Permanent Interests (8 page)

Back at his work station in the Ops Center, he slumped into his chair, plunked his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples in deliberate, circular motions. "Frigid career bitches," he murmured.

"What'd you say, Bob?" Robin Croft asked cheerfully.

"Uh, nothing, nothing really. Just losing my marbles again, that's all. What's up?"

"Well, were you mumbling something about your wife?

Anyway, she called. There's not much really going on.

France's trade minister is calling us names again. Some Argentine military guys making noises about the Falklands again. Here's a
Reuters
piece that just came over the ticker."

Datelined Ankara, it was titled, "Russian Diplomat Slain." It went on, "A Russian diplomat was found murdered today just outside the Turkish capital. The slain envoy's mutilated body lead police to suspect an attack by Chechnyans as an act of vengeance against Moscow."

Innes was momentarily lost in deep thought. His chin rested in a palm. Croft carefully watched for a reaction.

An extended "Hmmmm" rumbled from inside her supervisor.

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Fidgeting, Innes riffled through the other press tickers stapled to the
Reuters
article. Just beneath the Ankara dispatch was a
New York Times News Service
story out of New York headlined, "Three Teamsters Officials Murdered." The sub-heading read, "Killings Have Hallmarks of Gangland Hit; Teamsters Deny Mob Ties."

66 JAMES

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CHAPTER SEVEN

The headquarters of the FBI sits like a proud young dowager, its face exhibiting strong clean lines and a full blush complexion. Self-confidence, direction and rectitude radiate from a form anchored in stolidity, if not grace.

Most of all, it exudes power. Situated two blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, the premier law enforcement agency tasked with protecting Americans from all manner of evildoers, is still named, in huge brass letters, after J. Edgar Hoover. It is an irony lost on no one.

Over seven thousand bureaucrats report there each day.

They track criminals and spies, they categorize finger prints and analyze evidence, they track the bank accounts and travels of secret agents, terrorists and mobsters. They type and they file and do forensics research and test weapons.

Those who rise the fastest move along with the sexy issues.

Since 9/11, tracking down terrorists was fetching promotions and citations left and right. Drugs and associated money laundering never hurt any special agent's career. And doing anything to make the mafia's life harder would win recognition and occasionally awards.

Counterintelligence, however, was keeping the best and brightest away in droves. With the end of cold war and PERMANENT INTERESTS

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blooming of democracy in former communist states, there were fewer spies, fewer embassies to have to watch closely, fewer schemes by foreign governments to parse out. The Counterintelligence Division had atrophied as agents trained in Russian or Hungarian or Polish were transferred to Miami, New Orleans, L.A. and smaller cities to pursue Islamists, inter-state car theft rings, white collar banking fraud, small mobsters and crazies issuing threats against anything, everything and anybody.

The irony is that letting the guard down allowed Robert Hansen to engage in a 15-year secrets-selling spree to the Russians in what was described as the "worst intelligence disaster in U.S. history." Thus burnt, the Bureau made the wise decision to offer some incentives to attract and keep good agents in counterintelligence.

Speedy Donner was one such agent. As a Russian specialist, he still had plenty to do. Donner's real given name was Peter. He acquired the moniker Speedy Petie in high school. He always seemed to be the fastest in everything. Ran the swiftest in track. Liked to drive suped-up hot rods. He was the first to be accepted by a university as well as the first to get a degree. He was the first among his peers to marry, the first to have a child, and the first to get divorced. His superiors liked Speedy because he saw before anyone else in the government the new dangers posed by the reconstituted Russian KGB, now broken up into several separate components, the CIA counterpart known as the Foreign Intelligence Service -- in Russian,
Sluzhba Vnye Shneii Razvyedki
, or SVR. As the former Soviet Union crumbled and frayed at the core as well as at the edges, it was Speedy who, in a memo to the Director, predicted that Russian officials would be increasingly looking out for their own personal aggrandizement. Diplomats and spies, he maintained, 68 JAMES

