Permanent Interests

by James Bruno

  Karlson. Whoever else. I want a status report at my morning briefing every day."

  The meeting was over. It had lasted barely fifteen minutes. Corgan was gone in a flash.

  The others huddled.

  Dennison, Levin, Wilkins and Scher went off to one side with Horvath and Selmur. Dennison was driving home a point animatedly as the others listened intently with their arms folded.

  Innes went to the young presidential assistants. They asked him his views.

  Innes recounted his escapade in Rome, how he thought Scher and company were chasing wild geese, that, once the truth -- whatever it was -- about Mortimer came out, it might be unsettling to the administration. They scribbled away. They asked that Innes stay in regular touch with them on developments.

  "That depends on my bosses," he said, pointing to the klatsch of self-important functionaries at the other side of the room.

  Bob Innes was seeing more of Colleen. Frequently, their get-togethers were over lunch, the time most easily available, and safe, for Innes. The more they saw each other, the more they laughed. She began teaching him Thai. During a stroll along the elm-lined Reflecting Pool one Friday in late winter, she taught him, " chan rak khun,"

  I love you. Caught speechless, he stopped, looked deeply into her soul, put his arms around her gently and kissed her.

  The world was spun faster and faster. It must have been, for they both toppled to the ground, which created yet more PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  laughter, and a second kiss, this time anchored in the earth.

  Joggers, passing tourists and old people feeding the pigeons laughed with them. "Atta way, you lovers!" shouted a tattooed Vietnam vet manning a nearby POW/MIA awareness kiosk.

  Their hushed passion blossomed when they held each other during increasingly frequent rendezvous at her small apartment in Arlington. He didn't want to leave her side during these trysts, to face the walking dead at his workplace, the cold woman to whom he was married, the loveless life that sucked him deeper into self-doubt and despair. The white softness of Colleen's neck held the warmth and mystery of womanhood; her eyes, the inspiration of love; her hands, the strength of beauty. In her he could get lost forever.

  For Colleen, it was a forbidden love, one with only question marks at the end of the road. But she chose to suspend thinking about these troubling enigmas and decided to live and love for the present. But she prayed to God that it would all somehow work out in the end.

  In her small bed, they stroked each other tenderly.

  She turned on her stomach and propped her chin in one hand. "My grandfather from County Mayo used to tell us Irish legends and tales. My favorite was of Cuchullain, a grand knight, and his lady, Emer. They lived in the wondrous and peaceful land ruled by King Conchobar."

  "Did they live happily ever after?"

  "It wasn't so simple. He had to end a relationship with another woman, and she had to contend with the disapproval of her family. Together they defended the kingdom from foreign enemies. They almost died doing so."

  "What kind of--?"

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  Deep in thought, she signaled Innes to keep quiet. "I'll never forget what they always said to one another after a harrowing adventure: She: 'May God make smooth the path before you.' He: 'And may you be safe from every harm.'" She looked at Innes with a bemused expression.

  Innes smiled back.

  Silence enveloped them like a cold fog.

  Stark reality rudely raised its formidable head. Alas, it was not olden times, nor could they inure themselves from the hard facts of modern times. And Innes was married.

  With children of his own.

  Colleen turned on her side. She tried to conceal the tears streaming down her cheek onto the pillow. Innes stared into space for answers that were not there.

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Innes wrote up a detailed summary of the presidential briefing. He concluded with a recommendation that the investigation change course and begin to delve into facets of Mortimer's personal life. He added highlights of his own side investigation in Rome, but left out any reference to Colleen, for her own protection.

  His report won eager reception, but not from his superiors. A stick'um note plastered on Innes's computer screen confronted him as he dragged himself into his cubicle at 7:30 am. "See me NOW," it announced in red ink. It was signed "Platten."

  Innes sensed a changed atmosphere in the Ops Center.

