“Is he dead?”
“I was with him in China. The man’s a survivor.”
The images came flooding back and Maddy was with him in his room at the Escalante family ranch looking at the portrait. Their lips brushed. She forced the memories back into their carefully guarded niches. She was still the president. “Tell me as soon as you learn anything.”
“I imagine,” Mazie continued, “the Germans will reconsider their position in Poland and be very anxious to get on board now.”
“Tell von Lubeck they missed the boat.”
Mazie allowed a little smile. “That will turn up the heat.”
“Indeed,” Maddy answered, steel in her voice.
“That’s all I have, Madame President. But there’s one thing I’ve always wondered about. What was it that put you onto Vashin so quickly?”
“It was the heads, remember? It was such a bizarre gesture. It told me everything about him. I couldn’t ignore it.”
Again, Maddy leaned back into the couch and closed her eyes. The waiting was unbearable. Mazie didn’t move. Then she reached out and gently touched the president’s hand. “They’ll be okay,” she predicted. Their hands clasped and for a few moments, the two women sat there, alone, as the world swirled around them.
The phone buzzed and Mazie picked it up. She listened and, without a word, handed it to Maddy. Brian’s voice came on the line, full of life. “Mom!” Maddy had to pull away, his voice was so loud. “You can’t believe what happened!” He was bubbling with excitement.
“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”
“Naw. A little scraped up, maybe.” He started to babble again, eager to tell her the whole story.
A duty officer from the mobile command post came to the door and motioned to Mazie. He handed her a message and left. Mazie quickly read it and passed it to Maddy. It was from Poland. Maddy’s spirits soared. “Brian, slow down. I can hardly understand a word you’re saying.”
“Mom, are you crying?”
EPILOGUE
The door clanged open and light streamed into the small, dank cell. Geraldine shielded her eyes from the blinding glare, barely able to see the two hulking silhouettes standing in the doorway. She fought for control of her bowels. The old Soviet system might have been dead and buried for more than a decade, but this was still the dreaded Lubyanka, once the home of the KGB and now the headquarters of the Federal Counter-Intelligence Service. “Miss Blake,” one of the shadows said, “please come with us.” She followed them into the corridor, surprised at how clean and bright it was. They led her to a shower room where a woman handed her fresh clothes from her apartment.
“Please hurry,” the woman said, pointing to a shower. “President Rodonov is waiting.”
“President Rodonov?” Geraldine asked. “Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense?” The woman nodded and handed her a bar of soap and a towel. Geraldine dropped the gray prison dress she had worn since being arrested and stepped into the shower. The hot water coursed over her and, slowly, her mind started to function. She wasn’t dead yet.
Rodonov placed his tea cup down when Geraldine joined him, her hair still wet from the shower. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her clothes were perfectly arranged and she still carried herself like a queen, a far cry from the West Acton railroad estate in London where she grew up. He motioned her to a chair. “Vashin is dead.”
She nodded at the obvious. Rodonov had used the time since his reprieve wisely. Sooner or later, Vashin would have ordered his execution and it was a matter of who could strike first. “Who killed him?”
“The Poles shot down his aircraft.”
“And you let them?”
“Let’s say we encouraged them. Of course, we had to defend his aircraft in case he survived.” He sipped at his tea. “The loss of a Tupolev and four escort fighters was a small price to pay to save Russia.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You know more about the vor and the Mafiya than any other person, yet you are not one of them. I want you to work as my special assistant.”
The offer was obvious. She was the ultimate insider and what she knew would be critical in any fight against the vor and the Mafiya. And it would keep her alive. “If I refuse?”
Rodonov shrugged and looked at his feet, toward the cells in the basement. She understood. “Aren’t you worried that I work for the CIA?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffed. “Johnson works for the CIA. Marshal Prudnokov developed that connection for us.”
“Another promotion? I didn’t know commanding Transport Aviation could be so rewarding.”
“The rewards of success are great,” Rodonov reminded her.
“Since Mikhail is dead and there is no question as to my loyalty…”
Rodonov interrupted her. “We know you work for the British.”
“MI6 does pay well,” she murmured.
“We pay better.”
“I do hope so,” she replied, sealing the deal.
The doctor bent Matt Pontowski’s right leg and prodded the muscle. Pontowski groaned loudly, the pain intense. “Very good,” the doctor said, obviously proud of his handiwork. “You were lucky we saved your life, much less the leg.” His fingers felt the kneecap. “You Americans have done wonders with artificial joints. But I’m afraid you’ll never fly again.”
“Maybe not a jet,” Pontowski said, gritting his teeth. What should have been a routine ejection from the F-16 had turned into a disaster. His jet had flamed out from fuel starvation thirty miles short of the airfield and he had punched out under ideal conditions. But he had not separated cleanly from the seat and had landed unconscious. The parachute shrouds had twisted around his leg and the inflated canopy had dragged him into a fence where he had almost bled to death before a farmer rescued him. Somewhere, he had shattered his kneecap, probably on landing.
“Please see your own physician when you’re in America,” the doctor said, dismissing him.
Pontowski thanked him and said good-bye to his nurses, who seemed both sad and happy to see him go. He limped out of the hospital and into a bright spring day. He stood in the sunlight, glorying in the moment. It was good to be alive. Matt’s vacation starts in three weeks, he thought. Plenty of time to get home.
A silver-gray Mercedes-Benz sedan pulled up and Jerzy Fedor stepped out. “May I offer you a ride?”
“Why?”
“I would like to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For helping us.”
Pontowski felt the anger boil to the surface. This was the man he had been warned repeatedly not to trust. “What’s your game, Mr. Fedor?”
Fedor smiled, his cadaverous face for once full of life and warmth. “The game we Poles have played for centuries: survival. Think of it as all ends against the middle.”
“And I was one of the ends.”
“Actually, a means to achieve an end.” He could tell Pontowski didn’t understand. “It’s difficult to explain. The Polish heart has always needed men we can believe in if we are going to act. Look at our recent history; Kosciuszko, our poets…”
Pontowski interrupted him. “Like Adam Mickiewicz.”
“And our composers like Chopin. Men of action like Josef Pilsudski. Men of God like Archbishop Stefan Wyszyński and Karol Wojtyla. They give us focus. Yet, sometimes, we are our own worst enemies when we follow the wrong star.”
“What was my role in all this?”
“As long as you were involved, we were certain the United States would not desert us.” Again, the smile. “Perhaps it’s best that you’re leaving.”