Edge of Honor (30 page)

Parrish had seen it before. If an unsubstantiated story was too libelous to publish, but too delicious to ignore, a newspaper in the U.S. would leak it to a British tabloid. Then the same newspaper reported what the British were reporting, making it a legitimate story. “Is it her?” Parrish asked.

Litton shrugged. “We better ask before we wake the
president.” He thought for a moment. “We’re running out of time. The talking heads will be all over this one.” The talking heads were the political commentators on the Sunday morning TV talk shows.

“Any chance we can kill it?” Parrish asked.

Litton shook his head. “Like pouring kerosene on a fire.”

“Appeal to their sense of decency?”

“Is this a sanity check?”

Parrish shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stood in the family room waiting for Maura O’Keith. He loved her for what she was: short, plump, grayheaded, and earthly. She was the perfect grandmother and the press adored her. But nothing could protect her from what was coming, if the story were true. He felt like crying when she came through the door. “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “But we have a problem.”

Maura adjusted her robe and sat on a couch. She patted the spot next to her for him to join her. He sat and handed her the news article and photo. She glanced at it, put it aside, looked at it again, and sighed. “That’s me.”

“Who’s the man?”

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

Parrish felt like shouting. “Then it’s a fake.”

“Of course.” Maura studied the picture. “I
was
a looker.”

“No doubt about it. You still are.”

“I had great boobs in those days,” she said with a nostalgic smile.

“Mother!” Maddy said. She bit her lip, not trusting herself to say any more. Her hands trembled slightly as she looked at the picture. A young and very shapely nude woman sat on a chair. She was gazing down, the look on her face worthy of the Madonna. An equally nude man stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. The man’s penis was crudely blurred out in a way that suggested he had an erection.

“Your father had taken off with some floozie,” Maura explained. “One of my customers at the hair salon was a
photographer and said she’d pay me to model. The only photo I posed for was of me nursing you. It won third place in a contest.”

“Was I in it? Nude?”

“Maddy, you were two months old. I needed the money.”

The phone rang and Parrish answered. He handed it to Litton. “The barracudas in the press room are in a feeding frenzy.”

Litton listened for a few moments and said, “Tell them I’ll have a statement as soon as possible.” He broke the connection.

“Get Patrick,” Maddy said.

Parrish made the call summoning Shaw. “We don’t have a lot of time, Madame President.” He studied the picture. “If we can get the photo from the British, we can prove it’s a fake and turn the FBI loose.”

“It would help if we had the original photo Maura posed for,” Maddy said.

“All of which takes time,” Litton muttered. “Which we haven’t got.”

The phone rang and Parrish answered. He listened for a moment and said, “They can’t find Shaw.”

Maddy rested her head against the back of her chair, her eyes closed. For a few moments, silence ruled. Then, “Joe, go down there and be
angry
.”

“Is that all, Madame President?”

“That’s all.”

Litton took his place behind the lectern in the press briefing room and fixed the reporters with a stony look. He waited for the room to quiet. “The president has seen the news article and has no comment at this time.” His words were calm and measured. “Needless to say, she is concerned and we need time to check it out.” He stopped for a deep breath, leaned forward, and folded his hands in front of him. “Since you’re here at this ungodly hour, I’m assuming you’ve done your homework and this item is reliably sourced.” He showed his anger. “Now, I’m going to get personal. I’m
not
speaking for the president. This is just me. I know Maura O’Keith. She’s a wonderful,
kind, decent woman who’s worked hard all her life. Since when have our families become fair game? This stinks. It’s a fake, pure and simple.” He straightened up and set the challenge. “You people know fakes are done all the time with modern technology. It’s
your
job to find out where it came from and who’s behind it. Do your homework. Then come in here and ask us to respond.”

Litton spun around and marched out of the room, leaving a wake of silence. Parrish waited for him in the hall. “Perfect. You sounded like you were furious.”

“I am.” They walked into Litton’s office and closed the door. “How’s the president taking it?”

