Permanent Interests

by James Bruno

  "Shit!!" Speedy jumped from his chair and kicked his waste basket as hard as he could, sending the contents strewing in all directions. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

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  "Speedy. If you can't control yourself or your language, then go for a jog around the Mall!" his young secretary, Rachel, admonished.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry." He collected the trash back into the can. "It's just that I've got to get hold of a friend about something important and they can't tell me where he is. I'm afraid that he's flown the coop. Still no luck at reaching Colleen McCoy?" he asked.

  "Speedy, I've called the Foreign Service Institute at least seven times. All they can do is post a message. She's got to pick it up. She can't be in class all the time."

  "Right. Well, please keep trying."

  Speedy slumped back into his chair. He picked up the classified memo from the State Department. It jarred him every time he looked at it.

  DEPARTMENT OF STATE SECRET

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TO: Department of Justice, Criminal Division -

  Alfred A. Cardoza, Assistant Attorney General Federal Bureau of Investigation - Hendrik K.

  Mallory, Assistant Director

  FROM: Bureau of Diplomatic Security - Ralph W.

  Torres, Assistant Secretary

  SUBJECT: Request for Arrest Warrant for Espionage Suspect - Innes, Robert Woodruff, 096-42-8787

  1. Request arrest warrant be issued and arrest expeditiously carried out on subject, who is suspected of engaging in espionage against the United States.

  2. Authorized search of subject's home on April 22

  uncovered over one hundred classified documents from State, CIA, DIA, FBI, DEA and other agencies concealed PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  inside a sofa. Twenty-one were Top Secret, others captioned or specially compartmented. Computer disk recovered at site contained correspondence with

  "Grounder." Notes indicate drop-off and pick-up sites as well as monetary payoffs. SIGINT confirms that

  "Grounder" is a code name used by Col. Yuri Vasilenko, deputy Rezident in Russia's Washington embassy.

  In three more pages, the memo detailed Innes's

  "increasingly aberrant" behavior following his "substandard work performance" and "subsequent reassignment for disciplinary problems." It described his "paranoid delusions," including "a conviction that the mafia, SVR and senior administration officials were conspiring to compromise the country’s national security for vague, ill-defined purposes." Attached to the memo was a section of Innes's latest physical exam from State's medical unit. The central theme was that "the examinee exhibits erratic, antisocial and rebellious behavior not readily linked to any physical condition." The examining physician recommended that Innes be given intensive and thorough psychological testing.

  Speedy's phone buzzed. "It's Ms. McCoy," Rachel said.

  Speedy lunged at the receiver, almost dropping it as he snatched it toward his ear.

  "Colleen!"

  "Speedy! How ya doin'?"

  "Colleen,

  where's

  Bob?"

  "Why, at work. Why, what's the problem?"

  "He's not at work. Not in the office anyway."

  "Oh, well, he's probably at the snack bar or somewhere.

  He'll be back--"

  "Listen to me, Colleen. Bob is in trouble. Big trouble.

  You've got to find him."

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  "What kind of trouble?" Her voice was no longer cheery.

  "Somebody's out to frame him. They're going to arrest him."

  "What?! For what? Who? Why?"

  "Colleen, listen to me. Don't go home. Find Bob.

  Whatever means it takes, find him. Then lay low, both of you. You've got my home number. Stay in contact. Use false names. And, by all means, don't go home. "

  Toby Wheeler was progressing. Slowly, but steadily.

  The doctors thought that he would walk again, but only after weeks of being laid up, followed by months of physical therapy. Being away from his work was more excruciating for the Post reporter than being incapacitated.

  The doctors forbade his using a laptop, but consented to his dictating into a small tape recorder -- but only for short periods of time. Innes was his legs now, as well as his interviewer, researcher and typist. Innes spent increasing amounts of time with Wheeler, his surest ally apart from Colleen. The pariah diplomat spent less and less time at his office. No one cared. Least of all he. And he found a new passion in journalism. Wheeler was an outstanding mentor.

