Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  Vashin acknowledged their praise and left. The generals were silent until the door closed behind him. As one, they sat down and the real briefing began. The generals would willingly lie and deceive their political masters, but not themselves. The colonel dropped his long wooden pointer and slid the wallboard back. A large, computer-driven display appeared with video images. The colonel now flashed a laser pointer at the screen. “We lost the element of surprise when one of our men landed inside the compound. Since most of the force was in position, the commander opted to initiate the attack. In retrospect, that was a mistake and the commander will be disciplined. The SPS had been warned and was waiting. The Poles were so confident that they used cadets. For them, it was a training exercise. Nevertheless, our men were still able to inflict considerable damage before withdrawing.”

  “Casualties?” a gruff voice asked.

  This time the colonel answered. “We inserted ninety-four and left forty-one behind on withdrawal. Most of those are presumed dead.”

  The image on the screen changed and a late-breaking CNN story appeared. A news team was at a border crossing between Poland and Belarus where a large group of men were being off-loaded from trucks. Many were wounded and bandaged. The on-scene reporter sorted through a large stack of weapons, describing their make, origin, and use. Most of the generals spoke English and did not need an interpreter. “An unmitigated disaster,” one of them muttered.

  “Without doubt,” a two-star replied. “But is it for us to tell him?”

  “Not me,” a three-star said. “He sent my wife a new car. A Mercedes-Benz. My daughter loves it.”

  “He knows where we live,” the two-star said.

  Geraldine Blake arrived at her office next to Vashin’s penthouse at the usual time. Normally, she had one or two hours to finalize the day’s schedule and only saw Vashin after the girl who shared his bed left. But this morning she was surprised to hear the television tuned to an English-language station. Most unusual, she thought, since Vashin’s English was very limited. She listened. It was an English-language edition of CNN and the late-breaking story of the capture of a large force of escaping Russian terrorists on the Polish border was getting full coverage. This will be a problem, she thought.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror and picked up her slim leather notebook. She walked through the door. The TV was on but Vashin was not paying attention. He sat on a couch thumbing through the big picture albums that detailed the life of Madeline Turner, his nemesis. Lately, he had become obsessed and the albums were updated daily. He closed the books and walked to the big window overlooking Moscow.

  “It was a fiasco,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, “but I don’t know what happened.” It was a gentle rebuke that she could not help him if she was kept in the dark.

  Vashin stared into the mist swirling around the Towers, his hands clasped behind his back. “We are losing Poland.” He spun around and glared at her.

  “Why? I thought the Polish Mafia was under your thumb and you were in control there.”

  “I was until the Americans started helping them. This Special Public Services of the Poles, it’s a front for the CIA. I can sense it in my bones. That’s why I had to eliminate them. The generals told me the operation was a success. Why did they lie to me?”

  He’s obsessing, Geraldine thought. He knows the CIA has nothing to do with the SPS. She fought for time. “Maybe the generals thought the operation was a success. CNN reported that one of the Americans helping the Poles, a Peter Duncan, was killed in the attack. According to our sources, Duncan was in Poland with the U.S. Defense Security Assistance Agency administering the security package negotiated by the last ambassador. With Bender dead, the new ambassador might scale back their aid. That only leaves one person in Poland still working with the Poles.”

  “Yes, I know. Pontowski. Her boyfriend, the grandson of a president. I can’t touch him.”

  “Under the circumstances, a very wise decision.” She gracefully rose and walked to the window. She touched his shoulder. “Mikhail, what would Peter the Great do?” As she said it, the mist parted and the sun broke the eastern horizon far to the south.

  He turned to her, his face glowing as if he had seen a vision. “You’re right. I must look to Russia.” He pointed to the sun. “The sun is breaking over the south.”

  “The south?” she asked, not understanding.

