Edge of Honor (13 page)

“I only see one now,” Nancy said, looking out the window again. “Where did the other one go?”

“I imagine he’s on the perch, above and behind us.”

Nancy looked at him, recognizing the tone in his voice. They would discuss it later, when they were alone. The F-16 on their wing collapsed onto the airliner, now only 500 feet away, close enough for Bender to make out details. The Fighting Falcon had two wing tanks for long-range cruise and a full set of air-to-air missiles. An AIM-9 infrared missile hung on each wingtip with a mix of AMRAAM radar-guided missiles and AIM-9s on the wing pylons. But the missiles were not painted blue, signifying they were for training. These were the real thing. They had an escort.

Why hadn’t he been told about it? This was the type of surprise he didn’t like. He made a mental note to shake a few trees when he landed. Another thought came to him.
What had the president said about putting counters on the table? He considered the possibilities. “Just one of the perks that comes with the job,” he told his wife, making light of it.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, yes, you are, Robert Bender. I saw those steely blues flash. I know when you’re smiling.”

He changed the subject. “You know, I just might like this job.”

“I knew you were smiling,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze.

The VIP lounge at Okecie, Warsaw’s international airport, was filled with dignitaries waiting for the arrival of the Delta flight bringing the new ambassador. The room buzzed with gossip as Winslow James tried to quiet the rumors surrounding Robert Bender and his wife. James was a fussy, potbellied man, pushing fifty. James was always neatly dressed and careful with his words. He was also a hard-working professional diplomat who had worked his way up through a series of posts and was now the deputy charge of the mission. Neither he nor his superiors were happy about Bender’s appointment as ambassador, and the back-channel lines had been humming about how to handle the latest appointee who was neither a political appointee nor a professional diplomat.

“Winslow,” a voice said behind him, “what a nice reception.”

James turned and suppressed a groan. It was Jerzy Fedor from the Council of Ministers. Fedor was in his late thirties, and had a lean ravaged look about him that was in total contrast to his buoyant good humor. James was not sure exactly what Fedor did in the cabinet, but he did seem to survive every change in government and moved in the highest circles. “Is it true?” Fedor asked.

Winslow James forced a smile. “Is what true?”

“Your new ambassador is a jet jockey, a cowboy top gun.”

“I wouldn’t describe General Bender in those terms,” James replied, putting on his best diplomatic face. “At
one time, he flew fighters. But he’s retired. As you are probably aware, he has the full confidence of President Turner.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jerzy Fedor said, ambling off into the crowd.

James’s wife joined him. She was holding a large bouquet of flowers for the new ambassador’s wife. “What did he want?” she asked in a tone reserved for vermin and snakes.

“Who knows? He’s probably more interested in the hors d’oeuvres and the wine than Bender.” He looked around. “Well, I see everyone is here and the airplane has arrived.” They walked together to the head of the jetway where Bender and Nancy would be deplaning. They would be the first off so James and his wife could hustle them through the doors into the VIP lounge where they would be separated from the other passengers. The welcoming inside was neatly choreographed to make Bender feel like a VIP and to insulate him from the real Poland as quickly as possible.

As planned, James greeted Bender and Nancy when they stepped off the jetway. The two men shook hands while James’s wife presented Nancy with the bouquet and welcomed her to Poland. They walked together into the VIP lounge for the welcoming ritual with the Polish minister of foreign affairs. As protocol required, Bender said a few words about how happy he and Nancy were to be in Poland. Then it all fell apart. Before James could hurry them to the waiting limousine, Bender and Nancy walked around the room, introducing themselves and shaking hands. “Robert Bender,” he said, extending his hand to a man standing near the back.

“Jerzy Fedor,” came the answer.

“Of the Polska Partia Przyjaciol Piwa,” Bender replied, butchering the pronunciation of the Polish Beer-Lover’s Party.

Fedor laughed. “You have done your homework, General. But we have gone respectable. Our party is now part of the Little Coalition.” He leaned forward and stretched out his hand. “But I must tell you it was more fun when we were the PPPP.” They shook hands.

