Edge of Honor (21 page)

“Second, I want to open an intelligence channel to the Polish SPS through Mr. Duncan in order to…”

Riley shook his head and interrupted him. “Impossible.”

Bender drilled him with a hard look. “…in order to give the SPS the intelligence they need to effectively target the Russian Mafiya.”

Like most government bureaucracies, the CIA was very protective of its turf. While its main objective was intelligence gathering, it demanded control over who had access to its information to prevent a compromise of the system. In general, it was a good policy. Evan Riley’s face was impassive. Above all else, he had to protect his sources and he knew the danger of working with outsiders. Personally, he trusted no one, especially ambassadors. “I’ll forward your request to my superiors.”

“And I expect an answer tomorrow.”

“Then, sir, your answer will be negative.”

Bender took a deep breath. He had dealt with the CIA before. “I understand your need to protect sources. By the time we pass the information to the SPS, they’ll have no idea where it came from.”

“But you can’t guarantee that.”

Bender drummed the table with his fingers. He had to get Riley’s attention. “You probably know that I am in direct communications with Mazana Hazelton.” Again, a little nod from Riley. But James was incredulous and gaped at Bender. If Bender was reporting to the national security advisor, then he had access to the president and was bypassing the secretary of state. Bender smiled at James. “That’s close-hold information and not to go beyond this room.” He turned his full attention on Riley. “Have you ever seen the president angry? Let me assure you, you never want to be the object of that anger.”

Riley’s face paled. “I’m quite sure something can be worked out.”

Bender stood and left. He had the CIA’s attention.

Air Force One, over Texas

Shaw sat beside Turner as she thumbed through the folder with the biographies and photos of the Texas oil and cattle barons she would be meeting in less than an hour. “Don’t let the good-old-boy routine fool you, Mizz President. You can cut their Texas accents like butter on a hot griddle and they’ll be all Southern charm and smiles, but they didn’t get where they are by being fools. All but two are self-made billionaires. Don’t be afraid to speak to them in terms they understand.”

Turner raised an eyebrow. She knew the men by reputation but had never met them. “I’m not about to play the Southern belle.”

Shaw shook his big head. “Think more like the widow who has to run the ranch to keep the family together. They care about two things: price supports for beef and deple
tion allowances for oil. And they’ll want to hear from you on both of ’em.”

“I’m not in favor of either.”

“Then let Congress take the heat, not you. Sidestep the issue. Tell them money is like manure. You got to spread it around to do any good.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“A lot to them. I’ll backdoor a few comments like, ‘The president is more concerned with maintaining low prices than supports or allowances.’ They’ll put the two together and think you can live with the current system as long as they don’t get greedy. They’ll be reaching for the checkbooks before we’re back on Air Force One.”

“It’s so manipulative.”

“They know what we’re doing, Mizz President. Never forget these gentlemen are gamblers and they hedge their bets. They’ll contribute more to whoever Leland backs for president. But they’re willing to invest a couple of million to keep the door open just in case we win.”

“Speaking of Leland, what is he up to these days?”

“Like everyone else, lying low until he’s sure you’ve got the wherewithal to run.”

Turner handed him the folder and buzzed for her traveling staff. “How far is it to Roswell from Dallas?” she asked.

“Approximately an hour’s flying time,” came the answer.

“I’d like to stop there for a few hours tomorrow and visit Brian. I’ve never been to NMMI.”

Worried glances all around. “That’s pretty short notice, Madame President,” Parrish murmured.

“I’m quite sure you can arrange it,” she said.

Warsaw

The call from the third floor of the embassy came at exactly 4:00
P.M.
, the last Friday of November. It was Evan Riley. “Mr. Ambassador, I was wondering if we might meet in the bubble room. Could Mr. Duncan also be there?” Bender said they would be there in fifteen min
utes. Riley was waiting for them when they arrived and actually allowed a smile. “Mr. Ambassador, I must apologize for taking so long to get back to you, but the wheels grind slowly sometimes.” They sat down and Riley handed Bender a thin folder.

“Let’s see,” Duncan said, enjoying the chance to heckle the CIA head of station. “On Wednesday morning, General Bender asked for a response in twenty-four hours.” He did the math in his head. “That was fifty-six hours ago. For the CIA, that’s moving at warp speed.”

“Well, we did sidestep some mountains on this one.”

Duncan chuckled, enjoying the exchange. “You mean you monitored an interesting phone call between the general and the national security advisor.”

“For the record, no,” Riley said. “The ambassador has been the soul of patience on this one. We checked you out. Most impressive, Mr. Duncan. I had no idea. How many mobsters have you put in jail?”

“Important ones? Six.”

“Is that why there’s a contract on your head?”

“Only one? I’m disappointed.” The two men laughed.

