Edge of Honor (19 page)

“Hey, Maggot,” Brian said. “Check out the Trog.”

“Yeah, I saw her.” They talked loudly to be heard over the music.

“The studlies are really hounding her.”

“She can handle it,” Matt replied.

“Handle what?” a voice said behind them. They turned around and were facing Rick Pelton, the regimental executive officer.

“All the attention,” Brian answered.

Pelton agreed. “She is something else.” His eyes narrowed into narrow slits. “Who’s that tall townie she’s talking to?”

“He’s a Third Classman at the Air Force Academy,” Brian told him. “We met him at a dinner with my mom.”

“He’s cool,” Matt added. The three cadets watched as the couple moved onto the floor and started to dance. The combination of light, the flowing motion of her hair, and her dress created a lovely picture. “Where did she team to dance like that?” Matt wondered, giving voice to what they all were thinking.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Pelton wondered, now very interested in Zeth and taking the measure of the
intruder on his territory. Pelton and the newcomer were both the same age and in the same class at college. However, the Air Force Academy was still the Air Force Academy and that put Pelton at a disadvantage. But Pelton was much better looking and more athletic.

Brian couldn’t help himself and stirred the pot. “I’d guess he’s checking out the Trog.” The music slowed and the couple were clinched in a tight embrace. “I think she’s using him.”

“For what?” Pelton asked.

“To make you jealous.”

“Gimme a break.”

“You gonna let some zoomie bastard just move in?”

Pelton snorted and walked away, looking for some of his buddies. “Why are you egging him on?” Matt asked.

“It’s fun. You got a short-term memory problem? He’s the bastard who chaired you to get back at me, remember?”

“He wasn’t there and Zeth stopped it”

“Yeah, but he was behind it” They watched as Pelton joined the couple and talked to them. The two young men shook hands and Zeth even danced with Pelton for one number. Then she was back with the Air Force Academy cadet and Pelton joined a few of his classmates who were with their girlfriends.

Brian laughed. “Aced out.”

One of the girl rats came up and asked Matt to dance. He blushed brightly. “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you,” she said, her eyes sparkling with fun and something more than just friendship.

“See you later, studly,” Brian said. He wandered through the big double doors and down into the game room in the basement.

Pelton was shooting pool with a buddy. “Askin’ a freakin’ zoomie to the dance,” the other cadet said. “What a bitch.”

Pelton lined up his shot “You got that right” He took the shot and sank the ball.

Warsaw

Bender arrived at the embassy on Monday morning at exactly seven-thirty. It was the same time he always came to work and he was a little concerned that his staff hadn’t got the message that he liked to start early. But rather than ride roughshod over long-established traditions, he decided to give it some time and see if they figured it out for themselves. An embassy staff was a far different critter from a staff in the Air Force where young and eager officers only wanted a chance to show what they could do. With that group, he had to chase them out of the office or they would have worked horrendous hours. The Marine guard came to attention as Bender stepped into the elevator.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Corporal Kincaid,” Bender replied. The Marine was shocked. Not only did Bender know his name, he recognized his rank. The previous ambassador could distinguish a Marine from a cow, but that was about it. Forget about knowing names.

Rather than hit the button to the second floor where his office was located, Bender descended to the basement and walked into the communications section. The clerk on duty was surprised to see him. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Ms. Belfort.” Her mouth opened in surprise that he remembered her name. “I’d like to see my read file, please.”

“The DCM’s secretary hasn’t collated it yet.”

“No problem, I’ll do it.”

“Sir, I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off. Then she showed him the stacks of folders holding the cables that had come in over the weekend. “Most of these came in Friday night after the close of business in Washington.” The timing did not surprise him as bureaucrats liked to clear their desks for the weekend and sent most of their letters and cables out on Friday afternoon. But the amount of message traffic was staggering, far surpassing anything he had experienced in the Air Force.

“Is it always this much?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir. This was an unusually light weekend.”

He quickly thumbed through the folders, Then he saw the Daily Intelligence Summary, which he had never seen before. He extracted the cable and read it. He replaced the message and thanked the clerk. She beamed as he left, little suspecting the anger beneath his surface.

The corridors on the second floor were deserted when he got off the elevator. As he neared his office, be caught a whiff of coffee. “Someone’s awake,” he mumbled to himself. He turned into the Red Room, the large office and reception area that separated his office from Winslow James’s, his deputy charge of mission. The smell of the brewing coffee drew him to a small side office occupied by one of the interpreters who worked for the chief of mission secretary.

