by James Bruno
Dennison and Selmur agreed that a close eye was needed on Horvath.
A chauffeured White House car picked Horvath up at precisely 5:30 am, as it did every day. The driver handed Horvath a locked dark leather satchel, as he did every morning. It contained the latest classified cables from U.S.
diplomatic posts and military commands worldwide as well as the CIA's and State Department's morning intelligence summaries, and selected news clippings. Horvath placed the satchel on the seat beside him, unopened. His interest was directed instead at a ragged, old, army duffle bag which he held securely on his lap.
The car entered the west gate after a cursory check by uniformed Secret Service guards. Clutching the duffle close to his body, Horvath sprinted out toward the West Wing where his office was located. The driver shouted his name and ran to catch up to him.
"You forgot this, sir," he said, holding the leather satchel with an outstretched arm. Horvath took it without comment. He proceeded past a guard seated just inside the West Wing main entrance. He entered his office and shut and locked the door after him.
At 7:00 he briefed the President in the Oval Office. This morning he had little to say. Horvath told his secretary to 260 JAMES
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cancel all appointments, and to forward no calls. At 9:30, President Corgan left the White House to meet with Congressional leaders at the Hyatt Regency. Minutes later, Horvath strolled back to the Oval Office. He carried the army duffle in one hand, as he would a brief case. Again, Secret Service personnel let him pass freely. The National Security Adviser had virtual free run of the Executive Mansion.
Once in the Oval Office, Horvath quickly opened the duffle and pulled out two quart bottles. He twisted off the caps and proceeded to splatter animal blood all over the President's desk -- originally Teddy Roosevelt's; on the Remington paintings and Catlin prints along the walls, across shelves of books containing original editions of Alexis de Tocqueville's accounts of his travels in early 19th century America, biographies of Jefferson and Hamilton, an early Webster's dictionary autographed by Webster himself, and so on. He smeared blood on a photo of Corgan taking the oath of office. Having emptied the bottles, Horvath smiled admiringly at his work. He snatched the duffle and departed the Oval Office at a leisurely pace.
Horvath proceeded toward the First Family's living quarters. He explained to Secret Service agents manning its access that he wished to leave a briefing paper personally with Mrs. Corgan. He declined escort, adding that he would merely leave the document with staff if the First Lady were not around. Once inside, Horvath ducked into the Rose Suite, facing northwest onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and locked the door. He darted to the windows overlooking the broad, now traffic-free boulevard, and flung them open.
Out of the duffle bag, he retrieved a World War II-vintage German Schmeisser submachine gun. For a PERMANENT INTERESTS
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moment he paused to admire it. He had used one just like it to kill Russians in '56. He polished the receiver housing with his jacket sleeve. Szabadság, he murmured.
Outside along the sidewalk and down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, Horvath could see tourists gathering for the White House tour; others gawked or took pictures of the most famous residence in America. Vacationers, office workers and vagrants strolled comfortably in the late springtime sun. An environmental group numbering some dozen or so individuals demonstrated peaceably against the destruction of America's forests.
Horvath raised the Schmeisser, released the safety and took careful aim. Through the bead, his eye saw Red Army troops. Oh, how he hated them. Kill some, his Free Hungary commanders had told their men. Demonstrate to the world how vulnerable they were, and America would come to Hungary's rescue. America would save the Magyars. And freedom would be theirs again. Szabadság.
They killed Russians, quite a few considering their limited means. But the Americans never came. East Europeans equated America with freedom. The two were synonymous. But the Americans didn't come, they didn't help Hungary. So, like many of his co-combatants, Horvath escaped to America to experience its freedom for himself. And now he knew.
The first burst cut down an old man and his two grandchildren. The second ripped into a klatsch of high school field trippers. The third mowed down four office workers. Another abruptly felled several of the demonstrators. Subsequent shots were wild and scattered.
