“It’s not allowed,” Emil said from the backseat.
“It is now,” Pontowski replied. He briefed his wingman on exactly how to fly the traditional recovery flown by fighters returning from combat.
Most of the squadron’s pilots were standing outside the operations building and saw the two F-16s as they approached from the southwest. Pontowski locked their airspeed at 300 knots and their altitude 1,500 feet above the ground. When they were over the approach end of the runway, he keyed his radio. “In the break.” He wracked the jet into a turn and peeled off to the left. He aligned the missile rail on his left wingtip with the runway for offset. Five seconds later, his wingman did the same. “Watch your spacing,” he radioed, cautioning his wingman as he bled off airspeed. Then, “Gear down.” His left hand flicked out and hit the gear lever, dropping the gear and the flaperons.
When he was abeam the touchdown point, he circled to land. The airspeed bled off nicely as he came down final. He kissed the concrete at exactly 140 knots. Good landings in the F-16 were easy, but great landings were a gift from God. “How’s he doing?” Pontowski asked Emil.
Emil twisted around in his seat to watch the other F-16 land. “Perfect.”
“Well, at least one thing went right today.” He turned off the runway and waited for his wingman. They taxied to the squadron area as a team and parked. On cue, their canopies came up together and he cut the engine. “Cheated death again,” he told Emil.
Twenty minutes later, the two pilots walked into the briefing room expecting to see the other three pilots. The room was deserted. “Where did they go?”
Emil looked embarrassed. “We never debrief.” He started to explain, but his voice trailed off.
“They’re not used to criticism,” Pontowski said. “Emil, the debrief is the most important part of the mission. That’s where we all learn from our mistakes and how not to make them again.”
It was after six in the evening when Pontowski returned to the embassy. He walked down the deserted hall to his offices and, as expected, found the two officers who worked for him still there. They briefed him on the message traffic that had to go out, he signed the releases, and sent them home to their families. Then he took off his coat and worked through the folder on his desk detailing a training package for the Polish Air Force. It was a good proposal but it didn’t feel right, not after that afternoon’s flight.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He fished the videocassette from the mission out of his briefcase and popped it into his VCR. The familiar picture recorded through the F-16’s head-up display appeared on the TV screen and his voice was loud and clear over the radio. Again, his frustration built as the mission unfolded. They’re decent enough pilots, he reasoned. He glanced at the training proposal and knew it was all wrong. He threw the folder against the wall in frustration and its pages fluttered across the floor. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the strain from the mission demanding its price. He dozed.
“General,” Ewa said, “would you like some coffee or tea?” His eyes snapped open. She was standing in front of his desk holding the offending folder, all neatly arranged and in order. She tilted her head, waiting for an answer.
“Please sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair. “I’ve got a problem. The folder you’re holding is a training proposal for your air force. It’s a good plan, but for some reason, I know it won’t work.”
She scanned the folder and then read a few pages. “Whoever wrote this doesn’t understand Poles.”
He sensed she was right. “So what do I do?”
“You need to talk to my mother.” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up his phone and dialed a number. She spoke briefly in Polish and turned to him. “Have you ever had pierogi with a good Polish beer?” He shook his head.
Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik pushed through the door of the crowded pub and spoke to a heavyset man behind the counter. He looked around and led them to a table with three empty seats. The young couple scooted to one end and went on talking and smoking as if they weren’t there. “So, what don’t you understand about us?” the doctor asked, coming directly to the point. The couple next to them fell silent, obviously listening for Pontowski’s answer.
“I guess the Polish character is totally beyond me.”
“That’s because we’re a mixed people, speaking a Slavic language, with a European culture. Look at the people around you. Most of them are very young. But never forget they were all born in the Soviet dark ages.” A waitress brought a platter of pierogi and a pitcher of beer. Elzbieta pointed to one. “Try that one.”
Pontowski bit into it and found it delicious. “It reminds me of a Cornish pasty.”
“It should remind you of Poland,” the doctor said. “That is why you don’t understand us. We are a hard-headed people, Matt Pontowski, and learn by example. Your name, what do you Americans say? has weight here. We want to trust you because of who you are. Try not to disappoint us.” She took a healthy drink of beer. “We have been occupied so often and for so long that we distrust words. Authority. Foreigners.”
The young man sitting next to Pontowski snorted. “Especially Russians.”
“My father,” his girlfriend said, “hates all Germans and Russians.”
“So given a chance,” Elzbieta asked, “which would he kill first?”
“Germans,” a man at the next table called.
“Why?” Elzbieta asked.
“Duty before pleasure,” another man shouted.
Elzbieta fixed Pontowski with a hard stare. “Now you are talking to Poles. Are you listening?” She stood and left.
The girl leaned across the table. “Are you the grandson of President Pontowski?”
Pontowski gave her his best grin. “Guilty as charged.”
For a moment, he was surrounded by silence. Then the talking, laughter, and drinking really began.
The price of the evening was a hangover the next morning. It pounded at Pontowski with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he was a young lieutenant at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona. Ewa took one look at him when he entered his office and handed him a cup of coffee. He sipped at it. “I should know better at my age,” he said.
