Permanent Interests (32 page)

Colleen shook her head. "I don't get it."

"Well, a sucker's born every minute. Every American should have fifteen minutes of fame, even if that means PERMANENT INTERESTS

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turning sluthood into an art form. Blame Washington and the power plutocrats for all the nation's ills. Grab as much as you can get and screw everybody else, but gloss it over through the mythology of hype. Everybody has a shot at being rich and famous in the Land of Opportunity, just like Colonel Sanders and Arianna Huffington. Trouble is, both are corporate creations, manufactured to sell more fried chicken and political snake oil."

"What's that got to do with our predicament? Bob, I seriously worry about your emotional state. Being on the lam like Bonnie and Clyde is scrambling our brains."

"
Form
over
substance
. That's what I'm getting at. The whole society's geared toward it. Everything's run by smoke and mirrors. Just look at those clowns at the White House. All smiles and posturing unity. The reality is Corgan's a puppet and his key advisers are the evil puppeteers. They're all driven in their malevolence or gullibility by one thing: their own power positions. What I want to know is where does one go to get a degree in spin doctoring or the art of image-making?"

Colleen put down her plate. She took Innes's and laid it aside. She sidled up close to him, pulled his head to face her and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Will you do me a favor, Clyde?" she asked.

"What's that, Bonnie?"

"Put a lid on it."

Innes chuckled. He wrapped his arms around her and snuggled up. They had only each other amid their uprooted lives and uncertain future.

"Bob?"

"Yes?"

"Where are we?"

Innes laughed. "Chamberlain, South Dakota. Why?"

"What's

here?"

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"Nothing. A laundromat, a bar, two fast-food joints and a couple of motels."

"Where do we go from here?"

Silence. "Follow our noses, I guess."

"How long can we continue like this?"

"Who knows? I'll call Toby again this morning for the daily check-in. Then Speedy. Robin Croft keeps me posted on what Dennison is up to."

"Can we really trust the FBI? What are they doing for us? Nothing as far as I can see."

"I keep the calls down to about a minute and vary the times when I phone. We don't use credit cards; we use the cash Toby wires to 'Jason Hawkfeather.' Toby and the FBI guys are our only hope. We have no choice. Something's got to give. It's only a matter of time."

"Let's just hope that the 'something' isn't our lives."

Innes ran out of answers. They lay together, their eyes searching the ether for hope that wasn't there.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The gold-embossed, black-binder briefing books piled high on the Secretary's desk. They had dry, curt titles which addressed ponderous foreign policy matters of the moment: "U.S.-E.U. Trade Issues," "NATO Expansion,"

"Iran Security Issues," "Democratization in CIS States,"

"Peacekeeping in Lebanon," "North Korea." But he hadn't read a single page. And he was due to leave for ministerial consultations with the Western allies in Brussels in 24

hours.

The intercom chirped. "It's Mr. Selmur, Mr. Secretary,"

Dennison's secretary announced.

Dennison

grimaced.

"Mr. Secretary?…Will you take the call?"

"Yeah. Okay." Dennison braced his forehead with his left-hand fingertips and thumb. That 20-megaton migraine he got only in face of the most onerous, intractable problems began making itself felt.

"Roy? You there? Hello?"

"Uh, yeah, Howard. How are you?"

"Not too good, my friend."

Silence.

"Roy? You still there?"

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Dennison cleared his throat. "Uh, sure. What's up?"

"Oh, just a little problem. Like, let me see now. Oh yeah! Now I remember. There's this small matter of re-electing the President of the United States. Yeah, that's it.

And, uh, we need
beaucoup
bucks to do it. Thought maybe you had forgotten your role as the re-elect chief and behind-the-scenes fund-raiser. That's all."

The pain-threshold was surging toward 50 megatons.

Dennison popped a second Advil.

"And one final thing. We may be looking for a new Secretary of State after the election -- that is, if we win."

Dennison loathed Selmur. The more so when he went into his dripping-with-sarcasm routine. Dennison, the scion of an old and distinguished line of WASPy robber barons-turned-respectable-financiers, could not abide being humiliated. Especially by poor white trash of dubious ethnic mix, such as Selmur.

