Permanent Interests (41 page)

Horns hooted, trumpets blared. Confetti fell from everywhere like a freak flurry on a spring day. A band struck up, "Happy Times are Here Again." After ten minutes of cacophonous rejoicing, the multitude settled down. A skillful speaker, Jalbert allowed an expectant pause to stretch a minute before beginning.

"My fellow Americans, I don't know about you, but I'm glad to be here." Again, an eruption of applause.

"I'm glad to be here among you, the best friends and supporters one can hope for. Together, we will remake this great country, bring it back to the exaltedness it used to be in a Renaissance of freedom and prosperity!"

One nearby spectator wasn't impressed. Yakov sat before the TV, exhibiting only an icy impassiveness. The walkie-talkie sounded.
Ty nuzhen Rodiny
', Dimitrov signaled.

Yakov waited the allotted time. Then pressed the beeper button. The chopper crew would be lifting off immediately.

Dimitrov strode through the crowds with a locomotive-like determination. Those who didn't move in time he merely shoved out of his way. The commotion caught the eye of Laguzza in an upper level. He recognized the graceless gait and death-mask visage of target number two.

He ran down.

Ricky intercepted the Russian just before he reached an exit. He smiled maliciously. He had Dimitrov alone finally. Man-to-man. Ricky reverted to what he was best at: the street-fighter. He vividly recalled Dimitrov's skills with a knife against the Teamsters. He pulled from his PERMANENT INTERESTS

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jacket a Berretta 9mm. But with lightning reaction, Dimitrov, commando of the Hindu Kush, steeled professional assassin, flashed from his belt a 7.62mm silent pistol. He pressed it into Ricky's diaphragm and pumped three rounds. Ricky's face combined surprise and confusion. He clutched himself, but knew he was dying.

Dimitrov delivered the coup de grace with a karate-chop blow behind Ricky's neck, making a cracking sound and sending the now-dead mobster to the concrete floor, his open eyes capturing the instant lethality of Dimitrov's blows.

Dimitrov lunged toward the exit door, but was blocked again, this time by Wentworth who had also spotted the Russian plowing through the crowds. Dimitrov jumped to the side to run by the American. But, just as quickly, Wentworth matched his move. The Marine crouched forward and tensed like a cougar about to assault a prey.

Dimitrov reached for his silent pistol. Wentworth's foot crashed into the Russian's gut, sending the weapon flying.

Dimitrov stood his ground. Again the two men squared off.

Dimitrov plunged head-first at Wentworth. They locked together like wrestlers. Muscle matched muscle. Action met counteraction. Dimitrov jerked his head back, then forward against Wentworth's. The impact broke flesh and sent him crashing against the cement-block wall. Blood poured into Wentworth's left eye. He shook his head to regain himself. With his right hand, he tore a red fire extinguisher from its mounting. With both hands, he brought it down with all his strength onto the side of Dimitrov's neck. The Russian tumbled awkwardly down to the floor. He rose on all fours and kept shaking his head, as if he was trying to awaken from a deep sleep. Wentworth picked up Dimitrov's pistol. Standing above the stunned Russian, he took careful aim at the back of his head.

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"No! Chuck! Don't do it!"

Wentworth looked over to see Innes and Colleen approaching cautiously.

"Chuck, you don't need to do this."

"I owe it to Lydia."

"This is cold blood. Marines don't kill in cold blood."

Wentworth remained still. He kept the revolver aimed at Dimitrov's head.

"Let the right people handle this, Chuck. He'll be brought to justice. And so will Yakov." Innes took two more careful steps toward Wentworth.

Wentworth jabbed the barrel hard against Dimitrov's ear.

"Where's your boss, asshole?"

Dimitrov remained silent.

The muzzled air-pop of the gun sounded. A bullet tore through Dimitrov's left hand, prostrating him. "Where's Yakov, goddamn it?! Next shot will be in your spine. And the last one in your brain, if you don't tell me."

Innes felt nauseous. He couldn't control what was about to happen. Colleen stood wide-eyed and paralyzed in the shadows.