A young woman he had never met stood up. “Good, morning, Mr. Ambassador. May I get you some coffee?”

He was stunned and, for a moment, speechless. She was tall, perhaps five feet ten inches, and on the heavy side, classically Rubenesque. Her soft brown hair hung in waves past her shoulders and highlighted beautiful, doe-shaped hazel eyes and high cheekbones. She had the most perfect mouth and lips he had ever seen and a flawless complexion. “Black,” he finally managed to croak. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” She smiled at him and for the first time in his life, he understood why some men reconsidered their marriage vows. He silently gave thanks that he was a happily married man.

“Ewa Pawlik.” She pronounced her first name
Eva
.

“Ewa Pawlik,” he repeated.

Again, she smiled. “In Poland, Eva is spelled with a
w
.” She placed a carafe and cup and saucer on a tray. “I’m an interpreter and work part time,” she explained, answering his unasked question why they hadn’t met Her English was near perfect and he could only hear a trace of an accent. She followed him into his office and poured him a cup.

“Well, Ewa, what do you do the other part of the time?” He expected to hear she was a university student.

She captivated him with a serious look and the legend of Helen of Troy made sense. “I help at my mother’s surgery in Praga. She’s a physician, Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik.”
Looking at her, he sympathized with artists who tried to capture the magic of true beauty and in the end, always failed. “Well, I must get back to work. Mr. James likes to have a translated summary of the newspapers.”

He watched her as she walked away. He gave a little shudder and forced himself back to reality. She was too beautiful to be true. He made a note to have security run a background check on her. “Who else is here,” he said to himself. He punched at his telephone. He hit pay dirt on the fourth try when Peter Duncan answered. Three minutes later, the former cop, FBI agent, and DOJ prosecutor was in his office, also holding a cup of Ewa’s coffee.

“Lovely girl,” Duncan said.

Bender came right to business. “Have you heard about Friday night?”

“If you mean the so-called diplomatic flight into Modlin Air Base with its cargo of drugs, no.”

Duncan had unknowingly pushed one of Bender’s buttons. “Don’t play smart. You’re wasting my time.”

“Sorry, sir. I learned about it Saturday night through my contacts with the MO. That’s the police.” He tried to pronounce
Milicja Obywatelska
but failed miserably. “I came into the office Sunday to check it out, but no one was at work. I even tried the CIA. No luck there, either.” His face grew hard. “This place is a model of inefficiency.”

Bender was impressed. Duncan had been in Poland less than a week. “You didn’t waste any time getting involved.”

“As I recall, those were my marching orders.” He leaned forward and tried to explain it. “General, you’d opened the door to the police with President Lezno and I was able to walk right in. The Poles accepted me because, like them, I’m a cop. It’s what I am. They got problems. But last week, I discovered there’re a lot of good cops here. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they talk, the way they do business. They only want to do their job.”

“How long would it take to set up a special task force, organized and trained to target drug shipments?”

“It already exists—Special Public Services.”

Bender was incredulous. “Special Public Services? It sounds like they’re in charge of sewers.”

Duncan couldn’t help himself. “They are, more or less.”

“I sold the president of the United States a security-aid package for Poland and I never heard of them. This makes me look like a fool.”

“Now don’t go indulging in self-flagellation, General, It’s not the type of special unit the Poles would talk about, least of all to diplomats. Besides, they got problems.”

“Such as?”

“Confused leadership at the top, poor midlevel management, and rotten intelligence. Not to mention lousy pay, which breeds corruption. But the poor bastards are trying, especially at the operational level.”

“How long before the SPS is fully operational?”

“With a little peaking and tweaking, not long.” Bender looked doubtful. Duncan thought for a moment. “I can arrange a tour so you can see for yourself.”

“Set it up for this week.”

Bender fixed Winslow James with an icy stare. He was doing a double burn over his discovery of the Daily Intelligence Summary and Duncan’s revelation about the existence of Special Public Services. Had his staff deliberately omitted it from the security-aid package to send him a message? Or was the omission the product of poor staff work? He didn’t like either answer. He may have only been ambassador for six weeks but it was time to start sending some very direct messages to his staff. He tapped his read file with a finger. “Winslow, I noticed you included the Daily Intelligence Summary in my read file. Obviously, you talked to Ms. Belfort in Communications. That’s good because I want my staff talking to each other. My question is, Why haven’t I seen it before?”

James stammered something about what the former ambassador preferred. Bender tapped the file. “When did you learn about the incident Friday night at Modlin Air Base?”