  People took discreet notice of his presence, some following him with their eyes. It was the feeling one had upon showing up with a black eye or a bad haircut. The attention people paid was not positive, however subdued it might be.

  Robin Croft's was the only face reflecting overt sympathy. "Bob. I just want you to know that I'm behind you. If I can be helpful, just let me know."

  With the profound uncertainty that comes with facing a firing squad, Innes shuffled into Platten's glass-enclosed cubicle.

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  Platten didn't look up from the stack of morning traffic.

  His face was as gray as his thinning hair.

  "Ahem," Innes coughed nervously.

  "I know you're here," Platten said stiffly.

  Innes felt awkward. Memories of fifth grade and the principal's office swept through his mind.

  Platten tossed a document across his desk. "What is this?"

  "My

  memo."

  "Your

  memo."

  "Yes. That's right. My memo."

  "Who else has it?"

  "The usual suspects."

  "This is no laughing matter, mister!"

  "Sorry. I circulated it around for clearance. Seven, eight offices, I guess."

  "Multiply that by at least ten. The photocopiers are working overtime as every secretary, every staff aide, every bored civil servant with a dirty mind cranks out copies of your memo."

  "I don't get it," Innes said.

  "You

  don't

  get it, huh? How about this?" Platten snatched up Innes's memo and clutched it with both hands before his eyes. "Our investigation turned up numerous incidences of sexual misconduct by Ambassador Mortimer.

  For example, at a February 13, 2006 banquet, he chased a 16-year old girl, the daughter of a prominent Italian industrialist, to her hotel room and tried to break the door down. As a result of liaisons with Roman prostitutes, Mr.

  Mortimer contracted herpes. Only the direct intervention of the Italian leadership prevented a newspaper from printing the allegations of a Brazilian transvestite who said s/he had…" Platten flung the memo to the floor. "Just what was in your mind? You can't write such drivel--"

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  "It's

  true."

  "How the hell do you know?!"

  "Our

  investigation?"

  " Our investigation?"

  "I mean, my investigation -- that is." Innes cleared his throat. His body erupted in beads of cold sweat.

  Platten let out a deep sigh and shook his head. "You digressed from your instructions, Bob. As we speak, DS

  agents are swooping down on office after office in a vain effort to confiscate and destroy copies of your memo. Lie detector tests are next. Dennison's personal orders. It goes to show how furious the Secretary is over this. Not to mention Scher."

  Innes looked away. Images of fishing on sparkling Adirondack lakes rushed into his brain. Escape. Escape from the Washington Circus of Pathos and Paranoia. He wasn't crazy. Nor wrong. They were.

  To Toby Wheeler, it was all very amusing and, by the way, a great story. It didn't take forty-eight hours for a draft to land on the desk of the diplomatic correspondent of the Post. Wheeler was a thoroughgoing professional who knew the meaning of constraint as well as opportunity. But inside his devilish little soul, he relished the prospect of making the White Was
hington Establishment squirm a little. As a rare black reporter on a lily white beat, he'd encountered more than his share of slights, gross misassumptions regarding his abilities and scoops slipped to colleagues from competing papers simply because they fit the established profile of a "diplomatic correspondent."

  A black face, southern drawl and a degree in communications from Southern Baptist University just 134 JAMES

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  didn't cut it. And the denigration wasn't limited to American society. When the Post sent him as a young reporter to man the Moscow bureau in the waning days of the Soviet era, Wheeler saw first-hand how unenlightening seventy years of communism were for the Russian people in the area of race relations. He'd been spat upon, denied service and called nigger.

  It broke on a Monday morning, good timing for stretching a story over a week of otherwise slow news.