“She doesn’t appear too upset,” Parrish replied.

“So what’s she going to do?”

Parrish considered his answer. “I’m not sure. I think she’s going to let the press run with it.”

“Why?”

“So someone can step all over his schwanz.”

“I hope it hurts,” Litton muttered.

“When Shaw gets done with them, it will.”

Warsaw

Pontowski was alone in his apartment late Sunday night coming to grips with the intricacies of the Polish language. “There’s got to be some way to pronounce the unpronounceable,” he grumbled to himself. The horrible consonant sequences were driving him crazy. He tried again. “Okay,
cz
is like
ch
in China and
ch
like
h
. That’s better,
w
is like
v
and the funny
e
is like the French
un
.” He tried a few words. It was starting to come together. Then he listened to the language tape and tried “thank you.” “
Dziękuje
.” He laughed and made a mental promise to hire a tutor.

The phone rang, a welcome relief. “May I speak to General Pontowski,” a gruff voice said.

“Speaking.”

“My name is Patrick Shaw and I work for Madeline Turner.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Shaw.”

“We need to speak soonest. In private.”

“Mr. Shaw, all things considered…”

“Like my reputation?”

“Exactly. I would prefer to meet in my office in the embassy. Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Ewa Pawlik handed Pontowski a note the moment he arrived in his office the next morning. “Mr. James wants to see you immediately. He’s most upset and is with the strangest man.”

“A big guy, curly hair, needs a haircut, flushed face, red nose. Rumpled suit, shoes need polish.”

She nodded at his accurate description. “Mr. James is afraid of him.”

“He’s an eight-hundred-pound gorilla from the White House. Not exactly the kind of visitor a DCM wants dropping in unannounced.” He handed her his briefcase and walked directly into the deputy charge of mission’s office.

James motioned him to a seat. “General Pontowski, I’ve been talking to Mr. Shaw and I must say, I’m disappointed in how you’ve responded to his requests. I take pride in my legation being most prompt, courteous, and responsive.”

“Then it’s all right,” Pontowski said, “for me to meet with someone from the White House without your knowledge?”

James huffed. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”

“This is unofficial,” Shaw said, helping James off the hook.

“So, in unofficial matters, I’m free to act in any way I want?”

Shaw enjoyed watching the two men spar. But that wasn’t why he was there. He looked contrite and gave the two men his most hangdog look. “I didn’t mean to stir the waters.” He deployed his heaviest Southern accent. “I’m just a good-ol’-boy way in over his head here. I’d like to have a few words with the general and get the heck out’a Dodge.”

James jumped on the offer. “Thank you for being so
understanding. Please, use my office.” He left with as much dignity as he could muster.

Shaw chuckled. “That boy is about to wet his pants. He needs to learn how to take a precautionary piss now and then. Someday, he’s gonna embarrass himself.”

Pontowski ignored Shaw’s rough-cut humor. “How may I help you, Mr. Shaw?”

“It’s Patrick, son. I’m here to help a friend, Maddy Turner.”

“Does the president need your help?”

Shaw nodded slowly. “She’s running for reelection, General.”

“I wasn’t aware she had made that decision yet.”

Shaw’s accent faded. His voice took on a friendly tone with a definite edge. “If your intentions are honorable and you really care for her, you need to put your relationship on a back burner until after the election.” Shaw shifted into his paternal mode. “You’ve got a history and must’ve been pretty wild in your younger days.”

Pontowski accepted the truth of it. He had been wild and irresponsible as a lieutenant and only the prestige of his famous grandfather had saved him from being kicked out of the Air Force. “People change,” he said with quiet assurance.

Shaw agreed but it wasn’t in his plan to admit it. “I’ll never understand why women are attracted to your type. Nothing but trouble and it’s kidney-stone-sized distraction she doesn’t need—the voters don’t need.”

“Let her tell me that.”

