Permanent Interests (37 page)

Dennison just stared at the man's face. "Who are you?"

328 JAMES

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"Rini Delopo, the manager."

"Where's

Jean-Marie?"

"Oh, he's moved on to
La Grosse Légume
on Capitol Hill."

Dennison's jaw was slack from disbelief. "Delopo.

What kind of name is that?"

"Filipino,

sir."

Dennison and Selmur looked at each other gravely.

"I'm trying to explain to this, er, gentleman that I want
canard canadien
."

"The

what?"

"What do you mean 'the what'? The fucking duck!"

"Ohh! Right. We make a nice Cantonese sauce and fried rice with it. What vegetable would you like? We have snow peas, fried plantains or okra jambalaya." He poised with his pencil and pad, ready to take down the order.

"Jesus Christ." Dennison dropped the menu on his plate.

"Did you say okra? Okay. And you sir?"

"I'm afraid to say," Selmur sneered. He looked up at Rini Delopo doubtfully and, pointing to the item on the menu, said, "
entrecôte normandaise avec pommes de terre
au gratin
?"

"Ahh, yes. The fried steak with shoestring fries. It comes with avocado," Rini replied courteously as he jotted down the order. "And some wine? We have a fine selection of California chardonnays as well as chianti and some new red wines from Oregon. Or, if you prefer, the new bartender can make you his special Sangria. He puts in a secret ingredient with a kick," Rini added with a wink.

"
La Grosse Légume
, huh? On Capitol Hill? We'll have to check it out sometime," Dennison sighed. He dismissed Rini with a wave of his hand.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

329

"I've resisted going to that new place. I don't like the symbolism people would draw of our traveling to Congress's turf. I don't like that at all," Selmur said.

"I agree, but what choice have we now?"

"Excellent opening there Roy."

Dennison braced himself for Selmur's hallmark sarcasm.

He truly hoped that the fried steak would give the Chief of Staff a massive coronary.

"The way things are going, the President's going to lose the race and retire to Carmel. And guess where that leaves us? Out in political Siberia. I don't know about you, but the notion of sitting out two terms with the opposition in the White House is not appealing. I'm 58. That prospect deals me out. And you too." He flagged down the waiter and carefully mouthed the word "v-o-d-k-a," indicating a double with his fingers against his water glass.

"You can't complain about cash for the campaign. I've got a steady flow coming in. And I found some slick accountants from Miami who are laundering it faster than your mother did your shirts."

The unsmiling Selmur fixed his gaze on the Secretary.

"My mother never did shirts."

"Oh."

"We need more. Our traditional contributors are all bailing out. They're not even bothering to cover all bases.

They're shoveling it Jalbert's way by the ton. It's Christmas every day in the other camp."

Dennison summoned up feelings that he thought were courage and, putting on a stern face, said, "Money alone isn't going to win this thing, Howard."

"You're

right."

Dennison was taken aback by this sudden agreeableness on the part of his White House colleague. "You agree then?"

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"Why, absolutely. All the cash in the world isn't going to win this for us as long as Jalbert is riding high in the polls."

"What are the PACs up to?"

"Ah! Screw the friggin' PACs. They're effective within limits. Mobilizing single-interest groups is their thing."

Selmur plucked a blossom from the small vase on their table and studied it with a detached interest. As his eyes contemplated the gentle construction of the flower, his mind seemed to move farther away.

"Well, the state party chairmen and organiza--"

"Too late. Jalbert's already swept the primaries. The nomination is his. He'll be the darling of the nation when he wows the party convention in New Orleans next month."

Selmur tore one delicate petal from the flower stem.

"I guess the President's got to hustle. Get out on the stump and--"

"Not his style. Corgan doesn't like people. Can't get him to leave Pennsylvania Ave. these days except to go to the golf links or a good fishing hole." He pulled another petal off.

"I know. Pretty bad situation. What if we got some early endorsements…?"

Selmur remained transfixed in another dimension as he pulled the remainder of the flower apart. "You see the movie,
The Untouchables
?"

"With Robert DeNiro? Yeah." Dennison was confused by this twist in conversation.

