Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “Please, sit down,” Turner said.

  Long experience had taught the national security advisor the chair closest to the president was the most comfortable. “I received a phone call a few moments ago,” Mazie said. “Nelson Durant passed away. Congestive heart failure.” Turner gave a little nod. She hadn’t heard but her staff would automatically issue the proper condolences and statements to the press. Mazie handed her a folder. “He sent this yesterday afternoon with his apologies for not delivering it in person. I believe it was one of the last things he did.”

  Turner opened the folder and read Durant’s summary of his investigation into the photograph. Mazie caught the slight working of her jaw but said nothing. Turner’s eyes turned glassy hard. “That bastard. So it was Leland.”

  “Actually, it was Senator Leland’s chief of staff. It’s safe to assume Leland knew about it.”

  “That’s not even an assumption. No staff member would do this on his own.”

  “Not unless he was suicidal,” Mazie added.

  “So where did Leland get the photo?”

  “That, Mr. Durant did not discover. Unless the right someone starts talking, we’ll never know.”

  Turner was out of her seat, pacing back and forth, clearly very angry. “Damn him! Damn him to hell! I’ve tried to be accommodating and this is what I get in return. Dealing with that man is like falling in a snake pit. No matter what you do, you’re going to get bitten.”

  “Keep him busy protecting his backside and he won’t be a problem.” Mazie’s words were an echo of Noreen Coker. Turner sat down and leaned back in her chair. Now she was ready to listen. “Shaw has it right,” Mazie continued. “When you’re losing, leak. Point the media at Leland.”

  “Who and how much?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” Mazie conceded.

  “I need to think about it.” Turner leaned forward, indicating a change in subject. “I want you to tell the Germans to cease and desist in Poland.”

  “I doubt if they’re in a mood to listen since we have almost nothing to put on the table.”

  “I realize that. Can you use your connections to arrange a meeting with Herbert von Lubeck?”

  “My mother-in-law knows him.”

  “Ah, yes. Elizabeth Martha, the Bitch Queen of Capitol Hill. Will she help?”

  “She likes to be involved. Once you let her in, she’ll want access.”

  Turner thought for a moment. Politics was like a bazaar where you had to give something to get anything. And access to the president was a very big something. Was it worth what she would get in return? “Do it,” she said simply.

  Mazie was in her second office in the Executive Office Building across the street from the White House late that same afternoon. She kept mulling over her conversation with the president. Frustrated, she telephoned the director of central intelligence. “Gary, we need to go secure.” They both turned the keys in their STU-IV telephones and their voices turned tinny from the encryption circuits. She told him about the meeting Turner wanted with the Germans.

  There was a long pause. “All very interesting,” he finally said. “It might help turn down the heat over there.” Another pause. “The Poles are going after Vashin in retaliation for Lezno.”

  “Can they get away with it?”

  “Probably. Most of the players think he’s out of control.”

  “He is,” Mazie replied. It was time to talk nuts and bolts. “Does that meld with what we’re planning?” The DCI didn’t answer and she snapped at him. “Am I talking to myself?”

  Much to her surprise, he laughed. “You sound like Noreen Coker.”

  “Not even a hint,” she retorted.

  “We can support them.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll ask.”

  Mazie sensed that was all he was going to say. “If you’re going to kill the king, don’t fail.”

  “I hear you,” the DCI said. He broke the connection.

  For God’s sake, do this one right, Mazie thought. She pulled into herself, scrutinizing the German side of the problem. “It’s all in the timing,” she murmured to no one.

  She picked up the phone and called her mother-in-law, the redoubtable Elizabeth Martha.

  Turner leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, her fingers interlaced. For the first time since breakfast, she was alone. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to relax. But it didn’t happen. She sat upright and glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. It was after six o’clock and time to send her staff home. She pressed the intercom to her secretary. “Let’s call it a day,” she said.

  Again, she leaned back in her chair. But this time, she let her mind roam. Sooner or later, whatever was bothering her would bubble to the surface. Leland’s face came into sharp focus. She mulled the problem over, looking at it from different angles. Suddenly, it all clicked into full view, crystal clear, no longer hiding. “So obvious,” she murmured. She picked up the phone. “I need to speak to Patrick Shaw.” She dangled the phone from her fingertips and within seconds, Shaw’s familiar, deep rumbling voice was there.

  “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.” I hope there’s a bimbo there to see your reaction, she thought.

  “Not at all, Mizz President.”

  “Patrick, we know the source of the photo.” She paused for effect. “It was Leland.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Exactly. He overstepped the bounds on this one. What do you suggest we do?” She listened, fixed on the sound of his voice more than the actual words.

  “For right now, nothing. Keep it in reserve. Timing is everything.”

  “Thank you, Patrick.” She hung up. That got your attention.

  She leaned back in her chair, more alone than ever.

  The Hill

  Matt slammed into the room, threw his backpack down, and climbed into his bunk. “This place sucks!” he announced to the ceiling.

  Without looking up from his computer, Brian said, “This from Mr. NMMI?”

  Matt rolled over on his side and glared down at his friend. “They give out rank like candy here to the shitheads.”

