Edge of Honor (7 page)

As usual, Parrish stayed behind. The day was over and they went over the next day’s schedule. “That’s about it, Madame President. Nothing’s brewing, so you should have a quiet evening.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Did Stephan send over a list of names to replace Rudenkowski?”

Parrish nodded and extracted the list from his folder. “And this,” he said, handing her a private memo.

Turner looked through the list and the brief biographies before reading the memo. “So Stephan is certain that replacing Rudenkowski will have adverse fallout.”

“Well,” Parrish said, “he has made major campaign contributions to Senator Leland and does have influence. Rudenkowski probably figures he paid for the ambassadorship and deserves to keep it.”

“Richard, my instincts tell me Poland is going to be a problem. Exactly how, I’m not sure. I want a professional over there as head of mission. But if I read Stephan’s memo correctly, Rudenkowski will cause problems if I request his resignation.”

“Big problems, Madame President.”

She stared at the painting over the fireplace, considering her options. “Check and see if there’s something else we can offer him.” She thought for a moment. “And have the FBI and treasury take another look into his background. Poke around a bit but keep State out of the loop for now. I want to be sure there is nothing that could prove embarrassing if it became public knowledge.” Parrish understood perfectly. It was the old carrot-and-stick approach. “Like Patrick used to say,” she said, thinking of Patrick Flannery Shaw, her former chief of staff, “kiss them on the cheek before you kick ’em in the Charlies.”

“I never realized Shaw was that subtle.”

“Patrick had his moments,” Turner replied, thinking of all she had learned from him.

“Will there be anything else, Madame President?”

“I was hoping to speak to General Bender today.” It was a gentle reprimand that her staff had not done their job.

“We found him in Arizona,” Parrish said. She arched an eyebrow. “He,” Parrish rushed to add, “will be available tomorrow. When would you like to see him?”

“Whenever it’s convenient.” That was her code for It-had-better-happen-tomorrow.

It was a quiet evening at home. Sarah was sitting on the floor wearing a headset and listening to music while she did her homework. Maura was sitting in a recliner reading one of her fashion magazines with her knitting in her lap. Occasionally, she drifted off to sleep, only to give a little honk and wake herself up. In the background, the TV was turned to CNN. Madeline Turner was curled up in the corner of her favorite couch wearing a baggy track suit and woolly socks. She was reading the blue binder on the UN South African peacekeeping mission she had requested that morning. The room was a scene of domestic tranquility paparazzi would have killed for to photograph. But Maddy’s fierce protection for her family’s privacy made that impossible.

Maura gave a little honk and woke up. “Mother,” Maddy
asked, closing the three-ring binder, “you met Matthew Pontowski at NMMI. What was your impression?”

“Little Matt?” Maura asked, still drowsy.

“No, his father.”

Now the older woman was fully awake. It had been a long time since her daughter had asked her opinion about a single man. “He’s very attractive,” Maura replied. “A widower, you know. Lenora McMasters told me all about him. He was very wild in his younger days when he was a fighter pilot.”

Maddy shook her head in disapproval. She had met too many Pontowskis in her time; good-looking men who reeled women in with far too much success and ease. “The top-gun image,” she said. “I never knew if they were talking about their penis or their airplanes. Why do women fall for it?”

“Fall for what?” Sarah asked, pulling off her headset.

Both women sighed in resignation. Once Sarah joined in a conversation, she pursued a topic with bulldog-like determination. “The things men do to attract women,” Maddy answered.

“Oh,” Sarah replied, apparently satisfied with that answer. Then, “Mom, who are the Moody Blues?”

“An old rock-and-roll group from the early 1970s,” Maddy answered. “I don’t think they’re still recording.”

“I never liked them,” Maura said.

