CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was 11:00 am and Horvath, seated behind his hundred-year old oak desk in the National Security Adviser's office in the West Wing, clasped his hands before his face in a meditative fashion. He was contemplating how to direct that afternoon's briefing of the President on military options concerning "Major Regional Conflicts" -- "MRCs" in Pentagonese. The Joint Chiefs would be doing the briefing. He had little tolerance for the military. There was something about their clear-eyed, can-do, gung-ho attitude that he found disquieting. He had seen that attitude in the eyes of the Arrow Cross when he was a kid in Hungary during the war. He could recall hearing the screams of Jews from his neighborhood being hauled off by the Hungarian Fascists. He saw the same autonomic behavior among the communists who followed the Fascists, and in the eyes of the hated Soviet occupying troops. When he hurled those Molotov cocktails as a teenager, he aimed directly at Russian eyes, if he could get close enough. Despite control by a democratic government and the trappings of a citizen-force, the American military too were a culture unto themselves and therefore were capable of anything in the right circumstances. They understood only control and discipline. He must control the military. Nicholas Horvath, witness to history.
His secretary brought in that morning's mail. She opened and screened all official correspondence, tacking on a self-stick note here and there reminding him of an upcoming meeting with a correspondent, informing him that she had passed on a copy to another office requesting a draft reply, and so on. Anita was as efficient as they came. And discreet. She would forward on to her boss unopened anything explicitly marked "Personal." Thus, the large brown envelope in that morning's take, marked "Strictly Personal," arrived on his desk intact, unopened.
The STU-III secure phone rang. It was CIA Director Levin.
"Nick, you've seen today's Post article on Zimbabwe, I take it. All this shit that Mugabe's dishing out about how we had plans to overthrow him. This is a heads up. The President may get saddled with questions from the media or Congress. I know that Senator Presser is on his high horse…"
"Uh huh, uh huh," Horvath kept murmuring half-listening and half-daydreaming. He reflexively reached for a letter opener and lazily tore the top of the big business envelope.
"…we've prepared some press guidance. Basically, it throws cold water over all this nonsense about trying to overthrow…"
Horvath slowly reached in and pulled out the contents of the envelope, though his gaze was fixed absently on a large map of the world on the opposite wall.
"…I'll fax it to you. Please let me know your reaction…"
"Yeah, sure, be glad…" Horvath's heart stopped. Ten thousand bells and sirens shrieked in his brain. His eyes bulged from their sockets. He felt that he would pee his pants that very moment.
Staring back at him were photos of abused female faces. Mug shot-like. Russian women. Whom he had beaten. Beneath their swollen faces were typed their names: "Marissa Vassileva." "Nina Turcheva." "Olga Galinska." "Lydia Puchinskaya." There were other photos. Of him strolling hand-in-hand with one of the women. Kissing another in a doorway. Making love on a couch. Receiving oral sex in a bathroom. There was a cd as well.
The sweat poured from his face and armpits. He felt dizzy. He stifled the sudden urge to vomit.
"Uh. Uh. Dave. Yeah. Sure. Uh. Can I call you back?" Horvath, shell-shocked, slowly replaced the receiver on the blinking, compact secure phone unit. He sat there frozen. The jolt was such that he was incapable of even panicking. He sat paralyzed. It seemed that a darkness was closing in all around him. Oh, let it not be! Not be! No! No! No! He buried his face in his hands.
His intercom buzzed. It was Anita reminding him that he had a luncheon appointment at the Maison Blanche with the Scandinavian ambassadors. He snapped to. But was weighted down by a complete loss of energy.
He hurriedly shuffled through the photos looking for a note, a letter. Something. But there was none. He clutched the cd. Turning his head wildly like some forest beast on the alert for predators, with trembling hands, Horvath stuffed the disk into a small stereo on a side cabinet, frantically put on earphones and pressed the start button.
It seemed an eternity for the sound to come on. It was of a woman screaming. He heard his own voice issuing calm warnings not to struggle. He sounded like a crazy man. Something made of glass smashed. "Stop! Stop!" the woman cried. He recognized it as belonging to a young Byelorussian woman he'd been seeing. The sweat continued to pour off Horvath's brow.
There was a slight pause as the first recording segment ended. The next segment came on. He heard Lydia's voice. "Stay away from me, or I'll stab you!…This Russian will fight back!" Then there was his own pathetic voice. "Lydia, I'm sorry. Please come out."
He couldn't take it any more and stopped the machine. In his panic and despair Horvath struggled to focus his thoughts. Somebody was out to blackmail him. That was clear. Oh, Horvath! You thought you were so smart. You're nothing but an idiot. A stupid, insane fool! And now you will pay.
