Behind him, a group of young lieutenants learning to fly the F-16 clustered around the bar and tried on different attitudes to cover up the horror of what they were seeing. They all knew it could happen to them.
“Crispy critters,” one lieutenant said.
“Looks like they had a bad day,” another allowed.
Still another kept score. “Bad guys one, Marines zero.”
A sergeant skidded through the door. “General Pontowski, the colonel needs to see you ASAP.”
Pontowski came to his feet and they fell silent. “The bad guys killed a lot of good people today,” he told the lieutenants. “Remember that, if you ever have a chance to nail one of the bastards for real.” He walked out of the room.
The lieutenant colonel commanding the Wild Ducks was waiting for him at the scheduling desk. “Sir, we just got a call from the head shed. They want you at the Western White House pronto, like an hour ago. We got a D model laid on and an instructor pilot preflighting it right now.” The D model of the F-16 was a two-place fighter. “The flight plan’s filed direct Vandenberg.”
A sergeant ran up to them carrying Pontowski’s personal equipment. “A van’s waiting outside,” she panted. Pontowski grabbed his helmet, parachute harness, and G-suit, and ran for the van that would take him to the F-16. The instructor pilot was in the backseat of the F-16 ready for engine start when he arrived at the jet.
Vandenberg Air Force Base, California
The straight-line distance from Luke Air Force Base to Vandenberg is 417 nautical miles and at .96 Mach, Pontowski was calling for landing clearance forty minutes after taking off. Five minutes later, he touched down and rolled clear of the runway. An H-60 Blackhawk helicopter emblazoned with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on the fuselage had its engines running when he taxied in.
The Western White House, California
Maura was standing on the veranda when the Blackhawk touched down at the Western White House sixteen minutes later. “We need you,” was all she said, leading him inside the house. He walked into the family room where Maddy was talking to Parrish. The chief of staff excused himself and left with Maura. They were alone.
“Matt,” she said, smiling at him, speaking in a rush. “What brings you here? I’ve never seen you in a flight suit before. No wonder you turned Maura’s head when she first met you.” She paused, a haunted look in her eyes. “I guess I should have zigged when we zagged.” It was an echo of the lieutenants at the bar. Another pause. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
“It’s a natural reaction. You should’ve heard me the first time.”
She was in his arms, shaking, finally letting go. They stood there in the fading twilight, his arms around her as tears streaked her face. Slowly, she regained control and her breathing slowed. “Why did I survive?”
“I’ve often asked the same question. That’s the way it is in combat. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
For a moment, he felt her body stiffen. Then she relaxed, still safe in his embrace. “Is that what combat’s like?” She felt him nod as he caressed her hair. “How can anyone do that to another human?”
“I don’t know. But it’s our job to stop them.”
“Mom,” Sarah said from the doorway, “are you okay?”
Maddy turned away from Pontowski and held out her arms. “I’m fine, now.”
Sarah ran into her mother’s embrace. “I saw it, Mom. I saw it all.”
“I know, darlin’, I know. It’s okay to talk about it, if you want.”
Washington, D.C.
The Old Executive Office Building next to the White House lit up like a wedding cake in the night as more and more of its denizens rushed to their offices. Lacking any real purpose for being at work on a Friday night, many of them milled around the black-and-white-tiled corridors anxious to glean any information they could about the attempted assassination. But most of all, they were worried, not only for the president, but for a woman they simply called Maddy.
However, there was no lack of purpose on the third-floor offices of the National Security Council. Only the rap of hard heels echoed down the hall as the chiefs of America’s national security and intelligence agencies gathered in Mazana Kamigami Hazelton’s conference room. Two of the men were so deeply buried in Washington’s infrastructure that only the director of central intelligence knew who they were and what they did.
The last to arrive in a wheelchair was Nelson Durant, the head of Century Communications. They all knew why he was there; Century Communications had built the world’s most advanced information-gathering computer system for the United States’ intelligence community. But only Mazie and the DCI knew that its successor was online and undergoing testing.
Mazie walked in, and stood at the head of the table. “I just got off the phone to the president. She’s fine.” The room broke out in spontaneous applause. “She’s directed that we form a special committee to investigate and gather evidence. I’ve asked Mr. Durant to head the committee and he has accepted. We, and I mean all of us, are here to help him.” She gave them a meaningful look. Everyone in the room was a power and controlled a bureaucratic empire with congressional or presidential support. But not one of them was a match for Nelson Durant. Mazie concluded, saying, “We’re going to catch the bastards. Mr. Durant, it’s all yours.”
Durant leaned forward in his wheelchair. “You may be wondering why a few key players are not here. That’s because we checked out every one of you first. You’re here because you’re clean.”
“Mr. Durant,” the director of the FBI protested, “you may have overstepped your bounds.”
“Really?” Durant replied. “Are you aware that your assistant director has a mistress and a call girl, both on the FBI’s payroll?” Durant’s assistant gave each of them a bound document. “This is a list of everyone in your organization who came up dirty. What you do with the information is up to you. But do not use them in this investigation.”
