Permanent Interests (26 page)

All that Ambassador Wells could do was to shake his head in amazement. He took off his reading glasses, set them on the report and looked across his desk to Harry Crestow, the embassy's chief of security.

"Does anyone in their shop know about this?" Wells asked.

"No one. We did it all ourselves. Even the Station doesn't know. Just as you instructed."

"Good job, Harry."

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"What

now?"

"Stand by. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Crestow departed. Wells called for his secretary to take dictation. "This is a cable -- back channel, Pamela…"

SECRET

TO: THE WHITE HOUSE IMMEDIATE

FOR NSC ADVISER HORVATH - EYES ONLY - FROM

WELLS

SUBJECT: CORRUPTION IN THE BANGKOK DEA OFFICE

1. SECRET - ENTIRE TEXT.

2. TO MY GREAT DISTRESS, WE HAVE

UNCOVERED GRAVE MALFEASANCE IN OUR DEA OFFICE. OUR SECURITY PEOPLE HAVE POSITIVE

PROOF THAT AT LEAST ONE DEA OFFICER HERE

IS CONNIVING WITH THAI GANGSTERS AND

CORRUPT THAI OFFICIALS TO SMUGGLE

NARCOTICS INTO THE UNITED STATES. WE DO

NOT KNOW THE ESTIMATED VALUE OF THESE

DEALS, BUT GUESS THEY REACH INTO THE TENS

OF MILLIONS OF DOLLARS. THE DEA SHOP HERE

HAS BEEN IN A CONSTANT STATE OF DISORDER

SINCE THAT AGENCY'S CURRENT BANGKOK

OFFICE DIRECTOR ARRIVED HERE NINE MONTHS

AGO. INCOMPETENCE AND CORRUPTION REIGN

IN THE LARGE DEA OPERATION HERE. IT HAS

NOW REACHED A POINT WHERE IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THIS STATE OF

AFFAIRS BECOMES KNOWN, WITH ALL THE

CONSEQUENT REPERCUSSIONS THAT

REVELATION WILL HAVE ON U.S.-THAI

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229

RELATIONS, TRUST ON THE PART OF CONGRESS, AND OUR COUNTRY'S IMAGE BEFORE OUR OWN

PEOPLE AND THE WORLD.

3. I REQUEST THAT THE WHITE HOUSE GIVE ME

THE GREEN LIGHT TO IMMEDIATELY REMOVE

THE DEA CHIEF AS WELL AS OTHER DEA

OFFICERS ON WHOM WE HAVE INCRIMINATING

INFORMATION. SECRETARY DENNISON IS AWARE

OF MY VIEWS. I TAKE THE UNUSUAL MEASURE

OF CONTACTING YOU DIRECTLY ON THIS

MATTER OUT OF MY CONVICTION THAT ACTION

IS REQUIRED AND IS NEEDED NOW.

WELLS

Horvath wasted no time alerting Dennison about Wells's cable. They met late at night at Dennison's sprawling horse ranch in the rolling hills of northwest Maryland.

Dennison's study fit the classical stereotype of an establishmentarian's inner sanctum: an old oak desk with an antique brass lamp. Bookshelves packed with moldering tomes on the law and history. Walnut wainscoting, dark green wall covering. Paintings of race horses lined the room. A dozen or so ego photo portraits of The Secretary in the company of the Aga Khan, some foreign presidents, a king or two, Mother Theresa, Bono and other luminaries, each bearing a personal handwritten encomium to "My friend, Roy."

"What do I do, Roy?" Horvath asked anxiously.

"Send a message back thanking him for the information, adding that you're 'taking it under advisement' or some such baloney like that."

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Horvath took the snifter of Hennessy eagerly and swallowed half. He wiped perspiration off his forehead with a cocktail napkin.

"I can't just put the guy off. He'll smell something funny. He'll go to the Hill. Or, worse, the media. Who knows? Oh, Christ! Christ! This is getting out of hand!

What do we do?" Horvath finished the brandy, then helped himself to another.

"Get hold of yourself!" Dennison commanded.

Horvath slumped into a high-back, brown-leather chair.

"I don't know, Roy. I'm under so much pressure lately.

And now this."

"What about our new friends? Have you told them yet?"

Horvath took another swig of Hennessy. "Hah. 'Our friends' are eating us alive. Like something out of a science fiction movie."