Dimitrov looked up. Even as he faced imminent death, he displayed no fear, no hate, no remorse. He closed his eyes.

Wentworth pressed the weapon tight against Dimitrov's lumbar area. He squinted as he prepared to pull the trigger.

But it was Wentworth who saw stars as the Russian spun around and planted the tip of one boot into his tormentor's stomach. Wentworth grimaced and fell backward.

Dimitrov sprang to his feet. From his belt in the back, he snatched a knife and held it upward as he quickly contemplated which part of Wentworth's anatomy to slash first. He had to end this
now
. A storm of hell-fire would soon engulf and consume everything in the stadium.

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Dimitrov could die fighting this man, or in the firestorm soon to be unleashed, or he could still possibly break free in the precious few seconds still available.

The thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of a helicopter approached.

In the fleeting moment that Dimitrov's mind was preoccupied, an object came crashing down on his hand.

The knife slipped from his grip and fell.

Wentworth wasted no time this time. He shoved the barrel just under the Russian's ear, as he had been trained so long ago, and unhesitatingly pulled the trigger. There was a pop noise as Dimitrov's cranium burst open, accompanied by a fine blood-mist and pieces of gray matter spraying through the air. Dimitrov's body collapsed with a dull thud.

The others stood stone-still. Their minds were racing to catch up with what had just happened.

Colleen stood over Dimitrov's corpse, in her hands the janitor's broom she'd used to knock the knife out of Dimitrov's hand. She looked down at him. She began to shiver.

Innes bent down. "Look, this fell out of his pocket." It was a hotel room key. "Hyatt Regency. Hmm. Yakov."

The three stood in a triangle as in a Mexican stand-off.

"Let's go!" Wentworth commanded.

They stepped out into the night. Above, a helicopter arrived and hovered.

They all stopped and looked up at it. The thumpa-thumpa-thumpa became louder. The chopper disappeared over the roof and hovered there. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

The trio remained where they were. Seconds passed. They heard the helicopter's rotor blades circling above the Superdome. They waited, but knowing not for what. And waited.

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Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. The sound came close again.

The chopper reappeared over the edge and hovered above them briefly, then darted off into the black sky.

A thunderous sound erupted from inside the complex. It was wild applause as Jalbert wound up his speech.

"Let's go," Wentworth commanded again. Innes and Colleen followed him.

Wentworth, driven by bloodlust and revenge for his lover, raced like an Olympian down Girod and across LaSalle toward the towering brick and glass mega-hotel.

The ultimate target of his revenge was in that place.

Drawing upon all his Marine skills, he would conduct his last search-and-destroy mission, even if it killed him.

Colleen and Innes lagged further and further behind and were compelled to stop a couple of times to catch their breath, their goal of restraining Wentworth becoming more distant.

Meantime, security personnel found Dimitrov's body and alerted the city police, the FBI and Secret Service at the scene. A posse of law enforcement personnel was now chasing after the three. No more time to stop and catch one's breath.

As he approached the hotel, Wentworth began repeating,

"4106, 4106," Yakov's suite number. Seeking to avoid attention and especially the police, he entered the parking garage. He went to an elevator and repeatedly pressed the button. He stooped, with his hands on his knees as his chest heaved while he caught his breath.

The door opened. But before he could go in, three large males stepped out. Between two of them was a fourth man, PERMANENT INTERESTS

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unconscious, his head bobbing back and forth like that of a broken doll's. It was Yakov, out but not dead.

A brick-like hand caught Wentworth on the chest. The men, grave and as stolid and imposing as deluxe refrigerators, glared at Wentworth.

"You go. You go. Not business of you," one of them growled in thickly accented English.

"Is our friend. We take him home," another stated slightly less threateningly. The accents were clearly Russian.

Twenty feet away stood another man. He wore a black silk shirt and a fedora slung low over his forehead. He stood in front of a black Chrysler 300 sedan. As his mates approached, the man looked up. He was stocky and had a broad face punctuated by a brown-gray stubby moustache.

As the men continued to drag Yakov to the car, one of them again looked challengingly at Wentworth. "Go way!

