“Is your name Geraldine Blake?”
“No.”
“What is your true name?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Do you work for the CIA?”
“Of course not.”
The technician made a mark on the readout. “She’s telling the truth.”
Vashin leaned forward, unable to remain silent. “Who told the CIA?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Johnson.”
Vashin picked up a phone. “Arrest the American.” He listened for a moment and hung up, his face frozen. “Johnson has disappeared.”
The Hill
The bleachers were packed with teenage girls for the Saturday morning parade and they all stood when the regiment passed in review. The girls conducted their own inspection of the cadets, using a far different system of gigs and demerits than were found in NMMI’s Blue Book. The commander of D Troop called “Eyes right” before reaching the reviewing stand so his two platoons could inspect back. But a little cry of “Aren’t they cute!” from the stands caused a ripple of laughter among the boys in the crowd who were there on their own reconnaissance mission.
It was the old love-hate relationship between the townies and the cadets. But if the truth were known, it was based more on gender than anything else.
“Did you see the buns on that tall guy,” the cadet marching next to Zeth said. “He was really checking us out.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Zeth replied.
The Corps marched off the field and into the Box, the quadrangle inside Hagerman Barracks. The squadrons took their respective places and waited for the results of the morning’s inspections and parade. The winners were announced over the loudspeaker and the honors were split among three troops, all from different squadrons. The cadets from each squadron roared their approval until the windows shook. They were “Rocking the Box.” Then the names of cadets newly promoted in rank were read off as the cheering died away. That was the good part. At NMMI, cadets learned early that life is tough and the formation ended as the names of cadets demoted in rank were announced.
The last name was Zeth Trogger.
“This place sucks,” Brian muttered when he and Matt were back in their room. He quickly stripped off his white web belt and hung up his coat, careful to brush it down first and button it up. “They busted her because they thought she was cheating.”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I talked to Zeth’s chem teacher and told him I was tutoring her. I answered all his questions.”
“Yeah,” Brian muttered. “But what about the Dean? Did he believe you?”
“I never talked to the dean. He used to teach chemistry and I heard he called her in and gave her an oral quiz.”
“Which means,” Brian said, “he flunked her. She studied hard. Talk about unfair. Let’s go talk to her.”
“Too late,” Matt told him. “Her parents are here and I heard she got a furlough for the weekend.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m pissed. Let’s go talk to Pelton and see if he wants to help.”
“Help with what?”
“Nailing the dean.”
Early Sunday morning, the two Secret Service agents followed the pickup truck out of Roswell. “Shit,” the driver muttered. “The little bastards almost got away from us. Whose truck is it anyway?”
Chuck Sanford made a call on his cell phone and within moments had the answer. “It belongs to a cadet, Rick Pelton. He’s the regimental executive officer.”
“Should I let them know we’re here?” the driver asked.
Sanford thought for a moment. The boys had gotten a last-minute permit to leave the post for Sunday and had taken off with Pelton. For Sanford, there was only one question. Was Brian safe? The circumstances, the evidence, and current intelligence said yes. But more important, Sanford’s situational awareness confirmed it. But did he want to intervene? Brian was showing signs of growing up and boys did need some wiggle room. “Observation only,” Sanford said.
But to be on the safe side, he called for a backup unit.
“I’ll be,” the driver said. “I think they’re going to Donaldson’s sheep ranch.” The dean of the Washington press corps had attended NMMI and had never lost his ties with New Mexico.
“What the hell are they doing?” Sanford wondered.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Richard Parrish had been a sound sleeper until he became Maddy Turner’s chief of staff. After that, his subconscious kicked in and the faintest telephone ring, even in his neighbor’s townhouse, snapped him fully awake. It was a rare week when the night duty officer didn’t call him at least twice. Usually, he took care of the matter over the phone and seldom went to the White House where some sharp-eyed reporter would inevitably see him drive in. That report would be good for at least one interruption on the cable news channels and endless inquiries for Joe Litton to handle.
The phone call that woke him early Sunday morning on Groundhog Day had nothing to do with the rodent seeing his shadow, and Parrish was in his office in less than twenty minutes. The duty officer and Joe Litton were waiting for him. “Et tu, Joseph?” Parrish muttered, not trying to be funny in the least.
Litton handed Parrish the news story and the photo taken off the Internet. “This one has potential.”
Parrish gritted his teeth as he read the news article from the British tabloid. “Where did they get the photo?”
“It had to come from the U.S.,” Litton answered. “It crosses the line and there is no way any of our rags would break the story, not even N.T.” N.T. was the National Tattler, the most salacious of the rumor-mongering tabloids in the United States. “So the backdoor British gambit.”
Parrish had seen it before. If an unsubstantiated story was too libelous to publish, but too delicious to ignore, a newspaper in the U.S. would leak it to a British tabloid. Then the same newspaper reported what the British were reporting, making it a legitimate story. “Is it her?” Parrish asked.