"Bullshit. We control things. We just use them. We toss them a few bones and they throw back kings' ransoms at us."

"Yeah. Just like turning tricks. We're whores, Roy.

Whores!" Horvath stared misty eyed into space.

Dennison planted himself squarely in front of the President's National Security Adviser, bracing his arms on the chair's armrests.

"Listen, Nick, and listen good. We're in this together.

And it's not like we're crooks either. This is for a good cause: re-electing Dan Corgan President of the United States. Sometimes, in order to make an election freer, you've got to alleviate the constraints. In this case, it's money."

Horvath began to cry uncontrollably with his head almost in his lap.

Dennison grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

"Snap out of it, goddamn it!"

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Horvath blew his nose. "You know, I came to this country because I wanted freedom. Freedom to do and say what I wanted. Freedom to vote for the person I thought was best. Now, look at me. I'm no better than those communist stooges in Budapest, cynically manipulating the system. I fought them! Now…look at me."

"Listen up, my friend. We're both in this deep. You call your contact. Give him the cable. Tell him we stand ready to do what we can to put a lid on Wells and that whole mess out there." Dennison shook Horvath again, harder.

"
Do you hear me?
" he shouted.

Horvath slowly nodded.

He was indistinguishable from any other Swiss businessman disembarking the Lufthansa flight into the sweltering Bangkok heat, coolly determined to conquer the vast, mercantile reaches of booming Southeast Asia. Clad in a pressed, pin-striped, three-piece suit, clutching a black-leather brief case, clearly focused through wire-rim glasses, he marched forward into Don Muang airport -- shiny and efficient, like him.

"Rudolf Schnitzler, Geschäftsmann/commerçant" read the red-jacketed Swiss passport. The bored immigration officer processed him through quickly. Customs wasn't interested in examining his baggage and waved him through.

In the rear-view mirror, the taxi driver couldn't help but notice one particular feature on "Herr Schniztler": a nasty gash across his face.

Dimitrov checked into the Arnoma Swisshotel. A desk clerk handed him a package which had arrived two hours earlier. He opened it in his room and pulled out the 232 JAMES

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components. Within minutes, he assembled a stripped down 7.62mm Dragunov sniper rifle with scope and test-fired it, unloaded. He went about methodically opening the secret compartments on his matching leather bags. From his suitcase's all-metal bottom, he carefully slid out one mirrored dagger and four small throwing knives.

Schnitzler/Dimitrov was ready for business.

Despite his smoking habit, Vladimirov was an avid jogger. It was one of a number of new tastes and pastimes he'd acquired during his three-years at the Soviet UN

mission in New York in the early '80s. Others included Nintendo games -- he had quite a collection -- and an affinity for chili dogs.

Every day at dawn Russia's top intelligence officer in Thailand would pull his creaky frame out of bed, don his prized J. Crew jogging suit and trot to Bangkok's only sizeable public recreation area, Lumpini Park. He would jog around the ponds and sculpted gardens and return to shower and change before the heat of the tropical sun reached its full morning strength.

While the running made him feel good, the city's polluted air, laced with the putrid smell of stagnant water in the remnants of canals, and garbage awaiting collection, made him somewhat nauseous. But he soldiered on down the jagged sidewalks, into Bangkok's congested streets when the sidewalks ran out, past the capital's proliferating skyscrapers, through crowds breakfasting at open-air sidewalk stalls.

Vladimirov used this time of exerted energy to organize his thoughts for the day ahead. These days it wasn't so difficult on the work front. The
Rezident
hadn't received a PERMANENT INTERESTS

233

non-routine message from Moscow in weeks. The collapse of the communist regime in 1991 had removed a cause to serve, and the severe budget shortfalls made operations virtually impossible anyway. Moscow paid little attention to Asian outposts such as Bangkok, even regarding things like personnel matters. So, morale at the embassy was worsened by not knowing when one was scheduled for reassignment.
Need to ding Moscow again with another
cable.

Ambassador Chayevsky was a good man -- for a Putin supporter. He and his wife worked assiduously at trying to keep embassy morale above the meltdown level by holding discussion and reading groups, organizing outings and arranging Russian cultural events for the Thai.
Make sure
to sit down with him this afternoon to exchange ideas.