“Yes, you should,” she chided. But there was amusement in her hazel eyes. “Did you learn anything else last night?”
“Most assuredly,” he answered.
She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Ambassador Bender said that many times.”
Pontowski felt a tug of emotion but quickly buried it. He checked his address book and jotted down a number. “I’m gonna hire some American fighter jocks to train your pilots. Please call this number in Tucson, Arizona, for me.”
“It’s one in the morning there. You’ll wake them.”
“He won’t mind.”
She went to her office and quickly made the connection. Pontowski picked up the phone and listened for the familiar voice. “Walderman.”
“Waldo, you current in the Viper?”
George Walderman recognized Pontowski’s voice immediately. “I’m still a weekend warrior. Flying with the 162nd Tac Fighter Group here at Tucson.”
“How would you like to get a life?”
“You want me to play hero again, don’t you?”
“Nope. Just train a few.”
“Where?”
“Poland.”
“No one goes to Poland in January.” A long pause. “When do you want me there?”
“Yesterday.”
“Can do. By the way, who’s picking up the paycheck?”
“You’ll be a civilian working for the Polish government.”
“That’s a different show,” he allowed.
The White House
Patrick Flannery Shaw sat in the staff room down the hall from the kitchen and poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s. He swirled the whiskey and savored its aroma. But he didn’t drink; not when he needed to be at the top of his game. He had spent too many sleepless nights playing out scenari
os and had come to the same conclusion every time.
The upcoming election was going to be a squeaker, but Maddy Turner was going down to defeat. And he knew why. The thought of Leland and his buddies running the nation sent a chill down his back. Could he prevent it? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to work with, not given Maddy’s scruples. But he had to try. He also knew exactly what she would do to him if she found out. His advice to her about sacrificing subordinates who overstepped the bounds had struck home.
“Patrick,” Turner said, bringing him back to the moment.
He stood up. “Madame President.”
She sat down and poured herself a root beer. “No Mizz President? You must be worried.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I know you’re under pressure to announce for reelection to avoid being labeled a lame duck. But I think it’d be better if you held off announcing as long as possible.”
“Why?”
“Too many balls in the air. And we need to force Leland’s hand.”
“Is he going to run?”
Shaw shook his head. “The Senate hasn’t seen the likes of him since Lyndon Baines Johnson. Leland knows the presidency destroyed LBJ, so why risk what he has in the Senate when he can be a kingmaker?”
She gave a little nod in agreement. “He is a problem.” In a few short sentences she told him about the private meeting with the senator, the deal exchanging Yaponets for a nuclear weapon that went sour, and what Leland wanted for his silence.
“How in hell did he find out?” Shaw muttered. He looked at the woman who had become the focal point of his life. She was all that he could never be, the sum of all he valued. She walked on center stage and commanded the spotlight while he was consigned to the wings. But he didn’t care. In his heart, he loved her like the daughter he never had. His resolve stiffened and he knew what he had to do.
Regretfully, he poured the whiskey back into the bottle and corked it. “Make the deal.”
TWENTY-TWO
Moscow
It was a business meeting easily arranged. Tom Johnson simply called headquarters Transport Aviation, identified who he worked for, and asked to speak to the commander, Gen. Col. Peter Prudnokov. Two hours later, Johnson walked into the gray and decaying building that was less than a mile from the Kremlin. A severe woman wearing the rank of lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. She led the way to the only working elevator and they rode in silence up to the third floor.
Prudnokov’s office was as austere as the man himself. “What is the purpose of this meeting?” the general demanded.
“I’m responsible for Mr. Vashin’s security,” Johnson said.
“I know what you do,” Prudnokov replied.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult to provide the security Mr. Vashin requires, especially when he flies. Perhaps your Tupolev can be made available for his use?” The aircraft in question was a VIP version of the Tupolev-204.
“That requires the approval of the Security Council and President Kraiko.”
“Easily arranged.”
“Then I will make the Tupolev available,” Prudnokov replied. “Is that all?”
“No.” Johnson came to the reason he was there personally. “Last September, Mr. Vashin told me to find your daughter.” Johnson handed Prudnokov a photograph. “Is this your daughter?” The general’s face was impassive as he studied the picture. He nodded once. “I’m sorry to tell you that I have bad news,” Johnson said. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”
“How did she die?”
The image of the naked girl walking to the elevator in Vashin’s old penthouse and being shoved down the dark shaft burned in Johnson’s memory. “I’m not sure, but she may have been murdered.” He reached into the bag he carried and handed Prudnokov a small ornate silver urn. “Her ashes.”
Prudnokov stared at the American. “Who did it? I must know.”
“If Mr. Vashin approves, I’ll find out.”
“I would be most grateful if this was only between you and me.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Johnson said. The hook was set. But first, he had to notify his control that the operation was in motion.
Vashin leafed through the thick notebooks like a child with a new toy. He was fascinated by the wealth of information, photos, and endless trivia about the president of the United States. “Has Geraldine seen these?” Vashin asked.
“Of course not,” Yaponets answered. “She knows nothing of your interest.”