  Slain American Envoy Linked to Organized Crime, proclaimed the headline. Wheeler went on to recount the content of Innes's report, augmented by interviews with government officials both in Washington and overseas. It painted a picture of a gross incompetent, Roland Mortimer, appointed as U.S. envoy to a major ally, whose leaders essentially ignored him. The story of Mortimer's chasing an underage ingenue to a hotel room made it into the report as well as the late ambassador's nocturnal outings alone into Rome's less savory entertainment areas. The pièce de résistance was an exposé of Mortimer's reported links to organized crime figures -- set against his cozy friendship and strong political ties with the President and a host of other senior administration officials. Finally, Wheeler reported on Dennison's clumsy attempts to quash the story, this following on a botched and misdirected investigation.

  An accompanying editorial on the op-ed page denounced the crony system of political payoffs that resulted in sending unqualified ambassadors to represent America abroad. It ended by calling the Senate to task for turning a blind eye in the confirmation process.

  Dennison and the White House mobilized the p.r.

  machinery. The investigation was continuing apace, they told reporters. All legitimate avenues would be vigorously pursued, they assured. There was no evidence that PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  Mortimer had links to organized crime, they said solemnly.

  Yes, he led perhaps not the most circumspect personal life.

  But these were the 2000’s after all. Mortimer was a true patriot and served the President loyally and capably. Blah, blah, blah.

  Innes felt like vomiting as he read the headline and first few paragraphs the next morning. The children's breakfast burnt in the toaster. Carolyn unplugged it just in time. She read the story and remained silent for several minutes.

  "Guess you're going to have an exciting day at work," was her unhelpful comment as she poured coffee for herself.

  Innes was given the OES account. The Oceans, Environmental and Scientific Affairs Bureau was a necessary, yet bit player in the Department of State. Most Foreign Service officers shunned duty in a bureau manned by techno-geeks who were fascinated by such things as fisheries, cooperation on weather reporting, saving the whales and negotiating scientific exchanges. Innes started chugging "Jolt" cola -- "All the Sugar and Twice the Caffeine!" -- to stay awake. His previous duties were divvied up among Robin Croft, who no longer worked for him, and several others. Innes realized that he was being sidelined to bureaucratic Siberia. He actually welcomed some boredom and predictable duties, but pondered the likely end of his career.

  A week later, the voucher office called Innes to inform him that a "routine" review of his travel vouchers over the past seven years showed that he owed Uncle Sam at least $4,000, that he should pay this initial amount within 30

  days or face having it docked from his salary.

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  His career development officer, "CDO," in human resources called.

  "Bob, I don't know how to say this, so I'll just give it to you in one shot. The system has 'identified' you for a twelve-month stint in Somalia. You'll be humanitarian affairs officer."

  Somalia was a desolate country racked by years of civil strife and run by warlords with a reputation for going after U.S. government personnel with literally murderous tenacity. "Humanitarian affairs officer" was a grab-bag appellation for one who monitored starving refugees, human rights violations and mine-clearing operations.

  "There'll be a lot of travel in-country, so you won't be stuck in the office all the time," the CDO continued. "Oh, but your family can't go. They'll have to stay back here.

  But you'll get separate maintenance allowance to cover some of their expenses."

  "What the hell is going on, Dan? One day, I'm on the Secretary's staff, handling the sexiest issues out there. Next day, the 'System' slam-dunks me in a putrid cesspool like Somalia!"

  "Fair share, buddy. Remember?"

  Theoretically, all U.S. diplomats were required to take turns serving tours in hardship posts, hence "fair share."

  "We all know that 'fair share' is a joke. How many hardship tours have you served?"

  "This isn't about me, Bob. Look, I've got instructions.

  I'm passing them on. You don't like the assignment, you have the option of quitting."

  "This isn't an assignment. It's a death sentence."

  "Your

  call,

  buddy."

  "Somebody wants me out -- whether dead or alive."

  The CDO hung up.

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  Innes got no satisfaction from the quasi-union nominally defending the labor interests of Foreign Service employees.

  Its vice president wanly advised Innes not to fight an assignment, citing "the needs of the Service." As for the voucher matter, he said that it was a "private matter."

