The Swiss banker swirled his cognac before taking a sip. “Herr Vashin, your proposal is most interesting, certainly worthy of my colleagues’ consideration. But we have heard many stories about the dangers of doing business in your new Russia.”
Vashin smiled, trying to be reassuring. “It is true that, in a manner of speaking, a few Russians have lost their heads”—a nervous titter worked its way around the room—“in ill-timed ventures. But they were not businessmen and that was in the past. We are now dealing with a higher level of sophistication.”
The American banker from Chicago guffawed. “Talk about happy horseshit—” A warning look from Geraldine cut him off.
Instead of translating the remark verbatim, she said, “They’re a little skeptical.”
The stick came next. “Please,” Vashin said, “I know you must all think about it and confer with your principals. We do understand your reluctance to join in a new endeavor with an untried partner. If you choose not to participate, there will be no hard feelings, only the hope that we can do business in the future. For now, it is more important that we gain your goodwill. As a remembrance of your visit with us, may I offer some gifts for you and your families?”
On cue, Geraldine threw open the double doors and a string of waiters entered. Some were pushing carts laden with gifts, others carrying paintings or priceless icons. Each banker was first presented with a Fabergé egg for his wife and, as the case required, his mistress. The gifts kept coming, each one carrying an inscribed gold tag with the name of the man’s children and closest living relatives.
A deathly silence ruled the room. The gifts announced that Vashin knew where, and how, they lived.
The Swiss banker was the first to recover. “These are most flattering and I cannot thank you enough. We will be talking in the very near future.” The others rapidly agreed and the evening was over. They had much to think about.
The German banker was the last to leave. He joined Vashin by the fire and spoke in Russian. “Chancellor Gunder sends his regards and asks if you would consider meeting with his representative to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
“I would be honored,” Vashin replied.
The White House
Madeline Turner glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. It was 7:20 A.M. and she was alone in her office in the residence on the second floor. She tried to concentrate on the “Quadrennial Defense Review” in her lap but the combination of bureaucratic and military jargon defeated her. I need an interpreter for this, she thought. Felipe, her favorite steward, poured her another cup of coffee. She took a sip, enjoying the aroma, as she waited for her Kitchen Cabinet to arrive for breakfast.
Noreen will be first. Noreen Coker was the most direct of the four friends who were her personal advisors and support group. She read another page of the “Quadrennial Defense Review” and dropped it in a briefcase in frustration. I’m missing something here. A knock at the door, a tactful pause, and Noreen entered. Turner smiled. “I’m glad you’re early. We need to talk.”
The tall African American congresswoman from Los Angeles collapsed into an overstuffed chair. “For God’s sake, coffee. No normal human being gets up at this hour.” Felipe handed her a steaming cup.
“Thank you, Felipe,” said Turner. “That will be all.” The steward withdrew, leaving them alone. Turner studied her friend. “Are you putting on weight?”
An unhappy nod from Noreen. “Is it obvious?”
“A man?”
Another nod. “He’s no good but he does stir my bones.”
“I hope that’s all he’s stirring.” Turner wanted to say more but Noreen knew the rules in Washington. Women politicians had to be masters of the double standard. What a male politician could get away with was a career breaker for a woman. “I’m glad you’re early. There’s something we need to discuss. I’m thinking of running for reelection.”
Somewhere deep in Noreen a switch turned and the consummate political professional emerged. She was no longer the flashy congresswoman who represented a poverty-stricken district but the shrewd Washington insider. “I’m not surprised. You’ve got the political base to capture the nomination. But most incumbents do, unless they’re total idiots. Most of the press loves you but a few of the bastards run with Leland and his pack. We can handle them. It’s too early to announce and you need to play coy for a while, at least until after the congressional elections next month, perhaps until after the first of the year. We’ve got to keep the opposition guessing for as long as possible. Otherwise, they’ll get organized and start raising money. Finances will be a problem for us. We’ll need someone with muscle.”
“I know. I was thinking of bringing Patrick in.”
“Don’t stand too close to that man.”
Turner didn’t answer. But she knew the truth of it. The ugly fact of life in national politics was the amount of money needed to mount a successful presidential campaign. Raising it was not the problem. Keeping it at arm’s length was. Shaw would do the dirty work and be the lightning rod drawing the anger of her opponents. And the more successful her campaign, the stronger the attack. After the election he would have to disappear into the background or she would dump him. Turner glanced at the clock. “The others should be here.” She rose and led the way into the dining room where her Kitchen Cabinet gathered for breakfast.
“Maura will be against it,” Noreen cautioned. “She hates this place.” The switch moved and the facade was back in place. “Girl, you’d think I’d know better than to mess with a man at my age.”
Joe Litton, the press secretary, stood aside as Madeline Turner took the podium in the press briefing room. Everyone was standing and applauding and even Sam Donaldson had exchanged his sharklike grin for a warm smile. As the senior correspondent, Donaldson was the dean of the press corps and sat front and center. “Madame President,” he asked, “the pictures of you horseback riding with Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski have received wide coverage. Is there some romantic interest here?”
