Edge of Honor (3 page)

Lenora McMasters knew exactly what to do.

Forty minutes later, a female cadet saluted Pontowski when he emerged from the car depositing him at the superintendent’s quarters. “Mrs. McMasters is waiting for you,” the cadet said as Pontowski returned the salute. Pontowski was impressed with the girl’s presence and appearance. She was neatly turned out in a Class-E BDU, battle dress uniform, with rolled-up sleeves and brightly shined boots. She was five feet six inches tall, on the husky side, and her blond hair was pulled into a tight French braid. “She’s baking cookies for the Rats,” the cadet said, a pretty smile playing with the corners of her mouth.

Pontowski glanced at her name tag. “Thank you Miss Trogger.” She held the door for him and pointed him toward the kitchen. “Now that smells good,” he said. The cadet led the way, moving with the coordination of a well-trained athlete.

Sarah Turner saw him first. “I hope you know how
to bake cookies,” she said, taking the newcomer in. She examined him with a wisdom far beyond the average eleven-year-old and knew the single star on each shoulder meant he was a general. She put his age at about the same as her mother’s, forty-six. He was tall, a little over six feet, and his gray-green flight suit hung on his lanky frame. His hair was brown, the cowlick at the back barely controllable, and his blue eyes were set close together. She didn’t like his prominent, hawklike nose and didn’t know it was a Pontowski trademark his grandfather had made famous.

“Sarah,” Maura O’Keith said, “be polite.” She held up her hands in resignation. They were covered in cookie dough. “Maura O’Keith. Glad to meet you.”

Pontowski gave a low laugh and rather than attempt to shake hands, gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I never baked a cookie in my life, but I’m willing to learn.”

Lenora McMasters came across the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. They embraced. “Welcome back to NMMI, Matt.”

“Doing the cookie-lady routine,” he said, holding her at arm’s length.

She laughed. “I have no secrets from you, do I?”

Pontowski smiled but said nothing. Lenora McMasters was a beautiful fifty-eight-year-old who was equal parts empress dowager and mother hen. Today she was being the latter, softening the shock of military life for the new sixth class. But she was not a lady to trifle with. She and her husband made a perfect team.

“I’m Sarah Turner,” the little girl announced.

Pontowski turned to her and they shook hands formally. “Matt Pontowski,” he replied. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Is your son a big bully?” Sarah asked.

“Sarah!” Maura said.

“Actually,” Pontowski said, “he’s about your size. I don’t think he’s a bully.”

Lenora McMasters took charge. “Matt, you probably want to shower and change. Why don’t you do that while we finish up here. Then, Zeth”—she shot a look at the cadet—“can take you all over to John’s office.”

“Thanks,” Pontowski replied. “Save a cookie for me.”

“The guest suite is up the stairs and straight ahead,” Lenora said. They all watched as he disappeared out the door. “We first knew Matt when he was a lieutenant,” Lenora explained.

“What was he like then?” Maura asked.

“A typical fighter pilot. All macho and full of himself. He cut quite a swath among the young ladies. Then he got married, thank goodness.”

“Why, thank goodness?” Sarah asked.

“Well,” Lenora explained, shooting another glance at the cadet, Zeth Trogger, “sometimes young women act very foolish when they get around handsome young men. Especially fighter pilots.” The McMasters were always teaching.

“Isn’t he the grandson of President Pontowski?” Sarah asked.

Lenora confirmed it. “Yes, he is.” Her eyes grew thoughtful. “President Matthew Zachary Pontowski. What a wonderful man. That was twenty years ago. Where does time go? I can remember the day he died in 1995 as clearly as yesterday.”

“I remember my mother crying,” Zeth said. “We were watching the funeral on TV and General Pontowski was giving the eulogy at the National Cathedral. But that was before he was a brigadier general. His wife was there in the front row. She was beautiful.”

“Yes, she was,” Lenora said. “Matt was devastated when she was killed.”

“What happened?” Sarah asked, her interest now totally aroused. Lenora hesitated, not sure what to tell the young girl.

“You might as well tell her,” Maura said. “She won’t quit pestering people until she finds out.”

