Edge of Honor (14 page)

“Very unstable and very dangerous. Personally, I’d like to hear what Mazie and the DCI think”—he glanced at the PDB—“without a few bureaucratic layers filtering the information.”

“Get them on the schedule for this afternoon.”

Parrish made a note, picked up the PDB, and buzzed for the next meeting. The door to the Oval Office opened and the key staffers responsible for the day-to-day running of the White House trooped in. Parrish signed the PDB over to the security officer who turned and left, closing the door behind him. Like most of her working groups, this one was small and only numbered six people, including her mother, Maura O’Keith. Madeline Turner’s greatest strength was her ability to choose outstanding subordinates she could trust to act independently, never compromising themselves or the White House. The administration group was a well-rehearsed team and the meeting went smoothly.

The social secretary went over the list of coming events, always careful that Dennis was in full agreement with the schedule. As usual, the social secretary ended with requests they had to turn down. Turner’s chin came up when she heard the name Amadis Escalante.

For a moment, she was back in the past, an awkward and gangling teenager in an art gallery in New Mexico.
The portrait of a Mexican American woman, worn down by poverty, privation, and childbirth had captured her heart. A woman spoke softly behind her. “How old do you think she is?”

“Eighty, eighty-five,” Turner answered, turning around.

The voice belonged to a huge woman, well over six feet tall and very heavy. “She’s forty-seven,” the woman said. She smiled gently at the stunned look of disbelief on the teenager’s face. “I know, I painted her. I’m Amadis Escalante. What’s your name, child?”

“Maddy Turner.”

“Are you an artist?” She studied the teenager and answered her own question. “No. You are meant for more important things.”

All of Maddy Turner’s self-doubts and teenage insecurities crashed down on her. She gazed at the portrait. “I can’t do anything.”

“Yes, you can. If you listen to your heart. Like now.”

Turner came back to the present. Her staff was silent, waiting for her. “I’m forty-seven,” she murmured. Her eyes glistened with memory. “I met Amadis when I was fifteen.”

The social secretary responded instinctively and related how the New Mexico Council for the Arts had invited the president to dedicate the Amadis Escalante Museum of the Arts. “The museum is in Ruidoso and you can stay at the family compound on the Escalante Ranch. It’s rustic but very beautiful.”

“Please accept the invitation,” Turner said.

Mazie Hazelton sat on the couch in the president’s private study, her eyes on Turner. Mazie had never seen the president so angry. Her gaze was fixed on the carpet, her arms folded as she walked back and forth. Turner stopped and pointed at the director of central intelligence who was sitting across from Mazie. Her voice was flat and hard. “Let me see if I understand this right. The CIA has an agent next to the Russian madman who may be Russia’s next dictator. The madman has ordered our agent to assassinate the minister of defense, Vitaly Rodonov, who hap
pens to be a good guy and is helping to stop the drug trade going through Poland.”

“I wouldn’t describe Rodonov as ‘a good guy,’” the DCI answered. “At this point, he’s an unknown quantity. We need to know more about him.”

“But Rodonov,” Turner continued, “could be a possible successor to Viktor Kraiko, the current president of Russia who happens to be Vashin’s toady.” Again, the DCI confirmed her understanding of the situation. “However, this is a way for our agent to make his bones with Vashin and that would give us a pipeline right into the heart of his operation. So you want to preserve our agent at any cost.”

“I didn’t say that, Madame President,” the DCI protested.

“Damn.” She resumed her pacing, working the problem. She stopped and whirled on the DCI. “The only options I’ve heard are either to let our agent do it or pull him out.” She sat down behind her desk. Like any government bureaucracy, the CIA dealt the cards and forced the card they wanted played. “Well, I don’t buy it,” she announced. “Mazie, there must be something else we can do.”

Mazie half closed her eyes. “Tell the agent to delay while we have NATO request an immediate conference with Rodonov. The goal is to get him out of Russia and out of harm’s way. Once he’s in Brussels, we tell him about the plot on his life.”