  Carolyn called to say the IRS had sent a certified letter informing him that he was to be audited. The auditors requested a ton of information on Innes's claimed deductions going back, yes, seven years.

  Innes's reduced assignment in the prestigious Ops Center ended abruptly. He found out one morning when he showed up for work and encountered a young woman sitting at his desk. She was as embarrassed as he was surprised. Straight from junior officer training, she had been assigned to his job. She timidly handed him an envelope marked "Diplomatic Security." It contained a pink slip of paper signed by "Agent D.S. Warren" curtly informing Innes that his top secret security clearance had been suspended pending "further investigation," offering no further explanation. Innes's torpid CDO sympathized, then promptly let him know that, until the security problem was cleared up, Innes was assigned to processing Freedom of Information requests -- the unclassified aspects, effective immediately.

  Innes's world was falling apart. "When it rains, it pours," which is what the union guy told him, just didn't cut it. Why now? And why in spades?

  Family life fared no better. His relations with Carolyn went from cold to hot war. The shouting made the kids cry which, in turn, made Carolyn cry, which made Innes that much more irritable. He increasingly sought refuge at Colleen's, then stayed, returning to his own house only to see the kids. Colleen fretted over him. She tried desperately to console him, but he kept sinking deeper and 138 JAMES

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  deeper into despair. He would lay his cheek on her breast and weep. As she stroked his hair, she wept with him.

  Innes came from a long line of stubborn yeoman farmers. He recalled when, as a boy, his family dairy farm in Ontario County, in upstate New York, was to be seized and auctioned off by the bank because his father couldn't make the mortgage payments on time after two years of drought. The elder Innes's neighbors and many friends in the surrounding communities chipped in to pay the bank off. Just in time for the rains to resume. Inneses could always rely on friends in times of trouble.

  He called Speedy.

  The special at the Okura was red roe sashimi. Speedy, always game for interesting food, wasn't so sure about this, or Japanese
cuisine in general, being mainly a ribs-and-chops, burrito-and-beans, pizza-and-burgers type of guy.

  But Innes's arm-twisting got him to relent. Innes ordered for both of them.

  Speedy regarded the tuna sushi with deep suspicion.

  "Looks to me like fish bait." He sniffed at it and grimaced.

  Innes told him how to eat it, lifting a piece with his chopsticks. "Look, you dunk it into this soy sauce and just eat it." He did so, washing it down with a small cup of warm sake.

  Speedy bravely followed suit. He immediately went into a coughing fit which sent several pints of extra blood coursing to his face. His head looked like it was about to burst. He grabbed his cup of green tea and gulped it, then involuntarily sprayed it all over the table. This aroused the attention of the other diners.

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  Catching his breath, he gasped, "What was that little piece of green shit?"

  "Oh,

  just

  wasabi – Japanese horse radish. You should've just mixed a little in the soy sauce, not swallowed the thing whole. I should've told you. Sorry."

  When the sushi arrived, Speedy asked to see the menu, and ordered chicken teriyaki.

  Innes explained the cascade of problems suddenly confronting him. "They're after me big time. It's obvious,"

  he said.

  "It sure looks that way," Speedy said, deep in thought.

  "But can you prove it? Henry Kissinger once said that" --

  he lowered his voice and affected a German accent --

  "'These people play for keeps.'"

  "He's

  right."

  "You bet he's right. But Washington types are also as stupid as they are clever. Despite Watergate, despite Irangate, despite all the cases of big shots trying to do in whistleblowers, they never learn and they do the same stupid things over and over again."

  "So? What should I be doing?"

  "At this point? Hang in there, but also be prepared to press your case outside of channels."

  "Hmm." Innes played with his food. "Anything new on Mortimer?"

  Speedy sank his teeth into a teriyakied chicken breast.

  "Afraid not. But Dom Berlucci has taken direct control over the investigation. This is good. State and CIA are flubbing up. But more than that, now that it's front page news, the Director wants us to pull out all the stops, whether the White House likes it or not."