“Well,” Lenora said, “Shoshana was murdered by assassins at Tokyo’s Narita airport. But she was very brave and killed four of them before they shot her.” She felt an explanation was in order. “Matt met Shoshana in Spain. He was there on leave. She was a Mossad agent, that’s the Israeli CIA, and on an assignment. Later, she and Matt
met again in Israel. Unfortunately, war broke out between the Arabs and the Israelis again. It was touch-and-go for the Israelis for awhile. Shoshana served as a medic in the war and was wounded. She suffered some severe burns. But she recovered nicely. They married a year later.”

Zeth Trogger’s eyes opened wide in amazement and respect. “When was she killed?”

Lenora thought for a moment. “Matt was in southern China with the American Volunteer Group at the time, so it would be six years ago, 1996.”

“They call my mom a widow,” Sarah said. “What’s a man called?”

“A man is called a widower,” Lenora replied.

“He is very attractive,” Maura added, her voice soft and thoughtful.

The White House

About the time Matt Pontowski stepped out of the shower at NMMI, Madeline Turner sat down with her security advisory group. Unlike her famous Kitchen Cabinet, the friends she gathered around her for political advice, the four members of this group were chosen solely for their analytical minds and keen insights into international threats to the security of the United States. As Turner’s national security advisor, Mazie Hazelwood was the group’s nominal leader. But the three men, Sam Kennett, the vice president, Stephan Serick, the secretary of state, and the DCI, or director of central intelligence, all carried equal weight. However, in the end, it was Madeline Turner who dictated the security policy of the United States.

“Madame President,” Mazie began, “we’re getting some strange signals out of Eastern Europe. I’m certain we’re seeing a major shift in Russia’s foreign policy.”

“We have seen no shift in policy,” Stephan Serick, the irritable secretary of state, announced in obvious disagreement. “Only the usual fumbling. Viktor Kraiko is lucky he’s still president and is holding on by his fingertips. Kraiko hasn’t had a new thought rise above his belt buckle in two years. Maybe after the Russians replace him some
thing different will emerge. But not now.” Serick’s Latvian accent always became stronger when he talked about his old enemy, Russia. For him it made no difference the Soviet Union had fallen apart. The hatred was still there.

Mazie let the cranky Serick spew a little more venom before answering. “Russia’s economy is stabilizing,” she said.

“So?” Serick snapped. “And Russia’s military continues to shrink and the old KGB is in shambles since Gromov, that old bastard, died last April.”

“We now believe,” the director of central intelligence said, “that Gromov was executed.”

“Utter nonsense,” Serick grumbled. He stood up and limped around the room, his basset-hound jowls quivering as he spoke. “My God! The man was seventy-eight years old. He died of old age.”

The DCI glanced at his notes. “Then why did his head show up in Poland along with Boris Bakatina’s?”

“Boris Bakatina?” Turner asked.

“The chief godfather of the Russian
vor
,” the DCI answered. “The
vor
are the old-guard criminals, Honorable Thieves. They’re different from the Mafiya who are the new kids on the block. Mix them all together and you’ve got ROC, Russian organized crime.”

“We think they lost their heads in a power struggle,” Mazie added.

“That’s an awful pun,” Turner said. “This is bizarre. So why are we spending time here?”

It was a question for Mazie to answer and given the way Turner worked, she didn’t have long to do so. “We’re getting reports of increasing interaction between high-ranking Russian politicians and ROC. We’re not exactly sure of the contours of this new relationship but Poland seems to be a frequent subject of discussion. Then we received three separate reports that these two heads were sent to the Polish Mafia in mid-April.”

“Old news,” Serick scoffed. “More than four-months old. Criminals sending each other presents does not constitute a change in foreign policy. We’re wasting our time.”

“We think it was a message,” Mazie said. “Their mouths were stuffed with gold coins, mostly Krugerrands.”

“So what was the message?” Turner asked.

Mazie spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. This discussion wasn’t going to last much longer. “Gromov and Bakatina were the highest ranking survivors of the old guard, one political and one criminal. They were dinosaurs left over from the Soviet system that raped both Russia and Poland. The message was very clear. The heads were a peace offering. The gold indicates there is money to be made from the death of the old system. It was an invitation from Russian organized crime to do business.”

“Rubbish,” Serick grumbled. “This is all too bizarre. I’m more worried about what’s going on in Germany.”

