Edge of Honor (10 page)

Kate looked at her hands, wanting to tell him he was right. There was something drawing her to Pontowski that had nothing to do with his good looks. And that made him even more attractive. She raised her head, her eyes bright. She reached out and touched his cheek. Her touch was warm and gentle. “Matt, we need to talk.” Her voice trailed off.

“Your reaction after we landed? That was normal. The need to relieve yourself or a sudden thirst is also very common.”

“And you’d have taken advantage.” Anger laced her words.

He shook his head. “No. But it was a chance for you to understand a little of what’s involved.”

She stared at the floor. “It did get Jonathan’s attention. He finally proposed.”

“Slater?”

She nodded. “And I accepted. I wanted to warn you about Beason.”

“He is your client. Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.”

“Matt, he’s furious that we didn’t confiscate the videotape from Sammy’s airplane and destroy it.”

“Isn’t that tampering with evidence?”

She nodded. “He’s out of control and we’re trying to withdraw from the case.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

Conflicting emotions tore at her. “No. But he’s playing dirty and wants to get you personally. Be careful.”

Pontowski gave a little humph. “I’ve been there before.”

“He’s playing the political card and bought himself a senator.”

“They come cheap these days.”

“Please, be serious.”

“I am.”

Washington, D.C.

Bender took his seat at the witness table in the committee hearing room and waited for the senators to settle in behind the long table that barricaded them at one end of the room. Aides hovered behind each senator, ready to be of instant service. Two senators quickly left the dais when they saw the first TV camera, only to return a few minutes later in makeup. An air of anticipation hung over the packed audience as TV crews set up more cameras. They had all come to witness the best show in town. Senator John Leland was going to live up to his reputation as Madeline Turner’s most ardent opponent and crucify yet another one of her nominees.

Leland was the last to enter and sit down. He rapped the committee to order and made his opening remarks. He used the customs and courtesies of the United States Sen
ate to rule like a feudal monarch and only the constant attention of the TV cameras held him in check. He smiled at Bender. “First, let me thank you for coming on such short notice, General Bender. This won’t take too long.”

Knowing smiles broke out among the aides. Leland was at his best when shredding ambassadorial nominees not on his personal short list of campaign contributors. Bender was lucky to even be sitting in front of the committee and would be dispatched in short order.

He only sounds friendly
, Bender thought, recalling the last time they had met face to face. It had been in the Cabinet Room in the White House the night Leland and his cronies had tried to force Madeline Turner to resign as president. Bender’s words were engraved in Leland’s memory. “The president,” he had said, “is engaged in a national emergency. You are no longer welcome in her house, and she wants you to leave. May I suggest you do so immediately.” Those were not the words a man like Leland ever forgot—or forgave.

“I notice you’re not wearing your uniform,” Leland said.

Bender moved the microphone closer and adjusted it so he would not have to bend over to speak.
Keep it short and sweet
, he cautioned himself. “Sir, I hope my record while serving our country speaks for itself. But today, I am here as a civilian, not a member of the armed forces.” His answer seemed to go down well with the committee and the TV cameras lingered on him.

Leland pontificated for a few moments about the committee’s responsibilities until the cameras were back on him. An aide handed him a note. Daniel Beason was on the phone and wanted to talk to him. It was a summons not even Leland could ignore. “What’s this about,” he grumbled to the aide.

“He didn’t say,” came the answer. “But I think he may not like Bender.”

Leland dismissed the aide and opened the folder on talking points his staff had prepared. He flipped to the page of hostile questions. “General Bender,” he began, “what do you know about Poland? For example, can you tell us about their national anthem?”

Bender leaned forward and suppressed a smile. “Of course, I’ve heard it and could try humming a few bars. But believe me, with my musical abilities, that might cause an international incident.” Laughter echoed behind him and a few of the senators smiled. “It’s based on the song Gen. Jan Dabrowski adopted for the army of Polish exiles he raised in Italy in”—he paused, searching for the date—“1797, as I recall.”

The senator from Illinois beamed with approval. “The date is correct,” she said. “It is very stirring. I first heard it when I was a child.” Then she hastened to add, “My family is Polish American.”