“What lovely cuff links,” Nancy said, instantly regretting the breach of protocol.

“Ah,” Fedor replied, “a family heirloom. For me, amber is like Poland, very old but warm and alive to the touch.” He fixed her with an intense gaze. “We Poles are incurable romantics. Where else could you find a political party like the PPPP with the goal of having lively political discussions in pubs serving good beer.”

James interrupted them, trying to get the reception back on track. “General Bender, your car is waiting.”

Bender introduced himself to a few more people before allowing James to escort him and Nancy outside. “Please join us,” he said. James closed his door and hustled around to the other side, motioning to his wife to follow them. Inside, Bender turned to business. “I want a staff meeting in one hour,” he said.

James started to protest but the look on Bender’s face warned him it would be fruitless. “Of course, sir.” He made a mental note to call his superior at the Eastern Europe desk in Washington right after the meeting.

The number of people waiting for Bender in his office on the second floor of the embassy was much smaller than he expected. “Please get the defense attaché,” he said, “and the CIA station chief.” The staff exchanged nervous glances as James made the phone calls. Within moments, the two men were in the room and James introduced them. “Please bear with me during these first few weeks,” Bender began, “while I learn exactly what you all do and how you do it. You need to know three things about the way I do business. First, if I ask you about something that is not in your area, I expect you to refer me to the right person and stay involved. Second, it’s okay to disagree with me. But have your act together when you do. Third, I don’t like surprises and I got one on the flight into Warsaw. We were escorted by two F-16s out of Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany. I was not told about it in advance.”

“Sir,” the attaché said, “the escort was my idea. As you are probably aware, two Polish F-16s on an air-defense mission were shot down four weeks ago. It was
a routine intercept of a cargo plane. We suspect the Russians did it, but we don’t know why or how.”

“I am aware of the shootdown,” Bender replied. “But that was not the way to tell me that the Poles cannot guarantee the security of their own airspace.”

“Sir…”

Bender held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know, It was not your fault that I was not given advance warning. But that is exactly the breakdown in communication that I want stopped. Keep the players informed. Also, on the drive in from Okecie, I counted eight patrol cars along Aleje Ujazdowskie in the vicinity of the embassy. And I must admit, the embassy’s security arrangements are impressive. This place is a sealed fortress. Am I wrong in the assumption that security is a major concern?”

Everyone in the room was fully alert. Bender had been in Poland less than three hours and was already comfortable with the local geography and had keyed on a major problem. He was not going to be a political appointee adroitly corseted by the professionals on his staff. “That’s a true statement,” the CIA chief of station said.

“The situation is extremely complex,” the political officer said.

Bender gave her an encouraging nod. “And we’re going to make sense out of it.” He glanced at the calendar on his desk. “This is Thursday. I want a detailed assessment of the security situation on my desk by Monday morning. Include a list of programs we can make available to the Poles so they can help themselves. Please tell your staffs I’ll be touring the embassy tomorrow morning to meet them.” The meeting was over and his staff set a new record in retreating to the safety of their offices.

Outside, the political officer was a very worried woman and she cornered the protocol officer, the other high-ranking woman on the staff. “What do you think?”

The protocol officer gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s going to be very interesting.” The two women were silent as Winslow James rushed past muttering something about cowboys and jet jockeys.

“He is very attractive,” the political officer said.

“That won’t be a problem,” the protocol officer added.

Moscow

Geraldine Blake answered the phone and jotted down the message.
This will be trouble
, she thought. She dialed another number and spoke in Russian for the benefit of the technicians monitoring the line. “Tom, I may need you in a few minutes. Are you available?” The technician on duty automatically annotated the time of the call to Thomas Johnson, Mikhail Vashin’s chief of security everyone called the American. Johnson said he would be at his desk. “It might be better if you were in the penthouse,” Geraldine said, this time in English.

