“Richard, there was no damage done this time. I was already awake. But you should have made the decision to disturb me or Maura. That’s the way I want it.”
“My apologies, Madame President. The watch officer knows that.”
“Then fire him. But do it right. Ask for his resignation first and offer him another job. But not in the White House. This is a minor thing, in-house only, and I don’t want any bad publicity out of this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He waited for her to start walking. But from her stance, there was more coming. He braced himself.
“Have you had a chance to read the message?” she asked.
He nodded in answer. “Talk about a screwup.”
“That’s what I thought. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Richard, I’ve got to rely on our people to do things right. Otherwise, we’re dead in the water and a sitting target. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Good, she thought. “When I go in there. I’m going to shake things up. I want people to get the message: No more screwups.”
“Madame President, what may seem like a gentle shake to you will register on the Richter scale.”
“Good. I want some shaking going on.”
“How upset are you?”
“Minor damage only. Four point five on the Richter scale.”
Parrish got the message. Everything Madeline Turner did was tightly calculated, even when she was angry. He followed her the rest of the way to the Oval Office. The three members of her Policy Review committee and Mazie Hazelton waited for her. For a moment, Turner considered making Mazie a permanent member of the committee. She quickly discarded the idea: better to keep functions compartmentalized and bring Mazie in as needed. She motioned them all to be seated. Dennis shut the door and retreated to his desk, glad that he had not been invited to stay and face her wrath.
Turner did not sit down. Instead, she leaned against the front of her desk and folded her arms. She stared at them. “What went wrong?”
Silence. Then Mazie started to speak, her voice calm and flat. “As you know, we had arranged to exchange Yaponets for a tactical nuclear weapon, specifically a five-kiloton satchel weapon that had been stolen by the Russian Mafiya from the Ukrainians.” Turner gave a little nod telling everyone that she was up to scratch on the details about the Russian godfather imprisoned in the U.S. “The exchange went as planned,” Mazie continued. “DOJ flew Yaponets to Syria and once the weapon had been delivered to the CIA in Estonia, we turned him over to the Russian embassy in Damascus.”
“So what went wrong?” Turner asked.
Now it was the attorney general’s turn in the barrel. “The CIA examined the weapon before cabling to release Yaponets. It checked out. Correct weight, correct radiation signature. It was only when we got it back to our labs and disassembled it that we discovered it was a training device.”
“So we were taken,” Turner said. “They got Yaponets for nothing and we got mud kicked in our faces. Lovely.” She shook her head. “How difficult is it to verify a nuclear weapon is a nuclear weapon?” There was no answer. “Don’t we have people at Sandia or Livermore Labs who do this sort of thing?” Again, no answer. “Were they even brought in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have any idea what Senator Leland will do with this?” She paced the floor. “The Senate Foreign Relations Committee is scheduled to start hearings tomorrow on General Bender’s appointment as ambassador to Poland.” She gave Vice President Kennett an approving look. “Thanks to Sam, we’ve worked out a deal with Leland. We let Rudenkowski off the hook and he forwards Bender’s name to the Senate floor with a favorable recommendation.”
“Madame President,” the attorney general said, “these are two separate issues. There is no linkage here.”
“Tell Leland that,” Turner snapped.
“Why should he even know about it?” This from Parrish.
Phoenix, Arizona
The offices of Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube were decorated in a mix of Southwest chic, bad art, and legal pomposity. At first, Pontowski wasn’t sure if he was in a tourist trap or a decorator’s showroom. A secretary held the door to the conference room for him, the FAA inspector, and two members of the NTSB accident investigation team. They sat at the huge table. “May I get you a drink,” she offered. “Coffee, tea, juice?”
“Coffee would be fine,” Pontowski replied. She disappeared.
“Nice table,” the FAA inspector said, running his hand over the highly polished surface.
“All part of the game,” Pontowski told him. “It’s meant to intimidate.”
Kate Winston entered and sat down gingerly on the opposite side of the table. The lawyer’s business suit was in total contrast to the tight jeans and scanty T-shirt she had worn for the flight. “Good morning, gentlemen, General Pontowski.”
“Good morning, Ms. Winston,” Pontowski answered in the same tone. “I hope you’re recovered from the flight.”
“Oh, yes.” A little smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “It was an experience.”
“For both of us.”
“Mr. Slater will be here in a moment,” she told them. “Mr. Beason, Sammy’s father, will also be here.” From the look on her face, Pontowski knew she was against the senior Beason attending the meeting because they would be discussing the accident in detail. And all the evidence pointed to his son as the cause.
Jonathan Slater, the partner in charge of the Phoenix office, held the door open for Daniel Beason. Beason was in his late sixties, six feet tall, with a full head of gray hair. His face was red and splotchy. At one time, he had been handsome, but heavy drinking, smoking, and womanizing had ruined his health. Now, he was grossly overweight and his breath came in short gasps. “May I introduce Mr. Daniel Beason?” Slater said. They all stood to shake hands. But when Pontowski extended his hand, Beason turned away and sat down at the head of the table. “Shall we get started?” Slater said.
