The ride back to the embassy turned into the longest journey in Winslow James’s life.
Madeline Turner studied the “President’s Daily Brief,” or PDB for short. It was a slickly printed, highly professional document produced by a committee at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It was never more than twelve pages long and contained the best intelligence the CIA could produce. Only seven people were on its distribution list and all copies were carefully analyzed after being read. The paper contained a trace element that emerged under a special light if the PDB had been through a copy machine or a scanner. Turner reread the item on Mikhail Vashin and set the report on her desk. We’ve got an agent on the inside, she thought. The information is less than three days old and too detailed. “Richard, did you read the item on Vashin?” He nodded an answer. “What do you think?”
“Very unstable and very dangerous. Personally, I’d like to hear what Mazie and the DCI think”—he glanced at the PDB—“without a few bureaucratic layers filtering the information.”
“Get them on the schedule for this afternoon.”
Parrish made a note, picked up the PDB, and buzzed for the next meeting. The door to the Oval Office opened and the key staffers responsible for the day-to-day running of the White House trooped in. Parrish signed the PDB over to the security officer who turned and left, closing the door behind him. Like most of her working groups, this one was small and only numbered six people, including her mother, Maura O’Keith. Madeline Turner’s greatest strength was her ability to choose outstanding subordinates she could trust to act independently, never compromising themselves or the White House. The administration group was a well-rehearsed team and the meeting went smoothly.
The social secretary went over the list of coming events, always careful that Dennis was in full agreement with the schedule. As usual, the social secretary ended with requests they had to turn down. Turner’s chin came up when she heard the name Amadis Escalante.
For a moment, she was back in the past, an awkward and gangling teenager in an art gallery in New Mexico. The portrait of a Mexican American woman, worn down by poverty, privation, and childbirth had captured her heart. A woman spoke softly behind her. “How old do you think she is?”
“Eighty, eighty-five,” Turner answered, turning around.
The voice belonged to a huge woman, well over six feet tall and very heavy. “She’s forty-seven,” the woman said. She smiled gently at the stunned look of disbelief on the teenager’s face. “I know, I painted her. I’m Amadis Escalante. What’s your name, child?”
“Maddy Turner.”
“Are you an artist?” She studied the teenager and answered her own question. “No. You are meant for more important things.”
All of Maddy Turner’s self-doubts and teenage insecurities crashed down on her. She gazed at the portrait. “I can’t do anything.”
“Yes, you can. If you listen to your heart. Like now.”
Turner came back to the present. Her staff was silent, waiting for her. “I’m forty-seven,” she murmured. Her eyes glistened with memory. “I met Amadis when I was fifteen.”
The social secretary responded instinctively and related how the New Mexico Council for the Arts had invited the president to dedicate the Amadis Escalante Museum of the Arts. “The museum is in Ruidoso and you can stay at the family compound on the Escalante Ranch. It’s rustic but very beautiful.”
“Please accept the invitation,” Turner said.
Mazie Hazelton sat on the couch in the president’s private study, her eyes on Turner. Mazie had never seen the president so angry. Her gaze was fixed on the carpet, her arms folded as she walked back and forth. Turner stopped and pointed at the director of central intelligence who was sitting across from Mazie. Her voice was flat and hard. “Let me see if I understand this right. The CIA has an agent next to the Russian madman who may be Russia’s next dictator. The madman has ordered our agent to assassinate the minister of defense, Vitaly Rodonov, who happens to be a good guy and is helping to stop the drug trade going through Poland.”
“I wouldn’t describe Rodonov as ‘a good guy,’” the DCI answered. “At this point, he’s an unknown quantity. We need to know more about him.”
“But Rodonov,” Turner continued, “could be a possible successor to Viktor Kraiko, the current president of Russia who happens to be Vashin’s toady.” Again, the DCI confirmed her understanding of the situation. “However, this is a way for our agent to make his bones with Vashin and that would give us a pipeline right into the heart of his operation. So you want to preserve our agent at any cost.”
“I didn’t say that, Madame President,” the DCI protested.
“Damn.” She resumed her pacing, working the problem. She stopped and whirled on the DCI. “The only options I’ve heard are either to let our agent do it or pull him out.” She sat down behind her desk. Like any government bureaucracy, the CIA dealt the cards and forced the card they wanted played. “Well, I don’t buy it,” she announced. “Mazie, there must be something else we can do.”
Mazie half closed her eyes. “Tell the agent to delay while we have NATO request an immediate conference with Rodonov. The goal is to get him out of Russia and out of harm’s way. Once he’s in Brussels, we tell him about the plot on his life.”
“What would be important enough,” the DCI asked, “to get Rodonov to a meeting with NATO?”
“We create a situation,” Mazie replied, “no Russian minister of defense can ignore. As part of General Bender’s proposed security-aid package to Poland, NATO wants Russian landing and overflight rights in Poland revoked. Rodonov comes to NATO to discuss the issue and gets some of their rights back. That way, he returns to Russia a hero and has been of some use to Vashin. It might be enough to save him.”
The DCI shook his head. “I’ve read Bender’s security proposal. Serick and the State Department won’t buy it. It’s dead in the water.”
“It is not dead until I say it is,” Turner said. “Call Robert back for consultations.”
Brian and Little Matt slammed into their room after lunch and threw their hats into their lockers. Because it was Saturday and there was no formation at the noon meal, they were in good spirits, looking forward to a weekend free of marching tours and little homework. Brian saw the flashing light on the telephone and hit the message button. It was from Dennis at the White House. “Brian, your mother is going to be in New Mexico next weekend to dedicate the Amadis Escalante Museum. She’d like you to join her for the weekend. Please give me or your grandmother a call.”
“All right!” Brian said. “I’m gone.”
“You’ll need a special furlough,” Little Matt said. “We got that biology test Tuesday. You flunk it and you’re restricted.” He thought for a moment. “Talk to the Trog.” Brian agreed and Little Matt called Zeth’s room.
Zeth met them in the cadet lounge in the John Ross Thomas Hall. “It’s gonna take some doing to get out of here on a Friday,” she said. “You’ll need a chaperon.”
“The Secret Service?” Little Matt ventured.
“I got a better idea,” Brian said. “I ask Maggot to come and his dad chaperons us.” They looked at each other, thinking the same thing. The idea of Brian’s mom and Little Matt’s father meeting was in the back of their minds, growing and taking shape. Zeth approached it like a matchmaker while the boys were more like neophyte wheeler-dealers, ready to test their conspiratorial wings. Brian smiled. “And that way—”
“They meet!” the three shouted together. Brian and Little Matt did a high five, slapping their hands together. They walked back to the boys’ room where Brian called the White House. He was put through immediately to Maura and jotted down the details. Then Little Matt called Pontowski, barely able to contain his excitement. Zeth sat at Little Matt’s computer and composed a request letter as the two boys perched over her shoulder.