“What would be important enough,” the DCI asked, “to get Rodonov to a meeting with NATO?”

“We create a situation,” Mazie replied, “no Russian minister of defense can ignore. As part of General Bender’s proposed security-aid package to Poland, NATO wants Russian landing and overflight rights in Poland revoked. Rodonov comes to NATO to discuss the issue and gets some of their rights back. That way, he returns to Russia a hero and has been of some use to Vashin. It might be enough to save him.”

The DCI shook his head. “I’ve read Bender’s security proposal. Serick and the State Department won’t buy it. It’s dead in the water.”

“It is not dead until I say it is,” Turner said. “Call Robert back for consultations.”

The Hill

Brian and Little Matt slammed into their room after lunch and threw their hats into their lockers. Because it was Saturday and there was no formation at the noon meal, they were in good spirits, looking forward to a weekend free of marching tours and little homework. Brian saw the flashing light on the telephone and hit the message button. It was from Dennis at the White House. “Brian, your mother is going to be in New Mexico next weekend to dedicate the Amadis Escalante Museum. She’d like you to join her for the weekend. Please give me or your grandmother a call.”

“All right!” Brian said. “I’m gone.”

“You’ll need a special furlough,” Little Matt said. “We got that biology test Tuesday. You flunk it and you’re restricted.” He thought for a moment. “Talk to the Trog.” Brian agreed and Little Matt called Zeth’s room.

Zeth met them in the cadet lounge in the John Ross Thomas Hall. “It’s gonna take some doing to get out of here on a Friday,” she said. “You’ll need a chaperon.”

“The Secret Service?” Little Matt ventured.

“I got a better idea,” Brian said. “I ask Maggot to come and his dad chaperons us.” They looked at each other, thinking the same thing. The idea of Brian’s mom and Little Matt’s father meeting was in the back of their minds, growing and taking shape. Zeth approached it like a matchmaker while the boys were more like neophyte wheeler-dealers, ready to test their conspiratorial wings. Brian smiled. “And that way—”

“They meet!” the three shouted together. Brian and Little Matt did a high five, slapping their hands together. They walked back to the boys’ room where Brian called the White House. He was put through immediately to Maura and jotted down the details. Then Little Matt called Pontowski, barely able to contain his excitement. Zeth sat
at Little Matt’s computer and composed a request letter as the two boys perched over her shoulder.

“Do you think we can do it?” Little Matt wondered.

“What about biology?” Brian asked.

“Hit the books,” Zeth told him, pulling the letter out of the printer. “It’s high speed next week. Don’t get stuck with a D.” A “D” was a demerit that could get them walking a tour over the weekend and restricted to post. “Don’t blow this one,” she cautioned, wishing she could go with them.

Near Ruidose, New Mexico

Pontowski let the scenery wash over him as he drove west out of Roswell Friday afternoon. Like all aviators, he checked the sky and found the far horizon. It was a gorgeous fall day in the high desert, perfect for flying. For once, he was content to be earthbound. Behind him, Little Matt and Brian joked and exchanged good-natured insults, happy to escape NMMI for the weekend. Zeth Trogger sat in the front seat beside him, looking wistfully out the window, not joining in the banter.

The desert scrub gave way to low trees and more grass as they entered the Hondo Valley. Now the landscape conjured up an image from an earlier time.
So much like Israel
, he thought,
yet so different
. Suddenly, two F-16 Vipers flying low-level crossed the road in front of them at 1,000 feet above the ground. Once clear of the road, the pilots slammed the jets back down to 300 feet and disappeared over a low hill. Now the memories were back, bursting through the floodgates of time.