“Your father and I loved them,” Maddy said. “We used to sit and hold hands listening to them.” She caught Maura’s amused look and, for a moment, was back with Brian Kelly Turner. Indeed, they had listened to the Moody Blues, but they weren’t exactly holding hands. They were usually in bed making love. The sex had been wonderful. But there had been a rough spot when she discovered she was pregnant and not sure if she wanted to marry him. However, Brian Kelly Turner had pursued her so doggedly that she finally gave in. Then she had a miscarriage.

But it was an excellent marriage that had grown stronger over the years. His death from a heart attack while playing tennis at forty-eight had devastated her. It had happened in the middle of the election when she was running for
vice president on the Quinton Roberts ticket. Shaw used her husband’s death as the springboard to victory. He turned around the losing campaign by casting her as a devoted mother of two young children gamely soldiering on. It had worked because it was true. It also covered up her thin political record and captured 88 percent of the women’s vote.

“Maddy,” Maura said, drawing her back to the moment and Matt Pontowski. “People do change, you know. Why did you ask?”

“I’m reading about a peacekeeping mission he was on in South Africa. Apparently, he was involved with a woman down there, Elena Martine, the head of the UN Observer Mission.”

“Didn’t we meet her at a reception?”

“How could I forget,” Maddy replied. Elena Martine had been introduced by the French ambassador and had been the star of the evening, upstaging every woman there. More than one tongue had been seen wagging or drooling, depending on the sex of the owner. As a result, Elena had gone on every Washington hostess’s blacklist. No wife in her right mind wanted a temptation like Elena floating around the cocktail and dinner party circuit.

“What’s wrong with Little Matt’s dad being involved with someone if he’s single?” Sarah asked.

“It all depends on the circumstances,” Maura answered. “He
was
in Africa to do a job for his government. I remember something on the news. How did it turn out?”

“Actually, not bad,” Maddy answered. “There was some fighting but the current situation seems fairly stable—for Africa.”

Sarah climbed onto the couch and cuddled beside her mother. “Mom, are you ever going to get involved with another man again?”

Maddy knew it was futile to avoid the subject. “Not while I’m president, Chubs.” She playfully poked the eleven-year-old’s ribs. Sarah was skinny as a rail and had never been chubby. But her brother Brian had often called her Chubs to irritate her.

“Mother!” Sarah protested. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I, darlin’.” She hesitated, searching for the
right words. “If I became romantic with a man while I’m president, it would become a political issue. Unfortunately, truth is the first casualty in politics. Too many people would twist the truth to use a relationship to keep me from doing my job. It wouldn’t be fair to the country or the man. Or you.”

“Why do they want to keep you from doing your job?”

“Because some people see the world differently than I do.” She changed the subject. “Bedtime.”

Maura snorted, demanding their attention. “Tell her the rest.”

Sarah looked confused and Maddy gave a mental sigh.
Why do children have to grow up so fast these days?
she thought. “What your Grams is talking about is power. Many people are in politics because they want the power to make other people do what they say. They’ll lie, cheat, and steal to get power and keep it. They want to be important. They want everyone to know who they are and treat them special, even when they don’t deserve it.”

“Oh,” Sarah said. “You mean they’re on an ego trip. My teacher is on one all the time.” She scooted off the couch and gathered up her books. “Personally, I think being truthful is more important than anything else and if you like someone, you shouldn’t be afraid of getting involved.” She kissed Maura on the cheek before giving her mother a peck. She flounced out of the room.

“Out of the mouth of babes,” Maura said, her words barely audible.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Maddy said, returning to her reading.

Moscow

Mikhail Vashin hated everything about Gen. Col. Peter Prudnokov; the classic good looks, the perfect fit of the air force uniform on his tall, athletic body, and the aura of command that drew people to him, including Geraldine Blake. And she knew better. “Please, Peter Davydovich,” Vashin said, using the three-star general’s patronymic, “sit down. This is an honor and I am pleased that you should think of me.”

Prudnokov looked uncomfortable. He knew the price of the meeting would be high, maybe too high for him to pay. “It’s a small problem,” he said, “that I cannot solve. Yet it is one that deeply upsets my family.”

