James recovered nicely. “Congratulations, sir.” The meeting was over and he wandered back to his office in a state of mild shock. Pregnant secretaries, wives of younger officers and junior staff members were quite common. But not the ambassador’s wife. It was unheard of. He stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Please have Ewa find an obstetrician for Mrs. Bender.”
FOURTEEN
Moscow
Geraldine Blake and Tom Johnson flanked Vashin when he walked into Vashin Towers. “I’ve had a team of independent security experts in here for a week,” Johnson explained. “They’ve gone over every square millimeter and Vashin Towers is, without doubt, the most secure structure they’ve ever seen.”
“Not to mention,” Geraldine added, “the most elegant.”
“Better than Trump Tower in Manhattan?” Vashin asked.
“Trump Tower is not even a distant second,” Geraldine replied. She guided him up the escalator to the mezzanine where he could view the entrance mall with its collection of expensive boutiques and restaurants. “This is a masterpiece,” she said. “You have created the symbol of the new Russia.” Vashin stood at the rail and took it in. Below him, people streamed in. The boutiques were busy, the restaurants booked weeks in advance, and every office space rented. Vashin Towers was an instantaneous success.
Vashin turned and smiled. “I’m pleased.” A wave of relief swept over the entourage surrounding him.
Geraldine stepped back. “This way, please.” She led him to the marble-lined alcove and the executive elevator. The doors were open. They stepped inside and Geraldine said, “The Center, please.” The doors closed and they were barely aware of movement.
A computer-generated woman’s voice answered. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I have scanned the building and it is secure.”
“The computer system,” Johnson told him, “was designed and installed by Century Communications International. They are the best in the world.” Vashin grunted an answer. The name Century Communications meant nothing to him.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the Center, the new hub of Vashin’s web that was six stories below street level. It was a modern and efficient office complex worthy of any international corporation. “Your decision to build underground was inspired,” Johnson said, stroking Vashin’s ego. “It increased construction costs but paid off in increased security.” He sensed Vashin’s impatience. “Would you like to see the Action Room first?” Vashin nodded hungrily. They marched down the center hall and through what looked like a vault door. They stepped onto a balcony overlooking an operations center. Rows of consoles faced huge computer-driven displays on the walls and people scurried purposefully around on business. Half of the Action Room could have been a military command post. The other half was a finance center with links to every stock exchange in the world.
“Very good,” Vashin said. He barged ahead and into his new office complex. His desk was in the largest chamber and set against a huge picture window overlooking the Action Room.
“My God,” Geraldine whispered to Johnson. “This is right out of a James Bond movie.”
“Where do you think we got the idea.”
Geraldine found her desk and looked into her computer monitor. An embedded security camera scanned her retina and the screen came to life. She signed on and was ready to go to work. She picked up a leather folder, which now integrated her telecommunicator and personal organizer and linked her into the computer system. She walked into Vashin’s office. He was standing by the window overlooking the Action Room, hands clasped behind his back and a rigid, triumphal scowl on his face. A warning bell tinkled in the back of her mind and, for a brief moment, she was looking down a dark corridor into the past. Then it was gone. “Mikhail, whenever you’re ready. The bankers are in the penthouse.”
She followed Vashin into the express elevator that connected his office to the penthouse. They shot 105 stories skyward. The doors opened and they stepped out. Vashin stopped and turned to the guard. “Is it the same?”
The guard answered with a smile. He inserted a passkey and turned it counterclockwise. There was a slight pause as the elevator moved up to clear the door. The doors opened silently and revealed the dark shaft. A blast of cold air hit them and Vashin smiled. The guard twisted the key, the doors closed, and the elevator descended back into place.
Thirteen of the fourteen bankers who had been in Saint Petersburg a month before were waiting for him in the conference room. Only the banker from England was absent. Vashin stood at the head of the table and motioned Geraldine to the podium at the other end. He spoke in Russian and thanked them for coming as Geraldine translated. He liked the way her voice was an echo of his. Then, as planned, he sat down and let her continue.
“Mr. Vashin,” she said, speaking in English, “is very pleased that you have decided to join him in this new venture. As you know, it is Mr. Vashin’s intention to establish Moscow as one of the world’s leading financial centers.” She moved gracefully to the computer-generated displays on the back wall and used a sequence of charts and diagrams to outline Vashin’s plans. Vashin concentrated on the bankers’ reaction, trusting his instincts more than logic to interpret for him. It was Geraldine who was convincing them, not his grand plan.
She came to the heart of the meeting. “Critical to Mr. Vashin’s goal is a strong banking system in Russia mat has links to the world’s international trade centers. By being essential components of such a system, your banks will—”
The banker from Chicago interrupted her. “We know why we’re here. We need to know how Mr. Vashin intends to prime the system. Banks don’t exist on promises or hot air. We need cash reserves, under our control, to underwrite our business.”
“Sufficient funds will be deposited in your Moscow branch to create the reserves you require.”