Bender opened the folder and read. “How good is this information?” He passed the folder to Duncan to read.

“Please, sir,” Riley replied, “don’t ask that question. Let’s just say it’s worth acting on.”

Duncan shook his head. “It’s too good to be true. A major shipment of money all on one airplane whose last stop is at Modlin Air Base here in Poland. Mikhail Vashin can’t be that stupid.”

“That,” Riley said, “was the initial reaction of our analysts. But we’ve put together a profile on him that makes for very interesting reading. Vashin is acting within the Russian tradition of grand gestures, big buildings, fancy cars, and beautiful women. It appeals to the Russian character and success breeds authority and power. There is one story about a bizarre funeral last April that is very illuminating.” He gave a little shudder. “Anyway, on analysis, this becomes more believable.”

“So who are we dealing with here?” Bender asked.

“An egomaniac,” Riley answered. He paused for a mo
ment. “I’ll get a copy of the profile to you.” Another pause. “Vashin is emerging as the new Russian strongman.”

“A new Stalin?” Duncan asked.

“Different, but just as ruthless.”

Duncan rubbed his jaw, calculating the probability of success. “Sunday night is awfully short notice and I don’t think SPS can be ready in time. This’ll be their first operation. They need a success the first time out. It’s too risky.”

Now it was Riley’s turn to press for action. But he had to convince them without revealing, or even alluding to, the source of the CIA’s information. The CIA had a spy so highly placed that Vashin was wired for sound. “Our analysts have correlated this with other intelligence and believe this money shipment is a one-time event. It’s a chance to send Vashin a message he understands.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Bender asked.

Again, Riley briefly considered what he could tell them. “We estimate approximately fifteen to twenty billion dollars in securities, gold, and actual money.”

The buccaneer in Duncan came out and he licked his lips in anticipation. “This is better than a Spanish treasure galleon loaded with gold.” Another thought came to him. “How much space does that much money take up?”

Riley shrugged. “At least a planeload.”

Bender made the decision. “Pass this on to the SPS.”

“Can you keep Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers out of the loop?” Riley asked.

“Why?” Bender replied.

“That’s another question we’d rather not answer.”

Duncan exhaled loudly. “It’s still pretty short notice.”

“You can make it happen,” Bender reassured him.

“What exactly,” Duncan wondered, “is Vashin going to do with twenty billion dollars?”

Moscow

Vashin threw down the latest edition of the
Megapolis Express
. He was furious at the lead article detailing the current successes of Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense. “Why isn’t Rodonov dead?” he shouted.

“I’ll find out,” Geraldine answered, watching carefully for the signs of a fit. She retreated to her office and placed a call to Tom Johnson. Then, to be on the safe side, she called Le Coq d’Or and ordered the two girls, Naina and Liya, to come to the penthouse suite. She sat at her desk and scrolled through Vashin’s calendar while she weighed her options. Vashin was changing and that offered new possibilities as well as dangers. Johnson arrived and they went into the penthouse where Vashin was still standing in front of the big picture window overlooking Moscow.

“Mikhail,” Geraldine said, bringing him back to the moment.

“Why isn’t Rodonov in the ground?”

“He didn’t take the honey trap,” Johnson said. “Apparently, he’s a happily married family man.” Vashin shot him a deadly look. “We can’t blame the girls,” Johnson hastily added.

“Then use more direct means.”

“That’s an easy solution with potentially bad consequences. No one must be able to trace it to you or your organization. We made one failed attempt.”

Vashin’s head jerked up. “I didn’t know there had been an attempt on his life.”

Johnson gave a little nod. “Perhaps you remember the car the Belarussian separatists blew over the Moscow Business Bank in Minsk?”

Vashin looked puzzled. “But that had nothing to do with Rodonov.”

Johnson said glumly, “Rodonov was in Minsk for a secret meeting. We discovered he would be driving down Serafimovicha Street. So we planted a bomb like the Belarussians use in the sewer and waited for him to drive over it. We got the wrong car.”

“Why wasn’t I told about it?”

Johnson was brutally frank. “For two reasons. First, because we failed. Second…”

Vashin interrupted him. “So it could never be traced back to me.”

“Exactly.”

Vashin looked out the window. “Very good.” Johnson took that as a dismissal and left, leaving them alone.

Geraldine sensed the timing was right. “Why should you be concerned with Vitaly Rodonov? He’s beneath you, not worthy of your concern. Besides, he did go to NATO and saved our European landing rights. The gateway is still wide open.”

“But not as open as it was before,” Vashin muttered.

“Progress is not a straight road. You taught me that.” She sensed Vashin was in a receptive mood. “Vashin Towers is a major junction on that road and a symbol of what you can do. But it is a building. Now the people need to see the man behind the great accomplishments. Perhaps it is time for grand gestures and maybe even forgiveness. Show the people, your followers, that great power also means mercy.”