“And the problem?” Vashin knew, but he wanted to hear the general beg for help.

“It’s my daughter. She is missing and we cannot find her.”

Vashin’s hatred ratchetted up a notch at Prudnokov’s self-control. “And you would like my help?” A simple nod answered him. “We are not the police,” Vashin said. Again, the general nodded in acknowledgment of the obvious. Vashin fixed him with a cold look, wanting to humiliate and crush the man. He was everything Vashin was not: from a prominent family, protected and pampered as a youth, educated, and then given the inside track to career and promotion. Prudnokov was a child of the
nomenklatura
, the elite of the Communist Party who had ruled the Soviet Union for their own benefit. But times had changed
and the
nomenklatura
were a relic of the past, like the Bolsheviks and czars.

Now it was Vashin’s turn. The grinding poverty of his childhood, the endless deprivations in the name of Soviet socialism, the early death of his mother from overwork and abuse, the refuge his father found in vodka, were all behind him. But there was no satisfaction for Vashin, there was no redemption, there was no cure. The brutal system that had degraded and scorned humanity had left a darkness in his soul, a vague quest for “more” that was rooted in hate, paranoia, and the desire for revenge. It was the stuff that gave birth to a Hitler or a Stalin.

“Peter Davydovich,” Vashin said, opening negotiations, “I understand you have recently been given a new command.”

Again, the irritating nod. “Your information is correct. I am now the commander of Transport Aviation.”

“Is Transport Aviation still flying paid cargoes?”

A snort from the general. “It is how we pay for fuel, maintenance, and pilot proficiency. A commercial venture.”

“But you do have landing rights in other countries not available to normal civilian aircraft?”

Prudnokov fully understood what they were negotiating. “We have many residual rights left over from our Warsaw Pact and peacekeeping commitments.” He decided it was time to sweeten the negotiations. “Because of our treaties, Transport Aviation aircraft are not subject to customs inspections or import duties. Of course, we are willing to allow, shall we say, special friends to use our services.”

“I have interests that will pay extra to use these services,” Vashin said.

“We are more than glad to accommodate our friends, provided they help us and pay on time.”

“Of course,” Vashin replied. He needed the security only Transport Aviation could provide and the general wanted his daughter back. It was a done deal. “Perhaps some of my people can help in the search for your daughter. Do you have a picture?” The general handed him a photo and Vashin studied it, his features as bland and noncommittal as the general’s. “A beautiful girl. I can
understand why you are so worried. She could be a movie star.” He forced a sigh. “Children. They have no respect these days.”

“She’s a good girl,” the general said. “But her head is filled with trash about love and romance from watching LTV and the movies.”

Vashin buzzed for his assistant and she was standing in front of him within seconds. “Geraldine, I want to help Peter Davydovich find his daughter.” He handed her the photo.

“A very pretty girl,” Geraldine said. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps Tom would be the best one to handle this.” Tom Johnson was Vashin’s chief of security. Geraldine punched at her personal telecommunicator and within seconds, the former Secret Service agent came through the door. Johnson was a big man who could have played defensive guard on a pro football team. His hair was cut short, Marine style, and he had a classic Prussian bulge on the back of his neck. Vashin explained what he wanted and Geraldine handed him the photograph. Johnson asked a few questions in a deep guttural Russian.

“Peter Davydovich,” Vashin said, bringing the meeting to a close, “we will be glad to help. But perhaps you can do another small service for us. A service we’ll be glad to pay for.”

“Certainly,” Prudnokov replied. “Anything that is reasonable.”

“I don’t know the right words, but you have fake devices you use for special-weapons training. I understand the smaller, suitcase-sized ones, are very realistic.”

At first, the general was confused, not sure what Vashin wanted. Then he understood. “A simulated weapon? That’s all you want?”

Vashin smiled. “That’s all.”