She broke the connection, thought for a few moments, and called Le Coq d’Or, Vashin’s nightclub.
Best be prepared
, she told herself. “Please send Naina and Liya to my office.” She listened for a moment. “I don’t care what time it is. Do it now.” She broke the connection and looked at her watch. It would take at least thirty minutes for the girls to arrive. She could delay the inevitable that long. She took a deep breath. Part of her job as Vashin’s personal assistant was to anticipate trouble.

At exactly 2:07
P.M.
the two girls walked into her office. Both were young, beautiful, and elegantly dressed. But more important, the two prostitutes were well trained. Geraldine gathered up her folder and personal telecommunicator and marched into the penthouse. She handed Vashin the note from the phone call. “This came in from Minsk a few minutes ago.”

She waited patiently as he read, the cool business pro
fessional ready to serve her employer. As expected, the eruption built slowly. “Vitaly Rodonov has overstepped his bounds,” Vashin said. Strain played at the edge of his voice. “He may be the minister of defense,
but he does not confiscate my cargo
.” His voice shifted pitch, growing more shrill. “No one does that! Do you know the dollar value of what he stole from me?”

Geraldine opened her folder and read the manifest. “Eight cargo pallets of high-grade cocaine, weighing 500 kilos each, is a delivered value of $48 million; two pallets of hashish, same quality, weighing 700 kilos each, is a delivered value of approximately $10 million; fifty-four girls, delivered value almost $400,000. Total amount lost, exactly $58,340,000.”

“Delivered value!” Vashin screamed, his face mottled with fury. “Street value returned to us is four or five times that! I lost a
quarter billion dollars
because Rodonov confiscated one cargo!” He banged his fists on his desk as a stream of invective spewed over the room. He started to shake. “The bastard! I wanted him in the ground four weeks ago! Where is Yaponets?”

Geraldine never hesitated. She punched at her telecommunicator and summoned the godfather. Then she called for Johnson. In less than thirty seconds, Johnson was in the room. “Why isn’t Rodonov dead!” Vashin shouted, barely understandable.

“I’ll check it out,” Johnson said, his voice calm and matter of fact. Hit contracts weren’t his job but, increasingly, he was branching into other areas. “I imagine it’s because he’s guarded by professionals. Sooner or later, they’ll make a mistake and our men will be waiting.”

For a moment, Vashin seemed rational. “Where is Yaponets?”

“He’s on his way,” Geraldine said soothingly.

Then the dam burst, Vashin’s rage in full flood. He lunged at Johnson who was closest to him, screaming a torrent of obscenities in Russian that were all but incomprehensible. Johnson took the blow in his face. He was a wall and didn’t move. Vashin spun around and kicked at Geraldine. But he missed and hit the leg of a table. He fell to the floor and rolled as his body shook. He swal
lowed his tongue and started to choke. Johnson and Geraldine bent over his flailing body and held him down. The American forced Vashin’s mouth open while Geraldine fished out his tongue. She stroked his face, trying to calm him.

“I can give him a sedative,” Johnson said.

“No drugs or needles,” Geraldine replied. She shouted at one of the guards. “Get Naina and Liya! They’re in my office.” The guard ran from the room while Johnson pinned the bucking man to the floor. The two girls ran up and stepped out of their shoes. They fell down beside Vashin, one on each side, and scooted under Johnson to help sandwich Vashin with their bodies. Vashin wrenched his right arm free and smashed his fist into Naina’s face. She cried out in pain but only hugged him more tightly. She stroked his cheek and whispered softly, cooing to him like a mother to an infant. Liya hummed a lullaby as she stroked his crotch. Slowly, Vashin quit shaking and Johnson got up. His nose was bloodied and he had a vicious bite on the edge of his left hand. He wrapped it with a handkerchief and said nothing.

Vashin pulled at Naina’s dress while Liya undid his belt. She pulled his pants off, taking his shorts with them. Naina guided him into her as he rocked rhythmically back and forth, licking the growing bruise on her face. He climaxed and rolled off. Liya cuddled against his back, still humming the lullaby while he sucked on one of her fingers. She rocked him to sleep.