“Is it important?”

“I’d say a drug shipment valued at approximately a half
billion dollars that was forced through Poland at the point of a gun with an armed fighter escort is important.”

“Sir, we don’t interfere in internal matters.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

James swallowed. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Winslow, you’re letting important things fall through the cracks. Starting tomorrow, you will receive an in-country situation brief every day you are on station. Further, I want a summary of that briefing in my read file. Speaking of which, it will be waiting for me on my desk when I arrive at seven-thirty.”

James spluttered. What Bender was ordering meant he would have to be in his office by six at the latest and his secretary even earlier. That wasn’t why they had joined the foreign service. Then he saw a way out “Who will prepare the briefing?”

Bender glanced at the ceiling. “As I recall, the CIA occupies the entire third floor of this building.”

“True, but they won’t do it.”

“Would you care to bet your career on it?” Silence from James. “Next, Peter Duncan is setting up a tour at a special police unit this week. Be sure it happens and I want you to come along.” James started to protest but Bender held up his hand. “Finally, please find a good obstetrician for my wife.” He allowed a little smile at the look on James’s face. “She’s expecting.”

James recovered nicely. “Congratulations, sir.” The meeting was over and he wandered back to his office in a state of mild shock. Pregnant secretaries, wives of younger officers and junior staff members were quite common. But not the ambassador’s wife. It was unheard of. He stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Please have Ewa find an obstetrician for Mrs. Bender.”

Moscow

Geraldine Blake and Tom Johnson flanked Vashin when he walked into Vashin Towers. “I’ve had a team of independent security experts in here for a week,” Johnson explained. “They’ve gone over every square millimeter and Vashin Towers is, without doubt, the most secure structure they’ve ever seen.”

“Not to mention,” Geraldine added, “the most elegant.”

“Better than Trump Tower in Manhattan?” Vashin asked.

“Trump Tower is not even a distant second,” Geraldine replied. She guided him up the escalator to the mezzanine where he could view the entrance mall with its collection of expensive boutiques and restaurants. “This is a masterpiece,” she said. “You have created the symbol of the new Russia.” Vashin stood at the rail and took it in. Below him, people streamed in. The boutiques were busy, the restaurants booked weeks in advance, and every office space rented. Vashin Towers was an instantaneous success.

Vashin turned and smiled. “I’m pleased.” A wave of relief swept over the entourage surrounding him.

Geraldine stepped back. “This way, please.” She led him to the marble-lined alcove and the executive elevator. The doors were open. They stepped inside and Geraldine said, “The Center, please.” The doors closed and they were barely aware of movement.

A computer-generated woman’s voice answered. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I have scanned the building and it is secure.”

“The computer system,” Johnson told him, “was designed and installed by Century Communications International. They are the best in the world.” Vashin grunted an answer. The name Century Communications meant nothing to him.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the Center, the new hub of Vashin’s web that was six stories below street level. It was a modern and efficient office complex worthy of any international corporation. “Your decision to build underground was inspired,” Johnson said, stroking Vashin’s ego. “It increased construction costs but paid off in increased security.” He sensed Vashin’s impatience. “Would you like to see the Action Room first?” Vashin nodded hungrily. They marched down the center hall and through what looked like a vault door. They stepped onto a balcony overlooking an operations center. Rows of consoles faced huge computer-driven displays on the walls and people scurried purposefully around on business. Half of the Action Room could have been a military command post. The other half was a finance center with links to every stock exchange in the world.

“Very good,” Vashin said. He barged ahead and into his new office complex. His desk was in the largest chamber and set against a huge picture window overlooking the Action Room.

“My God,” Geraldine whispered to Johnson. “This is right out of a James Bond movie.”

“Where do you think we got the idea.”

Geraldine found her desk and looked into her computer monitor. An embedded security camera scanned her retina and the screen came to life. She signed on and was ready to go to work. She picked up a leather folder, which now integrated her telecommunicator and personal organizer and linked her into the computer system. She walked into Vashin’s office. He was standing by the window overlooking the Action Room, hands clasped behind his back and a rigid, triumphal scowl on his face. A warning bell tinkled in the back of her mind and, for a brief moment, she was looking down a dark corridor into the past. Then it was gone. “Mikhail, whenever you’re ready. The bankers are in the penthouse.”

She followed Vashin into the express elevator that connected his office to the penthouse. They shot 105 stories skyward. The doors opened and they stepped out. Vashin stopped and turned to the guard. “Is it the same?”