Prudnokov stood to leave. “I’ll see what I can do.” Geraldine escorted him out.

Johnson stared at the image on the photograph for a few moments. The image of Little Dove smiled back at him. “Who can resurrect a dead girl?”

Vashin shrugged his heavy shoulders. “There are no miracles.”

The White House

Bender processed through the southwest appointment gate and walked north on West Executive Avenue. Images of an earlier time when he was the acting national security advisor tickled his memory. A White House intern met him at the entrance to the West Wing. “Good morning, General Bender. The president is expecting you.” He walked through the west entrance and the memories were in full flood.

“Quite a few things have changed since you were last here,” the intern said as they walked down the hall. It was an obvious statement. The heavy presence of the Secret Service was muted and while Bender knew they were present, they weren’t as visible. Other than the Marine guard at the entrance, he hadn’t seen a single military uniform. He suppressed the urge to ask if the chairman of the Joint Chiefs had to wear civilian clothes when he came to the White House.

When they neared the Oval Office, Bender caught a glimpse of a shaggy bear of a man shambling down the quiet corridor. “I see Mr. Shaw is still here,” he ventured. There was no answer.
Why does she keep that bastard around?
Bender raged to himself.
Politics. Nothing really changes. Especially politics
. He mentally chastised himself for being so cynical about politicians.
She is your commander in chief
. He was honest with himself and admitted Madeline Turner was turning into a good president. But like so many other presidents before her, she had to grow into the job.

She had been openly hostile to the military at first. But during the crisis over Okinawa, when Congress and most of her own administration had deserted her, Bender convinced her that she could rely on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was a crash course in the bare-knuckle use of power for Turner and the steel that lay hidden behind an attractive face and pleasant manner finally emerged. Thanks to Bender, she learned how to use the military as an effective instrument of national power.

Only Bender appreciated the irony of the situation. While he honored his oath, respected the office of the
president, and would always be loyal to his commander in chief, he simply didn’t like Madeline Turner.

The intern turned Bender over to Dennis who led him into the Oval Office. “Robert,” Turner said, standing to greet him, “thank you for coming.” She extended her right hand, genuinely glad to see him. He gently took her hand in his. “I think you know everyone here,” she said, looking at the four members of her National Security Advisory Group.

Mazie Hazelton rose gracefully from her seat and walked quickly into his arms. “I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice a whisper. Bender was obviously embarrassed by Mazie’s uncharacteristic display of emotion and hesitated before folding his arms around her. The top of her head barely came to his chest. Then she was gone and back in her seat.

A gentle smile played across the president’s face as she sat down. She motioned to a spot on the couch beside her rocking chair. “Did I see a blush there?”

He forced a little smile but only managed to look guilty.

She reached out and touched his arm. “Still the same.” Her words carried a soft warmth. “My unbending general.” It was the old play on his name, the unbending Bender, and, for a moment, they were friends. But then it was all back in place. She was the commander in chief and he was her subordinate. She felt his defenses stiffen as the walls rose into place. “Robert, are you abreast of the situation in Poland?” she asked, turning to business.

“Only vaguely. Economy doing well, standard of living on the rise since becoming a member of the EU, some problems with joining NATO.”

“The reason I ask is because Lloyd Rudenkowski is resigning as ambassador. I want to appoint you in his place.” Bender looked at her in shock. She knew he wanted to be appointed chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff when the current chairman retired next year. But she needed him now. “Because of the situation in Poland, I want a competent person heading the mission to Warsaw. I was going to offer Rudenkowski a cabinet position to induce him to resign. But when Treasury did an expanded background investigation, he came up dirty. Very dirty.”

Bender nodded, not offended in the least by her political maneuvering. “Isn’t Rudenkowski one of Senator Leland’s boys?” Senator John Leland was the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and ruled like a feudal warlord. But there was more. Leland had led the attempt to force Turner to resign during the Okinawan blockade. His hatred of Turner and her administration was deep, personal, and irrational.

