Permanent Interests (36 page)

Wentworth presented himself fifty seconds later.

"Where the hell were you? Don't you know a war's on?!"

"Yes,

sir."

"I want one of the bubbles."

"Sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me! I'm your boss, not General Schwartzkopf."

"Yes, sir. I mean, yes, uh, yes, okay."

"Just shut the fuck up and listen. Okay?"

Wentworth

nodded.

"Get me one of those deals they use in embassies where the ambassador can talk with his people about secret shit without the opposition being able to listen in. I think they make 'em out of glass so's if there are any bugs planted they're visible."

"You mean the secure conference facility."

"I don't care what they call it. Just get me one. Who sells them? How long they take to deliver?"

"You can't just pick one up at Wal-Mart. Only one or two firms make them. They're custom-made and it takes months before they can deliver."

Al blew up. With a swipe of a forearm, cannolli went flying in all directions. "Can't you see the friggin' FBI has probably got this placed wired like a video arcade?!"

"I've swept it four times this week alone."

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319

"They got ways. Even you don't know about.

Technology from NASA. Who knows what they got?!"

Ricky walked in. "What's the matter, Uncle Al?"

"The goddamn Feds gotta be tuned in to this place like it was a Holyfield-Tyson fight and Mr. sow belly and grits here can't protect us!"

"Uncle Al, calm down. Chuckie's got this entire compound tight as a virgin's ass. Take it easy. Lay off the sugar and booze. It's a dangerous combination. Makes you hyper."

Al paused, then looked up at Ricky and Wentworth with contriteness on his face. He ran a hand though his hair.

"Yeah. You're right. I gotta calm down. It's just that, between the Russians, on the one hand, and the Fibbies, on the other, we're being brought down. If we don't turn things around, and I mean soon, we're finished."

"Uncle Al, you were always telling me stories when I was a kid about those old Roman generals."

Al loosened up and smiled.

"Remember the one who, rather than go head-on at the enemy, he dogged them, picked them off until they were exhausted?"

"Hah. Yeah. That's Quintus Fabius Maximus. My favorite. Smart cookie."

"And how did he know the weak points where to attack?"

"Hannibal, he wore down. He had good spies and informants. They reported Hannibal's every move back to Fabius."

"We've got to think like Fabius, Uncle Al. We need better information."

"Yeah. You're right. I've got to lighten up and we need more dope on what that
stronso
, Yakov, has up his sleeve."

320 JAMES

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Uncle and nephew focused on Wentworth. Immediately catching on, the ex-Marine responded, "Intel. We need good intel."

"How 'bout it Chuckie?" Al asked.

Wentworth hesitated. His immediate instinct was to shield Lydia from further danger.

"You're a made man now, Chuckie. Good or bad, you're in the family now. Everything you've done so far has helped this family. You told us all about what Yakov was up to from your sources. You
saved
the family when you gunned down these two Russians. On the street they're calling you 'Terminator IV.' How about it Chuck? You can deliver, or what?" Ricky gave Wentworth no wiggle room.

Wentworth's heart pounded louder and louder until the pulse blocked out all other sound. His mind raced.
Think!

Got to protect Lydia. The FBI. The 'family' will bury me
alive if they knew. Think!!
Suddenly, Wentworth's head jerked backward as a thought slammed into his brain like a meteor.

"Al, those Romans. They were always cutting deals to get what they needed."

"Yeah. With the Gauls, the Celts, the Germanic tribes, Greeks. One week they were spilling each other's guts.

Following week, they were fighting side-by-side against another common enemy. They did what they had to do to advance Rome's interests. So what?"

"The Russians have us on the run."

Al and Ricky shifted uneasily.

"You -- we -- have a two-front war. One with Yakov.

The other with the federal government. One's conventional. The other's a guerrilla war at this stage."

"What're

you

getting

at?" Al demanded doubtfully.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

321

"Just listen to me. At OCS -- Officer Candidate School -

- they taught us that multi-front wars are usually disastrous.

