Permanent Interests (33 page)

He saluted her and took another sip. She reciprocated.

"You know that Horvath was important to me. Very important. The information he provided was indispensable.

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As a source, he is virtually irreplaceable. I know that you were called upon to put up with much. Horvath was a weak man with unusual fallibilities. I am indebted to you for what you endured." Yakov raised a hand while keeping his eyes fixed on Lydia. Dimitrov stepped forward and placed a stuffed brown envelope in the hand. Yakov thereupon held it out to Lydia.

"To show my gratitude, I give you this bonus."

At first hesitant, Lydia took the envelope. With Yakov's encouragement, she opened it. Inside was a stack of $100-dollar bills. She guessed that there were at least one-hundred of the notes.

"As I said, this is a bonus, for work already done. I am prepared to provide additional such bonuses in return for future assignments."

Her interest piqued, Lydia finally spoke. "You surely have such an assignment already in mind. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me here. I am also not so stupid as to think that I could continue to live comfortably in Washington after Horvath left the scene without receiving other 'assignments.'" Her eyes showed defiance and fearlessness.

"Ah, my dear Lydia. Always so blunt. Always so brave. I respect that. Yes, I really do."

"Get to the point."

The false smile faded from Yakov's face. She had pushed him far enough. But he retained patience.

"As it happens, I do have in mind another assignment.

Only you can do it. No one else."

"Therefore, I must charge, how shall I say, a special fee.

What is it? Or should I say, who is it?"

Under different circumstances, Yakov, without hesitation, would have slit her throat on the spot and without batting an eyelash.

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"I am sure that we can reach mutually satisfactory terms.

Horvath had a close, personal relationship with the Secretary of State, Mr. Dennison. Now, with Horvath gone, well…"

"Horvath was your link to him, your only link."

Yakov pursed his lips and said nothing, but his expression said it all.

"And you want me to find that link and to put you back in touch with Dennison. But I presume that you want a direct link this time?"

"Lydia, such talent and perception as yours are Russia's loss and America's gain."

"I will see what I can do. And remuneration will be in…"

"Cash."

"The amount and modalities of payment to be determined when I can confirm that the link can be made."

"This is acceptable."

They shook hands. Lydia left the apartment and took the elevator down. With each passing floor, her heart pounded a beat faster. She felt slightly faint. Had they bothered to search her, she very likely would be dead now.

Perhaps it was the tight dress she wore. It gave no hint that an FBI wire was concealed within.

The FBI guys gave Dennison's private home phone number to Lydia. They instructed her to tell Yakov that she had in her possession Horvath's address book, which had all of his key contacts. They taped the ensuing phone conversation.

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"Mr. Dennison? My name is Lydia."

"Lydia? I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name.

How did you get my number? Is this a crank call? I'll alert the police."

"I'm a friend of Horvath's. A very good friend."

Dennison's attitude suddenly changed. "Go on."

"I am also a friend of some close contacts of his.

Wealthy contacts."

"Jesus!" Dennison blurted, half in relief. "Where and when can we meet?"

"Perhaps New York would suit you better."

"Yes. You name the place. The weekend would suit me. I have personal affairs scheduled there already."

Dennison did his Houdini vanishing act from his penthouse apartment again. Yakov picked him up with his black Lincoln in central park.

There was an awkward silence after the initial self-introductions and handshake. Yakov, intrusive and brash, was at this moment unusually tongue-tied. The U.S.

Secretary of State's presence awed him just a little. This would be fleeting, however, as his sense of power over other men further swelled his ego.

But it was Dennison who got down to business first.

"Look. I don't know who you are or who you represent--"

"I represent myself and myself only," Yakov interjected tartly.

"I see. Anyway, I want to continue the deal Horvath had made with you. In return for…information, I demand cash, paid immediately and in strict conformance with my instructions. The other demand I make is that our relationship be kept absolutely confidential. And if you PERMANENT INTERESTS

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think that you can blackmail me, you can forget it. I may not know much about you, but what I do know is that, without me and that which I can deliver, you're over a barrel, a virtual nobody."