Serick grumped. “Leland is North Carolina’s permanent revenge on the United States for losing the Civil War.”

Turner laughed. It started easy and low and ended like a crystal bell. Her face came alive and her eyes danced with humor. “Stephan has testified before the good senator too many times.”

“Leland sponsored Rudenkowski and pushed his nomination through the Senate,” Vice President Kennett explained.

“Leland’s push was more like a ramrod,” Serick added.

“Getting my name past Leland’s committee will be a problem,” Bender said, hoping his shot for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs was still alive. “He’ll want to even some scores. Especially after Okinawa.” Bender was reminding them of a political reality. His advice and support of Turner had been critical in fending off Leland’s attack on her presidency during the blockade.

“I don’t think so,” Kennett said. “Leland will be more than glad to forward your nomination to the Senate with a favorable recommendation after I explain things to him.” He handed Bender a folder summarizing the recent investigation into Rudenkowski’s background.

Inside the folder was a photograph of Rudenkowski being presented the Navy Cross. The accompanying citation and newspaper article described how Lieutenant (jg) Rudenkowski had been in command of a riverine patrol boat in Vietnam. During a two-boat river sweep, he had gone to the aid of the lead patrol boat that was caught in an ambush by the Vietcong. He had attempted to rescue the first boat, but each time was driven off by heavy machine-gun fire from the shore. Only after the lead boat had exploded and all hands lost, and sustaining heavy cas
ualties on his own boat, did Rudenkowski withdraw. Only he and a badly wounded bosun’s mate survived.

A second photograph in the folder showed a much older Rudenkowski, wearing his Navy Cross, locked arm-in-arm with Senator Leland at an election rally. Underneath that was a financial statement revealing Rudenkowski had contributed more than a million dollars to an election-campaign fund controlled by Leland and his cronies. The final document was a sworn statement by the bosun’s mate on the riverine patrol boat that Rudenkowski had never tried to rescue the first boat and had immediately retreated, leaving the crew to its fate. Two miles downstream, Rudenkowski had taken a wrong turn and stumbled into another ambush. Thinking the bosun’s mate and the rest of the crew were dead, Rudenkowski had returned to base. Because of his wounds, it was six weeks before the bosun’s mate remembered all that had happened. Before he could report the truth, Rudenkowski had reached out and bribed him to confirm his version of the ambush. At first, the bosun’s mate had been rewarded with money and women. The drugs and threats came later.

“Why did the mate finally come clean after all these years?” Bender asked.

“He’s dying of leukemia and wants to go with a clean slate,” Kennett replied. “Leland’s standing too close to Rudenkowski so he’ll go for a quid pro quo: our silence about Rudenkowski for his support on your nomination.”

The director of central intelligence listened to the discussion and said nothing. He longed for the good old days when the option of wet operations easily solved a problem like Rudenkowski. But times had changed.

Bender felt an empty void; he wanted to be the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. But now, the ambassadorship to Poland was all he was going to get. Then another thought came to him. His wife, Nancy, would love it. “I would like to talk it over with my wife and think about it,” he said.

“Certainly,” Turner said. “I’d like to forward a nomination to the Senate next week. When can we expect your answer?”

“You’ll have it tomorrow morning.”

“What’s the matter?” Maura asked. They were sitting in the family room off Maddy’s bedroom after dinner. As usual, Sarah did her homework on the floor while wearing headphones, listening to music.

“I offered Robert Bender the Warsaw embassy today.”

“He’ll make an excellent ambassador. Besides, I like him. And his wife. She’s lovely.” Maura picked up her knitting and her clicking needles beat a fast rhythm. “Why is that bothering you?”

Maddy sighed. Her mother could be as stubborn as Sarah once she got her teeth into a subject. “It’s how we’re doing it. There are times I hate politics. We should be exposing a man for what he is. Instead, he’s going to get away scot-free so I can send a decent ambassador to Poland.”