Permanent Interests (39 page)

"You know what you have to do. So do it! And bring me a piece of her so that I know that I do not have to concern myself about her any longer."

Bob Innes and Colleen McCoy were greatly on Dom Berlucci's mind, the more so since the Director had asked for a status report that afternoon. With so much on his plate -- Yakov, Malandrino, Lydia, not to mention the hundreds of other cases the Criminal Investigations Division was working on at any given time -- Berlucci had simply not paid that much attention to the runaway State Department pair. Karlson was fidgety. When the pressure was on and the anxiety level rose, the FBI Director became jumpy. His leg shook nervously, he toyed with pens, letter openers; his mouth puckered. He jumped from his desk and padded in circles around his office. Berlucci saw the telltale signs immediately.

"Lots goin' on," Karlson began after Berlucci took a seat. "Big stuff. One slip in the chain and… Well, we aren't goin' to slip, are we Dom?"

"No,

sir."

"We've got Russian espionage on the agenda. We've got mafiosi. Most important of all, we've got a political scandal brewing that'll make Watergate look like amateur PERMANENT INTERESTS

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hour. It's all gotta be handled with finesse, Dom. With keen attention to detail."

Berlucci nodded. Karlson liked him, trusted him. He used his investigations chief to bounce ideas off.

"Those two kids from State. I've been resisting White House and State Department pressure to bring them in."

"There's absolutely no evidence to link them with the Russians. They're good officers. Selmur and Dennison are using them as scapegoats or as diversions from their other woes. We lost them in San Francisco."

Karlson puckered and his leg began to shake. "What happened?" he asked tersely.

"Two pro hitmen were after them. Cubans. We got them. But Innes and McCoy evidently thought that our men were also assassins. They jumped out a church window."

Karlson stopped pacing and gave a long, incredulous look at Berlucci.

"We've got the California field offices out trying to track them down. We've sent a general alert to all the other principal field offices."

"We need those kids, Dom. If the White House guys, or whoever it is, find them first and has them killed, they'll be able to say that they got two 'dangerous spies' on the run.

They'd probably plant guns on the bodies to prove their point. Besides, Mr. Innes knows a lot that we don't about all of this muck. And he knows more about how Dennison thinks than any of us do."

"Malandrino's beginning to cooperate. He's already given us a wealth of information on Yakov's start here and where he's going, his contacts, m.o's, subordinates."

Karlson resumed pacing the room. He made a brushing motion by his ear as if a fly had been annoying him. "Bah!

That's all well and good. My great-granddaddy fought in 348 JAMES

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the wars against the Sioux nation. He used to say, 'Listen to a turncoat, but don't trust him.' You keep Malandrino talking. But I always get a queasy feeling dealing with bad guys like him. Maybe I'm in the wrong business. Maybe I'm gettin' old. I don't know. We'll need really credible witnesses in a court of law to back up the evidence we're gathering. Make sure nothing happens to those kids."

"You think they know what Yakov and his buddies are planning next?"

"Could be. At least an idea. I'm not sure we do."

"I've got the Russian woman sniffing around."

"Watch out for her too. I don't want a bunch of dead informants in this case."

"Where

do

you
think Yakov will hit next?"

"Ongoing criminality out there among the various mobs doesn't worry me so much as the criminality in the White House. You keep your resources on Yakov. Find out what he's up to. Control Malandrino. But if I had to guess where to anticipate trouble next, I'd guess New Orleans."

"The party convention. Jalbert."

"You got it. Oliver Stone couldn't top this one."

It was just off Fifth Avenue. She couldn't resist. Lydia entered Baby and Thee Boutique. All she could do was sigh. Darling Victorian prams, imaginative crib mobiles made of wood, lambs wool blankets of soft colors, and dolls and more wooden toys, cute bassinets, music boxes playing lullabies. Together they beckoned her into an entirely different world from the one she had been in. So pure and warm. The miracle of creating another human being to nurture into goodness. This was what she wanted most now.