  “The Ukraine is Russia’s granary. It’s vital to the Russian empire, our survival. The German minister I met in Bonn, von Lubeck, used a word, a very good word. Anschluss.” He paused, striking a pose. “I want to see the Pole. Get him here and tell him to bring the money that was stolen from me.”

  “Certainly, Mikhail.” She turned to leave.

  “And,” he said, halting her, “call a full council of the vor for next week.”

  Geraldine panicked. To gather the heads of all the families that made up the vor took several weeks, maybe months, to arrange. Egos had to be stroked, cease-fires between feuding families negotiated, security arranged. An arbitrary summons on such short notice was out of bounds, even for Vashin. “That will be difficult.”

  Vashin glared at her, knowing she was right. “As soon as possible then.”

  She gave him a radiant smile for his understanding. She turned and left. Vashin watched her go, his eyes narrowing. “Can I really trust you?” he muttered. Since Johnson’s disappearance, he was obsessed with his security. Twice, he almost purged the ranks of the vor in a bloodbath that would have rivaled Stalin’s purges. But common sense had prevailed before he gave the order. He forced himself to be rational and returned to the couch to watch TV. His English was much better than Geraldine suspected and it was clear the attack on the SPS had been a disaster. “There is always a price to pay,” he said to no one. He flipped open one of the albums, fully aware that Maddy Turner was beyond his reach. His eyes narrowed when he saw a photo of Brian, Zeth, and Matt in their uniforms. He closed the book and walked back to the window to bathe in the new sunrise.

  Warsaw

  The wind lashed at Pontowski when he got out of his car. He glanced at the sky as traces of sleet stung his face. For once, the weather matched his mood, solemn and gray. He looked around to see if anyone else from the embassy had come to the airport for the ceremony. He was alone. He jerked at the belt of his uniform’s overcoat and jammed his hat down more tightly against the wind.

  Across the parking ramp, he could see the gray outline of the Air Force C-17 that would carry the mortal remains of Peter Duncan home.

  An officer and a cadet from the SPS met him at the gate. They were wearing black combat fatigues with their winter field jackets. The cadet held the gate open and the officer saluted. Without a word, the three men walked across the tarmac toward the small group of people huddled under the tail of the waiting aircraft. Pontowski was surprised to see Evan Riley, the CIA’s chief of station, standing beside Jerzy Fedor.

  They exchanged greetings and waited as the SPS marched onto the ramp. The commander of the SPS led them, his measured pace matching the somber occasion. The SPS was not an organization given to drill and ceremonies and their ranks and cadence were far from perfect. But the numerous head bandages and arm slings were ample tribute to who and what they were. The commander brought them to a halt behind the C-17 and ordered them to split into two ranks, forming a corridor to the aircraft. An honor guard bearing the Polish flag flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the SPS standard led a black hearse across the ramp.

  Six pallbearers from the SPS were waiting for the flag-draped casket. They raised it to their shoulders and, in perfect step, moved slowly toward the aircraft. The standard of the SPS lowered in tribute as they pass. The SPS came to attention and the commander shouted a command. They saluted together. Pontowski came to attention and held his salute as the pallbearers carried the casket into the aircraft.

  “He was a friend,” Fedor murmured. “Like the general.”

&n
bsp; The commander barked an order and the SPS marched off the field. Pontowski turned to leave. “We need to talk,” Fedor said. “The three of us.”

  The three men sat in Fedor’s limousine and sipped hot coffee, glad to be out of the biting wind. “The wind always blows coldest from Russia,” Fedor said.

  “Are we talking about the weather?” Riley asked.

  Fedor’s smile reminded Pontowski of a grinning skull. “Of course,” Fedor replied.

  “Are we going to spend all day talking around it?” Pontowski asked.

  A heavy silence ruled the car for a few moments. “We are receiving mixed signals from your government,” Fedor said.

  “That’s the nature of the beast,” Riley replied.

  “We want to resolve the Vashin problem,” Fedor said. “Can you help us?”