Now it was the Swiss banker’s turn. “Our governments require us to identity the source of large deposits.” Vashin was up against the basic problem faced by all criminal organizations—how to legitimize illegally obtained money. The reserves and money priming the system had to be clean or the banks would lose their charters.
“Not to worry,” Geraldine replied. “The funds will come to you by electronic transfer from recognized and long-established Russian banks.”
“And these banks will certify the money is legitimate?”
“Of course,” Geraldine replied.
“We can accept those transfers,” the Swiss banker said, “if the funds were originally sourced in a bank recognized by the European Union or the U.S. Federal Reserve system. However, if the funds are sourced in Russia, my charter requires the actual transfer of cash, securities, or gold, to our control.” The other bankers confirmed they had to live with the same constraints.
Geraldine’s voice was matter-of-fact as she explained the problem to Vashin in Russian. “We’ve got to put up the actual money before they will sign on.”
“How much?” Vashin asked.
Geraldine asked the question of the bankers and added up their responses. Her face paled at the total figure. Afraid to tell Vashin, she started to bargain and finally got the initial funding down to two billion dollars each. She relayed the number to Vashin and he jerked his head yes.
“When can we expect it?” the Japanese banker asked in Russian.
Vashin thought for a few moments. He had the funds, in one form or another. But most of it was scattered around the world and had to be physically transferred into the Russian banks he controlled to start the laundering process. “Soon,” he told the bankers. “Before Christmas.”
The meeting over, Geraldine led the men into the dining room for a sumptuous luncheon. Vashin was struck by how easily she switched roles from an accomplished negotiator to a regal hostess. She was a consort worthy of an emperor.
The White House
Turner huddled with her speech writers and Richard Parrish in her study. The two men and one woman who wrote her speeches were, without doubt, the m
ost eclectic group on the presidential staff and could rise to any occasion, swamping her with a torrent of appropriate remarks for the audience. They had to be since Turner made about 300 speeches a year, ranging from causal remarks on the White House lawn to ceremonial addresses to the nation. But not only did they play with the power of the spoken word, they carefully crafted how and where she said it.
“Madame President,” the woman said, “we may be wasting the issue on the National Guard Association. They’re so glad you’re speaking, it doesn’t matter what you say.”
“We’re floating a trial balloon,” Parrish said. “Their response will be critical.”
“Avoid any mention of women in the military and it’ll play like apple pie and motherhood in Iowa,” one of the men said.
“Okay,” Parrish said, “we’re agreed. Let’s look at what’s on the schedule for next week.” They quickly went over the upcoming events and which writer was responsible for what speech.
Dennis stuck his head through the door. “It’s time, Madame President.”
“Thank you, Dennis.” She rose and the speech writers vacated the room as another assistant brought in her coat and gloves.
Because her speech to the National Guard Association was an announced public visit fourteen cars were waiting for her on West Executive Avenue. Her limousine was sandwiched between seven security vehicles for the short drive to the Watergate complex, less than a mile away. The other six cars held her traveling staff. It bothered Turner that the elaborate security conditions placed her in a state of almost total isolation. She had never forgotten Maura’s initial reaction and her simple comment “This turns people off.”
She raised the problem once with the head of the Secret Service. He replied they had only received four threats against her life that week, an all-time low. She didn’t ask what the all-time high was and that ended the matter.
As usual, a bank of TV cameras and reporters waited for her arrival. Again, the Secret Service scanned the crowd with hard looks, always hypervigilant. Patrick Flannery Shaw waited with the reception committee, a worried look on his face. The TV cameras recorded him speaking to her, although no one could hear his actual words. Turner paused and looked at him. He said something else and she gave him a little, but very obvious push, pointing him down the hall. She sighed and shook her head with the look a mother has for her errant children. Her worried hosts ushered her into the reception area.
The small auditorium was still ringing with applause when Turner left the stage and said good-bye to her hosts. Parrish followed her. “Your remarks about establishing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness touched a nerve. I’ve briefed Joe how to respond to questions.” Parrish led her down a side hall and to a back elevator. Free of the press, they entered a back door into the offices of Stammerville and Holt, Media Consultants. Patrick Shaw grinned when he saw her come in.
“Well, Mizz President,” he drawled, “we sprinkled some dust on the waters.” He introduced her to the two men who would mastermind her campaign. For the next forty minutes, they outlined the realities of what it would take to elect her and a strategy to capture key states. An assistant came in with a videotape recorded from the CNN, Fox, and CNC-TV news channels. It was the first reaction to her speech. But the coverage centered mainly on the incident in the hall and not what she had said.
Shaw roared with approval when Liz Gordon from CNC-TV ended her coverage with “We don’t know what the president said to her old friend and advisor, Patrick Shaw. But it does appear he is in the presidential doghouse. A knowledgeable insider told this reporter that she is rejecting his advice to run for the presidency in her own right.”
“Who’s the knowledgeable insider?” Parrish asked.
“Me,” Shaw replied. “Ms. Gordon is in our stable.”
“What’s the point?” Parrish asked.