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would flock to Western intelligence services to be recruited

-- for remuneration, of course. Others, however, could be expected to become renegades, free-lance criminals, as well as sellers of state secrets. The Director of Central Intelligence, who was shown the memo, praised Speedy in a letter to his counterpart at the FBI, for demonstrating

"foresight in predicting that former servants of an ex-superpower living in an ideological vacuum with little in the way of monetary compensation would inevitably be out for themselves in their deep disillusionment." He added that Speedy was one of the first to raise alarm bells about the possibility of Russian nuclear scientists selling their expertise to the likes of Iran’s mullahs or North Korea's Kim Jong-il.

The fact of the matter was, Speedy simply loved his work. He adored Russian language and culture and was obsessed with piecing together the personal lifestyles, motivations and beliefs of ex-Soviet officials. If they shipped him off to Des Moines to chase after bank robbers, he would just shrivel up and die. He therefore resolved to be the best in CI.

Innes kept in touch with his old college roommate. The bonding went further than that. As graduates of the State University of New York at Geneseo, they were often the butt of jokes and smirks from their colleagues in the elite government services in which they worked.

They agreed to meet at Rio Lobo on upper Connecticut Avenue for their monthly pig-out lunch of Tex-Mex.

Speedy, naturally, arrived first.

"How's work?" Speedy asked.

"Shitty. I work for fools. How about you?" Salsa dripped down Innes's chin as he wrestled with a Taco Grande.

"I also work for fools. But they like me."

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"Who you going out with these days?"

"You know Heidi Klum?" Speedy was plowing through his Tres Burritos de Texas methodically, nary losing a crumb.

"You mean the model?"

"Yeah. And do you know Maria Sharapova and Charlize Theron?"

"Uh, I know who they are, sure." Innes's eyes followed a clump of chili as it escaped his lips and went splat onto his lap.

"Nobody like that," Speedy finished.

"How's your kid?" Innes asked.

"Sore subject."

"Okay, now that we got all that out of the way, I have a business-related question.

"Shoot."

"You know anything about a Russian diplomat who was murdered the other day in Ankara?"

"Never went out with him."

"Cut out the wisecracks."

"I saw the same press reports, but since it's out of FBI's bailiwick, we're not getting anything on it. And we're not asking either. If you're interested, how come you aren't asking the CIA? They're supposed to know everything."

"I thought you would ask for me. I've been getting the run-around from them. In any case, you know everybody who works the Russian beat."

"No sweat. I'll get a full report to you tomorrow."

"Great. How about a beer after work, say 6:30 at The Pub in Georgetown."

"I'll be there. By the way, how's the wife?"

"Sore subject."

Speedy neatly wiped his mouth and placed his fork and spoon on his clean plate. With his sixth paper napkin, 70 JAMES

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Innes caught a rivulet of grease before it reached his elbow.

Molten cheese anchored his dish to the table cover.

"Terrific chow, as always," Innes declared, smiling.

"You bet." Speedy looked at his roomie with amusement.

Innes was pulling the regular eight-to-five shift at the Ops Center. The watch officers rotate duty to even out the burden of night shifts and to give everyone the chance to work normal hours.

Robin Croft had just placed on his desk the morning's take of telegrams from embassies, CIA stations and military commands around the world. She gleaned that which she felt was important, messages that Innes, in turn, would bring to the attention of the Ops Center Director or various Assistant Secretaries, perhaps after seeking additional or late-breaking information via secure voice communications or classified e-mail or FAX.

Pawing through the take, Innes made a comment or asked a question about several of the items.

"What's this about the French trade minister calling us names again? Somebody oughta fire that guy. Shred!"

Innes held the confidential cable from Paris at arm's length, as if it were putrid, and unceremoniously dropped it into a burn bag.

"And the Mexicans are massacring Indians again. They should be ashamed to be our neighbors. It's all in the papers anyway." Embassy Mexico City telegram number 13251 followed the French minister into the burn bag.