  Innes did the chasing around. Wheeler composed the stories. His series on crime and government was to resume with the next Sunday issue. Colleen helped Marion with the kids, shopping and other tasks. They became fast friends.

  The story would be a five-part series. Drawing heavily upon Lydia's information, it would reveal the Russian mob's inroads into the American body politic. It would name names. They obtained a visa photo of Yakov.

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  Juxtaposed next to one of Semion Mogilevich, the reputed boss of bosses in the Russian mob, Wheeler would describe their competition and the lengths to which Yakov was going to overcome his rival. Information on links with the Cosa Nostra, however, remained sketchy. At this stage, Wentworth, suspicious but still ignorant about Al, wished to dig further into his boss's affairs. He swore Lydia to secrecy. As far as Innes, Wheeler and the FBI knew, Charles T. Wentworth was simply an ex-Marine working for a New Jersey construction company who wanted to help get his new girlfriend out of a jam.

  "This is great stuff. We'll really blow the socks off some very important people," Wheeler exulted. "The rot has gotten deep and this'll help root it out. It's overdue."

  He clapped his hands together.

  "Hey! Watch it. They told you to move as little as possible. Don't push it," Innes warned.

  "I can't stand being kept in a hospital bed. I want to go home. I want to eat Marion's chicken stew and dumplings with my family. I want to wear normal clothes. I want to sleep with my wife." He yanked at his antiseptic hospital sheets and threw a glump of green jello against the equally antiseptic wall.

  Innes moved quickly to keep him still. "Tony, stop it!

  Continue like this and you'll be Mr. Wheels for the rest of your life. Just bear with it. You've got to heal. In time, you'll be able to do all those things. In the meantime, be a good boy. Hear?"

  "Yes, Daddy! But make sure Marion brings me some of her chicken stew."

  "You

  got

  it."

  They heard running in the hallway, followed by shouting. Colleen burst into the hospital room, followed seconds later by a nurse.

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  "Miss! Miss! You can't come in here. Visiting hours are over! If you don't leave, I'll call security," the nurse threatened.

  "But you don't understand. I have to see my…husband."

  She gestured toward Innes. "It's very important. There's a…an emergency in his family. He needs to know about it immediately." She neatened her disheveled hair and tried to catch her breath.

  The nurse paused a moment. "Well, all right. But do it quickly. I want you and your husband out of here in five minutes. Mr. Wheeler needs his rest."

  Dispensing with greetings, Colleen said, "Bob, we've gotta go! C'mon." She grabbed his elbow and yanked him toward the door.

  Innes resisted. "Hold on. She's just a nurse, not a concentration camp commandant. Take it easy."

  "Thus spake Zarathustra!" Wheeler joked.

  "Sorry Toby, but this is important. Big trouble is facing Bobby here. I've got to get him away."

  Innes jerked his arm from her grasp. "Now, wait a minute! Explain what this is all about. What trouble am I in?"

  Colleen relented. "They're out to arrest you!"

  "Arrest me? Who?"

  "Them! I don't know. The whole dang
Washington power structure for all I know. All those big shots you've been pissing off with your investigative digging." She quickly recounted Speedy's warning.

  "Bob, this is it. You're being framed. They actually think they can pull this kind of crap in this day and age. It's like none of these dudes ever heard of Watergate," Toby said.

  Innes's mind was racing. He wanted to say something, but his mouth froze.

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  "You can't go home," Toby continued. "You've got to hide. Stay at my house. Something tells me these clowns are stupider than we think. You'll be safe with Marion.

  But stay indoors."

  "What about me?" Colleen asked.

  "They're not after you. You can be an asset as a vocal defender of Bob. And so long as there's some press attention toward you, as the girlfriend of an unjustly accused man, they won't dare go near you. But they will keep an eye on you, hoping that you will lead them to Bob.

  You won't be able to see one another for a while. You have to be prepared for that. Marion can pass messages back and forth, though, through me during your hospital visits."