Johnson let out his breath and inhaled. “That was bad.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Geraldine told him.

Vashin sat on one of the heavily brocaded couches with Naina and Liya still beside him. His clothes were neatly arranged and only his flushed face betrayed the fury that had swept over him. Geraldine handed him a cup of tea drawn from the ornate silver samovar that had once been in the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg. He looked at Naina, almost adoringly. “Thank you,” he murmured. Geraldine read the signs correctly and motioned for the girls to leave. Vashin’s hand lingered for a moment on Naina’s arm before she left.

When the door was closed behind them, Vashin walked to the heavy plate-glass window overlooking Moscow. Mist swirled in front of him, blocking the view. He touched the inside of the bullet chip. The glass was smooth to his touch and, for a moment, he thought of the chip as the icon of his life, dented and scarred on the outside, but polished and whole on the inside. “The problem of Rodonov is still with us.”

“Rodonov is beneath you,” Geraldine said. “He’s not worth your time.” Vashin stared out the window, his face a blank mask. She knew he was listening. “But he is very popular with the people. Perhaps it would be better if he were disgraced first. Perhaps a honey trap? Who knows? That might solve the problem.”

Vashin became animated and turned to Johnson. “In your movie
The Godfather
, a troublesome senator is caught with a brutally murdered prostitute in a whorehouse. What will the people think of their hero Rodonov if that happens to him?”

“He will be disgraced,” Johnson said, “and the problem solved.”

“Arrange it,” Vashin ordered. Geraldine and Johnson exchanged glances, not sure who he wanted to do it. But it was not a question either dared ask.

“This is all new to me,” Johnson said. “I’ll need to talk to the right people.”

Geraldine was more practical. “A honey trap will take the right bait.”

“Naina and Liya,” Vashin said.

Geraldine made a note to train two new girls.

A knock at the door claimed their attention and Yaponets entered. “Leave us,” Vashin ordered. Geraldine and Johnson quickly left as Vashin returned to the big window.

“Another fit?” Yaponets asked.

Vashin didn’t answer. Instead, “I had a dream last night. I was floating over Moscow drifting in clouds.” He gestured out the window. “It was like now. I couldn’t see a thing, but I knew Moscow was down there.”

Like many Russians, both men were deeply superstitious. “Perhaps it’s a sign,” Yaponets said. “You must wait.”

Vashin accepted the wisdom of the older man. “Geraldine says Rodonov is beneath my concern.”

“She may be right,” Yaponets allowed. “No one can stand in your way. Not now.”

“There is one,” Vashin said. “The president of the United States.”

“She’s only a woman.”

“She’s more than that,” Vashin said. Vashin paced back and forth, fixated on the image he had conjured. “I want to know everything about her. What are her weaknesses, her strengths? Where does she live in her heart?”

Yaponets shrugged. “Where do all women live?”

“This one is different.”

“What do I tell Geraldine and the American?”

“Nothing. This is beyond them.”

Warsaw

The black limousine flying the American flag turned right out of the U.S. embassy and drove down Aleje Ujazadowskie. It motored silently down the elegant avenue, past Chopin’s monument in Lazienki Park, and turned left into the Belvedere, the official residence of the president of the Republic of Poland. The distance was exactly one kilometer, sixth-tenths of a mile. “We should have walked,” Bender said, taking in the beautiful day.

Winslow James suppressed a very undiplomatic sigh. No matter how gorgeous the day or short the distance, ambassadors did not walk when they presented their credentials to the president. “Security is always a problem,” he said. The limousine pulled to a stop and the waiting honor guard came to attention. The minister of foreign affairs greeted Bender when he emerged from the backseat. They walked slowly up the steps chatting amiably with James in close tow.

The palace sparkled, fresh from a recent renovation. “Very beautiful,” Bender said, making the required small talk.