“You don’t think I’m here on my own, do you?” Shaw let his words sink in, hoping the lie would take. “General, I’ve been with Maddy since the day she got bitten by the political bug. I know how she works. She doesn’t want to end whatever there is between you two, but this is not the right time for it to become a public issue. So keep talking on the phone and sending letters, but it’s a matter of doing what’s right for Maddy.”

“Are you saying I’m a political liability?”

Shaw heaved himself to his feet, his message delivered. “That’s why I like dealin’ with you jet jocks.” Pontowski ushered Shaw out and waited while a secretary helped him
with his overcoat. “We have an understanding?” Shaw asked. Pontowski said nothing but put out his hand. Shaw shook it and left.

James rushed up. “Is there something I need to know?”

“Only that I’ve been dumped, I think.” He walked back to his office.

“Is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla gone?” Ewa asked.

Pontowski didn’t answer. Then, “Ewa I need someone to teach me conversational Polish and help me learn a little about my heritage, where I come from.”

“I would be glad to help,” she replied. “Do you know where your family lived?”

He was caught off guard. He had meant his cultural heritage and not his genealogy. But the more he thought about it, the more appealing it became. “My grandfather said something about a village near Crakow.”

“It’s pronounced Kra’ kov,” she replied.

Shaw hummed a tuneless melody on his way out of the embassy, his mission accomplished. He was slightly puzzled by the sight of a tall and cadaverous man standing beside his car. The man looked surprised. “What a fortunate coincidence. Mr. Shaw, I presume?”

Yeah, right
. Shaw thought. “You must be Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

The man held open the rear passenger-side door of Shaw’s car door. “May I join you?”

“Depends on who you are.”

“My name is Jerzy Fedor and I would like to officially welcome you to Poland.”

Shaw sized the man up. “Get in.”

Fedor said with a smile, “Certainly.”

The limousine drove out the gates and turned left onto Aleje Ujazdowski. “What can I do for you, Mr. Fedor?”

“Perhaps, it’s what we can do for you.”

An image of two used-car salesmen standing hip deep in chicken manure while they stabbed each other in the back flashed in Shaw’s mind. “My business in Poland was strictly personal. Nothing official at all.” He wasn’t about to tell Fedor why he was there.

“Please, Mr. Shaw. It’s not every day that the
personal
representative of the president of the United States comes to Poland.”

Shaw was impressed. He had been in Poland fewer than twelve hours and the government was checking him out.
Time to change the subject
. “I take it you’re from security?”

“Of course not,” Fedor lied. “I’m only concerned with economic affairs.” Fedor pointed to a big gray building ahead of them on their right. “That’s the stock exchange where I work.”

You’re a lying sack-of-shit. You’ve got access and a clue
. Shaw decided it was time to show a little edge. “Did you work there when it was still Communist Party headquarters?”

“Very good Mr. Shaw. Do you still work in the basement?”

Shaw enjoyed sparring with Fedor. “I’m moving up in the world.”

Fedor sighed. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

Shaw sensed he was dealing with a kindred spirit, a man after his own heart. He decided to crack the door open and peek at the other side. “I’ve got a plane to catch, but I do have a few minutes.”

“We have a mutual problem, Mr. Shaw.”

“We do?” They were still sparring.

“The drug trade. With your help, we were making progress stopping it, but with the death of General Bender…”

Shaw finished the thought for him. “You’re worried we’ll cancel.”

“Exactly.” They were on the same wavelength. “With your help, we can handle the Russians. It’s the Germans we’re worried about.”

“You want us to pull them up short?”

“It would be appreciated.”

Shaw understood perfectly. Fedor wanted him to backdoor a message to the president.

“Why?” He was really asking,
What’s in it for me?

Now it was Fedor’s turn to proffer a deal. “Maybe I can help distract your problem.”

You’re good
, Shaw thought. They shook hands.

The Hill

The dean of the faculty at NMMI was eating breakfast Monday morning when he heard the noise in the backyard. He looked out the window and froze. Two sheep were munching contentedly on his wife’s prize azalea bushes. The third animal, a large ram in a much more agitated state, was mounting one of the ewes. The dean’s shock gave way to laughter and he walked over to Quarters One to tell the superintendent. He didn’t see the black Secret Service sport utility truck parked across the street in the parking lot.