"Horvath was key in this. I need time to…reconstruct the source network."

"Look, my dear Mr. Secretary. Two upstarts in our own party have already announced that they'll challenge Corgan for the nomination. Jalbert has won New Hampshire and Iowa. By all indications, he'll roll on right through and clinch the nomination. He's riding the crest of a cash wave toward victory. We're throwing
$500
-a plate fund-raisers and still we're not getting enough takers. I found my secretary making photocopies of her résumé the other day.

Got the picture?"

Dennison didn't like such candor over the open phone line. Anybody could be eavesdropping, and they probably were. It only deepened his contempt for the White House Chief of Staff.

"Howard, I suggest we get together to discuss these matters -- privately."

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"You bet your blue-blooded ass. Tomorrow. At my office. Ten o'clock sharp!"

"I'll be on my way to Europe then," Dennison pleaded.

"Correction. You'll be on your way to Europe
after
our meeting. Understood?"

A 100-megaton eruption hit Dennison between the eyes.

He scrunched them together, seeking futilely to contain the pain.

"I said, do you understand?!" Selmur demanded.

"Right," Dennison answered and hung up.

After five double vodkas, Yakov certainly felt no pain.

Trouble was, neither could he think straight. And he knew it. Life was full of trade-offs, he liked to remind himself.

Mama Boronova looked at him worriedly from her perch near the pastry display case across the room.

"
Kukuruzhnik!
" she called as she shook her head in disdain.

"You act like a cornball, like some bumpkin who can't handle the big city. Act like an adult. Some example you set for your people." A 180-pound widow, Mama Boronova feared little. She was the only soul in Brighton Beach who dared talk to Yakov like that.

A cell phone tweeted. An underling quickly pulled it from his coat pocket and answered. "It's Yemidgian, boss,"

he told Yakov while covering the speaker with his hand.

"
Govno!
What's he want?"

"Says you know. He wants answers."

"Shit-eating Armenians." Yakov slugged back another Stoli Gold. "Guess he wants to hear it's secure to 'export'

his 'product' here. Tell him I'll get back to him."

The underling murmured into the phone and cut Yemidgian off abruptly. Five seconds later, it rang again.

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"Boss, it's Gorygin!" the flunky whispered anxiously.

"The cosmonaut?" Yakov was forming a precarious pyramid of vodka glasses on the table. His drunken face contorted as he strained to focus.

"No, boss. The cosmonaut was Gagarin. This is Gorygin." He leaned over and whispered in Yakov's ear.

"The SVR guy here in New York. The
Rezident
." He offered the phone gingerly, as if it were a bomb.

Yakov picked it up clumsily. "Is this the cosmonaut Gorygin?" he slurred. He giggled at his own silly joke.

His small retinue of subordinates looked away, at the floor, covered their eyes. Their barely concealed disgust was grounded not only in embarrassment, but also in the knowledge that an aspiring godfather who let his guard down could soon become just another dead gangster.

There was a pause at the other end. "Yakov, are you drunk?" Gorygin demanded.

"Only on patriotism,
tovarishch!"
Yakov made a mocking military salute.

"Yakov, there are some 'trade' matters that we need to discuss. When you're sober, call me back. And soon!" He hung up.

"Goddamn spies! You give them some information and they want more, more, more!!"

The unflappable Dimitrov, standing to the side, deftly sidled next to his boss and lifted him to his feet. He whispered something into Yakov's ear.

"
Da
. You are always right. I'll keep my fat trap shut."

He placed a forefinger to his lips, "Sshhh!"

Five hours of deep sleep later, Yakov came to in his Brighton Beach flat. His head felt as if Yuri Gagarin's space capsule had come crashing in on it. Two coffees, a couple aspirins and a hot shower alleviated the pain.