“Indeed,” the minister replied. They reached the double doors leading into the reception chamber. “As you
know, the president is recovering from a heart attack. So he will be in a wheelchair and the meeting will be short.” They entered the room. Waiting at the far end was Adam Lezno, the old lion who had struggled for Poland’s freedom since 1956. He had been beaten by the secret police, imprisoned, and forced into exile. But he had always returned to the fray, fighting for an independent and democratic Poland. Now he was an old man but the fire still burned within.

The minister of foreign affairs made the introductions while James handed over the leather folder holding President Turner’s formal letter presenting Bender as her official emissary to Poland. Lezno waved it to an aide. “Come,” he said to Bender. “It is too nice a day to be inside.” Another aide pushed his wheelchair into the garden while Bender walked beside him. Outside, Lezno was more relaxed. “I hate formality. I suppose it’s necessary, but it takes too much time, of which I have very little left. General Bender, my country is in trouble.”

“President Turner is aware of your problems and very concerned,” Bender replied. He decided to pull the gloves off. “That’s why I’m here.”

Lezno chuckled. “You are a man of my heart, direct and to the point. I was in the hospital during your confirmation hearings and watched you on CNN. I was impressed when you knew of our national anthem. Do you know the words?” Lezno started to sing in English, “Poland had not yet been destroyed…” He stopped. “It sounds better in Polish. The song is our history. We are a small country caught between Russia and Germany. Apparently, they have not changed and once again want to erase us from the map.”

“Times are different now.”

Lezno snorted. “The means are different. The Germans talk of the frontiers of 1937 and buy land in western Poland. We are living with eighty-five million Germans on our border. Their birthrate is increasing after years of decline. Soon they will again look to the east for
lebensraum
. The quest for living space is deeply rooted in the German psyche. But the Germans are not fools. The first step is
to repudiate the Warsaw Treaty of 1970 which recognizes the Oder and Neisse Rivers as our common border.”

“World opinion, Mr. President, will not allow that.”

Again, the snort. “Last Monday, Berlin filed a brief with the International Court of Justice in the Hague claiming Willy Brandt and his government did not represent all of Germany when he signed the treaty. Therefore, it is invalid and must be renegotiated.”

Bender stiffened. Why hadn’t he been told? It should have been in the read file that was on his desk every morning. “I will advise my president of your concern,” he said.

“My country needs more than your sympathy,” Lezno said. “Look at what the Russians are doing. They are turning my country into a cesspool of crime and drugs.”

“Mr. President, we can help you with that particular problem. I should receive specific instructions in the near future.”

They turned back toward the palace. As they approached, another man joined them. It was Jerzy Fedor from the reception at the airport. “I believe you have already met,” Lezno said. “Jerzy is my expert on internal security. Perhaps, you two could discuss those specific instructions you mentioned. In private.”

“Most assuredly,” Bender answered. Another thought came to him.
He knows about the security-aid package we cabled to Washington yesterday
.

“General Bender,” Lezno said, “do not underestimate Poland. Yes, we have problems that we must solve and we do need help. But we are much stronger than you realize.”

Winslow James was waiting for Bender by the entrance, ready to lead him through the departure ritual. In a few moments, they were back in the limousine and headed north on Aleje Ujazadowskie. Bender raised the privacy window to the front seat. “I must apologize for not making myself clear last week, Winslow. I really do hate surprises and I received two of them during my conversation with President Lezno. We need to discuss my read file and communications security.”

The ride back to the embassy turned into the longest journey in Winslow James’s life.

The White House

Madeline Turner studied the “President’s Daily Brief,” or PDB for short. It was a slickly printed, highly professional document produced by a committee at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It was never more than twelve pages long and contained the best intelligence the CIA could produce. Only seven people were on its distribution list and all copies were carefully analyzed after being read. The paper contained a trace element that emerged under a special light if the PDB had been through a copy machine or a scanner. Turner reread the item on Mikhail Vashin and set the report on her desk.
We’ve got an agent on the inside
, she thought.
The information is less than three days old and too detailed
. “Richard, did you read the item on Vashin?” He nodded an answer. “What do you think?”