McMasters and the dean walked quickly back to the dean’s house to survey the damage. McMasters’s first impulse was to laugh. “Ranchers take rustling very seriously,” the dean said, killing any humor and bringing them back to reality. Chuck Sanford got out of the truck and joined them.

“I’d better call the sheriff,” McMasters said.

“General McMasters,” Sanford said, “would it help if we returned the sheep?” He paused. “Before you call the sheriff. There may not be a problem.”

The superintendent and the dean exchanged glances. The Secret Service meant Brian Turner was involved and silence was the better part of discretion. “I’d appreciate that,” McMasters said.

Brian stood at attention in front of the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Mr. Turner, are you aware that stealing
livestock in the state of New Mexico is a felony offense? It’s called rustling. At least they don’t hang you for it these days. To the best of my knowledge, the rancher is not going to press charges since the sheep were returned unharmed. So, what are we dealing with here?”

“Sir, I borrowed the sheep and intended to return them. I never lied about it and I was on a permit to be offpost.”

“Barracks lawyers,” the commandant moaned. “But you are responsible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. And who helped you?”

Brian braced himself even harder and did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. “Sir, since it was my idea and I organized it, I’d rather not say.”

“I understand two others were involved. Are you telling me you’re willing to serve their punishments?”

Brian’s face turned white. Then, “Yes, sir.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because the dean busted my squad leader for cheating on a test when she didn’t.”

The commandant shook his head. “Mr. Turner, the dean didn’t bust Miss Trogger. I did. I busted her for public display of affection. She was caught putting a lip lock on her zoomie boyfriend. About the charge of cheating, after looking into the matter, both the dean and her teacher agreed that she didn’t cheat. In fact, they commended her for her work and her teacher apologized.”

“I didn’t know,” Brian muttered.

The commandant kicked back in his chair and studied the cadet. There was still the problem of the sheep. It was a prank that, in his day, would have gotten a cadet twenty tours at worst. Now it was a penitentiary offense. But the young man was standing in front of him and taking full responsibility, which he liked. He made his decision.

“As long as the rancher is not going to file charges and the dean is more amused than upset, this is still in my jurisdiction. Sixty tours or suspension for the rest of the year. Your choice.”

Brian never hesitated. “I’ll take the tours, sir.”

The commandant relaxed. “Very well. A word of advice, Mr. Turner. It’s always okay to talk about problems
with your friends. But next time, either trust the system
or
learn all the facts before you take action. And I’d suggest you make amends with the dean’s wife. Dismissed.”

Brian saluted and beat a hasty retreat. The commandant picked up the phone and called McMasters. He smiled at the thought of the superintendent explaining it all to the president of the United States. Then he laughed out loud. “That’s what he gets paid for,” he said to no one.

Outside, Matt was waiting for Brian. “How did it go?”

“No sweat. I gotta walk some tours.”

“I’m gonna tell him I helped.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Brian said. He told Matt what the commandant had told him. “Pelton had to know why she was busted.”

“Why didn’t he tell us?”

“He’s thinking with his prick because he can’t get it on with her. So he’s causin’ some grief.”

The White House

The door to the Oval Office started swinging early Tuesday morning, the first week in February, as a string of people marched in, and then quickly out. Turner worked methodically to clear her agenda of last-minute items before concentrating on her upcoming trip to Europe. Finally, the procession stopped and she was able to relax in her rocking chair. “I need more exercise,” she told Parrish.

“You haven’t swum since…” He stopped before mentioning Noreen Coker.

“I miss her,” Turner said. A little smile of remembrance played on her lips. “She had a way of keeping things in perspective.” The hurt was easing. “Try to open up some time.”

Parrish sensed the moment was right. “Madame President, perhaps it’s time to find a replacement for Dennis, or at least someone else to handle your schedule.”