Vashin turned the pages of the third notebook. “Who’s this with her son?”
Yaponets studied the photos taken at NMMI. “The smaller boy is Matt Pontowski. He is Brian Turner’s roommate and they’re good friends. Brian calls him Maggot.”
“Pontowski. I know that name.”
“The boy’s great-grandfather was the president of the United States,” Yaponets explained. “His father, Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski III, is currently in Poland training the Polish Air Force. In the last folder, there is mention of a romantic connection between Turner and the father.”
“So, the wolves breed more cubs to trouble us.”
Yaponets studied the photos, his eyes hard and unblinking. “We know where they live.”
Vashin nodded in agreement.
“There is another problem,” Yaponets said. “My contacts in the States tell me the CIA knows about your dreams.”
Vashin turned to the big window. “The source of this information?”
“An aide who works for Sen. John Leland. He likes high-priced call girls and talks to impress them. He blabbers about his work on Leland’s intelligence committee and what the CIA tells them.”
“Does he know who the CIA spy is?”
“No.”
“So we must find the leak ourselves,” Vashin said.
Yaponets listed the most likely suspects. “There is me and the Council of Brothers. No one else that I know of.”
“And Geraldine,” Vashin added.
“Kill her,” Yaponets muttered. It was an easy decision. Yaponets and the Council of Brothers were vor, the old guard criminals, and while they might conspire and plot to overthrow Vashin, they would never betray him to an outsider.
At first, Vashin said nothing. His survival depended on a precarious system of checks and balances where he compartmentalized potential threats to his life. Geraldine and Johnson served a vital purpose and protected him from his fellow vor. But when a decision had to be made, there was no choice. “Have the American bring her in,” Vashin finally said.
Tom Johnson stood in the door of Geraldine’s office. “Mikhail wants to see you.”
This is different, she thought. Why didn’t he just buzz? She arched an expressive eyebrow as her inner alarm bells went off. Any break in the routines surrounding Vashin signified trouble and, for a brief moment, panic nibbled at the edges of her self-control. She stood and followed the big American into the penthouse. He held the door for her and then left her alone with Vashin and Yaponets. The panic was back when Yaponets smiled at her. She used the only weapon at hand and lifted her chin to give him a condescending nod. But Vashin was looking out the window and didn’t see it.
Panic ripped at her when the doors to the private elevator whispered open and two bodyguards stepped out. The doors closed and the guards stood there, blocking that exit. Vashin turned from the window and looked at her. She knew what was coming.
An icy contempt for these men swept over her. She threw Yaponets a contemptuous look. “Really, is this necessary?”
“Undress,” Vashin ordered.
Don’t panic! she raged to herself. Slowly, she picked at the buttons on her blouse as her mind raced, looking for a way out. She dropped her blouse casually to the floor. What will he believe? With deliberate nonchalance, she unzipped her skirt and let it fall. She pushed the straps to her slip off her shoulders and felt its silky smoothness slip away. An answer came to her. Can I do it? She willed her hands not to shake as she unhooked her bra and dropped her
panties. Finally she stepped out of her shoes.
Vashin pointed at the elevator and she walked to the closed doors. One of the guards inserted a key in the control box and twisted it counterclockwise. He stepped aside as the doors opened. Geraldine turned away from the dark chasm in front of her. She raised her head and looked at Vashin. She was regal, the queen going to her execution. “Why?” Her tone of voice, her bearing, demanded an answer.
“You told the CIA about my dreams,” Vashin said tonelessly.
The irony of it was overwhelming. How utterly stupid, she thought. It was enough to steel her nerve. She lifted her chin and stared him down. “CIA? Please, Mikhail, I am British.” She turned to the open door. “I told Johnson, no one else.” Ask why? she prayed.
Vashin held up his hand, stopping the thug from pushing her into the darkness. The pause lasted an eternity. “Why?”
She didn’t turn around as the cold updraft from the elevator well washed over her. Don’t shake! No signs of weakness. “He’s your chief of security. He had to know.” ASK WHY! she raged to herself.
He did and she closed her eyes in relief. “Who knows how the gods work. What if someone else had the same dream?”
The thug looked at Vashin, waiting for his signal. Vashin hesitated. She hadn’t begged for mercy or gone into a long, hysterical explanation. She had simply been Geraldine. His jaw worked and his facial muscles twitched. Was she telling him the truth? The thug moved toward her and raised his hand. Vashin shook his head and motioned him back. “Give her a lie detector test,” he ordered.
Geraldine turned and walked slowly away. She stepped over her clothes and disappeared into her office, still the queen.
The technician administering the polygraph had worked for the KGB for more than twenty years before he found himself unemployed. During that time, he had given thousands of tests to all types of prisoners before, during, and after interrogations. More often than not, the subject was stripped naked as part of the degradation the KGB favored. But he had never given a polygraph to a woman like this one. They could strip her clothes away but never her dignity. His fingers dabbed the gel lightly on her skin and his hands trembled when he applied the sensor pads. He wanted this one to live. He looked at Vashin and began with the standard control questions. Finally, he started the real questioning.
Edge of Honor Page 32