Henry! Now there was one crackerjack son with a
future. So smart -- Moscow University has already
accepted him for its law program. But it is best to get him
into Harvard or another outstanding American University.

After all, I named him after Henry Kissinger, unbeknownst
to the paranoid KGB. Ha! Ha! He should also study
history. And American literature. Must talk to him tonight
over dinner.

As he did every morning, Vladimirov rounded a small hillock in a far, secluded corner of the park with plenty of shade trees. There he would pause and do stretch exercises before returning to his apartment.

The blade came so swiftly that he saw the blood spilling from his groin before he felt the pain. Another slash caught him in the upper neck, just under his lower jaw. The jogger slumped into a growing pool of warm blood. There was no death struggle, little pain. It came that quickly. Dimitrov, after all, knew his business. Like a wisp of the city's smog, 234 JAMES

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he metamorphosed and disappeared as silently as he had come.

On Wireless Road, the American Ambassador's residence was one of the few remaining traditional Thai structures in Bangkok. Encircled by a moat and swathed in lush shade trees, the expansive wooden house, with its canopied windows and inviting verandas and entrance ways, stood in stark contrast with the concrete and chrome high-rise office buildings which, over the years, have grown across the cityscape like a malignant disease.

As he did every afternoon just before dinner, Ambassador Wells played a couple of sets of tennis on the courts adjoining the residence, in full view from the street.

Today, his opponent in a singles match was a senior Thai palace official.

It was deuce and Wells, drawing on his notorious competitive streak, was determined to hammer home a tie-breaker hard enough to cause his opponent to lose his nerve. It was one of Wells's secret tactics which he never revealed to anyone, except his daughter, Lauren.
Got to
practice with her tomorrow.

Back arched, right heel up, right arm stretched taut like a fishing rod. On three, he would bring up the ball with his left hand and smash it for all he was worth.
One…two…

"Crack!" The percussion of the Dragunov 7.62mm could barely be heard above the din of Bangkok's insane traffic.

Wells fell to his knees and clutched his head, a ragged hole in which revealed skull and brains. He was dead before falling forward face-down onto the court surface.

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Nary a wrinkle in his Swiss businessman's suit, Dimitrov/Schnitzler methodically dismantled the rifle and stowed it in his black attaché case. Calmly, he walked to the stairwell from the roof of the Deutsche Bank building, catty-corner from the U.S. ambassador's residence, and promptly joined a Nestlé's public relations event on the ground floor. After an hors d'oeuvre and a slug of coke, he departed unnoticed through a rear exit onto Ruam Rudee Avenue. Another face in the crowd.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Another U.S. Envoy Murdered," declared the
Washington Post
. "American Ambassador to Thailand Victim of Assassin's Bullet," informed the
New York Times
.

CNN’s star foreign correspondent, Kristin Armour, flew out from Jerusalem to cover the story. Wells's murder stunned Washington. The shaking of heads would soon give way to the pointing of fingers. It was now open season on the State Department by Congress and the media.

Senator Weems seized on the Mortimer and Wells killings to call for abolition of the Foreign Service as an independent entity and for turning embassy security entirely over to the Marines. Dennison faced a virtual rebellion in the ranks of his diplomats. Hundreds signed a petition demanding revamping of diplomatic security.

Dennison made Bernard Scher point man for dealing with the attacks. He appeared at every noon press briefing to reassure the nation that the government could adequately protect its envoys, that "vigorous" investigations were proceeding expeditiously, but that the sensitivity of the means precluded him from revealing details. His self-important way and condescending demeanor made him the PERMANENT INTERESTS

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target of media attacks. The
New Republic
compared President Corgan with King Lear.

Dennison and Selmur urged the President to go on the offensive in order to defuse the media criticism. Corgan wanted another full briefing before deciding what to do.

The same cast of characters -- minus Bob Innes -- met again in the West Wing. Corgan exhibited a grave demeanor. He carefully reviewed his briefing notes as the others sat uneasily, awaiting a signal from the Chief Executive that the briefing should begin. Corgan sat there, reading glasses cocked on his nose, turning each page slowly. It was as if he didn't realize that there was anyone besides himself in the conference room. The cleared throat, the shifting in old wooden chairs added to the general unease in a room that was deadly quiet. The President paid no mind as he continued to review his briefing materials oblivious to those in his presence.