She reached out and touched Parrish’s hand. “You’re right. I have abused you lately.” She considered likely candidates. She didn’t want a servant or a yes-man, but someone who was well organized, willing to work long
hours, and be totally loyal. “Ask Nancy Bender if she’d like to try it.”

“But she’s pregnant and in mourning.”

“So? She still needs a life.” Turner laughed at the look on Parrish’s face. “Who’s next?”

“National Security Advisory Group,” Parrish said, finding it hard to switch gears. He opened the door for the four people who were waiting outside.

Turner returned to her desk and opened a folder. “Any progress on finding General Bender’s killers?”

The DCI answered. “Cassandra, Mr. Durant’s new computer system, has traced the missiles back to their source. There’s strong circumstantial evidence the Russian Mafiya was behind it.”

“But we have no hard evidence.” This from Secretary of State Serick.

“And probably never will,” the DCI added. “A van and three badly burned American bodies turned up in Mexico. They were all shot in the back of the head, doused with gas. Torched. We know it was the same van used in the attempt on your life and we’re sure they were the key players. It got interesting when Cassandra traced their movements in Mexico. Our old friend Yaponets fell out of the tree.”

“I’m a patient woman,” Turner replied. “Keep digging. Any progress on the photo?” They all knew she meant the photograph of Maura that had been published in the British tabloid.

Now it was Mazie Hazelton’s turn. “The FBI has it and is working on it. It’s one of the best fakes they’ve seen. It would help if they had the original to compare the two. They have found the photographer. Unfortunately, she’s suffering from Alzheimer’s and is seldom lucid.”

“Show her the photo,” Turner said. “That might jolt her back to reality.” She pointed at Parrish. “Get with Joe and see how much longer he can hold the media at bay. You can tell him I’m very pleased with the way the media has shown some responsibility on this.”

“I’m not so sure how much longer they’ll sit on it,” Parrish replied.

Turner mentally checked off that block and went on to
the next item, her upcoming trip to Europe. “I read the briefing books last night. I don’t see any problems in Spain. I’d like to get out and visit more troops in Bosnia. I need something to announce in Poland. And finally, I’d like to get the Germans’ attention. It looks like they’re buying Western Poland an acre at a time.”

Serick cleared his throat for attention. “As to the Germans, we don’t have much in the way of counters. But it never hurts to voice your concern. At least you might slow them down. For Poland, I’d suggest you announce your choice for the new ambassador. But we need to clear the name through Leland first. We don’t need him shooting down our nominee after we’ve gone public.”

Turner tapped the folder she had been looking at. “He’s acceptable to Leland?”

“Leland recommended him,” Serick said.

“And he has contributed to the party,” Parrish added.

Turner signed the transmittal letter and handed the folder to Serick. “Send it over.” The discussion went on for another six minutes before they were finished.

“Well, Madame President,” Parrish said, “it looks like you have some time for that swim.”

The office rapidly emptied and the DCI walked with Mazie to her corner office. “I’m worried,” the DCI said. “The way she’s still in overdrive tells me she isn’t over it yet.”

“She’s healing,” Mazie replied.

Warsaw

The embassy was controlled chaos as James bounced off the walls getting ready for the president’s arrival. As the deputy charge of mission, James would be in the official party greeting her and it was his chance to shine. The mandarins in the State Department would have to notice him now. In an effort to cover all contingencies, he had the embassy staff working around the clock.

Ewa Pawlik hurried into her office with a fresh stack of Polish newspaper articles to translate. The Polish press was in a frenzy over Turner’s visit. She went to work,
frowning at the repeated linking of Matt Pontowski’s name with the president’s.

“Ma’am?” a soft voice said, drawing her away from the article she was translating. The voice belonged to a short man, almost five feet six inches tall. He was overweight, with a large stomach that strained at his suit coat. He had a round face and friendly brown eyes, all topped with a heavy mass of prematurely gray hair that defied his military-style haircut. She felt like smiling at the teddybear image until she noticed his corded neck muscles. He was not what he seemed. “I’m Lt. Col. George Walderman and I’m looking for General Pontowski.”

