazy is all," a wan smile creased his boyish face. He wondered if, ten years from now, Robin would join the ranks of the brainy yet barren career spinsters who were now filling the upper ranks in greater numbers.

During the 30-minute drive back to his home in Herndon, Innes recalled Ambassador Roland Mortimer and his reputation in Washington. As was the case with most of his recent predecessors, Mortimer was a wealthy businessman and political activist who had contributed generously to the President's party during the last election, a squeaker which was delivered in no small part due to 200,000 swing votes Mortimer had captured -- some alleged stolen -- in his native Ohio.

Mortimer extolled family virtues, having fathered six children with his wife of thirty years. He was a gregarious, red-faced bear of a man who loved being around people and letting his hair down in posh watering holes after particularly strenuous political fund-raisers or long, boring business meetings. Having worked his way from poverty to wealth in the construction equipment parts distribution business, Mortimer liked to boast to his politician friends that he had spent his life "building America," a slogan that his party adopted during the last general election.

Mortimer never ran for office himself, preferring to back politicians who would be indebted to him once in office.

What the public didn't know about Roland Mortimer --

apart from the fact that he was a diplomatic neophyte who didn't know the difference between a démarche and a PERMANENT INTERESTS

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declaration of war, who called hide-bound European prime ministers by their first names, and who slapped monarchs on the back as he would business cronies -- was that he was a hard-drinking, loudmouthed lout whose faux pas and lecherous escapades caused the Department no end of embarrassment. The professionals were constantly having to cover up his indiscretions. Two weeks after arriving in Italy, he had been detained briefly by hotel security guards in Milan after having chased a 16-year old girl from an official reception to her room where he tried to break in the door. The Italian prime minister personally intervened with the publisher of a major Rome newspaper which was preparing to report that the American ambassador regularly had prostitutes delivered to the embassy guest house.

When asked at a press conference about policy differences between Italy and the United States over aid to the former Soviet republics, Mortimer blurted, "Fuck 'em! The Russians lived by communism. Let 'em die by communism!" The latter statement was followed by a quick retraction and "clarification" from the embassy. And feeling forever constrained by security restrictions, Mortimer often eluded his protective detail for unescorted walks in shopping areas or drives to the countryside in his red Fiat Spider.

The Italians knew the score. They were the inventors of modern statecraft. The U.S. embassy was merely bypassed whenever important policy issues arose. The Italian ambassador in Washington was an urbane diplomatic professional with close ties to White House and congressional figures. The American and Italian leaderships alike either picked up the phone or used Italy’s Ambassador Orlani whenever they had anything serious to say to one another. The American embassy in Rome was good at issuing visas and attending to incarcerated or 22 JAMES

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deceased Americans, but not much more. Like a gargoyle on a lesser cathedral, Mortimer was shown respect but was otherwise paid little attention.

As he drove with his windshield wipers at full speed through a cascading spring rain storm, the thought crossed Innes's mind that perhaps, just perhaps, our bungling boor of an ambassador had brought foul play upon himself in a very direct way. Considering some of the sleazy denizens he associated with and his penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, anything was possible. That moron may cause us as much trouble in death as he did alive, Innes thought.

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CHAPTER THREE

The flight to Rome made Bob Innes nauseous. Air travel never agreed with him. Flying government-mandated economy class with its insipid food, knee-capping seat proximity and concentration camp congestedness merely ensured he would vomit if the trip was longer than six hours.

"You all right Bob?" asked Innes's fellow traveler to his left. "You're looking green around the gills, boy."

"I don't know if it's the flight or my magic elixir of Pepto-Bismol and dramamine that's doing me in," Innes replied to the diplomatic security man, part of the fourteen-person delegation being dispatched to investigate Mortimer's murder.

Bob hated the meal, stale salad and rubber chicken. He hated the movie selection, some airhead comedies and a B-grade flick about dancers in New York. He hated most of all traveling with delegations. The government had to do everything by committee. No wonder so little ever got done. This was the worst kind of delegation, however; a mish-mash one comprised partly of bureaucrats from domestic agencies like the FBI and Justice, novices to international travel who required babying the whole time.

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The rest of the group, from CIA, Defense, and State, looked to Innes like the pasty-faced, per diem-gouging, anal retentive types that typically populated traveling government committees.

He fought not to be included in the team, but lost out on three counts: he worked in the office of the Secretary, he spoke fluent Italian, and he was available.

Innes's job was to provide all-round support to the head of the team, the self-important legal advisor brought into the Department a crusty Boston law firm. He was to coordinate arrangements with the embassy, act as notetaker at meetings with Italian officials, write cables and interact with host country authorities.

Whisked through immigration and customs at Rome's Fiumicino Airport just after sun-up, the group was taken directly to the embassy where it was briefed by Baldwin, Kobalski and CIA station chief Hempstead and sent on its way directly to the first meeting, with the Interior Minister.