Litton shrugged. “We better ask before we wake the president.” He thought for a moment. “We’re running out of time. The talking heads will be all over this one.” The talking heads were the political commentators on the Sunday morning TV talk shows.
“Any chance we can kill it?” Parrish asked.
Litton shook his head. “Like pouring kerosene on a fire.”
“Appeal to their sense of decency?”
“Is this a sanity check?”
Parrish shifted his weight from foot to foot as he stood in the family room waiting for Maura O’Keith. He loved her for what she was: short, plump, grayheaded, and earthly. She was the perfect grandmother and the press adored her. But nothing could protect her from what was coming, if the story were true. He felt like crying when she came through the door. “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “But we have a problem.”
Maura adjusted her robe and sat on a couch. She patted the spot next to her for him to join her. He sat and handed her the news article and photo. She glanced at it, put it aside, looked at it again, and sighed. “That’s me.”
“Who’s the man?”
“I’ve never seen him in my life.”
Parrish felt like shouting. “Then it’s a fake.”
“Of course.” Maura studied the picture. “I was a looker.”
“No doubt about it. You still are.”
“I had great boobs in those days,” she said with a nostalgic smile.
“Mother!” Maddy said. She bit her lip, not trusting herself to say any more. Her hands trembled slightly as she looked at the picture. A young and very shapely nude woman sat on a chair. She was gazing down, the look on her face worthy of the Madonna. An equally nude man stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. The man’s penis was crudely blurred out in a way that suggested he had an erection.
“Your father had taken off with some floozie,” Maura explained. “One of my customers at the hair salon was a photographer and said she’d pay
me to model. The only photo I posed for was of me nursing you. It won third place in a contest.”
“Was I in it? Nude?”
“Maddy, you were two months old. I needed the money.”
The phone rang and Parrish answered. He handed it to Litton. “The barracudas in the press room are in a feeding frenzy.”
Litton listened for a few moments and said, “Tell them I’ll have a statement as soon as possible.” He broke the connection.
“Get Patrick,” Maddy said.
Parrish made the call summoning Shaw. “We don’t have a lot of time, Madame President.” He studied the picture. “If we can get the photo from the British, we can prove it’s a fake and turn the FBI loose.”
“It would help if we had the original photo Maura posed for,” Maddy said.
“All of which takes time,” Litton muttered. “Which we haven’t got.”
The phone rang and Parrish answered. He listened for a moment and said, “They can’t find Shaw.”
Maddy rested her head against the back of her chair, her eyes closed. For a few moments, silence ruled. Then, “Joe, go down there and be angry.”
“Is that all, Madame President?”
“That’s all.”
Litton took his place behind the lectern in the press briefing room and fixed the reporters with a stony look. He waited for the room to quiet. “The president has seen the news article and has no comment at this time.” His words were calm and measured. “Needless to say, she is concerned and we need time to check it out.” He stopped for a deep breath, leaned forward, and folded his hands in front of him. “Since you’re here at this ungodly hour, I’m assuming you’ve done your homework and this item is reliably sourced.” He showed his anger. “Now, I’m going to get personal. I’m not speaking for the president. This is just me. I know Maura O’Keith. She’s a wonderful, kind, decent woman who’s worked hard all her life. Since when have our families become fair game? This stinks. It’s a fake, pure and simple.” He straightened up and set the challenge. “You people know fakes are done all the time with modern technology. It’s your job to find out where it came from and who’s behind it. Do your homework. Then come in here and ask us to respond.”
Litton spun around and marched out of the room, leaving a wake of silence. Parrish waited for him in the hall. “Perfect. You sounded like you were furious.”
“I am.” They walked into Litton’s office and closed the door. “How’s the president taking it?”
“She doesn’t appear too upset,” Parrish replied.
“So what’s she going to do?”
Parrish considered his answer. “I’m not sure. I think she’s going to let the press run with it.”
“Why?”
“So someone can step all over his schwanz.”
“I hope it hurts,” Litton muttered.
“When Shaw gets done with them, it will.”
Warsaw
Pontowski was alone in his apartment late Sunday night coming to grips with the intricacies of the Polish language. “There’s got to be some way to pronounce the unpronounceable,” he grumbled to himself. The horrible consonant sequences were driving him crazy. He tried again. “Okay, cz is like ch in China and ch like h. That’s better, w is like v and the funny e is like the French un.” He tried a few words. It was starting to come together. Then he listened to the language tape and tried “thank you.” “Dziękuje.” He laughed and made a mental promise to hire a tutor.
The phone rang, a welcome relief. “May I speak to General Pontowski,” a gruff voice said.
“Speaking.”
“My name is Patrick Shaw and I work for Madeline Turner.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Shaw.”
“We need to speak soonest. In private.”
“Mr. Shaw, all things considered…”
“Like my reputation?”
“Exactly. I would prefer to meet in my office in the embassy. Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle. “What the hell?” he muttered.