Ewa buzzed Pontowski and repeated the name. The door burst open and Pontowski came out. “Waldo, what took you so long?”

“Ten days and you’re complaining?”

Pontowski smiled. “Ewa, meet Waldo. Don’t let the image fool you. He’s one of the best fighter jocks who ever strapped on an F-16.” He punched at Waldo’s big stomach. “It amazes me how you can still get into the cockpit.”

“Greased shoehorns are a wonderful thing,” Waldo said.

The phone buzzed and Ewa answered. She listened for a moment. “Do you own a yellow Ferrari with French license plates?” Waldo nodded and explained he had bought it in France while on his way to Poland. “You need to move it,” Ewa said.

“Will do.” He turned to leave.

“Waldo,” Pontowski called, “why don’t you go with us to meet Air Force One when it lands this afternoon?”

“You got a special invitation?” Pontowski shook his head and Waldo grinned. “You’re slipping, Boss.”

Suddenly, Ewa felt much better.

Pontowski led Ewa and Waldo through the dense crowd that was packing the airport for Turner’s arrival. They reached the entrance to the VIP area and he gave the guards their names. Waldo wasn’t on the list and the guard shook his head. Ewa pushed forward and showed the guard
her identification. She spoke in a low voice. “Ewa can work wonders,” Pontowski said.

“She’s working wonders with me,” Waldo muttered.

“Sounds like a sexist remark if I ever heard one.”

“Things are changing, Boss. It’s okay to admit we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex now. Sex doesn’t equal harassment.”

“So we’re getting back to basics.”

“One hopes.”

Ewa’s back was to them but she had overheard every word.
Americans are so naïve
, she thought. But the guard wouldn’t let Waldo into the VIP area. She played her trump card. “Call Jerzy Fedor,” she murmured, handing him her cell phone and a card with a telephone number. The guard punched in the number and paled when the Ministry of Justice answered. He cut the connection and let Waldo enter.

The VIP area was less than twenty feet from the temporary stage where Turner would speak and they had a clear view of Air Force One as it coasted to a stop. The new president of Poland greeted Madeline Turner as she descended the stairs and walked with her as she reviewed the honor guard. Then they were on the stage and she was behind the podium.

“She’s very attractive in person,” Ewa said. She studied Pontowski’s face but couldn’t read his reaction. She split her attention between Pontowski and Waldo as she listened to Turner’s speech. At first, it was what she expected. But with surprising speed, it changed. “I can only extend my heartfelt sympathies to the Polish people for the death of your president. I share your grief in a very personal way, for my good friend and ambassador, Robert Bender, died with him. But we must not be so overwhelmed with grief that we lose our way. We must continue what we have started and I have nominated a new ambassador and sent this name to the United States Senate for confirmation. The Senate shares my concern and I have been assured he will be quickly approved. Our commitment to Poland remains unchanged as my new ambassador, Daniel Beason, will prove.” Applause swept over the stage.

“I’ve got to speak to her,” Pontowski muttered. He disappeared into the crowd.

“Fuck me in the heart,” Waldo muttered.

Ewa’s head jerked around at the obscenity. “Is there a problem?”

“You betcha there’s a problem. Daniel Beason thinks Pontowski killed his son.”

Ewa was shocked, as much by the change in Waldo as by his news. “Did he?”

“No. Beason’s son couldn’t fly worth shit and buffooned his plane into the ground.” Waldo stood close to her and told her about the air show and the accident where Danny Beason was killed.

“You seem to know a great deal about it,” Ewa said.

“We’re a close-knit group.”

Pontowski’s name was enough to get him through the first security ring surrounding the presidential party. Then he ran out of luck. Out of desperation, he called James on his cell phone. But James cut him off with an abrupt “If this is a personal matter, speak to her aide, not me.” The connection went dead. Not about to give up, he followed the flow of people to the press room where a familiar voice caught his attention.

“Matt Pontowski,” Liz Gordon said. “I heard you were over here.”