Edge of Honor (29 page)

Regretfully, he poured the whiskey back into the bottle and corked it. “Make the deal.”

Moscow

It was a business meeting easily arranged. Tom Johnson simply called headquarters Transport Aviation, identified who he worked for, and asked to speak to the commander, Gen. Col. Peter Prudnokov. Two hours later, Johnson walked into the gray and decaying building that was less than a mile from the Kremlin. A severe woman wearing the rank of lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. She led the way to the only working elevator and they rode in silence up to the third floor.

Prudnokov’s office was as austere as the man himself. “What is the purpose of this meeting?” the general demanded.

“I’m responsible for Mr. Vashin’s security,” Johnson said.

“I know what you do,” Prudnokov replied.

“It is becoming increasingly difficult to provide the security Mr. Vashin requires, especially when he flies. Perhaps your Tupolev can be made available for his use?” The aircraft in question was a VIP version of the Tupolev-204.

“That requires the approval of the Security Council and President Kraiko.”

“Easily arranged.”

“Then I will make the Tupolev available,” Prudnokov replied. “Is that all?”

“No.” Johnson came to the reason he was there personally. “Last September, Mr. Vashin told me to find your
daughter.” Johnson handed Prudnokov a photograph. “Is this your daughter?” The general’s face was impassive as he studied the picture. He nodded once. “I’m sorry to tell you that I have bad news,” Johnson said. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“How did she die?”

The image of the naked girl walking to the elevator in Vashin’s old penthouse and being shoved down the dark shaft burned in Johnson’s memory. “I’m not sure, but she may have been murdered.” He reached into the bag he carried and handed Prudnokov a small ornate silver urn. “Her ashes.”

Prudnokov stared at the American. “Who did it? I must know.”

“If Mr. Vashin approves, I’ll find out.”

“I would be most grateful if this was only between you and me.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Johnson said. The hook was set. But first, he had to notify his control that the operation was in motion.

Vashin leafed through the thick notebooks like a child with a new toy. He was fascinated by the wealth of information, photos, and endless trivia about the president of the United States. “Has Geraldine seen these?” Vashin asked.

“Of course not,” Yaponets answered. “She knows nothing of your interest.”

Vashin turned the pages of the third notebook. “Who’s this with her son?”

Yaponets studied the photos taken at NMMI. “The smaller boy is Matt Pontowski. He is Brian Turner’s roommate and they’re good friends. Brian calls him Maggot.”

“Pontowski. I know that name.”

“The boy’s great-grandfather was the president of the United States,” Yaponets explained. “His father, Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski III, is currently in Poland training the Polish Air Force. In the last folder, there is mention of a romantic connection between Turner and the father.”

“So, the wolves breed more cubs to trouble us.”

Yaponets studied the photos, his eyes hard and unblinking. “We know where they live.”

Vashin nodded in agreement.

“There is another problem,” Yaponets said. “My contacts in the States tell me the CIA knows about your dreams.”

Vashin turned to the big window. “The source of this information?”

“An aide who works for Sen. John Leland. He likes high-priced call girls and talks to impress them. He blabbers about his work on Leland’s intelligence committee and what the CIA tells them.”

“Does he know who the CIA spy is?”

“No.”

“So we must find the leak ourselves,” Vashin said.

Yaponets listed the most likely suspects. “There is me and the Council of Brothers. No one else that I know of.”

“And Geraldine,” Vashin added.

“Kill her,” Yaponets muttered. It was an easy decision. Yaponets and the Council of Brothers were
vor
, the old guard criminals, and while they might conspire and plot to overthrow Vashin, they would never betray him to an outsider.

At first, Vashin said nothing. His survival depended on a precarious system of checks and balances where he compartmentalized potential threats to his life. Geraldine and Johnson served a vital purpose and protected him from his fellow
vor
. But when a decision had to be made, there was no choice. “Have the American bring her in,” Vashin finally said.

Tom Johnson stood in the door of Geraldine’s office. “Mikhail wants to see you.”