Stammerville answered. “The point, Mr. Parrish, is to keep our opponents guessing as long as possible, not only about the president’s intentions, but about Mr. Shaw’s role in the campaign.”
“Patrick’s a liability,” Turner said. “But he’s critical to my campaign.” She stood and paced the room. “This rift was staged to focus attention on Patrick, not the issue I raised with the National Guard. I’m deeply concerned about combat readiness in our armed forces. I wanted to air the idea of an independent commission on it without stirring up a partisan controversy. Identifying problems and finding right solutions may take years.”
Shaw frowned. “You might not like the answers, Mizz President.” He wanted to tell her that independent commissions had the bad habit of revealing the truth, a definite liability in his world. “If you’re serious about winning, postpone the commission until after the election.”
Holt caught the slight tilt of Turner’s head and the set of her mouth. His political instincts warned him that this was not an issue they should raise during a campaign and he had to change her mind. His words came slow. “By appointing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness you may be opening yourself to criticism on a vulnerable issue. Better to wait and let the other side raise it. Then appoint the commission and claim it’s far too serious a question for partisan politics.”
“And take it off the table,” Shaw added. He studied the president, hoping it was now a dead issue. But his instincts warned him otherwise.
“Madame President,” Holt continued, “we need to finalize two items. First, will it be Madeline Turner or Maddy Turner?”
The question was crucial, for the answer would set the campaign’s tone. Would it be presidential or would it be personal? An image of her imperial motorcade driving down an empty street flashed in her mind’s eye. “It’s Maddy Turner.”
“Second, the timing of your announcement is critical. We recommend delaying it until after the first of the year. Perhaps in February.”
Turner pulled into herself and reran all the old arguments. So much of it was gamesmanship and logic said that Holt was right. But her instincts were sending a different message. She made her decision. “Before Christmas.”
Shaw bit off his reply. She had gotten that one wrong.
Kutno, Poland
Winslow James sat in the backseat of the black staff car with Bender and Peter Duncan for the ride to the country manor house where the Poles’ SPS, Special Public Services, was headquartered. It was a long ride into the countryside west of Warsaw and the narrow two-lane road was congested with heavy truck traffic. “This road,” James said, “is the major artery connecting Warsaw to western Poland. As you can see, Poland needs a modern highway system.”
Bender listened while James listed Poland’s transportation problems. He grudgingly gave his DCM high marks for understanding Poland’s economic infrastructure. But he wished James sounded more human. By all normal standards, he was a pompous, overbearing snob impressed with his position and himself. He needs a shot of reality, Bender told himself. Peter Duncan on the other hand was all Irish charm hiding a sharp mind and aggressive disposition. “Pete,” he said, cutting James off, “what’s the agenda for today?”
Duncan handed him a schedule. “Pretty much your normal dog and pony show in the morning with a luncheon at one o’clock. I’ve scheduled an hour for a private conversation with the commander afterward and they want to end the day with a tactical exercise.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” James huffed, “I do have to return to the embassy; the press of official business. I’ve arranged for a staff car to pick me up at noon.”
Bender nodded, his opinion of James slowly solidifying into stone.
The commander of Special Public Services was a big man, all hard lines and rigid attitude. His black combat fatigues were devoid of any rank. The only distinguishing mark was a red shoulder patch shaped like a shield with a white SPS logo; two lightning bolt Ss flanking a P that turned into a double fishhook at the bottom. The commander towered over the much smaller Duncan yet Bender sensed they were both cast from the same mold. Dun
can’s words about being a cop carried a fresh meaning. Bender listened, hearing pride and dedication when the commander spoke about his unit. “Five years ago, law enforcement was in shambles. We started to make real progress when our first graduates from your FBI’s National Academy returned.”
James coughed for attention. “Mr. Ambassador, my car is here.” Without waiting for Bender’s reply, he thanked the commander and almost ran to the waiting staff car in his rush to escape. Bender suppressed what he wanted to say. Until James was able to look beyond the facade of diplomatic bureaucracy and protocol and cope with reality, he would never be an effective diplomat.
The commander watched James leave. “We have hundreds like him in our government. How did you get him out of his office?”
“With a crowbar,” Duncan replied.
The commander laughed. “It is good he left. I told my exercise team to lay on a hostage exercise for this afternoon. It would have frightened him.”
Duncan perked up. “Is it a live fire exercise?”
“Of course not.”
“Where will it take place?”
“Finding where the terrorists have taken the hostage is part of the problem. I have given my intelligence section two hours to locate the hostage. If they fail, an informant will reveal the location to speed things along. Then you can see how a tactical squad responds and negotiations are started.”
Duncan said, “So it will be near here.”
“Of course.”
A wicked smile crossed Duncan’s face that made Bender think of a malevolent leprechaun. An unspoken understanding passed between the American and the Pole. “I agree,” the commander said. He spoke into his telecommunicator, issuing orders in Polish. “The exercise has commenced as of now.”
Edge of Honor Page 21