  “No help here,” Pontowski said. “I’m cooling my heels pending a formal investigation. I can’t even go into my office.”

  Fedor nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Now who told you that?” Riley asked, always hoping for a lucky hit. Fedor looked surprised, as if they were discussing common knowledge. The CIA agent conceded the point. “You can’t blame me for trying.” He thought for a moment. “Let me run your request by my people. I’ll get back to you.”

  The meeting was over and Pontowski reached for the door handle. “General Pontowski,” Fedor said, “my government would be most appreciative if you would visit your ancestor’s cottage. Tourism, you know.”

  “Was this your idea?” Pontowski asked.

  “Of course not. Perhaps in two weeks?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Fedor replied.

  Pontowski watched as the limousine sped off, Riley still inside. He walked back to his car and drove to his apartment in Wilanów where, much to his surprise, Riley was waiting for him. “What the hell is going down?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Riley answered.

  “Do you trust that son of a bitch?”

  “Of course not,” Riley said, mimicking Fedor.

  “So why are you here?”

  “Instincts. This is one ride we don’t want to miss. Until I find out exactly what we’re looking at, I’d like for you to hang around for as long as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “The Poles don’t trust anyone, with good reason. But your name carries weight and if they think you’re involved—well, let’s just say that gives me leverage.”

  “So I’m a pawn.”

  Riley scowled. “More like a poker chip.” His face turned to granite and his voice grew hard. “First the General and now Duncan. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to even the score.”

  “Count me in.”

  Washington, D.C.

  For the first time since his prostate operation, Shaw was turgid and erect. He closed his eyes and stroked the girl’s blond hair as she worked her Saturday-night miracle. Or was it the penile implant? “You can’t keep a good man down,” he muttered.

  She felt his scrotum, her fingers gently prodding. “Is this how it works?” She gave the pump embedded next to his testicles a little squeeze. The cylinder in his penis grew harder.

  “Whoa, easy,” he said, not sure how much it could be pumped. She licked at him and gave another squeeze. Now he was fully erect and hurting.

  “What would happen if I kept pumping?” She was a professional who enjoyed her work—when it put her in control.

  He felt her fingers start to contract and his pulse raced. “I don’t even want to think about it.” She gave a playful squeeze and he sucked in his breath. “For God’s sake, if it pops…” The phone rang, claiming his attention. He picked it up. “Shaw.” He listened for a moment while the girl played with him. “Certainly, Mizz President.” The girl looked up at him and found the release cap on top of the pump. “I’ll be right there.”

  The girl squeezed the release cap and the pressure bled off.

  Suddenly, Shaw was very limp and totally uninterested. “What’s the matter, Hon? You look worried.”

  The uniformed Secret Service guard on duty at the entrance to the West Basement checked Shaw’s identification and noted the time in his visitor’s log. Shaw took the first right, walked down a few steps and passed the White House Mess. Farther down the hall, he turned into the small break room where Maddy Turner was waiting. He had never seen her so tired and haggard. Judging by the way her clothes were hanging, she had lost weight.

  She smiled at him when he sat down. “Just like old times.” She pushed a bowl of popcorn across the table.

  He grabbed a handful and stuffed his mouth, mumbling. “Sure is, Mizz President. How’s your mother doin’?”

  “Much better, thank you. It was a minor attack and she’s very strong.”

  Shaw gulped and took the plunge. “If you want, I can call in a few markers, find out where that photo came from, and crunch a few heads.”

  She shook her head. “Only as a last resort.” He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s and for a few moments, they were in a time warp, back in Sacramento when she was a confused, lonely, and very junior state senator struggling to find her way. But an alarm kept buzzing in his head, warning him that things had changed. “Patrick, what went wrong with Matt?”