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She fingered hand-knit booties and tiny sweaters. She lovingly caressed a life-like baby doll, and admired a rustic wooden picture frame. She imagined a photograph of her, Chuck and the baby filling it. She turned it over. "Made in Russia," said the label. Lydia's thoughts turned to her mother and father, good friends and loved ones. It seemed like centuries ago. How selfish and naive she was. Seek fame and fortune in the West. Leave loving relations for the harsh, cutthroat societies of Europe and America. How silly, and tragic, she was to want to leave Russia. But the harrowing, nightmarish journey would soon end. And she would be free, to spend the rest of her life with the man she loved, free to raise children in a better world.

A hard object against her kidney startled Lydia from her dreaming. She jumped away and turned.

"Oh, pardon me!" said a thirtyish redhead. "I'm afraid I've done much too much shopping today." She smiled apologetically as she pointed to her tote bag stuffed with a cornucopia of baby things. A baby-pack frame sticking out of the bag had poked Lydia.

"Ohh. When is yours due?" asked Lydia.

"Still eight more months. But I can't wait to prepare for when we are three."

"Me

too."

Lydia continued her browsing. She inspected soft crib bedding and organic Pampers. And a baby hair care set of tiny brushes and combs, of ribbons -- blue or pink. She ran her fingers slowly through the delicate bristles. Nothing was finer than an infant's hair. Like wisps of heavenly clouds.

She felt a jab in her side again. Smiling, she turned to talk once more to the redheaded woman.

Dimitrov's cold, hard face confronted her. Lydia's heart stopped. Her head spun. It is one of the miracles of the 350 JAMES

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human brain that, in moments of extreme danger, it can process multiple thoughts at supernatural speed. In this nanosecond or two of utter menace, Lydia's mind soberly commanded her to protect her baby. At all costs.

Including by killing the threatening predator.

Time stood still. Dimitrov didn't flinch. She heard a click. In his hand, the ex-
Spetznaz
operative held a gleaming commando's knife. He had turned counterclockwise a rotary catch in the front. She stared at the object that she knew was meant to end her life at that moment. Four small barrels revealed themselves. A trigger formed one-half of the hand-guard. She looked up at the Russian. He smiled coldly. Steel caps on his teeth added to his unhuman appearance.

A shot shattered the tranquility of "Baby and Thee."

Lydia crumpled to the floor as one .22 caliber bullet tore into her ribcage.

Women began screaming. In various stages of pregnancy, they scrambled for the exit, knocking down displays of talc and oil, dolls and dollhouses, bassinets and bottles.

Lydia closed her eyes. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her side.
Baby and thee. Baby and thee. Your
baby will be forever lost. You will be forever lost!
a voice within her screamed.

Summoning a primitive strength, Lydia forced her eyes open. Above her, Dimitrov re-turned the rotary switch on the knife to lock the trigger. He then reached down and pressed the blade tip against her belly.

"Nooooooo! My baby!!"
she shrieked.

The crash of metal against bone filled the room.

Dimitrov wavered. He appeared dizzy. From behind, Lydia saw the redhead, holding the remnants of an PERMANENT INTERESTS

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aluminum baby-pack. Pieces of it crumbled down Dimitrov's head and neck.

Regaining himself, the ex-commando lashed rearward, catching the woman in the upper chest. Blood sprayed.

Her eyes were wide, her face in shock. She clutched her chest and fell backward.

Dimitrov stood erect and took a deep breath. His thick, black leather boots locked Lydia in a taut grip at her waist.

He calmly reached down again with the blade. It gleamed from the overhead fluorescent lights. The gleam momentarily blinded Lydia. Was this indeed how the end would be? A gleaming light to guide her away from the pain of a tortured life? But what about her baby? Are unborn babies guided outward as well?

She shook her head. Frantically, she thrashed about the floor with her hands. Her fingers clutched something. She thrust it upward. At that moment, Dimitrov's crotch became the unwelcome recipient of twelve inches of wooden baby crib mobile. Lydia removed it and slammed it harder on target.

The 190-pound Russian bent over. The blade fell to the floor. He clutched his groin with both hands. The normally expressionless face was the definition of hurt.

Lydia rose. Blood oozed down her left side. She picked up a nail invoice sticker from a nearby cash register and held it to Dimitrov's temple. A crazed, wild look seized her face as she proceeded to cup Dimitrov's other temple with her hand, for better resistance when she forced the nail into the man's brains.

