Free Permanent Interests by James Bruno Page B

Vladimirovich Starenkov. SVR Rezident in Ankara. Twenty-five-year veteran of Moscow's espionage service. Distinguished himself in Kabul. Was rewarded with a plum assignment as deputy Rezident at the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, where he was discreet and regularly foiled the FBI's efforts to monitor his movements and communications. Did a stint as an aide on national security matters in Putin’s NSC-clone foreign policy advisory board. Forty-seven, married, two kids.
    Otherwise, an enigma. He was so discreet that it wasn't till Speedy Donner got his file from the bio shop at Langley that he even remembered the name.
    Innes read the dossier quickly but thoroughly. Speedy had sanitized it of highly classified information, but would answer Innes's questions fully based on what little information was available on this man.
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    "Looks to me like this guy was a real pro, not a hotdogger," Innes said as he accidentally dropped a fry onto the file cover.
    "I promised my date in the bio office that I'd return the file sans grease," Speedy said tartly.
    "A date, huh? Guess she hasn't caught on that you live up to your name as a lover."
    Speedy launched an onion ring at Innes's nose.
    "What was his reputation in Turkey?" Innes asked.
    "He hadn't been there long. Had the cover of commercial counselor. The Turkish service told our station chief that Starenkov was actually a very energetic commercial officer. Worked hard to promote Russian exports. Was all over the Turkish business community."
    "Think he was trying to develop cut-outs to steal high tech stuff from us?"
    "No evidence. He mainly cultivated Turkish agro-business types. Food exporters on the one hand and farm machinery importers on the other. Reading about this guy really puts you to sleep. Sort of a spook Al Gore."
    "How many foreign commercial officers are you aware of who've been literally torn apart for trying to sell more tractors?" Innes asked.
    "That's the thing. Neither the Turks nor we nor anybody else can figure out what this guy was into that would land him into this kind of end."
    Their young waitress asked if they wanted another pitcher of Rolling Rock on draft, the favored brew among university students on a tight budget. Customers nursing their drinks generated neither profit nor tips. Speedy and Innes got the message. They ordered another pitcher.
    "The Turks are ready to conclude that some crazed Chechnyan or Azeri did a job on him. Caucasus peoples are like that, they keep reminding us; wild, violent, 74 JAMES
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    vengeful. The Turks should know. They've had a lot of experience of their own slaughtering their neighbors to the east."
    "What's Moscow's reaction to all this?"
    Speedy promptly emptied his glass of Rolling Rock, set the empty glass squarely down on the cardboard coaster and fastidiously dabbed his lips with a cocktail napkin.
    "They're outraged, of course. Turks say they're being hit up both in Moscow and in Ankara for results to their investigation."
    "And?"
    "And the Russian government is convinced that Armenian crazies did it – not Chechnyans. They hate the Russians; the more so since it became public that the Russian army has been channeling arms and ammo to the Azeris covertly. The Turks don't mind pinning the blame on the Armenians either, but they need at least some circumstantial evidence first. The Russians are pressing the Turks to go after members of something called the Armenian Redemptist Army in eastern Turkey."
    "Christ. Doesn't this sound familiar," Innes intoned.
    "What do you mean?"
    "Bernie Scher…uh, I'll tell you later. What do you think yourself, Speedy?"
    "Hey, remember me? The 'they're-all-out-selling-themselves' theoretician? Everybody in the USG, and probably in the Russian government too, still thinks in cold war terms. An intelligence agent gets shredded to pieces.
    Oh! Must've been a political murder."
    "So, okay. Who would do in a quiet, competent Russian family man who was out to