There was silence as the men and women stared at the lists. “I thought,” the representative from the Department of Justice said, “that Beatrice was specifically programmed not to do this type of investigation on U.S. citizens.” Beatrice was the code name for the information-gathering computer system Durant had created.
“She can’t,” Durant said. “This was done by the system replacing Beatrice. I call her Cassandra.”
The DCI was impressed. In the CIA alone, the new computer system had rooted out three sleepers left over from the Cold War, six spies who had penetrated CIA headquarters at Langley, and thirty-eight double agents out in the system. “What else has Cassandra uncovered?”
“She’s discovered that the missile used in the attack was a Russian-built Strela-3. It came through Poland.”
The DCI was incredulous. “The Poles are involved in this?”
Durant shook his head. “Apparently not. But we’re still looking at them.”
“Vashin,” Mazie half whispered.
“Perhaps,” Durant replied. “Turn to the back pages of your handout. Each of you has an action list to start working on.” He looked around the room, his eyes deadly calm. “We’re going to shake the tree until someone falls out.”
EIGHTEEN
Moscow
Vashin stared out the big picture window of his new penthouse, deliberately ratcheting up the tension as a fresh storm moved in. “That was not what I wanted. You stirred a hornet’s nest.” At the emphatic you, Yaponets felt a warmth in his crotch. Vashin spun around and Yaponets almost lost it. “I wanted Lezno sewn up, not the Turner bitch!”
Yaponets rubbed his close-cropped gray hair and willed his bowels to be still. Sweat streaked the forehead of the burly, sixty-four-year-old. His carefully crafted image as a Russian samurai was dissolving in front of the Council of Brothers and he fought for control of his bodily functions. “A misunderstanding,” Yaponets pleaded. “We had talked about the Turner woman. I thought you meant her.” His eyes darted back and forth, first to Va
shin, and then to Oleg Gora, the torpedo who had earned his place on the Circle of Brothers at Boris Bakatina’s funeral. “There is no one who can stop you. So after the money was stolen…”
Vashin snorted, interrupting him. “It was stolen in Poland. There is only one head in Poland who matters—Adam Lezno.” He spun around and glared at Yaponets. “The Americans will not rest until they find out who was behind this.”
Yaponets tried to look confident. It didn’t work. “They will never trace it to us.”
Vashin didn’t answer. He turned slightly and nodded at Gora. Yaponets lost control of his bowels. Vashin snorted as he rushed from the room. Gora started to follow him. “Let him be,” Vashin ordered. He turned to the window and Gora sat down, disappointed that he would not be able to demonstrate his skill. Outside, Geraldine Blake guided Yaponets to the room set aside for people to clean up after soiling themselves after meeting with Vashin.
In the penthouse, it was time to cast judgment on Yaponets. “If you’re going to kill the emperor,” a godfather said, “you must not fail.”
“Americans hate emperors and love martyrs,” the senior godfather said.
“The Americans are fools,” another godfather said, placing mitigating circumstances in evidence. “They will only find who we want them to find.”
Vashin agreed. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Yaponets has served you well,” the same godfather continued, making a plea for Yaponets’s life.
Geraldine’s advice about mercy and making grand gestures was still fresh in Vashin’s thinking. “Indeed he has.” The trial was over and the men talked quietly about the state of the vor and routine matters until Yaponets returned. He smelled strongly of cologne. Vashin waved him to a seat. “No more misunderstandings, my old friend,” Vashin said, pacing in front of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “The Poles are garbage and garbage does not steal my money and live to talk about it. We are going to teach them an object lesson. Sew up Lezno. But I want the arms and legs as well.”
“The SPS carried it out,” a godfather said.
“Eliminate them.”
“The Americans are supplying the Poles with intelligence,” another godfather said. “The new ambassador is behind it.”
“That is not good for his health,” Vashin said. The men laughed, appreciating his humor.
Yaponets wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding this time. “Is he one of the arms to be amputated?”
Vashin mulled it over. Did he want an American ambassador killed so soon after a failed attempt on Madeline Turner? Would that focus the CIA on the vor? He didn’t know. What if that assassination failed? “No. We can neutralize the Americans in other ways. If this ambassador becomes a problem we will reconsider our options. For now, I want Lezno to experience an unfortunate coincidence. The Poles will get the message.”
“There are no coincidences,” another godfather intoned. The men all nodded in agreement, their paranoia in harmony. Vashin turned to the window and stared into the falling snow. The meeting was over and they left silently. Outside, Geraldine called for their limousines and bodyguards. Yaponets was the last to leave and she helped him with his coat. “I do hope everything is going well with Mr. Vashin.”
Normally, a woman was beneath Yaponets and he would have ignored her. But his instincts warned him she enjoyed a special status with Vashin and was not an ordinary woman. The cunning savagery that had served him so well as he rose through the ranks of the vor gave way to a new urge: survival. The words his father had taught him to say as a child when referring to Stalin came back. “I’m a mere mortal in the presence of greatness,” he repeated automatically. She walked him to the elevator and waited for the car to arrive. The image of his headless body falling down the dark shaft flashed in his mind. “Is it still the same?”