The sound of approaching sirens echoed from the concrete city outside Baby and Thee.

Dimitrov jerked his head back. His eyes locked onto Lydia's. Two primordial beasts gripped in a death embrace.

Abruptly, he leapt up. He let out a bellow. He snatched the 352 JAMES

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gun-knife from the floor. Like a wounded bear, he lumbered away, lurched forward and bolted out of the shop.

Lydia fell unconscious. There was no gleaming light this time.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

July in New Orleans reminded the Iraq War veteran of the southern Tigris marshlands. Though a native of the bayou, Roger Jalbert sometimes felt queasy in the heavy humidity and stagnant heat of his home state. It reminded him painfully of the past, the buddies he'd lost to the insurgents during two consecutive two-year enlistments as a Navy Seal in Iraq. Of his own brush with violent death in the marsh delta while on special ops. Tiny bits of IED

shrapnel still surfaced from his left thigh and calf as another aching reminder of that period of his life.

"
Laissez les bons temps roulez!
" he declared before twelve-hundred party stalwarts at the Moriol Convention Center. "Good times will return to America. It will return because of the peace and prosperity that President Roger Jalbert will bring to this country. America wants leadership.
Honest
leadership. The old ways of doing things must end. A new wind of change is sweeping this nation. And, with your support, it will sweep into the nation's capital and fill the White House with fresh, clean air. With your support, we will all ride that wind to victory on November 5!"

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It was a dry run for the party convention the following day, a "practice bout" one of Jalbert's pugilist-oriented handlers called it. Jalbert's juices were flowing. The fatigue of months of nonstop campaigning temporarily dissipated when he was before a friendly crowd before whom he could lay out his Agenda for the American Renaissance.

And the crowds were friendly indeed. Taken by Jalbert's gaullic southern charm, his looks that women would die for, his dash, wit and intelligent repartee with questioners, America's voters were prepared to deliver a landslide victory to the "Cajun Kennedy." He and his young family electrified a nation that had become tired of drift and bland stewardship.

"So I invite you to join me in bringing about a renewal of this nation, to walk together arm-in-arm -- Americans of all races and all faiths -- down that majestic path to a Renaissance of America's spirit. To rediscover those shining principles of liberty, brotherhood and prosperity for all that the Founding Fathers embodied when this country became free."

The audience jumped from their chairs and delivered a spontaneous, standing applause which, after two minutes, showed no sign of abating. It was an event that had been repeating itself since New Hampshire and in every subsequent primary, each one of which Jalbert swept handily. Christine Jalbert and their eight-year old boy and six-year old girl were brought to the podium. The applause intensified. There were whistles and loud cheers. Jalbert's winsome wife and adorable children had won the hearts of Americans as well.

Jalbert loved to mingle with the masses. He skipped down from the podium to press the flesh. The Secret Service agents assigned to protect him often were caught PERMANENT INTERESTS

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off guard by the athletic presidential candidate dashing off into the crowds.

The TV news anchors set up in the Big Easy covered his every move -- to the detriment of President Corgan, who was on his own campaign trail. They gushed over the intellect and idealism of Jalbert and devoted overtime coverage to his family -- attending church services, dialoguing with inner city residents, visiting military bases, listening to classical symphonies, dancing Cajun at a parish hall.

And the party professionals milked it for all it was worth. They carefully orchestrated a build-up of positive tension and anticipation in the weeks and days leading up to the party convention in a city finally experiencing its own post-Katrina renaissance. And after that, they would continue the momentum through election day.

By contrast, the Corgan camp appeared lusterless, lame and maladroit. The President appeared tired and embattled.

Rumors of health problems circulated. Mrs. Corgan shut herself off. Presidential advisers and campaign staff were strident and devoid of new ideas.

To Yakov, Jalbert was a bug to be crushed. A pretty, flashy bug, to be sure. But one to be destroyed before it got too big. The equation was starkly simple: a Jalbert victory would sweep out of office the dozens of officials that he had so carefully and expensively suborned over a span of years. From Dennison and, indirectly, Selmur, on down.