Hotel check-in would have to wait, usual for such travel.

Great, thought Innes to himself. No food, no shower, no rest. Vomiting appeared to be a distinct possibility.

Renowned

Italian

hospitality averted catastrophe,

however. In the high-ceilinged baroque meeting room of the former palazzo that housed the Italian Interior Ministry, rich strong espresso and assorted biscotti were served to the delegation. Wafts of the coffee's aromatic vapors enticed the senses, its ingestion shot life back into weary limbs and foggy minds.

"It is with great sadness and shock that I receive you here today," began Ambrolini, an urbane politician descended from Italy's former royal family. Innes recalled that he was a rare straight arrow among Italian politicians, unbesmirched by involvement in the country's pervasive corruption.

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"Since I spoke with Mr. Baldwin yesterday, we have uncovered little new information, but the investigation continues. If we look closely at the facts, we find the following: Ambassador Mortimer was without his bodyguard, he was found in a section of the city that foreigners usually do not venture into and he was killed at approximately 2:00 am."

An aide pointed to the location of the murder on a mounted map of the city of Rome. Two other display boards exhibited black and white photographs of the body and surroundings where it was found.

"A key question is, what was Ambassador Mortimer doing out in that part of the city without protection, without his driver, all alone?" asked Ambrolini. "We know it was not robbery; his money and valuables were untouched."

In paced deliberate motions, Bernard J. Scher pulled a pipe from his worn tweed jacket, patiently loaded the tobacco, not once lifting his eyes from the task at hand.

Only after two calculated puffs did the State Department's chief lawyer fix his zinc irises on the Minister.

"Now, the way we see it, this assassination of the President's envoy to this country comes on the heels of the bombing of the Egyptian embassy, a plane hijacking to Sudan, the unexplained escape from one of your high security prisons of Abu Khalid Jihad -- key hitman for the Front for the Liberation of Palestine -- and a spate of threats against American military personnel here by al-Qaida and assorted exiled Saudi radicals, all within the past four months," Scher pontificated, totally ignoring the line Ambrolini was pursuing. "I don't think that I need to emphasize that Roland Mortimer was a staunch supporter of Israel, had conducted assiduous fund-raising among Jewish voters in his state. This alone would mark him as a target for Middle East Muslim extremists."

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The Minister stiffened. "I see what you're getting at," he said. "But this case has none of the hallmarks of a terrorist attack. If you will bear with me for a moment, our experts will outline for you the details." He gestured to a uniformed police officer. "Major Arno, of our domestic intelligence division, will give an analysis of --"

"What measures have you taken in the last twenty-four hours to track the movements of and collect intelligence on the Islamic radical groups and Middle East crazies that are running around freely in this country?" Scher demanded as he calmly placed his briar on the conference table exactly equidistant between his reposed arms.

"Believe me, Mr. Scher, we will pursue all leads--"

"Pardon my bluntness, Minister, but while your people are tracking down 'all leads' the perpetrators are getting away. Let's face it, the current political climate here is not exactly conducive to getting quick action against evildoers." Scher was alluding to the political turmoil Italy was going through over corruption scandals rocking the government and mafia murders of judges and mayors in the south.

His carefully calibrated coolness melting steadily, Ambrolini retorted, "While we are speaking frankly with each other, I would like to note that Ambassador Mortimer associated himself with people which an ambassador normally does not befriend. My government has gone to exceptional lengths to protect the late ambassador's reputation. We all know his fondness for
putane
, for reckless behavior, for prowling around bars and bawdy houses. This man invited trouble."

"God knows, he escaped our purview all the time, never wanted to cooperate with security," added a nodding RSO

Kobalski, trying to be helpful.

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Scher shot a frosty gaze at Kobalski with the implied message of "Shut your big trap you dumbass."

The meeting went nowhere.

After five days, with the investigation going in circles, the embassy was divided between those who bought off on the Italian scenario and those inclined to believe that terrorists had greased the ambassador. The security types leaned toward the former, while the intelligence people largely supported the latter. Chargé Baldwin tried his best to be an impartial searcher of the truth, while simultaneously seeking to avoid an open split with the Italian government. Innes had had it. The cables he drafted back to Washington reflected divisions and ennui.

It was 6:00 pm, he had put the finishing touches on that day's cable to Washington ("Mortimer Sitrep: No Leads as Italian Authorities Go After African Gangs").

His conversation with his wife earlier in the day had gone badly. No surprise really. He phoned in to check on things. Davey had the flu. She was working double shift this week. When would he be back? No Hello darling!

How's Rome? How's the food? How's the investigation going? Innes had been wanting to take the family off to Mazatlán for a week. Somehow, it kept being put off. He had to work things out with Carolyn. Start off with a nice dinner at the Balkan Crown, their favorite, the night after he got back. Just the two of them. Line up a babysitter, call in sick on the night shift…hmmm.