Clausewitz said to avoid them at all costs. Lord Salisbury said that the enemy of our enemy is our friend. And another British statesman, Lord Palmerston, said that his country had neither permanent friends nor permanent enemies, but only permanent interests. You want to destroy Yakov."
And so do I. More than anything else. To
avenge what he’s done to Lydia
. "And you want to get the Feds off our backs." Wentworth stood up and came within inches of Al's face. "The enemy of your enemy is your friend. Make a deal with the FBI. Offer to cooperate with them in return for immunity."

Al's nostrils flared. His breathing accelerated. His eyes reddened.

Before he could respond, Wentworth added, "If you don't, be prepared to be crushed from both sides. Just like Rome was in the end."

Ricky stepped forward. "This isn't ancient Rome, but I think the kid may have something, Uncle Al. Let's at least consider it."

"I can be the middleman to broker the deal. They have, uh, I mean, they would have confidence in me because of my background."
And I'll be square with everybody. Get
myself at least a little out of harm's way
.

Al said nothing. He turned to the picture window and surveyed the sere yet prosperous econoscape of post-industrial America. He'd spent his life striving to take his slice from the American pie. And his father and grandfather before him. Now it was all at risk. He could lose his empire
and
wind up in jail if he didn't play his cards right.

322 JAMES

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"All right. You go and test the waters. Make no promises. Just discuss the possibilities. Report back to me immediately after. Got it?"

Wentworth nodded assent. "I'll get on it right away."

He bolted out of the office, grabbing a chocolate cannolli as he did so.

Wentworth had trained alongside the FBI at Quantico where they shared a training base with the Marines. The Best. That's what the FBI and the Marines are, he thought at the time and still did so. The Marines and the FBI each was a closed society with its own ethos of fighting pride and fearlessness. They related well with each other. He had never, however, entered FBI's massive headquarters.

Escorted by Speedy, he thought how easy it would be to get lost in the 2.5-million-square-foot maze of straight corridors crossing diagonal ones, all flanked with look-alike offices. It might rival the Pentagon as the Washington building easiest to lose one's way in.

They took a private elevator up to the seventh floor where they confronted the imposing Office of the Director, so marked by a simple plaque. A kindly secretary stood and greeted them. "The Director will see you now," she said, and she opened the door.

Standing smack in the middle of the expansive office was none other than Frederick Karlson, a Teddy Roosevelt look-alike clearly uncomfortable in a suit and tie. He extended his hand. His face, however, reflected determination and vigilance. Standing to his side was Dom Berlucci.

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"Have a seat young man." The Director indeed was all business. Skip the pleasantries and talk turkey. Just like the Marines.

"My people tell me that you were a Marine officer."

"Yes, sir. And proud of it."

"So was I. Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 26th Marines. We went head-to-head with the 304th NVA Division at Khe Sanh. Lost a toe to a booby trap, but otherwise came out of it all right. My people tell me you come here offering some kinda deal on behalf of Albert Malandrino."

Wentworth sensed he was on the defensive. In Karlson's eyes, he must have appeared as another Ollie North, another Marine gone wrong.

"Sir, I want to do what's best for my country. That's all."

He went on to relate how he fell in with Malandrino, that he became aware of Al's true background only recently, his relationship with Lydia and her past. He explained what he knew about Yakov.

Karlson was skimming a file, undoubtedly the FBI's own investigative summary. He flipped the pages and nodded as Wentworth spoke.

Karlson put the folder down and removed his pince-nez glasses. "I'll be blunt, Mr. Wentworth. You're a young man who's mixed up with some pretty evil characters.

You're walking the thinnest of wires. If you fall off, you're in a world of hurt. Do you know how much resources your government has spent trying to nail Mr. Malandrino and his cohorts into a tight, dark box? Do you have any idea how many man-hours this agency has devoted over the years to bring Malandrino to the justice he deserves? And now the Russian mob. You're associated with them too, tangentially, through this Russian woman."