Yakov began clearing through the mental cobwebs. The PERMANENT INTERESTS

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problems that drove him to drink began to reassert their massive weight. The loss of Horvath, the prize trophy in his chain of stolen souls, was too much to bear. The mother lode of intelligence he was selling to the SVR had dried up overnight. Moreover, he no longer was receiving the vital tactical intelligence that enabled him to ensure risk-free importation of narcotics from his criminal connections in Central Asia and the Far East. And Malandrino's terms for providing secure entry left Yakov with little in the way of profits. He had a lot of retainers of his own to keep flush. Meanwhile, Mogilevich, his chief rival in the world of Russian criminality, was breathing down his neck. If he couldn't take care of his own people, Mogilevich would begin to steal them away. Or worse, Mogilevich could bribe trusted cohorts to murder Yakov.

Yakov's mind wandered back to school days in Moscow.

His fourth form teacher, a burly matron who idolized the pantheon of bolshevik heroes, now denigrated as historical perversions. "Whenever you encounter problems in your life," she counseled her ten-year olds, "model yourself after Comrade Lenin and Comrade General Zhukov. Draw up a strategy, even when the roof is falling on you. And counterattack. Without a strategy, you will be defeated. A revolution within, children. That is your key to life."

Wrapped in a bathrobe, Yakov sat slumped in an armchair and sipped Perrier from the bottle as he half-focused on
Wheel of Fortune
on the TV. Happy contestants jumped with glee at having won small king's ransoms just for out-puzzling other contestants on simple words and phrases. "The American Dream," Yakov murmured.
What a country
, he thought.
Even simpletons
could become rich just by being moderately quicker in
grabbing the nuggets of gold that are out there for the
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taking. For the truly cunning and swift, there is no limit.

Do not panic, Yakov. Have a strategy!

He bolted from the chair. "Dimitrov!" he shouted. He opened the apartment's door to the main hallway.

Responding to his master's call, Dimitrov leapt toward the door. They almost collided with one another.

"Get me that little bitch from Rostov. Get me Lydia," he ordered.

Lydia gave no protest and betrayed no emotion when she got the call from Dimitrov to pack her bags and catch the next flight to New York. After all, since Horvath went berserk and out of the picture, she found herself underemployed, but still being paid. It was only a matter of time before Yakov dreamed up another assignment for her.

Pyotr, the Siberian who'd driven her to Yakov's place in the Hamptons, was waiting for her at La Guardia and chauffeured her to Brooklyn.

One of Yakov's bodyguards stood at the apartment building entrance. He opened the door and, without uttering a word, escorted her to the elevator and up to Yakov's sprawling flat. He tapped lightly on the door.

Dimitrov opened it and ushered her in. As always, his stony face exhibited no emotion.

Yakov, dressed in his trademark black turtleneck sweater and beige riding slacks, was seated on a white sofa in the center of the living room. Before him, on a glass and chrome coffee table, was an ice bucket with a champagne bottle jutting from it; this was flanked by matching vases of garish flowers.

An insincere smile manifested itself on Yakov's face.

He did not rise.

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"Lydia Yekatarina. Long time no see. Come." He patted the sofa with his hand. "Time to catch up on things."

Lydia's eyes were alert, but she otherwise displayed no feelings one way or another. She took confident steps and gently placed herself on the sofa, a comfortable distance from Yakov.

"A refreshment after your journey." He pulled the champagne bottle out of the bucket and uncorked it. He poured two glasses, offering one to Lydia.

She took it and reciprocated his curt toast.

"Lydia, despite some past…unfortunate encounters, I want you to know that I respect you and wish to look after your needs…as I always have."

Lydia listened impassively.

"This unfortunate episode with Horvath…tragic." His voice was flat, unemotional. "I suppose the pressures of his job just got to him." Yakov feigned sadness with a shake of his head. "Yes, tragic."

Yakov's unctuous manner and eyes devoid of humanity steeled Lydia for what might come next.

"But, the past is past. We must look to the future. I invited you here today to renew our friendship and to plan new arrangements that will be mutually profitable to us both." He stared deeply into her eyes. "Is this okay with you?"

Lydia forced a faint smile and short nod.

"Good. As you well know, Lydia, my business is information. The procurement of it and its distribution to the right people -- for a price, of course, which gets shared among the relevant associates in my organization." He lifted his champagne flute and invited her to do the same.