  Innes and Colleen looked intensely into each other's eyes, questioning and reassuring at the same time.

  "Are you prepared for this, Colleen?" he asked.

  "Are

  you prepared for it?" she asked back.

  They

  embraced.

  "Okay you two. Time is short now. Better split. Bob, take the metro to New Carrollton and wait for Marion. I'll write a note to her explaining everything -- it's not wise to use the phones. Colleen, you can deliver it." He began to chuckle.

  "Sorry, have I missed something? Is there a joke in this somewhere?" Innes demanded.

  "Oh, sorry, no offense. It just struck me. I'm harboring a white man from injustice. A new twist to the underground railroad."

  Two days before the Post was to run the first installment of Wheeler's exposé, the Washington Times broke the news on alleged spy Robert Innes. "Unnamed Administration 254 JAMES

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  sources" gave U.S. News & World Report an exclusive for a feature story. The wire services and Fox News wasted no time running the story along with Innes's official passport photo -- compliments of Diplomatic Security. In the inverse prism of contemporary American journalism, Innes's dropping out of sight virtually confirmed his guilt.

  In an appearance on Meet the Press to discuss U.S. policy on Russia, Secretary Dennison, questioned about the case, stated earnestly that he could not discuss it in detail pending further legal actions. He did let on, however, that

  "this may rival the Ames affair" -- the CIA official sentenced to life for spying for Moscow. The Post's editor-in-chief, questioning the veracity of Wheeler's sources, decided to put a hold on his story.

  By now, Innes's face was familiar to millions as his unflattering, dour-faced passport photo appeared across television screens throughout America and worldwide thanks to the 24-hour news channels. Friends were shocked. Acquaintances and near-acquaintances strained to recall past behavior by Innes that would strike one in retrospect as suspicious or incriminating. In the cafeteria and around water fountains in the State Department, one heard, "Met him in Rome. Nice guy, but something about him set him apart. A loner"; "Sure, he's that character who dressed like a bum. Heard he was abused as a child"; "Oh, yeah, him. People say he was a lousy officer. And always chasing skirts too." Colleagues who actually knew Innes, realizing that having close association with a traitor was not good for one's career, suddenly developed amnesia about him. Junior officers who had been supervised by Innes pleaded with Human Resources to have his name removed from their fitness reports.

  Robin Croft was the sole exception. She called Colleen to profess her conviction that the allegations simply could PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  not be true. She, furthermore, offered to be helpful anyway she could in clearing Innes's name.

  Mindful of the flak CIA took for failing to reveal Ames during his nine years in the KGB's pay despite numerous giveaways, Dennison went out of his way to proclaim that Innes had been found out only weeks after selling out to the Russians, according to "highly classified evidence." Torres and Warren received awards for their role in uncovering the spy Innes.

  Dennison, Selmur and Horvath met to gloat over their successful ploy. Not only did they manage to remove an annoying troublemaker from their midst, they also drew attention away from the Mortimer/Wells cases. In the process, Dennison also managed to draw some luster to himself as well as to the administration for appearing to be on the ball in thwarting foreign espionage. Catching Innes would add to it further.

  The sommelier popped open a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck champagne and filled three glasses.

  Already tipsy from pre-dinner cocktails, Dennison rose unsteadily from his chair in Les Nigauds' privatest room, lifted his champagne glass and said, "Here's to three clever guys, the sharpest powermeisters in all of Washington. All for one and one for all!"

  Selmur followed suit, spilling half of his champagne before adding his own self-congratulation. "Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee, that's why they call us the Magnificent Three! After we leave public service, I propose we form a lobby outfit called Dreamworks DSH."

  Horvath sat staring into his untouched glass, seemingly losing himself in the sparkling liquid.

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  "Hey, Nick!" Selmur called. "Wake up, buddy.

  Celebrate!"