The guard answered with a smile. He inserted a passkey and turned it counterclockwise. There was a slight pause as the elevator moved up to clear the door. The doors opened silently and revealed the dark shaft. A blast of cold air hit them and Vashin smiled. The guard twisted the key, the doors closed, and the elevator descended back into place.

Thirteen of the fourteen bankers who had been in Saint Petersburg a month before were waiting for him in the conference room. Only the banker from England was absent. Vashin stood at the head of the table and motioned Geraldine to the podium at the other end. He spoke in Russian and thanked them for coming as Geraldine translated. He liked the way her voice was an echo of his. Then, as planned, he sat down and let her continue.

“Mr. Vashin,” she said, speaking in English, “is very pleased that you have decided to join him in this new venture. As you know, it is Mr. Vashin’s intention to establish Moscow as one of the world’s leading financial centers.” She moved gracefully to the computer-generated displays on the back wall and used a sequence of charts and diagrams to outline Vashin’s plans. Vashin concentrated on the bankers’ reaction, trusting his instincts more than logic to interpret for him. It was Geraldine who was convincing them, not his grand plan.

She came to the heart of the meeting. “Critical to Mr. Vashin’s goal is a strong banking system in Russia mat has links to the world’s international trade centers. By being essential components of such a system, your banks will—”

The banker from Chicago interrupted her. “We know why we’re here. We need to know how Mr. Vashin intends to prime the system. Banks don’t exist on promises or hot air. We need cash reserves, under our control, to underwrite our business.”

“Sufficient funds will be deposited in your Moscow branch to create the reserves you require.”

Now it was the Swiss banker’s turn. “Our governments require us to identity the source of large deposits.” Vashin was up against the basic problem faced by all criminal organizations—how to legitimize illegally obtained money. The reserves and money priming the system had to be clean or the banks would lose their charters.

“Not to worry,” Geraldine replied. “The funds will come to you by electronic transfer from recognized and long-established Russian banks.”

“And these banks will certify the money is legitimate?”

“Of course,” Geraldine replied.

“We can accept those transfers,” the Swiss banker said, “if the funds were originally sourced in a bank recognized by the European Union or the U.S. Federal Reserve system. However, if the funds are sourced in Russia, my charter requires the actual transfer of cash, securities, or gold, to our control.” The other bankers confirmed they had to live with the same constraints.

Geraldine’s voice was matter-of-fact as she explained the problem to Vashin in Russian. “We’ve got to put up the actual money before they will sign on.”

“How much?” Vashin asked.

Geraldine asked the question of the bankers and added up their responses. Her face paled at the total figure. Afraid to tell Vashin, she started to bargain and finally got the initial funding down to two billion dollars each. She relayed the number to Vashin and he jerked his head yes.

“When can we expect it?” the Japanese banker asked in Russian.

Vashin thought for a few moments. He had the funds, in one form or another. But most of it was scattered around the world and had to be physically transferred into the Russian banks he controlled to start the laundering process. “Soon,” he told the bankers. “Before Christmas.”

The meeting over, Geraldine led the men into the dining room for a sumptuous luncheon. Vashin was struck by how easily she switched roles from an accomplished negotiator to a regal hostess. She was a consort worthy of an emperor.

The White House

Turner huddled with her speech writers and Richard Parrish in her study. The two men and one woman who wrote her speeches were, without doubt, the most eclectic group on the presidential staff and could rise to any occasion, swamping her with a torrent of appropriate remarks for the audience. They had to be since Turner made about 300 speeches a year, ranging from causal remarks on the White House lawn to ceremonial addresses to the nation. But not only did they play with the power of the spoken word, they carefully crafted how and where she said it.

“Madame President,” the woman said, “we may be wasting the issue on the National Guard Association. They’re so glad you’re speaking, it doesn’t matter what you say.”

“We’re floating a trial balloon,” Parrish said. “Their response will be critical.”

“Avoid any mention of women in the military and it’ll play like apple pie and motherhood in Iowa,” one of the men said.

“Okay,” Parrish said, “we’re agreed. Let’s look at what’s on the schedule for next week.” They quickly went over the upcoming events and which writer was responsible for what speech.

Dennis stuck his head through the door. “It’s time, Madame President.”

“Thank you, Dennis.” She rose and the speech writers vacated the room as another assistant brought in her coat and gloves.