324 JAMES

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Wentworth's rehearsed delivery became lost in a swirl of confused emotions. Duty. Honor. Country. Those were the precepts by which he lived. To be lumped into notorious company made him feel unclean and unpatriotic.

He froze up. As the emotions welled up inside him, he fought back tears.

Karlson broke his hard stare. "Okay, young man.

What's the deal? I'm listening."

Wentworth summoned old Marine courage and cleared the confusion from his mind with a wipe of his forehead and a stiffened spine.

"Sir, I want to help destroy the growing Russian gangs before they claim any more of our society. I want to see corrupt senior officials be brought to the justice
they
deserve. I want innocents, like Lydia Puchinskaya, to be set free. I believe this can be accomplished and, at the same time, compel Al Malandrino to disengage from criminal activity. If there's a price to pay, I guess that's it.

Let Al off the hook in return for his cooperation."

Karlson reflected on this for a moment. "Why should we agree to cooperate with him?"

"Well, I know that you've got dirt on Secretary Dennison and others."

"We've

got

tapes."

"So did you on John DeLorean."

Karlson winced as though a dentist drill had hit a raw nerve. John DeLorean was filmed accepting drug money by the FBI in '82 to save his foundering car company, but beat the rap through slick lawyering. The Bureau has never lived it down.

Wentworth knew what the FBI Director faced. The prospect of collecting so much detailed and incriminating evidence only to have it dismantled in court before a national audience by some ultra-clever, overpaid society PERMANENT INTERESTS

325

lawyers was one of his worst nightmares, and probably would bring his career to an ignominious end. Wentworth had found his hook.

"But you may be unable to nail them -- and Yakov -- for good without assistance from Malandrino. He's been dealing with all these characters for a long time. He knows them inside out. And, if I might say so, sir, you're in government. Compromise is the name of the game, whether it's labor unions versus management or Washington versus North Korea. Churchill said he'd shake hands with the devil himself if it would help bring victory over Hitler."

Karlson cracked a smile. "You're one smart Marine."

Wentworth smiled in turn. "Thank you sir. Had to be all that training at Quantico alongside the FBI."

"Okay. Here's what we're willing to do. You tell your boss that we want to meet him and discuss the details. If he truly cooperates -- and I mean in the full -- we can talk about cutting a deal. Bottom line is this: he becomes --

read my lips -- ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT legit. We might also want a lot of information on other wiseguys.

The more of his ilk he can bring down, the more…open-minded…we're prepared to be."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"Good, get to it then."

"Oh, Lydia, can you put her into witness protection?"

"Seems

reasonable."

"And one last thing."

Karlson raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in an expression of impatient indulgence.

"Bob Innes and Colleen McCoy. They're on the run.

And I don't understand why. Surely, the FBI isn't after them. It's Dennison trying to do them in, in cahoots with 326 JAMES

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Yakov. Their lives may be in danger. Can you find them and protect them?"

Karlson looked inquiringly at Berlucci. The chief of Investigations flushed with embarrassment. "I'll get right on it, sir."

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CHAPTER THIRTY

Les Nigauds had abruptly fallen out of favor among the Washington power set, such is the fickleness of this inconstant group. The food and service showed it.

Nonetheless, there were those diehard loyalists who continued to patronize the place, hoping that by mere dint of their illustrious presence, the schools of flitting politicos would meander back to this particular feeding ground.

"I

want

canard canadien à sauce de groseilles sauvages
, goddammit!" Dennison shouted at the uncomprehending Honduran waiter. "Duck! You understand duck?!" He poked the menu with his forefinger. "You can't speak any civilized language and you can't read! Get me the manager! Where's Jean-Marie? I want to speak to Jean-Marie. This is outrageous!" Dennison's face was as red as the raspberry sauce he would get with his duck should his order ever make it to the chef.

"Deplorable. Simply deplorable," Selmur muttered, shaking his head. He was grimacing at his drink. "This isn't a martini. This is toilet bowl cleaner."

A stooped fellow in an ill-fitting black tux came to the table. "Can I help you?" he asked.