The head of the NTSB team passed out folders and led them through the preliminary investigation report. He finished by outlining the results of the flight when Pontowski and the FAA inspector re-created the accident profile. He looked sadly at the elder Beason and spoke in bureaucratic tones, trying to soften the reality of what he had to say. “The second flight modeling the mishap fully supports the documentation—”
Beason interrupted him. “I don’t give a damn about your documentation.”
“The documentation in question is the videotape from the mishap aircraft,” the team chief said. He took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. No government official willingly incurred the wrath of Daniel Beason. He plunged ahead. “The accident occurred when the mishap pilot, Johar Adwan, did not have full control of the aircraft. The audio portion of the cockpit videotape indicates the pilot and copilot were fighting over control of the aircraft.”
Beason shot to his feet and leaned across the table, his right hand outstretched, forefinger pointed at Pontowski. He was shaking in his rage. “That bastard killed my son and you’re telling me he’s going to walk!”
“Please, Mr. Beason,” Slater said soothingly. “These are not criminal proceedings.”
Beason’s finger was still wavering at Pontowski. “You’re not getting away with this!” His face was bright red.
Kate Winston came out of her seat and rushed over to Beason. She leaned against him and took his hand, guiding him back into his seat. “Please, Mr. Beason. We understand. We truly do.” It seemed to work and the old man slowly gained control. She gave them all a cautionary look. “Perhaps another day?” she ventured.
“I want to hear what he has to say,” Beason rasped, obviously meaning Pontowski.
“Mr. Beason,” Pontowski said, the pain in his voice obvious. “I am very sorry and I would give all I have for this not to have happened. But it was not my idea for your son to go along as a passenger. Nor did I cause the accident. I was simply there, a helpless bystander when the Marchetti went o
ut of control and entered an inverted spin.”
“You’re not walking away from this,” Beason stood up. “I’ll see you in court.”
Pontowski wanted to be gentle. “And your son’s actions will be held up to public scrutiny. Is that what you want?” For a moment, silence ruled.
“Confusion in the cockpit of the mishap aircraft was the primary cause of the accident,” the NTSB team chief said. Beason spun around and marched out of the conference room. The FAA inspector folded his hands and fixed Slater with a hard look. “There is absolutely no doubt what happened. Your client’s son panicked and took control of the aircraft at a critical moment. He caused the accident. I don’t think you have a case that will stand up in court.”
“So you’re also an expert on courts?” Slater asked.
“No,” the team chief replied. “But I was involved with the TWA Flight 800 court case. Believe me, I know what the legal defenses are.”
“I suppose you’re also a lawyer,” Slater snapped.
“As a matter of fact,” the team chief said, “I am. Don’t embarrass your client with a case you can’t win.” He paused for effect. “Daniel Beason has quite a track record. If you lose this one, which you surely will, he’ll turn on you.” He snapped his briefcase shut. “Think about it.”
The room rapidly emptied leaving Pontowski alone with Kate Winston. She walked around the table and stood next to him. “Mr. Beason has been terribly hurt by the death of his son.”
“I know. I’d be devastated if my son was killed. But Sammy Beason was a poor pilot. Even worse, he didn’t know it. Bringing that out in court, which I will, is only going to hurt him more.”
Kate looked at her hands, wanting to tell him he was right. There was something drawing her to Pontowski that had nothing to do with his good looks. And that made him even more attractive. She raised her head, her eyes bright. She reached out and touched his cheek. Her touch was warm and gentle. “Matt, we need to talk.” Her voice trailed off.
“Your reaction after we landed? That was normal. The need to relieve yourself or a sudden thirst is also very common.”
“And you’d have taken advantage.” Anger laced her words.
He shook his head. “No. But it was a chance for you to understand a little of what’s involved.”
She stared at the floor. “It did get Jonathan’s attention. He finally proposed.”
“Slater?”
She nodded. “And I accepted. I wanted to warn you about Beason.”
“He is your client. Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.”
“Matt, he’s furious that we didn’t confiscate the videotape from Sammy’s airplane and destroy it.”
“Isn’t that tampering with evidence?”
She nodded. “He’s out of control and we’re trying to withdraw from the case.”
“Should you be telling me this?”
Conflicting emotions tore at her. “No. But he’s playing dirty and wants to get you personally. Be careful.”
Pontowski gave a little humph. “I’ve been there before.”
“He’s playing the political card and bought himself a senator.”
“They come cheap these days.”
“Please, be serious.”
“I am.”
Washington, D.C.
Bender took his seat at the witness table in the committee hearing room and waited for the senators to settle in behind the long table that barricaded them at one end of the room. Aides hovered behind each senator, ready to be of instant service. Two senators quickly left the dais when they saw the first TV camera, only to return a few minutes later in makeup. An air of anticipation hung over the packed audience as TV crews set up more cameras. They had all come to witness the best show in town. Senator John Leland was going to live up to his reputation as Madeline Turner’s most ardent opponent and crucify yet another one of her nominees.