Ewa Pawlik handed Pontowski a note the moment he arrived in his office the next morning. “Mr. James wants to see you immediately. He’s most upset and is with the strangest man.”
“A big guy, curly hair, needs a haircut, flushed face, red nose. Rumpled suit, shoes need polish.”
She nodded at his accurate description. “Mr. James is afraid of him.”
“He’s an eight-hundred-pound gorilla from the White House. Not exactly the kind of visitor a DCM wants dropping in unannounced.” He handed her his briefcase and walked directly into the deputy charge of mission’s office.
James motioned him to a seat. “General Pontowski, I’ve been talking to Mr. Shaw and I must say, I’m disappointed in how you’ve responded to his requests. I take pride in my legation being most prompt, courteous, and responsive.”
“Then it’s all right,” Pontowski said, “for me to meet with someone from the White House without your knowledge?”
James huffed. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“This is unofficial,” Shaw said, helping James off the hook.
“So, in unofficial matters, I’m free to act in any way I want?”
Shaw enjoyed watching the two men spar. But that wasn’t why he was there. He looked contrite and gave the two men his most hangdog look. “I didn’t mean to stir the waters.” He deployed his heaviest Southern accent. “I’m just a good-ol’-boy way in over his head here. I’d like to have a few words with the general and get the heck out’a Dodge.”
James jumped on the offer. “Thank you for being so understanding. Please, use my office.” He left with as much dignity as he could muster.
Shaw chuckled. “That boy is about to wet his pants. He needs to learn how to take a precautionary piss now and then. Someday, he’s gonna embarrass himself.”
Pontowski ignored Shaw’s rough-cut humor. “How may I help you, Mr. Shaw?”
“It’s Patrick, son. I’m here to help a friend, Maddy Turner.”
“Does the president need your help?”
Shaw nodded slowly. “She’s running for reelection, General.”
“I wasn’t aware she had made that decision yet.”
Shaw’s accent faded. His voice took on a friendly tone with a definite edge. “If your intentions are honorable and you really care for her, you need to put your relationship on a back burner until after the election.” Shaw shifted into his paternal mode. “You’ve got a history and must’ve been pretty wild in your younger days.”
Pontowski accepted the truth of it. He had been wild and irresponsible as a lieutenant and only the prestige of his famous grandfather had saved him from being kicked out of the Air Force. “People change,” he said with quiet assurance.
Shaw agreed but it wasn’t in his plan to admit it. “I’ll never understand why women are attracted to your type. Nothing but trouble and it’s kidney-stone-sized distraction she doesn’t need—the voters don’t need.”
“Let her tell me that.”
“You don’t think I’m here on my own, do you?” Shaw let his words sink in, hoping the lie would take. “General, I’ve been with Maddy since the day she got bitten by the political bug. I know how she works. She doesn’t want to end whatever there is between you two, but this is not the right time for it to become a public issue. So keep talking on the phone and sending letters, but it’s a matter of doing what’s right for Maddy.”
“Are you saying I’m a political liability?”
Shaw heaved himself to his feet, his message delivered. “That’s why I like dealin’ with you jet jocks.” Pontowski ushered Shaw out and waited while a secretary helped him with his overcoat. “We have an understanding?” Shaw asked. Pontowski said nothing but put out his hand. Shaw shook it and left.
James rushed up. “Is there something I need to know?”
“Only that I’ve been dumped, I think.” He walked back to his office.
“Is the eight-hundred-poun
d gorilla gone?” Ewa asked.
Pontowski didn’t answer. Then, “Ewa I need someone to teach me conversational Polish and help me learn a little about my heritage, where I come from.”
“I would be glad to help,” she replied. “Do you know where your family lived?”
He was caught off guard. He had meant his cultural heritage and not his genealogy. But the more he thought about it, the more appealing it became. “My grandfather said something about a village near Crakow.”
“It’s pronounced Kra’ kov,” she replied.
Shaw hummed a tuneless melody on his way out of the embassy, his mission accomplished. He was slightly puzzled by the sight of a tall and cadaverous man standing beside his car. The man looked surprised. “What a fortunate coincidence. Mr. Shaw, I presume?”
Yeah, right. Shaw thought. “You must be Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
The man held open the rear passenger-side door of Shaw’s car door. “May I join you?”
“Depends on who you are.”
“My name is Jerzy Fedor and I would like to officially welcome you to Poland.”
Shaw sized the man up. “Get in.”
Fedor said with a smile, “Certainly.”
The limousine drove out the gates and turned left onto Aleje Ujazdowski. “What can I do for you, Mr. Fedor?”
“Perhaps, it’s what we can do for you.”
An image of two used-car salesmen standing hip deep in chicken manure while they stabbed each other in the back flashed in Shaw’s mind. “My business in Poland was strictly personal. Nothing official at all.” He wasn’t about to tell Fedor why he was there.
Edge of Honor Page 33