  "Yeah!" Dennison chimed in. "We're on the way to turning the tide for our man. Corgan will be re-elected and we'll have it made. Instead of collecting unemployment!"

  He laughed uproariously at his own lame joke.

  A waiter brought in a tray of Beluga caviar nestled in a bowl shaped out of fantail shrimps on a mound of glistening crushed ice -- joyaux de la couronne, a specialty of Les Nigauds.

  The Secretary and Chief of Staff plunged in, immediately destroying the fishy crown jewels in a fit of unapologetic gluttony.

  "Hey Nick, dig in!" Dennison said through his stuffed mouth.

  Horvath didn't flinch. His eyes remained transfixed on the bubbly wine.

  Dennison approached Horvath and slapped him on the back. "Hey, Nick! Nick!! What's wrong, you tired, or what?"

  Horvath sat motionless. His lips moved.

  "What's that? What'd you say?" Selmur asked.

  " Szabadság," Horvath muttered barely audibly.

  Selmur and Dennison exchanged worried looks.

  Dennison knelt in front of Horvath and, with his hand, gently shook Horvath's head by the chin. "Nick? You all right? Say something, Nick."

  " Szabadság," he whispered.

  Selmur put down his glass. He grabbed Horvath by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Nick!" he shouted.

  A waiter ran into the room.

  "Oh, it's okay. We don't need anything--" Dennison began.

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  " Szabadság!!" Horvath shouted at the top of his lungs.

  But his eyes didn't move from the glass before him.

  "Freedom," the young waiter said.

  Selmur and Dennison turned to him.

  "He said 'freedom,'" the waiter continued. "My father's Hungarian. I spent my junior year there. Szabadság is Hungarian for freedom."

  "Er, yeah, we know," Selmur ad libbed. "Our buddy here is teaching us some Hungarian. Aren't you Nick, ol'

  pal?" Selmur affectionately massaged Horvath's shoulders and then patted him on the back.

  Picking up the charade, Dennison added, "That's right.

  He's not having much success though, ha, ha." He placed a comradely arm around Horvath's shoulders. "Poor guy.

  Can't hold his booze. Better get him home to the little lady."

  Selmur winked at the waiter. "Everything's fine, son.

  Think we'll call it a night." He slipped a twenty into the boy's hand. The waiter left the room.
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  They rushed in front of Horvath, knelt and studied the National Security Adviser's face.

  "What do you think, Roy?"

  "I don't know. He's spaced out." Selmur waved his hand before Horvath's unresponding eyes.

  "He hasn't had a drop to drink," Dennison said.

  "Exhaustion," Selmur said worriedly.

  "A nervous breakdown, you mean?"

  "Don't know. I say we take him home and see how he is in the morning."

  " Szabadság," Horvath repeated to his glass.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The more Dennison thought about Horvath, the more anxious he became. When he and Selmur dropped Horvath off at his house afterward, the NSC adviser still hadn't come out of his trance. Mrs. Horvath took him and put him to bed. But Dennison worried that Horvath had either experienced a change of heart or that he had truly flipped out. He hoped that Horvath was simply exhausted and would recover quickly. But the uncertainty kept him awake most of the night. At 5:00 am, he phoned Horvath.

  "I'm fine," Horvath answered unconvincingly. His voice had a metallic tone.

  "Do you recall last night?" Dennison pressed.

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  No

  response.

  "Nick. Maybe you should see a doctor. A quick check-up. Use our medical unit."

  "No. Not necessary, Roy. I'm fine." His voice was hollow. Horvath hung up.

  Dennison next phoned Selmur.

  "Howard, I'm worried about Nick. I just talked to him."

  "Did

  he

  respond?"

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  "Yeah."

  "Then he's obviously okay. He looks like he could use a break, though. I'll suggest that he take a little vacation. Go off to the Caribbean or someplace with his wife."

  "Right. But I don't know. He just didn't sound normal, Howard. Last thing we need now is another Mortimer.

  Flipping out on religion, or something equally bizarre."