He loaded another magazine and began firing again. A homeless man in Lafayette Park caught a round in the abdomen. A Secret Service guard fell to the ground as rounds caught him in the legs. People were running in all 262 JAMES
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directions. They were scrambling for cover at the base of the White House fence, behind trees and the mounted statues in the park. Traffic on 17th Street flanking the White House and Old Executive Office Building on the west, came to a halt as cars careened into each other; drivers braked in the middle of the street and ducked behind the dashboard. The wail of police and ambulance sirens approached.
Horvath heard someone check the bedroom doorknob to see if it was locked. Then the gleaming blade of an ax cracked through the door, followed by a sledgehammer against the lock. Five Secret Service agents burst into the room with assorted arms and flew to the floor and to the sides. They took instant aim with their weapons. The scene fell strangely silent, except for the metallic clicking sound of Horvath pulling the trigger of his now-empty submachine gun, the barrel of which was buried deep in his mouth.
"Click, click, click." The agents were sprawled on the floor and taking cover behind the poster bed and Victorian chairs. With their guns firmly aimed, a hair-trigger's instant from obliterating Horvath, they appeared stunned at the sight of the President's top adviser on foreign affairs cowering against a wall, with a machine gun jammed into his mouth, mechanically pulling the trigger. "Click, click."
One of the agents, keeping his revolver fixed on Horvath's head, cautiously approached him. Horvath did not react, lost, as he was, in another world. Gently, the agent took the Schmeisser away from Horvath. The other agents surged forward and immediately wrestled Horvath to the floor, stripped his jacket, shirt and belt off, and manacled him. More agents rushed into the room. Two lifted Horvath up like a doll and whisked him out of the family quarters, out of the White House and into a waiting PERMANENT INTERESTS
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security van. The vehicle, lights whirring and siren screaming, sped out the gate, with motorcycle escorts clearing away the traffic.
Ambulances arrived to collect Horvath's victims, the unconscious grandfather and his little ones, weeping highschoolers soaked in blood, the homeless man writhing in agony; wounded tourists, some limp with shock, others crying with pain; office workers, themselves bleeding, helping the more seriously wounded; the Secret Service guard, his legs tourniqueted by his colleagues, placed on a stretcher. Municipal police sought to untangle the twisted traffic on 17th Street. Multitudes of onlookers competed with aggressive reporters and TV news crews to observe the carnage.
The President called an emergency meeting of what he called the "inner cabinet" -- a core of trusted cabinet officers, most long-time personal friends of Corgan's who had been with him through all of his political campaigns.
These included Selmur, Dennison, Wilkins and Levin.
Karlson was also invited as was Secretary of Homeland Security Lewison, under whose purview the Secret Service fell.
Corgan appeared pale and shaken. His hands trembled.
Was it rage, fear or shock? The atmosphere in the Cabinet Room was one of gloom and palpable horror. Corgan rubbed his tired face with both palms, and ran his fingers backward through his hair.
"This tragedy…this incident…this…" Corgan stumbled for words, but couldn't find them. He stopped, stared at the ceiling as if searching for a thought in the ether. A tear ran down a cheek.
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"My wife is safe, thank God. Anything could have happened. Those poor people…How could this happen?
<
br /> How?"
"Mr. President, I am initiating a full investigation--"
Corgan's face flashed anger. "You're out. You're fired.
As of immediately," Corgan commanded.
Lewison appeared stunned. "I beg your pardon?"
Corgan raised his voice. "Get out! You allowed this to happen. Go!!"
The withering blast caused the others to cringe. A pallor crossed their faces.
Lewison rose and strode out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him.
The inner cabinet waited in trepidation for their President's next move.
"Does anyone have any insight into what motivated Horvath? What caused him to snap?"
"I know that he'd been under a lot of pressure lately,"
Selmur responded in his low, considered voice.
"Both work and family, I believe," added Dennison.
"For crying out loud, why didn't you bring it to my attention?" Corgan demanded.
An awkward silence ensued.