She didn’t answer and smiled a good-bye when he stepped into the elevator. She returned to her desk and waited for the inevitable call. It came six minutes later. “I want to see Gabrowski,” Vashin ordered.
“The Pole with the amber cuff links,” she said, confirming the identity of the man. Automatically, she considered the problem. What had the Council of Brothers been discussing that spiked such fear in Yaponets? Gabrowski must know something about the money shipment or might even be involved. But to what depth, she didn’t know. If he was, he would be a fool to come to Russia. And he struck her as anything but a fool. Then she considered the other side of it. Would he need to sleep with her again so they could be alone? “How soon do you want to see him?”
“Tomorrow, Monday at the latest.”
“You know the Poles. He might not want to come, considering Christmas is Wednesday.”
“Tell him he’ll be home the same day.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
The plane from Warsaw landed before noon on Sunday. Geraldine and one of Vashin’s silver Bentleys was waiting for the lone passenger. He walked down the stairs bundled against the frigid wind and stepped into the car. “Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Gabrowski.”
Jerzy Fedor took off his hat and gloves and looked at her, his lean and ravaged face red from the cold. “Why the urgent summons?”
“Mr. Vashin wants to know where his money is,” Geraldine told him.
Fedor sighed. It was against all his principles to give anything back once he had it. “I wish I knew.”
She knew the conversation was being recorded. “That’s most unfortunate.”
The White House
The residence was alive with laughter as Maddy Turner’s family and friends gathered around her for a Christmas Eve celebration. Downstairs, the chief usher hovered at the entrance of the South Portico, waiting for one car to arrive. When it rolled up, he rushed forward, anxious to greet Pontowski and his son. “Good evening, General Pontowski. It is good to see you again. May I wish you an early Merry Christmas?”
“You always were the smooth talking devil, James. I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Matt.” Matt stepped forward and shook the older man’s hand. “James was an usher during your great-grandfather’s administration,” Pontowski explained.
James grew very serious and looked at Matt. “President Pontowski was the finest man I have known. It was an honor to have served him and his wife. Your great-grandmother was an elegant lady.” He motioned Pontowski to enter. “I believe you know the way.” He watched the father and son walk down the hall to the staircase leading to the second floor.
“Making points?” another usher asked.
The chief usher shook his head. “Touching the future.”
“What does James do?” Matt asked as they climbed the stairs.
“The chief usher is like a hotel manager,” Pontowski answered. “He supervises everything from social events to repainting. It’s his job to know everything that goes on behind the scenes. What maid or butler is having personal problems, who’s sick, what needs fixing. The guests may come and go, but the staff stays.” An intern met them on the second floor and led them to the Yellow Room. Sarah rushed up and took Pontowski’s hand, demanding a kiss on the cheek. “I like your dress,” Pontowski said. She pirouetted away as her full, floor-length skirt billowed around her. Her blond hair flowed and twisted with her, creating the charming illusion of a dancer on center stage.
Then she was back. “Is this the first time you’ve been to the White House?” she asked Matt. The teenager nodded dumbly, not sure what to say. Then she danced away to greet other guests.
“I think she likes you,” Pontowski said.
“Gimme a break, Dad. She’s only eleven.”
Pontowski laughed. “Going on sixteen.”
“Maggot!” Brian called from across the room. He rushed up. “Has Chubs been buggin’ you?”
“She’s not fat,” Matt replied, defending Sarah.
“Yeah. I know. But it bugs the…” He cut off the word he was thinking of. “…out of her. Come on, I’ll show you my room.” Matt looked at his fath
er who nodded. The two boys disappeared.
Matt wandered through the residence and, as before, the memories were back. For a brief moment in time, he was a lieutenant again and his grandfather was the president of the United States. As always, Tosh was there, his anchor and real mother. “A penny for your thoughts,” Maura asked, breaking into his reverie. One of the White House photographers capturing the party snapped a candid photo of them together.
“Thinking about times past.”
“Let’s find Maddy. I know she’s looking for you.” She took his hand. “I think she’s going to introduce you to the family. I hope you’re ready for it.”
“Have we reached that stage?”
“Dammit,” Maura said, surprising him. “You better have.” Then, “Take care of her Matt Pontowski. She’s still not over the crash.”
“It takes a while.”
She squeezed his hand and led him into the family quarters. Maddy wore a floor-length red skirt and white blouse. A gold chain matching her earrings snared her narrow waist and for a moment, Pontowski could not take his eyes off her. She laughed, not seeing him, and the empty void in his life was gone. She turned and saw him. “Matt, I’m so glad you could make it.” Her words were still a little too fast. She took his hand and reached up, kissing him on the cheek. He was aware that every eye in the room was on them and that the photographer had taken at least three shots recording the scene. She was announcing a change in their relationship.
Most of the guests had left and only a few of the family were still hanging on. Two of the older aunts, Vera and Kathy, had taken an intense interest in Pontowski and were hovering around him. “Well ladies,” Maura announced in a loud voice, “your pumpkin has arrived. It’s time to get you two old biddies to bed.”
“Careful who you’re calling an old biddy,” Vera countered. But she conceded the point and gave Pontowski a hug. “You’ll do—for now,” she said. Maura walked them out.
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