Leland was the last to enter and sit down. He rapped the committee to order and made his opening remarks. He used the customs and courtesies of the United States Senate to rule like a feudal monarch and only the constant attention of the TV cameras held him in check. He smiled at Bender. “First, let me thank you for coming on such short notice, General Bender. This won’t take too long.”
Knowing smiles broke out among the aides. Leland was at his best when shredding ambassadorial nominees not on his personal short list of campaign contributors. Bender was lucky to even be sitting in front of the committee and would be dispatched in short order.
He only sounds friendly, Bender thought, recalling the last time they had met face to face. It had been in the Cabinet Room in the White House the night Leland and his cronies had tried to force Madeline Turner to resign as president. Bender’s words were engraved in Leland’s memory. “The president,” he had said, “is engaged in a national emergency. You are no longer welcome in her house, and she wants you to leave. May I suggest you do so immediately.” Those were not the words a man like Leland ever forgot—or forgave.
“I notice you’re not wearing your uniform,” Leland said.
Bender moved the microphone closer and adjusted it so he would not have to bend over to speak. Keep it short and sweet, he cautioned himself. “Sir, I hope my record while serving our country speaks for itself. But today, I am here as a civilian, not a member of the armed forces.” His answer seemed to go down well with the committee and the TV cameras lingered on him.
Leland pontificated for a few moments about the committee’s responsibilities until the cameras were back on him. An aide handed him a note. Daniel Beason was on the phone and wanted to talk to him. It was a summons not even Leland could ignore. “What’s this about,” he grumbled to the aide.
“He didn’t say,” came the answer. “But I think he may not like Bender.”
Leland dismissed the aide and opened the folder on talking points his staff had prepared. He flipped to the page of hostile questions. “General Bender,” he began, “what do you know about Poland? For example, can you tell us about their national anthem?”
Bender leaned forward and suppressed a smile. “Of course, I’ve heard it and could try humming a few bars. But believe me, with my musical abilities, that might cause an international incident.” Laughter echoed behind him and a few of the senators smiled. “It’s based on the song Gen. Jan Dabrowski adopted for the army of Polish exiles he raised in Italy in”—he paused, searching for the date—“1797, as I recall.”
The senator from Illinois beamed with approval. “The date is correct,” she said. “It is very stirring. I first heard it when I was a child.” Then she hastened to add, “My family is Polish American.”
Leland humphed and went on to the next question. He looked over his reading glasses and frowned. The TV cameras were spending far too much time on Bender. He needed to change that. “I’m told the Poles are very aware of their history, General. How does that affect their current policies?”
“The Poles remember their history because, as a nation, they are always in trouble. They are a small country caught between two major powers, Germany and Russia, which have a habit of dividing up Poland and erasing it from the map.” Scattered applause rippled through the audience.
Leland hid his anger by smiling. He glanced at his notes. It was his turn to appear knowledgeable. “Ah, yes. You are, of course, referring to the Three Partitions in 1772, 1793, and 1795. All more than two hundred years ago.” The implication that the partitions were too old to be relevant hung in the air.
“Yes, sir, I am. But if you speak to the Poles, they will tell you of the fourth partition in 1939 when Germany and Russia invaded their country and again divided it between them.” Bender leaned forward to make his point. “They have learned from their history and don’t want it to happen again.” The applause was widespread and prolonged, led by the senator from Illinois.
Leland smiled graciously and passed on the questioning. He drummed his fingers on the table. He wanted to crush Bender on the spot
and send him back to the White House in a box. But the conversation with Vice President Kennett in the sauna of the Senate gym was too fresh in his memory. Rudenkowski was a problem and Kennett had offered an easy solution. In the end, the TV cameras made the decision for him. By the time the third senator had finished his questioning, only Bender was getting any face time. It was time to get the general out of the country and defuse the Rudenkowski bombshell before it exploded.
He also made a note to return Beason’s phone call.
Madeline Turner was as alone in the pool as a president can be. Two female Secret Service agents, both trained as lifeguards and paramedics, sat at opposite ends, their feet in the water, as she churned out lap after lap. A tall African American woman, also in a swimsuit and wearing an open robe that flapped behind revealing a lithe and athletic figure, paced the side of the pool beside Maddy, a stopwatch in her hand. “Come on, girl,” Noreen Coker called, “you can do better than that. One more lap. Go, go, go.”
Maddy put on a burst of speed and stroked hard, finishing the last lap. She held on to the edge of the pool, breathing deeply. “You’ve been impossible since you lost weight. I liked you better when you were fat.”
“Can’t help it,” Noreen replied. “Not since I got sanitized, Sanforized, and Oprah-ized. Talking to that woman changed my whole attitude about exercise and being skinee.” She struck a pose, causing her robe to fall away. “Great butt.”
“You’re getting worse,” Maddy said, pulling herself out of the pool. She was wearing a dark blue tank suit and white bathing cap.
Coker did a critical survey of her friend. “You look fantastic. Poor thing. You got it but you can’t flaunt it.” Their laughter joined as Noreen helped her into a terry-cloth robe.
Edge of Honor Page 9