Corgan let out a deep breath. "Gentlemen, this terrible tragedy may very well mark the end of this troubled administration. Our dream of a rejuvenated America keeps taking hits as one misfortune after another falls on our…my head."
"Mr. President, at least no one was killed," Dennison said in a voice attempting consolation.
Corgan bowed and shook his head. "A 70-year old nun has one of Horvath's bullets lodged in her brain. If she doesn't die, the doctors say she'll never come out of her coma. Seventeen people are injured, eleven seriously." He PERMANENT INTERESTS
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picked up the Washington Post in front of him. "The editorialists are wasting no time. One has drawn the catchy metaphor of 'the White House taking pot shots at the American people.' A TV commentator went so far as to say the White House has 'formally declared war on America.' We're in trouble, deep trouble. And I fear we're in a downward spiral that is out of control."
The President's men bowed their heads dejectedly.
"All we can do is hunker down, Mr. President," Selmur said. "Launch a full investigation, institute an immediate overhaul of White House security. Call it a terrible tragedy inflicted by a very disturbed man, a man whose troubles no one knew, not even his wife."
"Draw a parallel with previous isolated assaults on the Executive Mansion by imbalanced men," Dennison added.
"A rare tragedy beyond the control of anyone. Tell the American people that changes are being made in security and personnel screening and stress that we must put this behind us."
"Then after two or three days, we push the Innes spy case to the front burner. Play up our having uncovered him mere weeks after his recruitment by Russian intelligence.
And then announce his arrest. Public attention will turn away from today's event," Selmur said.
All eyes turned to Karlson.
"The Constitution says a man is innocent until proven guilty. Furthermore, we haven't seen enough evidence to seek his arrest," Karlson asserted.
"Get Innes!" Selmur commanded.
The President nodded.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Innes sat in the Wheeler living room scanning the headlines. "State Dept Official on Lam - Wanted for Espionage"; "Feds Will Apprehend Alleged Spy, Dennison Assures"; "State Competence vs CIA Fumbling: A Case Study in Effective Counterespionage." He shook his head.
"They've got everybody snowed. The greatest con job of the decade and everyone is swallowing it hook, line and sinker," Innes mumbled to himself.
Scher's face appeared on CNN. Exuding confidence with his pipe jutting from his mouth, Scher emitted several well-rehearsed sound-bites: "There will be no repeat of the Felix Bloch case"; "Our Ames is different: it took us only nine weeks instead of nine years"; "We're hot on his trail.
It's only a matter of time before we nab this traitor."
Innes felt sick. The weight of the entire U.S.
government was upon him and was likely to crush him.
The Salem Witches, Sacco and Venzetti, the Rosenbergs, the McMartin preschool family, Richard Jewell. American history was replete with handy victims of the hysteria of the moment, of sacrificial lambs to morally corrupt, self-serving politicians and a gullible public. He was now learning up front and personal how challenging big PERMANENT INTERESTS
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government's version of truth could be dangerous to one's health. He couldn't use his credit cards nor draw money from the bank for risk of being traced and caught. At this point, Innes feared for his mental health. National Enquirer, Inside Edition and On the Record had descended on his home town like a plague of locusts, interviewing naive locals about his past. He could have no contact with his family or friends. He missed his kids. What would they think? Surely they were being told that their father was a Benedict Arnold. And he missed Colleen terribly.
Colleen got her letters to Innes via Wheeler. Assuming she was being surveilled, Colleen handwrote the letters, then left them with Wheeler during her frequent hospital visits. Marion picked up the correspondence and brought it home to Innes. Colleen's tone was increasingly fearful.
Everybody at State assumes you are guilty of spying. Only Robin Croft and I reject the notion. People don't want to know me these days. They must assume that I'm part of the
'plot.' 'Mrs. Robert Hansen,' someone catcalled the other day. I received my first hate mail. They said they couldn't wait for me to join you in jail. I'm constantly fending off reporters. I've been called in three times by Security. I'm scared, Bob. I find myself looking over my shoulder. I see clean-cut, fit-looking men eyeing me. I assume they're FBI, or State Department Security, or something.
