Prudnokov looked uncomfortable. He knew the price of the meeting would be high, maybe too high for him to pay. “It’s a small problem,” he said, “that I cannot solve. Yet it is one that deeply upsets my family.”
“And the problem?” Vashin knew, but he wanted to hear the general beg for help.
“It’s my daughter. She is missing and we cannot find her.”
Vashin’s hatred ratchetted up a notch at Prudnokov’s self-control. “And you would like my help?” A simple nod answered him. “We are not the police,” Vashin said. Again, the general nodded in acknowledgment of the obvious. Vashin fixed him with a cold look, wanting to humiliate and crush the man. He was everything Vashin was not: from a prominent family, protected and pampered as a youth, educated, and then given the inside track to career and promotion. Prudnokov was a child of the nomenklatura, the elite of the Communist Party who had ruled the Soviet Union for their own benefit. But times had changed and the nomenklatura were a relic of the past, like the Bolsheviks and czars.
Now it was Vashin’s turn. The grinding poverty of his childhood, the endless deprivations in the name of Soviet socialism, the early death of his mother from overwork and abuse, the refuge his father found in vodka, were all behind him. But there was no satisfaction for Vashin, there was no redemption, there was no cure. The brutal system that had degraded and scorned humanity had left a darkness in his soul, a vague quest for “more” that was rooted in hate, paranoia, and the desire for revenge. It was the stuff that gave birth to a Hitler or a Stalin.
“Peter Davydovich,” Vashin said, opening negotiations, “I understand you have recently been given a new command.”
Again, the irritating nod. “Your information is correct. I am now the commander of Transport Aviation.”
“Is Transport Aviation still flying paid cargoes?”
A snort from the general. “It is how we pay for fuel, maintenance, and pilot proficiency. A commercial venture.”
“But you do have landing rights in other countries not available to normal civilian aircraft?”
Prudnokov fully understood what they were negotiating. “We have many residual rights left over from our Warsaw Pact and peacekeeping commitments.” He decided it was time to sweeten the negotiations. “Because of our treaties, Transport Aviation aircraft are not subject to customs inspections or import duties. Of course, we are willing to allow, shall we say, special friends to use our services.”
“I have interests that will pay extra to use these services,” Vashin said.
“We are more than glad to accommodate our friends, provided they help us and pay on time.”
“Of course,” Vashin replied. He needed the security only Transport Aviation could provide and the general wanted his daughter back. It was a done deal. “Perhaps some of my people can help in the search for your daughter. Do you have a picture?” The general handed him a photo and Vashin studied it, his features as bland and noncommittal as the general’s. “A beautiful girl. I can understand why you are so worried. She could be a movie star.” He forced a sigh. “Children. They have no respect these days.”
“She’s a good girl,” the general said. “But her head is filled with trash about love and romance from watching LTV and the movies.”
Vashin buzzed for his assistant and she was standing in front of him within seconds. “Geraldine, I want to help Peter Davydovich find his daughter.” He handed her the photo.
“A very pretty girl,” Geraldine said. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps Tom would be the best one to handle this.” Tom Johnson was Vashin’s chief of security. Geraldine punched at her personal telecommunicator and within seconds, the former Secret Service agent came through the door. Johnson was a big man who could have played defensive guard on a pro football team. His hair was cut short, Marine style, and he had a classic Prussian bulge on the back of his neck. Vashin explained what he wanted and Geraldine handed him the photograph. Johnson asked a few questions in a deep guttural Russian.
“Peter Davydovich,” Vashin said, bringing the meeting to a close, “we will be glad to help. But perhaps you can do another small service for us. A service we’ll be glad to pay for.”
“Certainly,” Prudnokov replied. “Anything that is reasonable.”
“I don’t know the right words, but you have fake devices you use for special-weapons training. I understand the smaller, suitcase-sized ones, are very realistic.”
At first, the general was confused, not sure what Vashin wanted. Then he understood. “A simulated weapon? That’s all you want?”
Vashin smiled. “That’s all.”
Prudnokov stood to leave. “I’ll see what I can do.” Geraldine escorted him out.
Johnson stared at the image on the photograph for a few moments. The image of Little Dove smiled back at him. “Who can resurrect a dead girl?”
Vashin shrugged his heavy shoulders. “There are no miracles.”
Bender processed through the southwest appointment gate and walked north on West Executive Avenue. Images of an earlier time when he was the acting national security advisor tickled his memory. A White House intern met him at the entrance to the West Wing. “Good morning, General Bender. The president is expecting you.” He walked through the west entrance and the memories were in full flood.
“Quite a few things have changed since you were last here,” the intern said as they walked down the hall. It was an obvious statement. The heavy presence of the Secret Service was muted and while Bender knew they were present, they weren’t as visible. Other than the Marine guard at the entrance, he hadn’t seen a single military uniform. He suppressed the urge to ask if the chairman of the Joint Chiefs had to wear civilian clothes when he came to the White House.
When they neared the Oval Office, Bender caught a glimpse of a shaggy bear of a man shambling down the quiet corridor. “I see Mr. Shaw is still here,” he ventured. There was no answer. Why does she keep that bastard around? Bender raged to himself. Politics. Nothing really changes. Especially politics. He mentally chastised himself for being so cynical about politicians. She is your commander in chief. He was honest with himself and admitted Madeline Turner was turning into a good president. But like so many other presidents before her, she had to grow into the job.
She had been openly hostile to the military at first. But during the crisis over Okinawa, when Congress and most of her own administration had deserted her, Bender convinced her that she could rely on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was a crash course in the bare-knuckle use of power for Turner and the steel that lay hidden behind an attractive face and pleasant manner finally emerged. Thanks to Bender, she learned how to use the military as an effective instrument of national power.
Only Bender appreciated the irony of the situation. While he honored his oath, respected the office of the president, and would always be loyal to his commander in chief, he simply didn’t like Madeline Turner.
The intern turned Bender over to Dennis who led him into the Oval Office. “Robert,” Turner said, standing to greet him, “thank you for coming.” She extended her right hand, genuinely glad to see him. He gently took her hand in his. “I think you know everyone here,” she said, looking at the four members of her National Security Advisory Group.
Mazie Hazelton rose gracefully from her seat and walked quickly into his arms. “I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice a whisper. Bender was obviously embarrassed by Mazie’s uncharacteristic display of emotion and hesitated before folding his arms around her. The top of her head barely came to his chest. Then she was gone and back in her seat.