He was back in the cockpit of an F-15E flying low over the desert terrain of the Golan Heights. Then he was challenging Iraqi SAMs and two Su-27 Flankers. Ambler Furry was in his backseat, his voice a cool fountain in the heat of combat. Pontowski laughed to himself as Furry’s words echoed in his memory. “Shit-oh-dear. We ain’t got no right wing.” Furry had even managed to keep a semblance of control during the midair collision with Johar Adwan when they had lost their right wing. Somehow,
Pontowski recovered the F-15 Eagle and made aviation history. Then he was on the beach near Haifa with Shoshana as they made their peace.

But like the land around him, it was different now. Time had tamed the raging torrent of loss and regret. All that remained was a gentle current of remembrance. The pain of Shoshana’s death was gone.

“Dad,” Little Matt said, breaking his reverie, “were those F-16s?”

“That’s right. Did you see the CC on the tails? They were out of Cannon Air Force Base, the 27th Fighter Wing.”

“You could tell all that?” Brian asked. The boys started talking again, full of themselves and the day.

Pontowski glanced in the rearview mirror. Because of the unusually warm weather, the boys were still wearing their class-A summer uniforms with short-sleeved white shirts and dress-blue trousers. His son’s voice was familiar but resonated with a newfound confidence he had never heard before.
Matt’s growing up fast
, Pontowski thought, unconsciously dropping the “Little.” A twinge of sadness poked at him; his son was changing and he was missing it. Still, he liked what he was hearing, the give-and-take of boys growing to manhood. He glanced at Zeth Trogger who was sitting in the front seat beside him. “Are they always like this?” he asked.

“Unfortunately,” she replied. She gave him an encouraging smile. “They’ll grow out of it.”

“Grow out of what?” Brian asked.

“Sounding off like an idiot,” Zeth shot back. Brian grumbled an answer under his breath and the boys shut up. “That’s better,” Zeth said. “General Pontowski, I want to thank you for inviting me to come.”

“Mrs. McMasters suggested it,” Pontowski said. “It sounded like a good idea to me.” He smiled. When Lenora McMasters decided on something she was a bulldog. Why send two cadets when three would give NMMI more of a presence in the national media?

Zeth looked out the window at the river. “That’s the Rio Hondo. You’ll see a sign on your left in about five
miles.” She paused. “I know a back way to the ranch. It’s cool.”

“Are you from around here?” Pontowski asked.

“I grew up here. My folks own the ranch next to the Escalantes. They live in Santa Fe now. They don’t come here much now but I love it.”

“Did you know Amadis Escalante.”

“Yes, sir.” She pointed to a dirt road on the left. “Turn here.”

Pontowski slowed and turned on his blinker to warn the black sport utility vehicle behind them that he was turning. The personal radio the Secret Service had given him buzzed. As expected, the agent following them wanted to know about the change in route. He handed the radio to Zeth. “You tell them where we’re going.” She took the phone and talked to the agent. Pontowski listened and followed the route she described. They crossed the river on a low wooden bridge and followed a dirt road that led to an unused polo field. A tractor was mowing the weeds as the president’s arrival party prepared a landing pad for her helicopter. They came to a dilapidated corral and stables where a horse pranced along the fence, greeting them. A roadblock was next and Pontowski rolled to a stop.

A tall, heavily built man with dark hair approached the car. “General Pontowski, I’m Special Agent Sanford with the Secret Service.”

Brian leaned forward, a rare smile on his face. “Do you remember me, Mr. Sanford?”

Sanford returned Brian’s smile. At the White House, Brian had always called him by his first name, Chuck. He stuck a massive hand through the window and they shook hands. “How could I forget? It’s good to see you. How’s it going?”

“All right, I guess. Any chance we can shoot some hoops?”

“You got it.”

Sanford turned to Pontowski. “General, the compound is already sealed. You need to give us a heads-up call before anyone leaves. Otherwise, we’ll stay out of your way.” He smiled at Zeth. “Miss Trogger?” She nodded in answer. “We need a photograph so everyone will know
who you are. Security.” He held up a Polaroid camera. “It would be better if you were standing.”