Or, it may be my paranoia. What happens now? How can I help? My love for you is only made stronger by this affair. I long to see you, to hold you and to kiss your sweet 268 JAMES
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face again. 'May God make smooth the path before you.'
With all my love,
Colleen
Innes was getting restless. Staying holed up indoors with no plan of action was not exactly a morale-booster.
And, as a fugitive from the authorities, he jeopardized the Wheeler family. Wheeler counseled him to be patient. The Post would deliver him from this evil. It would bring down this amoral administration just as it had Nixon's. Good investigative reporting required methodical, persistent digging. Officials would bolt, they'd rat on their corrupt superiors. Word was the FBI smelled something fishy. It was only a matter of time. But Innes became antsier by the day. He'd already been tried and convicted in the court of the news media without being able to defend himself. The FBI was his sole potential ally among the Washington power giants. He decided to give Speedy a call.
He waited till Courtney had gone to school and Marion had left for the hospital. He donned Wheeler's large fishing hat and sunglasses. Checking to see that no neighbors were around, Innes slipped out the back door and sprinted toward Nebraska Avenue where he caught a bus. He got off at the nearest subway stop and took the metro to the Smithsonian, where he blended in with the masses of tourists. He entered the Museum of American History and made for the nearest pay phone. Funny, he thought, only two blocks from the White House. He got Speedy.
"Where the hell are you?!" Speedy demanded.
"Never mind. Give me a quick low-down on what's going on. What does Karlson think? Are you guys with me or in the White House's palm?"
"Bob, I really think you should come in--"
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"I haven't got time, Speedy. You've got exactly three minutes before I hang up."
"Okay, okay. Karlson has his doubts about the charges.
He has us working overtime to get to the bottom of this thing. Berlucci needs to talk to you."
"Maybe later. Like I said, I can't stay on the line--"
"Bob?" It was Berlucci's voice.
"So what now, big brother? You guys going to help me, or w
hat?"
"Bob, come in. We can't do this without you."
"Do what exactly?"
"Look into this thing--"
"That's not good enough, compare. I'll stay in touch."
He hung up.
After dinner each evening, Colleen stretched out in the overstuffed chair that her grandfather heired to her, put on the Walkman earphones and listened to Thai lessons on tape.
Savat di khun Mali. Phakan pai du nang lue khrap?
Mai dai kha. Dichan tong yu baan wan ni na kha.
Repeat after me:
Savat di khun Mali. Phakan pai…
Colleen tripped over the words. As she repeated the dialogue, about a young man asking a girl if she wanted to go to the movies, she pictured herself with Innes in a dark movie theater. He had his arm around her as she snuggled up against his neck. The Thai lesson went in one ear and out the other. She couldn't concentrate. All she could think of was Bob Innes, his soft kiss behind her ear, the laughs, 270 JAMES
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the warmth of their bodies together. She smiled but the tears streamed down her cheeks. She tore off the earphones, opened the tape player and replaced "FSI Thai Lesson No. 12" with her favorite jazz singer, Johnny Adams, "Good Morning Heartache," and closed her eyes.
She sang the lyrics with Adams and closed her eyes tighter. As her mind drifted further from reality, she felt Innes's presence. His tall frame stood before her, his face had that distinctive Innes demi-smile. He reached to her.
She raised her hand to touch his. He grasped it gently and rubbed it between his thumb and fingers. Her mind surged back from the dream world. The touch was real.
Adrenaline shot through her veins like rocket fuel and her heart stopped. She sprang from the chair and opened her eyes.
Standing before her was Bob Innes, just as she had envisioned.
Colleen fell to the floor. She looked up and blinked.
"Hi," he said.
"Is it really you?"
"In
the
flesh."
"Christ!" She held her hand to her forehead. Her chest heaved.
"Well, nice to see you again too."