Leland humphed and went on to the next question. He looked over his reading glasses and frowned. The TV cameras were spending far too much time on Bender. He needed to change that. “I’m told the Poles are very aware of their history, General. How does that affect their current policies?”

“The Poles remember their history because, as a nation, they are always in trouble. They are a small country caught between two major powers, Germany and Russia, which have a habit of dividing up Poland and erasing it from the map.” Scattered applause rippled through the audience.

Leland hid his anger by smiling. He glanced at his notes. It was his turn to appear knowledgeable. “Ah, yes. You are, of course, referring to the Three Partitions in 1772, 1793, and 1795. All more than two hundred years ago.” The implication that the partitions were too old to be relevant hung in the air.

“Yes, sir, I am. But if you speak to the Poles, they will tell you of the fourth partition in 1939 when Germany and Russia invaded their country and again divided it between them.” Bender leaned forward to make his point. “They have learned from their history and don’t want it to happen again.” The applause was widespread and prolonged, led by the senator from Illinois.

Leland smiled graciously and passed on the questioning. He drummed his fingers on the table. He wanted to crush Bender on the spot and send him back to the White House in a box. But the conversation with Vice President Kennett in the sauna of the Senate gym was too fresh in his mem
ory. Rudenkowski was a problem and Kennett had offered an easy solution. In the end, the TV cameras made the decision for him. By the time the third senator had finished his questioning, only Bender was getting any face time. It was time to get the general out of the country and defuse the Rudenkowski bombshell before it exploded.

He also made a note to return Beason’s phone call.

Madeline Turner was as alone in the pool as a president can be. Two female Secret Service agents, both trained as lifeguards and paramedics, sat at opposite ends, their feet in the water, as she churned out lap after lap. A tall African American woman, also in a swimsuit and wearing an open robe that flapped behind revealing a lithe and athletic figure, paced the side of the pool beside Maddy, a stopwatch in her hand. “Come on, girl,” Noreen Coker called, “you can do better than that. One more lap. Go, go, go.”

Maddy put on a burst of speed and stroked hard, finishing the last lap. She held on to the edge of the pool, breathing deeply. “You’ve been impossible since you lost weight. I liked you better when you were fat.”

“Can’t help it,” Noreen replied. “Not since I got sanitized, Sanforized, and Oprah-ized. Talking to that woman changed my whole attitude about exercise and being skinee.” She struck a pose, causing her robe to fall away. “Great butt.”

“You’re getting worse,” Maddy said, pulling herself out of the pool. She was wearing a dark blue tank suit and white bathing cap.

Coker did a critical survey of her friend. “You look fantastic. Poor thing. You got it but you can’t flaunt it.” Their laughter joined as Noreen helped her into a terry-cloth robe.

Noreen Coker was a congresswoman from Los Angeles and one of Maddy’s best friends. They had met in the California state legislature when they were freshmen, Maddy a senator, Noreen an assemblywoman. At the time, Coker weighed more than 250 pounds and was given to flashy clothes, wild hairdos, and outrageous statements. But Maddy saw through the facade. Underneath was an extremely intelligent and shrewd politician who knew what
it took to get elected and how to get things done. Later, Coker had gone on to the House of Representatives and when Maddy arrived in Washington as the vice president, the old friendship was rekindled.

Within a month of her arrival, Maddy had gathered Noreen and a small coterie of friends around her as personal advisors and a support group. After she had become president, the group became known as the Kitchen Cabinet and were often called the ultimate insiders. To a person, they were discreet, totally honest, and completely loyal. But Noreen was more. She was a she-bear protecting her young when it came to her friend.

Inside the dressing room, Noreen automatically flicked on the TV. It was set to C-SPAN and a commentator was standing in front of the Capitol, microphone in hand. “Only Senator Leland voted against Gen. Robert Bender’s appointment as ambassador to Poland. Inside sources were surprised that Leland even let the committee consider Bender’s appointment, much less come to a quick vote. Could this signal the end of the Senator’s long hostility to the Turner administration?”

“Don’t bet on it, child,” Noreen said to the TV. She listened to the soundbites from the committee hearing. “Oh, you did good, Bobby Bender.” She turned to Maddy who was almost dressed. “Our boy got a slam dunk this time. But Leland is hard on rebounds. He’ll be back.”