For a moment, the room was absolutely silent. Donaldson was not one of Turner’s tame reporters she could rely on to spin her side of the story. She gave him a little smile. “Not that I’m aware of, Sam.”
“So should we assume you’re horse fanciers?”
“Well, you could assume that, but we’re not. Brian and General Pontowski’s son are roommates at NMMI. We have a common interest as concerned parents. Sam, you graduated from there. You know how difficult the freshman year is.”
Donaldson looked down as if caught up in his own memories. Elizabeth Gordon from CNC-TV was next. She was one of Turner’s tame reporters. “Madame President, is it true that Amadis Escalante willed you one of her paintings?”
“Not exactly willed,” Turner replied. “There is some confusion whether it’s a gift or not. I was quite moved by the thought and the painting. For the time being, it’s hanging in my bedroom. But after I leave the White House, it will be sent to the Smithsonian as part of the national collection.”
Her answer satisfied the reporters and they turned to the hard questions about the economy, defense, and public education. The press secretary leaned against the side wall and relaxed. It was going to be a good day.
The black limousine took the long way from Foggy Bottom to the White House. Normally, the drive from the State Department lasted only a few minutes. But Stephan Serick, the secretary of state, needed the time to abuse his two deputies. His hands twisted in a vain attempt to strangle his cane. “The president knew about Bender’s security-aid package before I did. Why?”
“We’re still staffing it,” the head of the European desk said. “It arrived on my desk less than two weeks ago.”
Serick scowled but the man was right. Two weeks was not even time for the head of a desk to clear his throat, much less digest and forward a cable from an ambassador. Two months was more reasonable. “Unfortunately,” Serick grumbled, “you do not have to discuss it with the president. I do.”
&n
bsp; “Bender has overstepped his bounds,” the under secretary said. “Ambassadors do not initiate major policy proposals.”
Serick almost shouted. “This one has.” His heavy jowls quivered and his Latvian accent grew thick. “How did she learn about it?” From his glare, the two professional diplomats knew they were in trouble.
“Not from State,” the under secretary said. “Turner recalled him for discussions and the national security advisor talked to him when he arrived.” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton was a much hated person in the State Department and she was only referred to by her title, never her name.
“And what is our position on this so-called security-aid package?” Serick asked.
Two heads shook as one. State didn’t have a clue.
The limousine went through the southwest appointment gate and deposited Serick at the west entrance to the West Wing. A Marine guard opened the door and Serick stumped into the White House, his right hand clenching his cane, still trying to strangle it. Dennis was waiting for him and led him into the Oval Office.
“Good afternoon, Madame President,” Serick said. He nodded at the other members of the president’s National Security Advisors Group and sat down next to Sam Kennett, the vice president. He nodded at Bender and Mazie. As usual, the director of central intelligence did not even look up to acknowledge his presence and Richard Parrish, Turner’s chief of staff, was sitting against the back wall.
Turner gave Bender a little half smile. “Well, Robert, I believe your security-aid proposal has ruffled some feathers.”
“I must apologize,” Serick said. “I haven’t had a chance to review it.” He muttered something about “the press of other business.”
Turner enjoyed watching Serick squirm. “Robert, can you summarize the high points?”
“Basically, it’s a two-part package. We provide the Poles with the ability to create an FBI-type organization. Second, through the Defense Security Assistance Agency and the NATO connection, we upgrade the Polish Air Force.”
Serick grumped. “And the desired results?”
“The goal,” Bender explained, “is to give the Poles the capability to combat organized crime and to control their own airspace.”
“The first I understand,” Serick said. “But why the concern over the control of airspace?”
“Because the Russian Mafiya leapfrogs at will around and through Poland using air transport. It’s a fast, efficient way to move drugs and people and it avoids ground interdiction. You can’t arrest them unless you get your hands on them.”
Serick stood up and stomped around the room. “This is too simple and ill conceived. Besides, I am more concerned with what the Germans are doing.”
“I haven’t seen any recent intelligence in the ‘President’s Daily Brief’ about that,” Turner said.
The DCI coughed for attention. “We received a report this morning about a high-level meeting in Saint Petersburg between Mikhail Vashin and a group of foreign bankers. The Germans invited Vashin to a follow-up meeting with Chancellor Gunder. My analysts think they’re reconciling areas of conflict.”
Mazie was worried. “Are we seeing a new alliance?”
Turner rocked gently in her chair as the discussion went around the room. As always, Serick was at his best when playing balance-of-power diplomacy but this time, something felt wrong, out of kilter. She interrupted them. “What do we need to implement Robert’s proposal?” It was her way of telling them she had made a decision.
“We already have the funding,” Kennett said.
Serick muttered, “By what stretch of the imagination?”
“Discretionary funding in the Omnibus Crime Bill and under Foreign Military Sales to NATO,” Kennett replied.
“I’ll need two project officers to manage the programs,” Bender added. “Someone from DOJ and Defense.”