  “And when did you learn that? The bit about the shitheads getting promoted.”

  Matt’s basic honesty kicked in. “Ah, most of ’em are okay. It’s fuckin’ Pelton.”

  Brian laughed. He had never seen Matt so upset. “So what’s cadet superfucker up to now?”

  “He’s saying he got it on with the Trog.”

  “Only in a wet dream,” Brian replied.

  “Yeah, well he says she’s got a buff bod but small tits.”

  Brian frowned. “He’s got to learn to keep his mouth shut.” He pushed back in his chair. “Chow time.” The one constant in their life was the amounts of food they consumed each day. Since there was no formation for supper roll call on Wednesdays, they Rat-walked to Bates Dining Hall and joined the serving line. Rick Pelton was behind them with two of his buddies. “Hey, Turner,” Pelton said, “you still walking tours for bonking ugly sheep?”

  Brian bit off a reply and shoved his tray down the line, waiting to be served.

  But Matt wouldn’t let it go. “I didn’t know you were an expert on screwin’ ugly sheep,” he added a respectful “Sir.”

  “Careful boy, or you’ll be walking tours until you grow up.”

  Matt whirled on Pelton. The older cadet was five years older, six inches taller, and outweighed him by forty pounds. But at that exact moment, Matt wanted to fight. “I’ll be walking tours for beating the living shit out of a lying…”

  Brian was there, pulling Matt back. “Let’s eat.” He pushed Matt down the line.

  Pelton laughed, playing it up for the cadets in line who were taking in every word. “Hey, did someone build Pontowski a backbone and jam it up his ass?”

  “Someone needs to jam the truth up yours,” Matt muttered.

  “The truth shall make you free,” Pelton said, misquoting the famous line.

&nbs
p; Brian grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him down the line. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a table well away from everyone else. They sat alone and attacked their meal. Zeth walked over and stared at Matt’s back for a moment before she bent over and whispered in his ear. “I fight my own battles, meathead.”

  “He’s spreading a bunch of lies,” Matt protested.

  “It was none of your business,” Zeth said. “Everybody knows Pelton’s full of bullshit. Nobody was paying any attention and it would’ve gone away. Now you shot off your mouth and made it a federal case.”

  Matt twisted in his seat and watched her walk away. He felt miserable. “Eyes front and center, Rat!” an upperclassman called.

  Warsaw

  Ewa slid back the door to the first-class compartment and lifted her small suitcase onto the overhead rack. Pontowski was right behind her and did the same. “It’s been more than twenty-five years since I’ve been on a train,” he told her.

  She gave him a sideways look and took off her hat, shaking her long hair free. “How unusual. I suppose you Americans either fly or drive your own car.” She threw her heavy coat on the rack and sat down. “We have the compartment to ourselves.” She shed her heavy boots and curled up on the seat, hiding her feet under her long skirt.

  Pontowski sat opposite her by the window and watched as the train pulled out of Warsaw’s central station. The door slid open and the conductor asked for their tickets. Ewa rummaged through her bag and handed him two travel folders. The conductor glanced at the names, came to attention, and gave a half bow. “I hope you enjoy your journey, General Pontowski. If you need anything, I’ll be outside.” He closed the door and sealed off the corridor for the journey to Krakow.

  “It looks like we’re getting the first-class schmooze,” Pontowski said.

  “The government wants this to be a big success,” she told him. “Personally, I don’t like the constant attention. It makes me feel so, so, watched.”

  Pontowski smiled to himself. Ewa was going to be watched no matter where she went.

  An extremely attractive middle-aged woman, a photographer, and a driver were waiting for them on the platform when the train arrived at Krakow. The photographer started shooting picture after picture. “I’m Renata Brandys,” she said, leading them to a waiting Mercedes-Benz. “I’ll be your guide. You’re scheduled to tour Krakow this afternoon and visit your family cottage tomorrow morning. But after that, we are at your disposal for whatever you care to see.”

  “Thank you,” Pontowski said. “Your English is excellent.”

  Renata smiled. “I earned my doctorate at the University of Missouri.”

  “I live not too far away,” Pontowski said. “Warrensburg.”

  “What a coincidence,” Renata replied.

  “I doubt it,” Ewa murmured under her breath in Polish. The two women smiled at each other.

  An early morning mist was rising off the Vistula River when Pontowski and Ewa met in the lobby of the luxury hotel for the drive to the cottage. Renata bustled up, all crisp efficiency. Her hair was carefully arranged and she wore a very stylish coat. “Good morning,” she sang. “The car is waiting.”

  It was disturbingly quiet when they stepped outside. Pontowski paused and looked across the river at the royal castle in the center of Krakow. It faded in and out of the mist, briefly overshadowing the town before disappearing. “Beautiful,” Pontowski murmured.

  “It’s so much a part of us that we don’t notice it,” Renata said.

  “But it’s always there.” He crawled into the backseat next to Ewa, very much aware of her soft fragrance. “New perfume?” he asked.

  She gave him a little smile and shook her head. Her hair flowed around her face, enchanting him. “It must be the shampoo. I washed my hair this morning.”

  “You were up early,” Renata said in Polish, her voice silky sweet.