The torture was in the waiting. The blackmailers didn't have to write a message to him. They'd be contacting him presently. A real professional job. Horvath was extremely thirsty. And he needed to relieve his bladder badly. He bolted out of his office and rushed to the mess across the way in the ornate Old Executive Office Building. After doing his business, he thrust his head into the men's room sink and repeatedly threw cold water on his face. In the mess, he bought a cold Coke and chugged it. Nearby was a pay phone. Assured that no one was noticing, he lumbered over and pressed a number into it.
"Hello?" Lydia answered.
"Lydia, it's me. What the hell is going on? Who put you up to it?" he demanded.
"I don't know what you mean, Nicky."
"Like hell you don't, you rotten bitch--"
She hung up.
With frenzied hands, he dug into his pocket for another quarter and pressed as if his life depended on it.
"If you don't speak to me like a gentleman, I will hang up again," she warned.
With great effort, he tried to calm himself. "Lydia. I need to see you. Urgently."
"What about?"
"I think you know."
"No, I don't."
Horvath took a deep breath. "Never mind. Can I see you tonight?"
"Okay. I will be here."
Horvath was little more than a zombie for the rest of the day.
She opened the door without uttering a word, turned and walked slowly away from him. The image of her swaying gently forth, hips moving, that sleek body swathed in a black, form-fitting cocktail dress, would have driven him into a frenzy in better times. He followed this time like a scared puppy dog.
She led him through the simple foyer, through the hallway lined with oil paintings, into the living room. Horvath hadn't felt so frightened and humbled since he was punished by the headmaster in his grade school.
Sprawled comfortably in an overstuffed, patterned arm chair was Yakov. Opposite him, to the rear, was Dimitrov. In another armchair by the fireplace was a third Russian. None rose as Horvath entered.
Yakov sported his trademark Cheshire grin. With his left hand, he signaled Horvath to take a seat next to him. Horvath dutifully obliged. Lydia sat demurely at the far end of the room, her eyes fixed forlornly away from the others.
"With your permission, I shall dispense with introductions and small talk," Yakov began. "Let us get to business."
"Who are you? KGB?" Horvath stammered.
Yakov took a moment to study Horvath. Again, the serpent sizing up its prey.
"To answer your question, no. There is no more 'KGB.' Is gone forever. With Soviet Union."
"Then who are you? What do you want from me?"
"Ah, but I am being a terrible host. Please. A refreshment." Yakov gestured to a tray containing bottles, glasses and an ice bucket. "I have Egri Bikaver. Slivovitz. Even Unicum. All straight from Hungary."
It made Horvath's blood boil. Only Russians knew how to humiliate with kindness. Horvath hesitated. Yakov mumbled an instruction to Dimitrov. The latter poured the potent Slivovitz apricot brandy into a small vodka glass and handed it to Horvath. The latter took it and slugged it down. Dimitrov poured another.
"Please not to preoccupy yourself that we are spies. I assure you we are not."
Horvath shook his head as if not comprehending.
"We are…entrepreneurs. We provide services…for a fee. And you have a problem. We can help you with your problem."
"So, then, you are…"
"Friends. From now on we are your friends. You can always rely upon us. And we on your cooperation."
"And you are Russians."
"We are newcomers. Here to pursue the American dream."
"I fought against Russians. In Hungary. From the United States. I will not betray my country!" Horvath said bravely. Nicholas Horvath, freedom fighter.
"Ah, yes. The little guerrilla fighter. And my father was there. He helped liberate Hungary in 1956. And my uncles drove out Nazis from Budapest in the Great Patriotic War. So, my friend, we have something in common. And so, we meet today."
Horvath paused to collect his senses. "What do you want then?"
"Information! No surprise there, tovarishch."
"And if I don't cooperate?"
"But you will. You have your family, yes?" Yakov leaned forward. "But more important. You have career. You have reputation. You have money. In America, nobody sacrifices these. Are you prepared to spend the rest of your life as a poor mouse? As a man of shame? As nobody, with no respect, no money, no future?"
Horvath gazed at the floor, speechless.
"Of course not!" Yakov continued. "So, we work together from now on. You fulfill our requests and we help you whenever you have problems. Like today." Yakov saluted Horvath with a glass of vodka and knocked it back.
"Now. Here is Mr. Smith." He pointed at Dimitrov. "And there," gesturing to the third Russian, "is Mr. Jones." Mr. Jones was Igor Rokovsky, SVR colonel, an American specialist. In the course of his regular duties at his embassy, Rokovsky, like many of his colleagues, moonlighted for extra cash as a free-lance agent. Yakov had recently taken him on. "Mr. Jones will be your contact. And your friend."
Excerpted from PERMANENT INTERESTS by James Bruno Copyright © 2006 by James Bruno. Excerpted by permission.
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