Serick’s face turned three shades of mottled red. He was losing control. “Madame President, I must protest. An embassy is an extension of your diplomatic arm, not an action agency.”
“Does the CIA concur with that statement?” Mazie asked sweetly, looking directly at the DCI. He tried to become invisible and not answer the question. As it did in many countries, the CIA maintained a formidable presence in Warsaw and the entire third floor of the United States embassy was occupied by the CIA.
Turner stood and walked to the front of her desk. The meeting was almost over. “Robert, work with Richard. He’ll get whoever you need from DOJ and Defense. Stephan, please keep Mazie informed from now on so we can react in a timely manner. Any questions?” There weren’t any and they all stood to leave. “Robert, please stay a moment.”
Serick led the way out, stamping his cane in frustration. A major policy decision had been shoved down his throat.
“There goes one angry man,” Richard Parrish said.
“He’ll get over it,” Turner replied. “Robert, are you familiar with the latest ‘Quadrennial Defense Review’?”
“I helped write it.”
“Please tell me exactly what it means?”
Bender took a deep breath. “Essentially it’s a question of readiness. Contrary to the official line, combat readiness is going down at an alarming rate. Our current state of readiness is at the lowest it’s been since before the Korean War in 1950.”
“But the secretary of defense tells me we are at an all time high. I haven’t heard a single general speak out in disagreement. Least of all, you.”
“The secretary of defense is telling you what he thinks you want to hear. I was the vice chief of staff of the Air Force and owed my loyalty to the chief of staff who, in turn, owed his loyalty to the chairman of the JCS. We’ve had some frank, even brutal, discussions about readiness. But when all is said and the decision made, we speak as one voice. As a subordinate officer, I could not contradict the JCS.”
“But you are now.”
“I’m no longer in that chain of command and you asked me a direct question.”
“If I had appointed you chairman of the JCS, would you have gone against the secretary of defense?”
“Absolutely. Or I would have resigned if he didn’t let me tell you the—” He stopped in midsentence. He had almost said “tell you the truth.”
Clearly upset, Turner paced back and forth. “Our poor state of readiness, is it a question of money?”
“Partially, but not totally.”
“What are the most critical issues I need to know?”
“Speaking just for the Air Force, three come to mind. First, strategic airlift is broken. We need to double the size of the C-17 fleet and supplement it with an equal number of tactical cargo planes similar to the C-130. Then we need to take a hard look at long-range aviation.” He paused, searching for the right words.
“And the third issue?”
He bit the bullet. “Madame President, women are in the military to stay but—” His voice trailed off.
“Go on.”
“We need to reevaluate their role in combat before it’s too late.”
Bender and Parrish braced for her explosion. But it didn’t come. Instead, a very quiet “Why?”
“We’ve got problems integrating women into combat specialities. Because of the political climate, a commander will be crucified if he, or she, even suggests there might be something wrong. How can we solve a problem we can’t talk about?”
She steepled her fingers and looked at the painting of Thomas Jefferson over the fireplace. Her silence was actually very brief but seemed to last a lifetime. “Well, I did ask the question.” Again, silence. Then, “Robert, we’re having a dinner party next week. Can you and Nancy make it?”
“We’d be delighted, Madame President.”
“Always so formal. Will it ever be Maddy?”
“Please forgive me, Madame President. It’s just my nature.”
Turner smiled. “Then until next week.” She settled into her chair and watched him leave. “My unbending Bender,” she murmured.
Den
nis came through the door for the day’s wrap-up. “Senator Leland is stirring the pot again.”
“I wish that man would go away,” Turner muttered. “What’s he up to now?”
“He’s filed a congressional inquiry with the Pentagon and the FAA on behalf of Mr. Daniel Beason. It involves the death of his son in an air-show accident.”
“Leland and Beason in the same bed is bad news,” Parrish said.
Turner frowned. “Any fallout for us?”
“There shouldn’t be,” Parrish answered. “But I’ll check into it.”
“Don’t. Let the system handle it. Leland will see any interest on our part as interference.” She spun around in her chair and gazed out the window. The sun was setting and the President’s Park was encased in long shadows. “Dennis, I’ve invited Robert and his wife to the party next week. Please take care of it.” She turned around. “And I want to invite Gen. Matthew Pontowski to sit at my table.”
“Ah, Madame President,” Parrish stammered. “After the press conference today, would that be wise?”
“It’s time to give poor Clarence a break,” she answered. Justice Clarence Wood was a widowed Supreme Court justice who served as Turner’s companion for functions that required an escort.
Parrish and Dennis exchanged worried glances.
The Hill
“The Trog just walked in,” Brian said. He and Matt were standing in the new cadet side of the Post Exchange in John Ross Thomas Hall sipping Cokes. Until they were yearlings, they had to stand at the high tables in the section reserved for new cadets. But at least they were safe from upperclassmen. Zeth looked at them but said nothing and walked down the short flight of stairs to the lounge.
Edge of Honor Page 16