She frowned. “I look terrible in pictures.”

“That’s why they call her the Trog,” Brian said.

Zeth looked uncomfortable as she got out of the car. Away from the comforting routine of NMMI, she was very unsure of herself. Like the boys she was wearing a summer class-A uniform with pants. As usual her hair was pulled back into a tight braid and she looked quite severe. Sanford snapped a photo, quickly took a second, and she got back into the car.

“When does my mom get here?” Brian asked.

“Later this evening,” Sanford answered. “So you got plenty of time to settle in and look around.”

“Can we go for a horseback ride?” Zeth asked. “We can ride over to my folks’ ranch. The ride is really cool.” Brian and Little Matt chimed in with enthusiasm.

“Sure,” Sanford said. “I’ll tell the stables to expect you.” He stood back and waved them through. “Park on this side of the compound. We want to keep the cars out of sight.”

The Escalante ranchstead was controlled chaos as they parked and walked into the family compound. Secret Service and communications specialists were everywhere, preparing for Turner’s arrival. Pontowski estimated there were at least forty people scurrying around. The compound itself was a cluster of adobe buildings with tile roofs arranged in a U shape. It was not the product of an architect or some master plan. Instead, the Escalante family had added buildings and rooms as needed over the years. At the back, buildings either touched or were connected by an adobe wall, presenting a fortresslike effect to the outside. But inside, the rooms and buildings all opened onto a well-tended flower garden and expanse of grass. A trellis-covered brick walkway tied everything together.

A very pretty woman Pontowski estimated to be in her late twenties showed them to their rooms. The boys were bunking together and Zeth was rooming with Sarah in the family quarters. The woman then led Pontowski through the garden to his room at the far end of the compound. The room was not large, maybe twelve feet on a side. An
easy chair faced a fireplace and a bed was tucked into the corner. He looked around. “Very nice,” he said. An oil painting of an old woman hung over the fireplace and caught his attention. “Is that by Amadis Escalante?”

The woman smiled at him. “Oh, yes. Most everything here is.” He dumped his bag on the bed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “The bed is too small for you. I’ll switch you with someone else.”

“Not to worry,” Pontowski said, “I like the room. I’ll just sleep at an angle.”

She touched his arm and gave him a grateful look. “Well, if you need anything else…” Her voice trailed off.

He gave her a smile and shook his head. She gave her hair a pretty toss and repeated her offer, making it much more obvious.
Very pretty
, he thought, watching her leave.
But what is she thinking of? The Secret Service probably has the place wired for sound
. He changed into jeans and cowboy boots before wandering outside and into the garden.

The boys charged out of their room and ran across the grass. “There’s a problem,” Little Matt called. “They only have five horses.”

“Right,” Pontowski said. “Brian can only go if two agents go along and Zeth knows the way. So that only leaves one extra horse. Why don’t you go and I’ll sack out for a while.”

“Thanks,” Brian and Little Matt said, echoing each other.

Pontowski watched them march off together. They were a far cry from the boys their age he saw in Kansas City and in Warrensburg. “Great kids,” Chuck Sanford said from behind him.

“I thought you were going with them?”

“Nope,” Sanford replied. “I can’t ride. In fact, last time I got near a horse, it bit me.”

“Brian obviously likes you.”

“I use to shoot some basketball with him and General Bender in the White House gym.”

“You know the general?”

“Oh, yeah. I was with him when the vice president was shot.”

“Wasn’t an agent killed?”

“My partner, Wayne Adams.” Sanford pulled into himself, recalling President Turner’s first six months in office. “It was a crazy time and everything was coming apart. Bender was like a rock.” He looked at Pontowski, coming to the reason for the conversation. “Sir, Maura O’Keith asked me to talk to you. I think you know why Brian is at NMMI. But do you know about the heat your son is taking because of him?” Pontowski shook his head. “Apparently, Brian shot off his mouth about some upperclassman. So the upperclassman’s buddies did a little hazing on your son in retaliation.”