This is different
, she thought.
Why didn’t he just buzz?
She arched an expressive eyebrow as her inner alarm bells went off. Any break in the routines surrounding Vashin signified trouble and, for a brief moment, panic nibbled at the edges of her self-control. She stood and followed the big American into the penthouse. He held the door for her and then left her alone with Vashin and Yaponets. The panic was back when Yaponets smiled at her. She used
the only weapon at hand and lifted her chin to give him a condescending nod. But Vashin was looking out the window and didn’t see it.

Panic ripped at her when the doors to the private elevator whispered open and two bodyguards stepped out. The doors closed and the guards stood there, blocking that exit. Vashin turned from the window and looked at her. She knew what was coming.

An icy contempt for these men swept over her. She threw Yaponets a contemptuous look. “Really, is this necessary?”

“Undress,” Vashin ordered.

Don’t panic!
she raged to herself. Slowly, she picked at the buttons on her blouse as her mind raced, looking for a way out. She dropped her blouse casually to the floor.
What will he believe?
With deliberate nonchalance, she unzipped her skirt and let it fall. She pushed the straps to her slip off her shoulders and felt its silky smoothness slip away. An answer came to her.
Can I do it?
She willed her hands not to shake as she unhooked her bra and dropped her panties. Finally she stepped out of her shoes.

Vashin pointed at the elevator and she walked to the closed doors. One of the guards inserted a key in the control box and twisted it counterclockwise. He stepped aside as the doors opened. Geraldine turned away from the dark chasm in front of her. She raised her head and looked at Vashin. She was regal, the queen going to her execution. “Why?” Her tone of voice, her bearing, demanded an answer.

“You told the CIA about my dreams,” Vashin said tonelessly.

The irony of it was overwhelming.
How utterly stupid
, she thought. It was enough to steel her nerve. She lifted her chin and stared him down. “CIA? Please, Mikhail, I
am
British.” She turned to the open door. “I told Johnson, no one else.”
Ask why?
she prayed.

Vashin held up his hand, stopping the thug from pushing her into the darkness. The pause lasted an eternity. “Why?”

She didn’t turn around as the cold updraft from the elevator well washed over her.
Don’t shake! No signs of
weakness
. “He’s your chief of security. He had to know.”
ASK WHY!
she raged to herself.

He did and she closed her eyes in relief. “Who knows how the gods work. What if someone else had the same dream?”

The thug looked at Vashin, waiting for his signal. Vashin hesitated. She hadn’t begged for mercy or gone into a long, hysterical explanation. She had simply been Geraldine. His jaw worked and his facial muscles twitched. Was she telling him the truth? The thug moved toward her and raised his hand. Vashin shook his head and motioned him back. “Give her a lie detector test,” he ordered.

Geraldine turned and walked slowly away. She stepped over her clothes and disappeared into her office, still the queen.

The technician administering the polygraph had worked for the KGB for more than twenty years before he found himself unemployed. During that time, he had given thousands of tests to all types of prisoners before, during, and after interrogations. More often than not, the subject was stripped naked as part of the degradation the KGB favored. But he had never given a polygraph to a woman like this one. They could strip her clothes away but never her dignity. His fingers dabbed the gel lightly on her skin and his hands trembled when he applied the sensor pads. He wanted this one to live. He looked at Vashin and began with the standard control questions. Finally, he started the real questioning.

“Is your name Geraldine Blake?”

“No.”

“What is your true name?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Do you work for the CIA?”

“Of course not.”

The technician made a mark on the readout. “She’s telling the truth.”

Vashin leaned forward, unable to remain silent. “Who told the CIA?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Johnson.”

Vashin picked up a phone. “Arrest the American.” He
listened for a moment and hung up, his face frozen. “Johnson has disappeared.”

The Hill

The bleachers were packed with teenage girls for the Saturday morning parade and they all stood when the regiment passed in review. The girls conducted their own inspection of the cadets, using a far different system of gigs and demerits than were found in NMMI’s
Blue Book
. The commander of D Troop called “Eyes right” before reaching the reviewing stand so his two platoons could inspect back. But a little cry of “Aren’t they cute!” from the stands caused a ripple of laughter among the boys in the crowd who were there on their own reconnaissance mission.