Yakov was struck by Dennison's bluntness. So were the FBI special agents monitoring the conversation from the tiny device they had planted inside the Lincoln's dashboard when Pyotr brought it to the "Inside Out Car Wash" in Brooklyn the previous day.

Yakov remained unfazed. "I can assure all of what you
ask
. After all, I am a businessman who has become successful by being careful. Miss Lydia will be go-between. We need never to meet again. I think you will find that I am easy to deal with, Mr. Secretary. Not to worry. It will be a mutually beneficial relationship."

"Good. That's exactly what I want to hear."

"Thank you. And while we are being candid with each other, I will say this. Once the information flow is turned back on, it can never be turned back off, as long as you hold your present position. I
can
blackmail you, and worse. But such devices are extreme. I prefer not to resort to them."

Dennison made no reply. His bluster, so effective when dealing with heads of state, ran up against a brick wall in this man. He made another try.

"Another thing. I deplore violence. A couple of my people have gotten in harm's way because they…they were careless. Mind you, I wanted nothing bad to happen to them. But…they disobeyed and…well, since they didn't follow my, uh, guidelines, other people, I mean, people who they upset or threatened because of their actions, they…"

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Dennison was dissembling. He stammered, he sweat.

His lips trembled and his eyes shifted nervously. Yakov saw right through him.

"Roy. May I call you Roy?
You
are responsible for the murder of the foolish Mortimer.
You
ordered the killing of your ambassador Wells.
You
demanded that Mr. Toby Wheeler be severely injured. And
you
signaled that you wanted Mr. Innes liquidated. I detest hypocrites. Perhaps it is second nature to diplomats and politicians to delude themselves and others when they destroy other men. I may not be an angel. But at least I am honest with myself.

Don't attempt to deceive me, and don't pretend that you are a noble-hearted gentleman. I will not tolerate it. Our business relationship will go much smoother if we are honest with each other."

Yakov's initial awe of his new business partner evaporated like dry ice. He turned away from Dennison and stared out the side window.

The Lincoln dropped Dennison off near Fifth Avenue.

Clad in his usual jogger's costume, the Secretary sprinted back home, unrecognized, except for the FBI zoom lenses trained on him.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"The lousy prick had it comin'. Didn't have enough sense to keep his fly closed," Al whispered to Tony

"Buckaroo" Musomecchio, sitting in the pew behind him.

The priest swung the incense burner over the dead gangster's coffin and uttered the benediction for the dead.

"Hey. The guy was doin' it for so long, he had a lotta husbands and boyfriends fooled. You got a wife like his, you'd be drillin' everything that moves too." Tony laughed hoarsely, causing the old Sicilian women weeping over the dear departed Carl Giovanezza to crane their necks and glare at the two men disapprovingly. A ten-foot crucifix of the tortured Jesus, his suffering face contorted, blood coursing from his stigmata, loomed ominously over the congregation.

"Cut it out, Tony. You're pissin' off all of Carl's old girlfriends." Tony had to stifle a laugh in his coat sleeve.

More reproving looks.

"Hey, let's excuse ourselves. I gotta pee. Whadda 'bout you?" Al said.

In mock solemnity, the two men genuflected, hastily made the sign of the cross and lumbered down the aisle to the rear of the stately St. Francis of Assisi church in the 298 JAMES

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Italian section of Astoria. Ricky and another retainer were right behind. A hundred pairs of eyes followed them. The unmistakable thoughts behind them were that, yes, you too will follow old Carl to the grave in like ignominious fashion. Feared and fawned upon in life, thugs were spared of reverence in death, which as often as not was visited on them in shameful or sensational circumstances.

They hovered next to the white marble holy water vessels at the entrance of the church. Candles for the dead flickered against the dank limestone interior. A dim bulb shone from a black wrought-iron and glass fixture hanging by a chain from the vaulted ceiling. The stolid edifice imbued in the worshiper a sense of something larger and more enduring than one's fleeting existence, something lost on these men.

"Who the hell was he humpin' that'd give him a heart attack? Can I get an introduction? She must be some piece of
culo
," Tony continued.