"Remember the scene where Al Capone has all his associates over for dinner? He walks around the table giving a pep talk…"

"And then bashes in the head of one of them with a baseball bat. What's that got to do with us?"

Selmur remained silent.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

331

Finally, after several uneasy minutes, he spoke. "If we didn't have to contend with pretty boy Jalbert, we'd clinch this election."

"What are you saying Howard?"

"I'm saying what I'm saying, that's all."

"Are you suggesting that we should…"

"I'm suggesting that you might want to talk to some of your contacts about possibilities."

Dennison became indignant. "If you're suggesting violence, count me out. I don't condone--"

"Stuff it, Roy. Who're you trying to kid? There's Mortimer, Wheeler, Wells. Hell, even Horvath. Who else?

I'm losing track."

Beet red and breathing heavily, Dennison stammered, "I didn't…agree to any extreme actions being taken against those people. Or anybody! Things got out of control…beyond my means to…"

"Bullshit. You hobnob with some pretty scary characters there, Roy. What do they say? 'You shake hands with the devil only once.'"

Dennison again summoned ersatz courage. "We're in this together! As was Horvath. We sink or swim together, Howard. We've had only the President's…and the nation's…best interests at heart--"

"Shut up! Listen to me and listen good. I haven't said boo or even met any of your…interlocutors. Isn't that what you State Department types call people you talk with?

Interlocutors. Hmmm. It depersonalizes people who either kill for you or whom you one day kill yourself -- via the instruments of government and all in the name of 'policy', of course. Funny how the military and intelligence communities have fucked up the language, especially during the cold war. 'Collateral damage', 'peace through strength', 'balance of terror.' To use another strangelovean 332 JAMES

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term, my friend, I got 'plausible denial.' You don't."

Selmur had that triumphant air of a chess master who had once again checkmated an opponent.

Dennison came as close to violent rage as he ever had in his silverspoon life. A bestial urge that rarely invests those of gentle upbringing seized him momentarily, an urge which, had it been allowed to run loose, would have had him tearing Selmur's throat out with his fish knife. As this urge dissipated, it was supplanted by one of ignominious defeat. It also was a bestial urge, one of lying prostrate before a predator in order to signal no threat. Dennison, blue-blood, Exeter and Harvard grad, Establishmentarian to the core, felt filthy, shameful, vanquished. As ambition was shed fleetingly, the remnants of conscience reemerged.

But it was too late.

He lowered his head. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do what you have to do."

"Jalbert to be out of the picture."

"Enhance the President's chances to the max. That's what we're talking about here." Selmur ordered another vodka.

"This, all of this, everything we've done so far, can be blown at the flick of a reporter's laptop switch. We're playing with fire. State Department security can't tell me where two renegade FSOs are hiding. And the FBI is dragging its heels on the case. You saw Senator Weems's reaction. The hay we made on the case as a diversion from our other problems is now turning to muck. There are loose cannons out there aimed right at us." Dennison's lips quivered. He began to weep.

Selmur looked hurriedly around the nearly empty restaurant. Then huffed, "Get hold of yourself. Stop it!"

Dennison wiped his face with his napkin.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

333

"You get our Cuban friends onto that case. They're the best in the business. And discreet. We got the money to hire them. Do it! All we need now is two flat-footed bureaucrats on the lam shitting on our whole plan. Do it!!"

The great cathedral which loomed over Innes and Colleen dwarfed them. It was as if their monumental problems had been cast into concrete and gothicized, and now would topple over onto them and crush them under the massive weight. They looked up at the soaring structure and were held in awe. On an unusually clear day, the sun, ripe and golden, cast its final, glowing rays through Golden Gate park and caressed the city on the bay in gentle warmth.

"It's beautiful. And imposing," Said Colleen, craning her neck up at the 265-foot spire.

"Let's go in," Innes said.

The large, gilt bronze doors at the entrance depicted a welcoming Renaissance Florentine scene. "The Gates of Paradise," it was called.

As they entered the church, a cascade of tinkling bells sounded from above. It was as if a guardian angel beckoned them, heralded their arrival.