Now!!" he ordered. With a conspicuous motion, he revealed an Uzi under his coat. Another opened the rear door of the Chrysler. They shoved Yakov, his limbs dangling, into the back seat; they climbed in after him and shut the door. The bearded man looked for a moment at Wentworth, then got into the front passenger seat. The car sped off with a squeal.

Wentworth stood motionless, his demand for vengeance unrequited. He heard steps to his rear. It was Colleen and Innes. Additional figures were approaching from further behind. Wentworth wept.

370 JAMES

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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The thing about "America This Week" was that, although its Sunday morning audience constituted a tiny slice of the nation's television viewing audience, that slice counted among its members the most powerful, listened-to and influential makers and shakers in the country. Host Hardon Kennerly had been grilling Washington big shots every Sunday since Watergate. Co-host Jane Silva had joined him just before the arms-for-hostages scandal of the Reagan administration. Like moths drawn to a flame, the powermakers came to Kennerly thinking that they could outwit him or get their message across to the people over him. Those who were of integrity and played it straight got genteel treatment. Those trying to pull one over on him, however, got mauled badly.

Secretary Dennison and Chief of Staff Selmur foolishly accepted an invitation to appear on the program, convinced that they could give a boost to the floundering Corgan administration through their collective eloquence, quickness of mind and verbal combativeness.

Kennerly opened by saying the show was honored to host a "double-header." He graciously welcomed the duo in tones as gentle as the summertime waves along the shore PERMANENT INTERESTS

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of his native Virginia tidewater home. Without missing a beat, he went on to recount a laundry list of administration failures ranging from high inflation and unemployment to foreign policy disasters. "In the balance," he summed up,

"is the survivability of the Corgan administration. Coming up fast in the race for President is Roger Jalbert, a man who says he can and will turn this nation around. Judging by the polls, he's got the majority of the American people agreeing with him. Here to present the administration's views are White House Chief of Staff Howard Selmur and Secretary of State Roy Dennison. Mr. Selmur, what do you have to say about all this?"

In his best Harrod's custom-tailored, dark blue suit and fresh haircut from "Poubelle's of Watergate Stylists,"

Selmur confidently ran down the major issues, defending the administration's actions on each. He neatly handed off to Dennison who smoothly delivered a rehearsed defense of the White House's foreign policy. They each sat cross-legged and cocky, ready to parry the next verbal thrust.

"On our panel today, we have Jeanette Paredsky of the
New York Times
editorial staff, James Wimberly from the

Cleveland Plain Dealer
, and Toby Wheeler, just back to work at the
Washington Post
. Welcome back, Toby. Hope you're feeling well."

The three journalists took their seats opposite the White House guests. Wheeler was pushed to the center spot in his wheel chair.

The questioning started with Paredsky who asked what the administration was doing to prevent the predicted bankruptcy in seven years of the Social Security system.

Without a crib sheet, Selmur paraded a dazzling array of numbers and statistics. "This President came into office promising a secure future to Mr. and Mrs. America. He keeps his promises," he finished with a flourish.

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Wimberly, noting that the U.S. had gotten itself into trade wars with its major trading partners, asked what the U.S. was doing to resolve them.

"As you can see, the Japanese are backing off, opening their markets to more American goods. The French Trade Minister is now in Washington to settle his government's dispute with us over agricultural subsidies. And Canadian labor unions are losing their grip on auto workers, who are striking less and producing more," Dennison explained.

"Everything this administration does, it does with the best interests of the American people at heart."

The camera turned to Wheeler. He appeared sullen. He seemed to be concentrating hard on something.

Anxious not to waste precious on-air time, Kennerly prodded the
Post
reporter. "And Toby…?"

Wheeler blinked as if snapping out of deep thought.

"Yes. Ah. I have a question on a more abstract level."

Their faces gravely attentive, Selmur and Dennison braced themselves. Sweat formed on Dennison's brow. He had the uneasy, slightly nauseous feeling one gets when confronting someone to whom one has done grievous harm.

"'Tyrants and despots have no right to live…. Who would be free must himself strike the first blow.' Do you know who said that?"

Dennison and Selmur shook their heads. Their anxiety level increased a notch.