Maddy pulled on her shoes. “I knew the committee would like him.” She didn’t mention the deal Kennett had struck with Leland.

Gostomel Air Base, Ukraine

The women walked across the parking apron of the semi-deserted air base fifteen miles north of Kiev. They were all young and pretty and carried their own luggage. Most walked in silence, but a few of the sixteen-year-olds, happy to be out in the night air after being cooped up in the shabby barracks for over a week, chattered about their new jobs in the West. They formed a single line waiting to board the Ilyushin I1-76. The I1-76, the workhorse of
Russia’s Military Transport Aviation, was not what they had expected. The high-wing, T-tailed, four-engine cargo plane bore a striking resemblance to the old U.S. C-141 StarLifter that had been retired from active service.

Only one woman showed any hesitancy about giving up her passport to the man checking off their names. But a sharp command from one of the guards escorting the women ended that. Like the others, she handed over her passport and walked up the ramp and into the lighted cargo deck. No seats had been rigged and she sat on her suitcase. The man collecting the passports did a quick count. “Forty-seven fresh cunts,” he said, speaking Russian. He handed over a small aluminum suitcase to the men guarding the women. They huddled around and quickly counted the money. “Yes?” the first man asked. “All is correct?”

The man holding the suitcase replied in Russian. “As agreed, two thousand dollars each, ninety-four thousand dollars U.S.” He spoke to the others in Ukrainian and they trooped off the aircraft, leaving the women to their new masters. The I1-76 started engines and taxied for the runway. Within minutes, it was airborne and turned to the northwest, heading for Minsk in Belarus. The creaky aircraft never climbed above 12,000 feet for the thirty-minute flight and only made one radio call when it crossed the border into Belarus.

The radar antenna on top of the 345-foot tower outside Bialystok, Poland, swept the horizon every five seconds. The twin parabolic reflectors were stacked one above the other and rotated in unison, feeding information through a cable net to a bunker two miles away. A sign over the bunker’s blast doors announced it was the home of
CROWN EAST
, the easternmost of three radar early-warning and ground-controlled intercept sites that formed a chain across central Poland. Inside the bunker, the radar operator on duty noted the track of the I1-76 in his log and marked it down as routine traffic. He did not bother to track it to Machulishche, an old Soviet air base outside Minsk, Belorusskaya, nor to wake the tactical-threat officer.

A follow-me truck was waiting for the I1-76 when it cleared the runway at Machulishche. The big plane lumbered after the truck, following it to a remote parking apron where heavily armed guards surrounded two low cargo-carrier trucks loaded with pallets. The I1-76 shut down its engines as the first cargo carrier backed up to the aircraft’s loading ramp. The first three pallets were quickly pushed on board and the truck pulled away. The women had to move to make room for the cargo and most stood beside the stacks of white plastic-wrapped bricks, holding onto the cargo netting. The high-grade cocaine was worth more than they were.

The second cargo carrier pulled up and three more pallets were rolled on board. Like the cocaine, there was no attempt to disguise the half-kilo bricks of tarry hashish. A third truck rolled up and a line of men formed a chain to pass cardboard boxes on board. The boxes were broken open and the bricks of high-potency marijuana, sensimilla to be exact, were stowed around the pallets, filling the cargo deck. Finally, the women were left sitting on top of the drugs.

Less than an hour after landing, the I1-76’s pilots started engines and made one radio call. On the other side of the airfield, two pilots walked leisurely out of an underground bunker. The cargo plane taxied for the active runway and, without waiting for clearance, took off into the clear night. But this time, the I1-76 leveled off at 5,000 feet as it headed directly for the Polish border, 160 miles away.

The two pilots walking across the apron climbed into their waiting Sukhoi Su-35 fighters and strapped in. The Su-35s were a single-place, twin-tailed, twin-engined fighter about the same size as the U.S. F-15 Eagle. An observer, unable to see the foreplanes mounted above the intakes, might confuse the two. But unlike the Eagle, which went out of production in the early 1990s, the Su-35s were brand new and, with their advanced avionics, a serious threat to the United States’ newest fighter, the F-22 Raptor. The pilots finished cocking their jets for a scramble. Now they had to wait.