It was the old love-hate relationship between the townies and the cadets. But if the truth were known, it was based more on gender than anything else.

“Did you see the buns on that tall guy,” the cadet marching next to Zeth said. “He was really checking us out.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Zeth replied.

The Corps marched off the field and into the Box, the quadrangle inside Hagerman Barracks. The squadrons took their respective places and waited for the results of the morning’s inspections and parade. The winners were announced over the loudspeaker and the honors were split among three troops, all from different squadrons. The cadets from each squadron roared their approval until the windows shook. They were “Rocking the Box.” Then the names of cadets newly promoted in rank were read off as the cheering died away. That was the good part. At NMMI, cadets learned early that life is tough and the formation ended as the names of cadets demoted in rank were announced.

The last name was Zeth Trogger.

“This place sucks,” Brian muttered when he and Matt were back in their room. He quickly stripped off his white
web belt and hung up his coat, careful to brush it down first and button it up. “They busted her because they thought she was cheating.”

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I talked to Zeth’s chem teacher and told him I was tutoring her. I answered all his questions.”

“Yeah,” Brian muttered. “But what about the Dean? Did he believe you?”

“I never talked to the dean. He used to teach chemistry and I heard he called her in and gave her an oral quiz.”

“Which means,” Brian said, “he flunked her. She studied hard. Talk about unfair. Let’s go talk to her.”

“Too late,” Matt told him. “Her parents are here and I heard she got a furlough for the weekend.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m pissed. Let’s go talk to Pelton and see if he wants to help.”

“Help with what?”

“Nailing the dean.”

Early Sunday morning, the two Secret Service agents followed the pickup truck out of Roswell. “Shit,” the driver muttered. “The little bastards almost got away from us. Whose truck is it anyway?”

Chuck Sanford made a call on his cell phone and within moments had the answer. “It belongs to a cadet, Rick Pelton. He’s the regimental executive officer.”

“Should I let them know we’re here?” the driver asked.

Sanford thought for a moment. The boys had gotten a last-minute permit to leave the post for Sunday and had taken off with Pelton. For Sanford, there was only one question. Was Brian safe? The circumstances, the evidence, and current intelligence said yes. But more important, Sanford’s situational awareness confirmed it. But did he want to intervene? Brian was showing signs of growing up and boys did need some wiggle room. “Observation only,” Sanford said.

But to be on the safe side, he called for a backup unit.

“I’ll be,” the driver said. “I think they’re going to Donaldson’s sheep ranch.” The dean of the Washington
press corps had attended NMMI and had never lost his ties with New Mexico.

“What the hell are they doing?” Sanford wondered.

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Richard Parrish had been a sound sleeper until he became Maddy Turner’s chief of staff. After that, his subconscious kicked in and the faintest telephone ring, even in his neighbor’s townhouse, snapped him fully awake. It was a rare week when the night duty officer didn’t call him at least twice. Usually, he took care of the matter over the phone and seldom went to the White House where some sharp-eyed reporter would inevitably see him drive in. That report would be good for at least one interruption on the cable news channels and endless inquiries for Joe Litton to handle.

The phone call that woke him early Sunday morning on Groundhog Day had nothing to do with the rodent seeing his shadow, and Parrish was in his office in less than twenty minutes. The duty officer and Joe Litton were waiting for him. “
Et tu
, Joseph?” Parrish muttered, not trying to be funny in the least.

Litton handed Parrish the news story and the photo taken off the Internet. “This one has potential.”

Parrish gritted his teeth as he read the news article from the British tabloid. “Where did they get the photo?”

“It had to come from the U.S.,” Litton answered. “It crosses the line and there is no way any of our rags would break the story, not even N.T.” N.T. was the
National Tattler
, the most salacious of the rumor-mongering tabloids in the United States. “So the backdoor British gambit.”