  The traffic going in their direction was very light and Renata spoke with an insider’s knowledge, describing what they were passing and where they were going. Ewa listened carefully and recorded most of what she said in a little notebook. Just before they arrived at the cottage, she scribbled a note for Pontowski. She knows too much. Look at that beautiful coat. She’s not a guide. Be careful.

  Pontowski nodded but said nothing.

  Two more photographers, a videographer, and the curator of the cottage were waiting for them. Renata got out and held the door for Pontowski. “Ewa is such a lovely child,” she said. “And her English is perfect.”

  The curator led them to a small wood-framed house painted a bright blue while the photographers snapped away rapidly. The videographer moved with them, constantly zooming in on Pontowski’s face. “This is a typical peasant farmhouse for the area,” the curator explained. “Only two rooms, a large kitchen where the family lived and one large bedroom where they all slept.”

  “Their families were very large,” Renata added.

  Pontowski sat on the large bed and looked around. Two trundle beds and two cribs filled the room. “They didn’t have much privacy,” he said.

  Renata gave a little smile, knowing what he was thinking. “Farm children learn the facts of life at a very early age.”

  Ewa blushed brightly and asked questions about how they cooked and what they ate. “Mostly vegetables and bread,” the curator said. “Meat was a rarity.”

  “I’d like to look around outside,” Pontowski said.

  “Ah, ah,” the curator stammered, “it’s very muddy.”

  “That’s okay,” Pontowski replied. “I’ve stepped in worse.” He walked out with the curator in close tow. “Where’s the barn?”

  “They were too poor. They did have little sheds or man-made caves.”

  Pontowski looked around and it hit him. This was his heritage! It had always been there, hiding in the mists and taken for granted. An overpowering urge to explore and learn all he could swept over him. “Were the fields this way?” The curator tried to stop him but Pontowski ignored him and walked into the trees.

  Renata rushed up. “General, we have a meeting planned with the local priest to show you the parish records…”

  “In a few minutes.”

  “We’re short of time.”

  He came out of the trees and stopped. At first, the rusted, twisted barbed wire and stone foundations made no sense. Then he saw the guard tower. “What was this?” he demanded.

  Renata’s voice was matter of fact. “This was a concentration camp.”

  Pontowski stared at her. “I didn’t know about it.”

  “Of course, your family was not responsible for this. They had the misfortune to live where the Germans decided to build a camp. The inmates worked in the fields.”

  Pontowski relaxed. “Oh, I thought…”

  “You thought right,” Ewa said. She was standing behind them. “This is part of Auschwitz.”

  “Are we that close?”

  “We’re less than ten kilometers away,” Renata said. “We thought you knew. Surely, your grandfather told you.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Renata was the cool professional, dispassionate and objective. “There were fourteen separate camps that made up the Auschwitz-Birkenau complex. Most were for manufacturing things like uniforms.”

  “You said my family was not involved. Are you sure?”

  “You have relatives who still live in the area. One of your grandfather’s third cousins is still alive. You can speak to her if you wish to discover the truth for yourself.”

  Pontowski stared at the ground as conflicting emotions tore at him. “Damn! God damn it to hell!” He was brutally honest. “I don’t want to know.”

  Renata said evenly, “Would you like to see the parish records? They go back to the 1600s.”

  “No. I want to see Auschwitz.”

  Renata’s voice was an echo in his mind while they drove over the bridge and followed the road as it curved through the barren field. A light drizzle fell and he could make out
the camp’s rail entrance piercing the tower in the center of the long dark facade. Then he saw train tracks that led through the arch under the tower. “Birkenau, not Auschwitz, was the main death camp,” Renata said.

  He got out of the car, forgetting his hat. Renata waved to Ewa to remain behind with the driver. Long experience had taught her how to handle what was coming. She led him through the arch. “It’s so quiet,” Pontowski said. They stopped for a moment as he stared. A few wooden barracks were still standing as well as most of the permanent brick buildings. Concrete fence posts with barbed wire outlined the perimeter and divided the camp into compounds. “I didn’t realize it was so big.”

  She walked straight ahead, leading him into the heart of darkness. “In front of us are the unloading platforms.” The gravel walkway turned into mud as they made the long walk. “The selection was done there.” She pointed to a small concrete platform next to a low building. “If they pointed you to the right, you were immediately put to death.” They continued to walk, her words reverberating in his mind. “On your left are the remains of the gas chamber which was underground.”

  The depthless evil of the gas chamber and all it represented flailed at his soul. This was not a carefully composed photograph nor an eloquently written essay. It was reality and he was part of it. The drizzle turned to rain and streaked his face. “How did they live with themselves?” he whispered.

  It was a question Renata couldn’t answer. Instead, “The monument in front of you was built on the rubble of…” Her voice trailed off. He was motionless, staring at the dark monstrosity in front of him. She waited. Physically, he was with her, but emotionally, he was lost in the pandemonium of his emotions. Again, experience had taught her how long to wait. She touched his elbow and gently started him forward. “The monument in front of you is built on the rubble of crematorium number two.” They halted in front of the black structure. It was twisted, low to the ground, with a line of plaques in front, each mounted on a low pedestal.