They felt tiny under the 92-foot high vaulted ceiling of Grace Cathedral, on Nob Hill.

"It makes one feel insignificant," Colleen whispered.

"In the grand scheme of things, we really count for very little."

"These gothic cathedrals were meant to do that -- as well as to extol the magnificence of God, of course. It took two generations to build this. Imagine devoting one's entire life to such a project."

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More than sixty stained glass windows lined each apse; the holy figures depicted therein seemed to echo the chants and prayers of saints of long ago. The rose window of faceted glass just above the main portal reflected soft pinkish beams that caressed their faces and hair.

Colleen wore her hair tied over her neck. Reddish-brown curls played teasingly on her forehead. The rose light gave her a surreal look.

"You're so beautiful," Innes said. "So beautiful." He touched her cheeks tenderly.

Colleen felt like a teenager again. Goose bumps tingled on her skin. She reflexively lowered her eyes shyly.

Before they could consummate a kiss, the bass strains of an organ commenced a low, solemn wail. They looked up but couldn't see the organist. They looked at each other and smiled. Hand-in-hand, they walked slowly up the darkened nave. They sensed that all the saints, all the apostles and all of the holy people of Christendom looked down upon them, judging them against centuries of both wise and folly human behavior.

The lugubrious lamentations of Albinoni's
Adagio
filled the vast cathedral and echoed from all its surfaces, giving it an even eerier and sadder effect.

"I want to marry you. I want us to wed in such a setting, invoking the ages of the romantic love of long, long ago,"

Innes said.

Tears streamed down Colleen's cheeks. "Oh, Bob. I love you so much." She threw her arms around him and pressed her head tightly against his neck.

The shuffle of leather sole on stone broke the spell. Still in embrace, Innes and Colleen looked toward the rear of the church. Nothing. "Must be the organist's wife coming to drag him home for dinner," Colleen joked.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

335

They continued up the nave, holding hands. At the crossing, they turned right toward the east transept. The organist stopped playing, perhaps to proceed home for dinner. An old woman who lit candles and said prayers for the dead crossed herself and departed. The whole cathedral was theirs now. The atmosphere was one of stolid peace, of refuge from the myriad burdens of daily existence. A reassuring ethereal presence manifested itself. The two lovers felt secure and welcome in this place. Running and hiding and evading threats were momentarily distant from their minds. They basked in the glow of peace from this structure and of love from each other.

A black cassocked priest shuffled quietly near the confessional at the transept. He looked briefly at Colleen and Innes and smiled. He knelt at a shrine to the Virgin and began to pray. He was dark, tall and broad-shouldered.

Innes guessed that he was in his late 30s.

"I don't know what it is exactly," Colleen said. "But, for the first time in weeks, I feel safe. I also feel that we've been on our own too long, Bob. We need to talk to someone we can trust. Maybe we can hide out in a seminary or retreat or something somewhere around here until things blow over. I'm tired of running and having to look over our shoulder all the time."

"I know," Innes replied.

"Let's talk to this priest when he's finished praying.

Shall we?"

Innes

shrugged

agreement.

The priest made the sign of the cross, kissed his rosary and rose.

"Father." Colleen approached him.

The priest turned and faced her. He smiled again. He had Latin dark eyes and wavy black hair.

336 JAMES

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There was the shuffle sound of shoe against stone flooring again behind Colleen and Innes. They turned to see another priest, also olive in complexion and in his 30s, genuflecting before the high altar. He stood and walked in their direction.

"Father, we would like to talk to you."

"Yes, certainly," he said. Innes thought the accent was Spanish.

He signaled with an open palm to follow him. They did so and approached the crossing, where the other priest awaited them. He stood erect, his face expressionless.

Innes's mind flashed back to his boyhood in upstate New York. He recalled hunting with his best friend, Gary Hams.

They would spend hours stalking deer. When they found one, the boys separated, each moving ever so quietly through the brush, seeking to flank the animal. Nine times out of ten, however, the deer sensed the danger approaching, perked its ears and dashed lithely into the dark woods. To catch the deer, they learned to think like them by keenly observing the wind against the brush, listening to the warbling of birds, and smelling the ground.