"Yeah, yeah. What?! You want a heart attack too?

Better stick to what you got. But, look, let's cut the
comedia
for a moment. You said you had something you needed to tell me. What is it?"

The 5'2" "Buckaroo," who got that moniker from having run cowboy-motif casinos in Reno in his early days, looked cautiously to each side, then stepped on his tippy-toes and placed a hand to the side of his mouth to whisper to his friend. Al bent down to listen.

"Russians all over the place these days. They're in all our old neighborhoods, puttin' the arm on everybody we rely on. Even at Fulton and Javits. People are scared.

Word on the street is that they're gonna declare war on the Italians. And these guys, they don't follow no rules, see?

They'll kill women, kids. Not civilized like us. To them an

infamia
is just another tool to get what they want."

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Al pondered a moment. "Where they gonna hit?"

"Don't know. Could be our people -- the
tenienti
, our offices, our cars, our families. Who knows?"

"What about names?"

"This guy, Mogilevich, he's all over the place. But so's the other one, Yakov. Seems they're rivals. A bunch of Russians been getting smoked over in Brighton Beach last few weeks. Seems like they've got a guerrilla war goin'

already. We're next. My sources tell me that the idea is, you knock out the top guineas, that stacks the deck in your favor in the war against the other guy."

Al stood staring at the altar. The priest was leading the congregation in prayer. Al pondered, his hands reposed, thumbs outward in his jacket pockets, his eyes focused far away. He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet.

"So, Al. Everybody knows you done business with them Russkis. What gives? How do we protect ourselves?"

Al led his friend to the candles for the dead. "Look at all those little fires," he gestured to the hundred-odd small flames barely flashing their presence in the dim, expansive entrance area.

Tony looked confused at Al's change of subject, but went along. He affected deep interest in Al's line of conversation.

"Each one stands for a soul who's left this earth."

"Yeah, I get it. Like my ol' man. After Don Cuornero done him in during the trash-hauling wars back in '68. But I hope it don't count for Don Cuornero after I greased the son of a bitch with a--"

"Ton'. We're in a house of God."

"Huh? Yeah, right. Sure. I get it."

"You ever heard of Quintus Fabius Maximus?"

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"Was he that Puerto Rican Johnny "Blues" whacked when they was getting uppity and trying to muscle in on Johnny’s numbers business in Brooklyn?"

"No, Ton'. He was a great Roman general. When the Carthaginians invaded Italy, the hotheads in Rome wanted to rush over and throw their legions against the Carthaginian general, Hannibal. But Hannibal had a reputation for being more clever than the Romans. They lost the first battles against him. But Fabius asked for time.

He shadowed Hannibal, engaging in battle only when he had superior numbers and could pick off a few hundred here, a few hundred there. In the end, he exhausted and cornered Hannibal. Later, another Roman general, Scipio Africanus, surrounded the Carthaginians and slaughtered them on their home turf in Africa. These guys became great heroes to the Roman people. They helped make Rome into a great empire."

"Al, you was always interested in that history shit.

Always readin' them books and playing out battles on the playground with the other kids.
Minghia!
I remember Sister Francesca rapping your knuckles over that. By the way, we gotta worry about them Carta-virginians here? Lot of them comin' over now?"

Al put his arm around his friend's shoulders.

"Just like the Romans had to be smart in how to handle the Carthaginians, we got to be smart in how we deal with the Russians. We play our cards right, they'll be lighting lots of candles in the Russian churches."

Wentworth worried constantly about Lydia. She told him that, for too long now, her destiny was completely in the hands of others. She had grand dreams of leaving PERMANENT INTERESTS

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Russia, of creating a life for herself that was not scripted by the relentless denial of hope that her homeland offered in its troubled times. She had sought hope in the West, where she had always been told freedom to choose was limited only by the constraints of one's imagination. But since she left Russia, Lydia said she had been someone else's property, plaything or tool to exploit others. First Sasha and Borin, then Yakov and Horvath. Now the FBI. She burned to set herself free. Her soul ached for a normal life of raising babies and growing old with the man she loved.