Robin enjoyed Innes's sense of humor, a commodity sorely lacking in a building in which too many people took themselves far too seriously.

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"I'll try to get the world to cough up some better news next time," she said in mock seriousness.

"You can start with Bernard Scher." Innes puffed up his chest and set his mouth into a frown of grave pomposity.

"What's the latest with the Terror of the Terrorists anyway?

Has he gotten down to Sudanese kindergartens yet?"

"Not sure. But people on the Hill aren't letting up.

Senator Scofield announced late yesterday that the Senate would order the General Accounting Office to investigate the Mortimer case if the administration couldn't do it properly. And the
Washington Times
has another one of its scathing editorials skewering the State Department for being namby-pamby on the case."

"Anybody from the IWG call me?"

"Nope. Oh, I almost forgot. The secretary took a phone message for you from Embassy Rome." Robin handed Innes a yellow message slip. It said, "Please call: 'Colleen.

02-595-003-291.'"

Innes found an empty cubicle allowing privacy, and punched the number.

"Hello? Chargé's office," came a chipper female voice.

"Colleen?"

"Bob?"

"One and the same."

"Guess what? I've been assigned to Bangkok. I'll be in the political section. It's a great job."

"Oh, uh, sure. Congratulations." Innes wondered why she was calling him with this news. Bangkok. Hm. Great.

Never see those gams again.

"Yeah! And I'll be starting ten months of Thai at FSI."

FSI was the Foreign Service Institute in suburban Virginia where U.S. diplomats underwent language study and other training.

Innes sat up with a start.

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"That's terrific. Show your face around here after you arrive. We can talk about old times. I know a great oriental night club."

"Can't wait," Colleen replied hesitantly, playing along.

"It'll be sooner than you think. I arrive this coming weekend. I'll give you a call then."

Innes caught himself grinning ear to ear as he replaced the receiver. Then forced himself to ask why. A good new-found friend's coming to town, he tried to convince himself. It'll be very useful to get a firsthand readout on how the investigation is playing out in Rome. She's a fine young officer. I'll give her some helpful career counseling tips so that she can avoid some of the pitfalls I made, he thought unpersuasively. Innes was clearly struggling with himself.

Alexander Vladimirovich Starenkov. SVR
Rezident
in Ankara. Twenty-five-year veteran of Moscow's espionage service. Distinguished himself in Kabul. Was rewarded with a plum assignment as deputy
Rezident
at the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, where he was discreet and regularly foiled the FBI's efforts to monitor his movements and communications. Did a stint as an aide on national security matters in Putin’s NSC-clone foreign policy advisory board. Forty-seven, married, two kids.

Otherwise, an enigma. He was so discreet that it wasn't till Speedy Donner got his file from the bio shop at Langley that he even remembered the name.

Innes read the dossier quickly but thoroughly. Speedy had sanitized it of highly classified information, but would answer Innes's questions fully based on what little information was available on this man.

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"Looks to me like this guy was a real pro, not a hotdogger," Innes said as he accidentally dropped a fry onto the file cover.

"I promised my date in the bio office that I'd return the file
sans
grease," Speedy said tartly.

"A date, huh? Guess she hasn't caught on that you live up to your name as a lover."

Speedy launched an onion ring at Innes's nose.

"What was his reputation in Turkey?" Innes asked.

"He hadn't been there long. Had the cover of commercial counselor. The Turkish service told our station chief that Starenkov was actually a very energetic commercial officer. Worked hard to promote Russian exports. Was all over the Turkish business community."

"Think he was trying to develop cut-outs to steal high tech stuff from us?"

"No evidence. He mainly cultivated Turkish agro-business types. Food exporters on the one hand and farm machinery importers on the other. Reading about this guy really puts you to sleep. Sort of a spook Al Gore."

"How many foreign commercial officers are you aware of who've been literally torn apart for trying to sell more tractors?" Innes asked.

"That's the thing. Neither the Turks nor we nor anybody else can figure out what this guy was into that would land him into this kind of end."