Vashin liked what he was hearing. “Perhaps, you’re right.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Are you still having the same dream?” He nodded, not looking at her. “Only the gods live in clouds, Mikhail. I’m certain it’s a message. What else can it mean? Everything you do, all that you touch, should be big and godlike.”

The Hill

The Box echoed with commands and, at exactly eleven o’clock Saturday morning, the Corps marched out of Hagerman Barracks. The ranks were a little straighter, the turns sharper, and their step more purposeful as they came onto the parade field. The Tactical Leadership Advisors watched nervously as their charges passed by and, occasionally, cast furtive glances at the waiting crowd. The grandstands were overflowing and the field lined with spectators. What had promised to be a normal Saturday morning parade attended by a few townspeople had turned into a major event.

The reason for the sudden interest was sitting on the reviewing stand with General McMasters, his wife, and the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Madame President,” Lenora McMasters asked, “have you ever seen a military parade before?”

“This is my first time,” Maddy replied. “Does the town always turn out like this?”

“Sometimes,” Lenora answered. “It’s probably because you are the first sitting president to ever visit Roswell.” They talked while the Corps moved onto the field.

“I think Brian has mentioned you three or four times. He calls you the Cookie Lady. How many have you baked?”

Lenora laughed. “I quit counting after the first year. It’s such a little thing, even silly, but for some reason…”

Maddy reached out and touched Lenora’s hand. “Thank you.” They fell silent as the superintendent stepped up to the microphone. He began by calling for the chaplain to give the invocation. The appropriate honors were played for the president and adjutant’s call, was sounded. “Colonel Day,” Maddy asked, “what’s happening?”

The commandant beamed with pride as he explained a standard military parade. Then it was time for the Corps to pass in review. McMasters and Day escorted her to the front of the reviewing stand to review the cadets as they passed by. The commands were sharp as Alpha Troop approached, its guidon lowered. “Eyes right” echoed over the field. As one, the cadets’ heads snapped to the right.

“They’re wonderful,” Maddy said. “You must be very proud of them.”

“We are, Madame President,” McMasters said. He gave a low laugh. “And sometimes, they’re show dogs.” Maddy looked at him, not sure how to interpret his remark. “They’re still kids, Madame President. But they know when to shine.”

“Indeed they do.” She watched as Brian’s troop marched by. She barely recognized her son and her eyes misted over.

It had been a long day and finally Maddy was alone with Brian in his room. “I can’t believe how neat and clean it is.”

“We had a big room inspection this morning.”

“Before the parade?”

“And we had an open ranks inspection before that.”

The mother in Maddy came out. “That’s asking too much.”

“Ah, Mom. I got it all locked up. Thanks to Maggot and the Trog.”

Maddy looked at her son, hearing something new. He was not the same willful, very spoiled boy she had sent to New Mexico. “Are you happy here?”

Brian shrugged. “I got some good friends.” He fell silent. Then, “I want to come back next year.”

Near Modlin Air Base, Poland

A steady stream of small vans and cars started arriving at the old red brick warehouse shortly after dark on Sunday evening. The routine was the same for each vehicle; the driver stopped and gave the recognition signal to the guard, then the two or three passengers would get out and clear their weapons as other guards escorted them to the side of the warehouse, then another team would search the vehicle to ensure it was not booby-trapped or carried weapons. Finally, the vehicle was waved into the warehouse where it was quickly unloaded. The driver would
drive through and load his passengers on the back side before rapidly driving away.

Inside the warehouse, the canvas money bags or suitcases that had been delivered were loaded into three Brink’s-style armored trucks. It was hard to tell who was more nervous, the Polish Mafia delivering the money or the Russian Mafiya receiving it. But the collection point worked well, and soon the last vehicle arrived, a dark gray Mercedes-Benz sedan. It went through the same routine and was waved inside.

The moment the car stopped, a cloud of gas erupted from the trunk, out of the grille, and from underneath. The last thing the driver did was to throw open his door to escape. That only triggered another burst of gas. Within six seconds, everyone in the warehouse, including the driver, was unconscious.

Outside, the guards heard a brief commotion as warnings were shouted. Then all was quiet. Two guards ran for the door to check. But when they opened the door, escaping gas knocked them out. Bright lights clicked on and froze the remaining guards in an illuminated tableau as a bullhorn ordered them to drop their weapons and freeze. One guard fired his AK-47 blindly into the night. A single shot dropped him before he got off four rounds.

Black-uniformed men stepped out of the shadows and secured the area before going inside where the men were starting to regain consciousness. All but one would suffer from a splitting headache and have a bitter taste in his mouth. The exception was dead from an asthmatic reaction to the gas. The commander of SPS drove up in his command Humvee and got out. He spoke briefly to his men before going inside. The prisoners were all gagged, blindfolded, and bound with plastic flex cuffs. He allowed a tight smile as the Mercedes was recharged with gas and the small convoy formed, ready to move.