“What did the Secret Service do?” Pontowski asked.

Sanford shook his head. “Nothing. We’re under orders to only intervene if it involves Brian’s safety. Otherwise, we just go with the flow and let the place run itself. In this particular case, Brian called Zeth and she stopped the hazing before it really got off the ground.”

Pontowski remembered the boys’ reaction at the soccer game when Zeth drilled the other cadet with a well-placed kick. “Does this have anything to do with her nailing that cadet in the soccer game?”

“He was the ringleader,” Sanford answered. “She’s a pretty gutsy girl.”

“Indeed she is.” Pontowski thought for a moment. “Is my son in any real danger because he’s Brian’s roommate?”

“We don’t think so,” Sanford answered.

“Then why am I worried?” Pontowski said.

“Maybe you should talk to the president about it.” Pontowski gave a little nod and said he would do that.
That will be an interesting conversation
, Sanford thought.

Maura O’Keith made the introductions and studied her daughter’s face as she shook hands with Pontowski. She listened as they made small talk about the boys who were still out riding with Zeth. “Sarah,” Maura said, “scat. We need to have a private conversation.”

“You’re going to talk about Brian,” Sarah said. “Why can’t I stay and defend him?”

Maddy laughed. “Beat it, Little Miss Jurisprudence.” Sarah flounced out of the room in a huff. “Maura tells me you’re worried about Brian and your son being roommates,” Maddy said.

“Somewhat,” Pontowski replied. They fell into a relaxed discussion about the hazing incident and he was surprised how easy it was to talk to her. She seemed more like a mother than the president of the United States. He had always thought of her as being bigger. Then it hit him. Hard. Up close and personal, Maddy Turner was a captivating woman, far exceeding her public image. And he liked the way she turned her head to look at him.

“I can have the Secret Service take a more active role. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Zeth nipped it in the bud before it got started. If we pursue it, General McMasters will have to dismiss the ringleaders. The cadets will see that as punishment for something that didn’t really happen and that will create a backlash in the Corps. I’m not so sure we want that. Little Matt hasn’t mentioned it and he’s on top of the world right now. So no harm, no foul. Besides, Zeth may have solved the problem and that’s what leadership is all about.” He gave Maddy his best lopsided grin. “You should have seen her deck the ringleader in the soccer game.”

They talked for a few more minutes then Maddy had to end it, pleading the press of other business. Pontowski stood and again, they shook hands. Maura concentrated on her daughter’s face as he left. “Well?” Maura asked.

“I’m going to make Agent Sanford the lead agent at NMMI and tell him to keep an eye on his son.”

“Not that,” Maura said. “Him.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Mother?”

The boys trailed along with the presidential party as they toured the Amadis Escalante Museum for the Arts prior to the dedication ceremony on Saturday morning. “Hey, Maggot,” Brian muttered, “we gotta get out of here.”

“With the Trog on duty?” Little Matt replied. “Give it up.” The mention of Zeth was enough to kill any thought of escaping and they hurried to catch up. The dedication ceremony was well organized and only lasted forty minutes for which they were thankful. The discipline of NMMI paid off and the boys had no trouble playing their assigned roles in front of the TV cameras covering the event. Afterward, they marked time at the reception and plotted what they would do at the ranch.

“Where’s the Trog?” Brian wondered.

They roamed the room until they found her with Pontowski. When Little Matt saw the woman with them, he started to hurry. Then he stopped and straightened his uniform. “How do I look?” he asked.

“Locked up,” Brian told him. “What’s the big deal?”

Little Matt didn’t answer as he marched purposefully toward his father and Samantha Darnell. “Hello, Sam,” he said. Then he was in her arms, no longer the well-turned-out cadet but a fourteen-year-old boy, safe with a woman who loved him.