Because her speech to the National Guard Association was an announced public visit fourteen cars were waiting for her on West Executive Avenue. Her limousine was sandwiched between seven security vehicles for the short drive to the Watergate complex, less than a mile away. The other six cars held her traveling staff. It bothered Turner that the elaborate security conditions placed her in a state of almost total isolation. She had never forgotten Maura’s initial reaction and her simple comment “This turns people off.”

She raised the problem once with the head of the Secret
Service. He replied they had only received four threats against her life that week, an all-time low. She didn’t ask what the all-time high was and that ended the matter.

As usual, a bank of TV cameras and reporters waited for her arrival. Again, the Secret Service scanned the crowd with hard looks, always hypervigilant. Patrick Flannery Shaw waited with the reception committee, a worried look on his face. The TV cameras recorded him speaking to her, although no one could hear his actual words. Turner paused and looked at him. He said something else and she gave him a little, but very obvious push, pointing him down the hall. She sighed and shook her head with the look a mother has for her errant children. Her worried hosts ushered her into the reception area.

The small auditorium was still ringing with applause when Turner left the stage and said good-bye to her hosts. Parrish followed her. “Your remarks about establishing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness touched a nerve. I’ve briefed Joe how to respond to questions.” Parrish led her down a side hall and to a back elevator. Free of the press, they entered a back door into the offices of Stammerville and Holt, Media Consultants. Patrick Shaw grinned when he saw her come in.

“Well, Mizz President,” he drawled, “we sprinkled some dust on the waters.” He introduced her to the two men who would mastermind her campaign. For the next forty minutes, they outlined the realities of what it would take to elect her and a strategy to capture key states. An assistant came in with a videotape recorded from the CNN, Fox, and CNC-TV news channels. It was the first reaction to her speech. But the coverage centered mainly on the incident in the hall and not what she had said.

Shaw roared with approval when Liz Gordon from CNC-TV ended her coverage with “We don’t know what the president said to her old friend and advisor, Patrick Shaw. But it does appear he is in the presidential doghouse. A knowledgeable insider told this reporter that she is rejecting his advice to run for the presidency in her own right.”

“Who’s the knowledgeable insider?” Parrish asked.

“Me,” Shaw replied. “Ms. Gordon is in our stable.”

“What’s the point?” Parrish asked.

Stammerville answered. “The point, Mr. Parrish, is to keep our opponents guessing as long as possible, not only about the president’s intentions, but about Mr. Shaw’s role in the campaign.”

“Patrick’s a liability,” Turner said. “But he’s critical to my campaign.” She stood and paced the room. “This rift was staged to focus attention on Patrick, not the issue I raised with the National Guard. I’m deeply concerned about combat readiness in our armed forces. I wanted to air the idea of an independent commission on it without stirring up a partisan controversy. Identifying problems and finding right solutions may take years.”

Shaw frowned. “You might not like the answers, Mizz President.” He wanted to tell her that independent commissions had the bad habit of revealing the truth, a definite liability in his world. “If you’re serious about winning, postpone the commission until after the election.”

Holt caught the slight tilt of Turner’s head and the set of her mouth. His political instincts warned him that this was not an issue they should raise during a campaign and he had to change her mind. His words came slow. “By appointing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness you may be opening yourself to criticism on a vulnerable issue. Better to wait and let the other side raise it. Then appoint the commission and claim it’s far too serious a question for partisan politics.”

“And take it off the table,” Shaw added. He studied the president, hoping it was now a dead issue. But his instincts warned him otherwise.

“Madame President,” Holt continued, “we need to finalize two items. First, will it be Madeline Turner or Maddy Turner?”

The question was crucial, for the answer would set the campaign’s tone. Would it be presidential or would it be personal? An image of her imperial motorcade driving down an empty street flashed in her mind’s eye. “It’s Maddy Turner.”

“Second, the timing of your announcement is critical.
We recommend delaying it until after the first of the year. Perhaps in February.”

Turner pulled into herself and reran all the old arguments. So much of it was gamesmanship and logic said that Holt was right. But her instincts were sending a different message. She made her decision. “Before Christmas.”

Shaw bit off his reply. She had gotten that one wrong.

Kutno, Poland

Winslow James sat in the backseat of the black staff car with Bender and Peter Duncan for the ride to the country manor house where the Poles’ SPS, Special Public Services, was headquartered. It was a long ride into the countryside west of Warsaw and the narrow two-lane road was congested with heavy truck traffic. “This road,” James said, “is the major artery connecting Warsaw to western Poland. As you can see, Poland needs a modern highway system.”