  The alarm turned into a blaring Klaxon. Matt Pontowski was the one subject he did not want to discuss. “Geography, most likely. You know these flyboys. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  The old intimacy was back as they mulled over the day’s events and gossiped about the personalities who bracketed their lives. “Speaking of Poland,” Maddy said, “did you hear the latest?”

  “About the attack? Sure did. Looks like the Poles can take care of themselves.”

  “Thanks to Bob Bender. His security-aid program gave the Poles the edge they needed in dealing with the Russians. But that’s only half the problem.”

  Shaw sensed they had come to the reason for the meeting. “You got me. What’s the other half?”

  “The Germans. They’re systematically buying up the western half of Poland and the Poles are going to end up as tenant workers in their own land. The Germans have got to stop.”

  “That’s going to make for some sour Krauts.”

  Turner ignored the pun. “Please, this is serious.”

  “Sounds to me like a poker game between Germany and Russia with Poland as the pot. Is it winner take all?”

  “I don’t think so. Mazie is predicting a fifth partition.” She fixed him with a look he hadn’t seen before. “I won’t have it. Not on my watch. The problem is that I don’t have any counters to put on the table.”

  Shaw took a long pull at his drink. “It’s a shame you don’t play poker, Mizz President.”

  “I played strip poker with my husband. I won. Stripped him bare every time.”

  “Why am I not surprised? In poker you learn to bluff. Maybe it’s time to find out how good the Germans are at poker.”

  “You mean bluffing.”

  “Actually, I’m wondering how willing they are to call a bluff. There’s a big difference.”

  “Patrick! Pay attention. What do I put on the table?”

  “Something that will cause their sphincter muscles to slam shut.”

  “Such as?” She listened to his answer, surprised at its blatant transparency. “That will never work.”

  “Won’t it? Pick the right players and it will.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Talk to Herbert von Lubeck. He fancies himself a poker player.”

  “You’ve played with him.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Stripped him clean.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” She paused, sipping at her root beer. “Patrick, there’s something else.” He tensed, waiting for the ax to fall. “When do I announce for reelection?”

  His heart slowed and he smiled broadly. “Good question, Mizz President.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The White House

  Maddy Turner paused and ga
zed out the window of her bedroom. April was still a week away but the morning carried a hint of an early spring and, for a brief moment, she wanted to escape the White House, the cares and pressures, and most of all, the Imperial City itself. As quickly, the feeling was gone. This was her time and place. This was what she wanted.

  Out of long habit, she glanced in a mirror. But it was only a cursory inspection to check her hair and makeup. She didn’t really see the person looking back at her. She walked into the dining room for breakfast where Maura joined her, wearing a brightly colored robe. “That’s new,” Maddy said.

  “We were out shopping yesterday and Sarah picked it out.”

  Maddy looked worried. “You’ve got to be careful and not strain…”

  Maura interrupted her. “The exercise is good for me.”

  The door opened and Sarah came through, wearing a tight little miniskirt and revealing top. The two women looked at her without a word as she sat down. “Well?” Sarah challenged.

  Maddy sighed. “Well, what?”

  Sarah didn’t answer and ate in silence while Maddy and Maura discussed the day’s schedule. When they were done, Maura touched Sarah’s arm. “Maybe it’s time to think about makeup and accessories. We’ve got time before school.” Sarah beamed at her. “I’ll get my bag. No, meet me in my bedroom.” The girl bolted for the door. Maura heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll talk her into changing.”

  “Thanks, Mother.”

  “She’s definitely discovered boys.”

  “So soon?”

  Maura gave a little snort. “As I recall, you were the same age.”

  Madeline Turner was a well-studied subject in the White House and, like most of her staff, Mazie took her cue from the office the president was using. If she was in the Oval Office, any meeting would be short, formal, and very businesslike. If Turner was in her private study off the Oval Office, the atmosphere would be relaxed and chatty. “The president is in her private study this morning,” Turner’s private secretary announced when Mazie appeared for her scheduled 8:30 meeting. Mazie thanked her and walked in.