Near Poznan, Poland

The bunker at Crown Central was unusually busy for a Sunday night. Crown Central was the middle early warn
ing and GCI radar site that formed a chain across the middle of Poland with its sister sites, Crown East and Crown West. Normally, only the radar operator was awake at eleven o’clock and his main problem was to find something to read. But tonight, the entire crew was awake and still in a state of euphoric shock mixed with childlike delight over the new radar system the Americans had finished installing the day before. They never suspected a system like the AN/TPS-59 even existed. The contrast between the U.S.-built radar with its phased-array antenna, built-in antijam circuits, and sophisticated computer system and the old Soviet Barlock radar defied comparison. A vague image of the Wright brothers’
Flyer
and a modern jet fighter flitted through the back of the young radar operator’s mind.

The American technician stood over the radar operator’s shoulder as the target they had been waiting for appeared on the scope, 165 miles to the west and still over Germany. “Roll the control ball and place the cursor over the target,” he explained. “Now press down on the ball until you feel the first detent.” The computer analyzed the target and spat out a wealth of digital information, displaying the key numbers on the screen next to the target. The target was an Ilyushin-76. “Good,” the American said. “If you want the system to track the target, press the ball to the second detent.” The Pole did as he said and the system flashed. The target became a green inverted
V
. “Now you can leave it or tag it up as a bandit—a hostile aircraft.”

“It’s a Vnukova aircraft,” the radar operator explained. “That’s a Russian diplomatic flight. We get two or three a week. They often land at Modlin Air Base near Warsaw when they are going to Europe but never on the return flight.”

“It’s hostile,” a man standing behind the American said. He was dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with an automatic strapped on his hip. Only the small patch on his right shoulder with the lightning bolt
S
s flanking the
P
with its fishhook tail announced he was with Special Public Services.

The American reached over the radar operator and
punched at the keyboard. The inverted green
V
turned red. A warning light flashed and the display went to a backup mode. “I’ll be damned,” the American said, “he’s jamming us. I didn’t know the Ilyushin had a jamming capability.” His hand reached for the antijam circuits on the overhead panel.

The SPS officer grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “This is a special flight. We don’t want to scare them off. I want him to land.”

“But eastbound flights never land,” the radar operator said.

“This one will,” the SPS officer predicted.

Now they had to wait. With each passing minute, the SPS officer looked more worried. Finally, the altitude readout on the target started to decrease. “The Ilyushin is descending,” the radar operator said. “He’s on track for Modlin Air Base.”

A look of triumph flashed on the SPS officer’s face as he reached for the telephone. “Put me through to Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers,” he told the operator. As expected, Fedor could not be reached and the SPS officer left a message. “Please tell Mr. Fedor that we have a Russian aircraft landing at Modlin Air Base without diplomatic clearance.”

Modlin Air Base, Poland

The Ilyushin coming from Europe touched down just before midnight and squealed to a halt, its brakes howling from the heat generated by landing on the short runway. Its rear cargo doors opened and armed men wearing camouflaged uniforms streamed out to secure the area before the plane taxied in. They were not regular military but a special unit recruited from disaffected former members of Spetznaz, Russian special forces. They ran into the surrounding trees and set up a perimeter. Satisfied the area was safe, they radioed the area was secure.

But they should have gone fifty feet deeper into the trees.

The Ilyushin lumbered clear of the runway and moved
slowly to the parking ramp where a bank of portable floodlights were switched on, creating an island of light around the Il-76. The aircrew shut down engines as a fuel truck drove up under its wing. The pumper got out of the cab and connected the hose to the single-point refueling valve. Following procedures, the aircrew shut off all power and then got off the aircraft with the remaining guards. The older Ilyushins had a bad habit of not grounding correctly and generating unwanted sparks, which could be very unhealthy during refueling.

The men guarding the perimeter were tired and bored. They had gone through a similar drill at six pickup points in the last fifteen hours without incident. Soon, they removed their night-vision goggles and cigarettes were passed around. They came alert when the convoy approached. Eager to finish, they pulled back to the edge of the trees as a dark gray Mercedes led the three armored trucks up to the Ilyushin. One heard some movement in the trees behind him. He listened for a few moments and then wrongly decided it was an animal disturbed by their presence.

It all happened at once. The pumper disconnected the fuel hose from the aircraft, the men standing around the Mercedes-Benz collapsed to the ground, and the portable floodlights went out. The rear doors of the armored trucks burst open and men wearing gas masks poured out, surrounding the aircraft. A hail of gunfire rained from the trees and cut down the perimeter guards. It was over as quickly as it had begun.