For the first time the vice president spoke. “Bizarre, yes. But it makes a kind of weird sense. The Poles, including the Polish Mafia, carry a lot of hatred for the Russians. It would take a powerful gesture on the part of the Russians for the Poles to trust them.”

“Do we have anything concrete,” Turner asked, “that suggests such an alliance is taking place?”

The DCI answered. “We have monitored a huge increase in telephone calls and personal contacts between some very strange parties.”

“Such as?” Turner asked.

The DCI consulted his notes. “Viktor Kraiko engaged in long conversations with Mikhail Vashin. After the removal of Boris Bakatina, Vashin appears to be the new leader of Russian organized crime. He’s even got the Circle of Brothers, that’s the senior godfathers of the
vor
, under his thumb.”

Turner’s fingers beat a tattoo on her desk in a well-known signal. They were about finished with the subject. “If I understand what you’re telling me, we’re seeing some new mix of the political and criminal leaders of Russia. What exactly is the threat stemming from all this? Are there any domestic implications for us?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Mazie replied.

“At best,” Serick said, “it means a legitimization of criminal activity.” He snorted. “Nothing changes in Russia.”

Turner recalled that morning’s discussion about Russian
organized crime and Yaponets. “Mazie, keep on top of this and talk to the attorney general.” She paused. Mazie was one of her most trusted advisors and was obviously concerned about the situation. As president, did she need to do more? She turned to the vice president. “Sam, next week—” Her voice trailed off.

Sam Kennett laughed. “I’ll add Poland to my European vacation.”

“No one,” Serick grumbled, “goes to Poland for a vacation.”

The Hill

Zeth Trogger led Maura, Pontowski, and Sarah from Quarters One to Lusk Hall, the administration building. She set a slow pace for Maura O’Keith and patiently answered Sarah Turner’s endless questions about NMMI. Zeth’s answers were right out of the
Parents’ Handbook
and Pontowski smiled. “What class are you in?” he asked.

“Third Class, sir,” Zeth answered. She was a senior in high school.

“Why did you pick NMMI?” Sarah asked.

“My dad’s an alumnus and I always wanted to come here.” She gave the little girl a serious look. “It’s a tough school. My Rat year was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Pontowski studied the cadet. Zeth Trogger had beautiful green eyes that flashed with intelligence and spirit. An eighteen-year-old on the cusp of womanhood, she was definitely feminine and curvy. But she wore no makeup and her only concession to femininity was her long hair. She walked with the confidence of an athlete. “Sports?” he asked.

“I’m on the soccer team,” Zeth answered.

“I didn’t know you had a women’s soccer team at NMMI.”

“We don’t,” she answered. She led them to the superintendent’s office on the second floor. She held the door for them to enter and then waited outside.

General McMasters ushered Maura to a seat at the large
conference table while Pontowski held a chair for Sarah. The little girl beamed at him, reveling in the courtesy. Nelson Day, the commandant of cadets and a retired Army colonel, joined them and sat next to Maura. “Well,” McMasters began, “we do have a problem here.” He turned the meeting over to Colonel Day who was responsible for cadet discipline.

Day quickly reviewed the basics. The two Rats in question were in the same squad and had taken an instant dislike to each other, mostly because Mr. Pontowski was not as well coordinated and as strong as the others and slowed the squad down. Animosity had flared and the two boys finally decided to settle their differences in a more direct fashion. The other cadets had cooperated and helped them sneak out of their rooms in Hagerman Barracks late at night. Somehow, they had gotten into the Tunnels of NMMI, which were really little more than a series of interconnected basements between the barracks and adjoining buildings.

“How did they get past the Secret Service?” Maura asked.

McMasters shifted into a bureaucratic mode. It was the way he covered his impulse to smile at what the cadets had done when he had to be the disciplinarian. “Well, the Secret Service is embarrassed.” He described the security arrangements in detail. “They were geared for intruders, not for cadets going into the Tunnels from the inside. We’ve already fixed that.”

Maura kept shifting her gaze to Pontowski. “General McMasters,” she said, reading the discussion right, “I know you’re worried about losing your most famous student, but this sounds to me like a minor ruckus between two boys who don’t know how to settle their differences peacefully. I only have one question. Can you fix it?”