“They say home tests are very accurate.”
“But—” It was one of the few times in his life that Bender was at a loss for words. He covered his frustration by pouring another cup of coffee.
“It does happen. Menopause does things to your, ah, timing.”
“But—”
“I’m forty-eight and that’s what you get for marrying a child bride. Besides, I haven’t taken precautions in years. I didn’t think it could happen after all the years of wanting another child. Maybe I didn’t care.”
“But—”
“Stop sounding like a stuck record. It’s because of those cold Polish nights with nothing to do. That’s why there’ll always be a Poland.”
A wide smile spread across Bender’s face as he shook his head in wonder. He reached for her hand. “I do love you.”
“You had better. I feel fine, so what’s on the agenda for today?” Then another thought came to her. “I can hardly wait to see the look on Winslow’s face when we tell him.”
“I may have to explain the mechanics to him,” Bender said with a straight face.
Pontowski was driven to the Georgetown guest house that same morning. Bender was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming,” he said, showing him into the sitting room. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Peter Duncan.”
Duncan stood and the two men shook hands. Peter Duncan was short, a fraction over five feet five inches tall, and built like a tree stump. His jet black hair, unbelievably fair skin, and pale blue eyes declared he was black Irish. His South Boston accent confirmed it. “The pleasure is all mine, General Pontowski.”
“Don’t let Pete fool you with his Irish cop routine,” Bender warned. “He’s been a cop, FBI special agent, lawyer, and DOJ prosecutor.”
“And now you have me sounding like I can’t hold a job,” Duncan protested. He settled back into his chair and the accent disappeared. “At heart, I’m still a cop.”
“Which is why he’s here,” Bender added. “Pete, this laid-back, devil-may-care jet jockey is here because he’s like you. He’s done many things. But in his heart, he’s always been just one thing: a fighter pilot.”
The two men looked at Bender wondering why they were in the same room. Matt gave him his lopsided grin. “Why do I get the impression I’m about to be hosed out of the saddle. Cut to the chase, General.”
“Gentlemen, I want you to help stabilize the situation in Poland.”
“The man’s mad,” Duncan muttered. “That means taking on the Russian Mafiya. Tell your insurance company and they’ll cancel your life insurance.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Pontowski said.
“It is,” Bender replied. He sat back in an overstuffed chair, folded his fingers together with his elbows resting on the arms and studied them. He had set the challenge and knew his men. It was one of the reasons he was a general.
Duncan’s voice went soft. “What do you want us to do, General?” Underneath his calm exterior, his heart was beating rapidly.
“Pete, I want you to help the Poles create a viable anticrime task force similar to our FBI but with more muscle. Matt, the Poles need a tactical air force that can control their own airspace. We’re selling them F-16s through NATO, but they need training. That’s where you come in.”
“Are these related in some way?” Pontowski asked.
Duncan tried to look bored but he had read the reports coming from every major law-enforcement agency in America and Western Europe. “Is Saint Patrick Irish?”
Pontowski laughed. “As a matter of fact, no.”
“Poland’s airspace is effectively uncontrolled,” Bender explained. “Russian organized crime is using it as a shipment tube for drugs.”
“I’m not current in the F-16.”
“Five weeks at Luke Air Force Base can fix that,” Bender said.
“So what’s my cover in Poland?”
“You’ll head up my Office of Defense Cooperation responsible for selling the Poles training packages. But your real job is to give the Poles a full-up tactical air force.”
“Like the package World Security Systems was selling at the Williams air show?”
“Very similar.”
“That will really piss Beason off,” Pontowski said, recalling the last time he had met the senior Beason. Then another thought came to him. “I’ve never been to Poland.”
“It’s always nice to visit the old sod,” Duncan allowed, reminding Pontowski of his heritage. “Count me in.”
“But it’s the wrong sod for you,” Pontowski said.
“True,” Duncan replied. “But the Irish love lost causes.”
The three women and Sam Kennett, who composed the Kitchen Cabinet, clustered around Turner in a protective huddle in her private study next to the Oval Office. Opposite them sat Patrick Flannery Shaw, the consummate political bandmaster. He was a shaggy bear of a man in a rumpled dark brown plaid suit. His tie and collar button were loose and his shoes needed a shine. Shaw was a man who could destroy the political opposition, intimidate the media, and raise campaign money by the truckload. He cared little for legal niceties and less for ethical principles. But they all knew why he was there. He won elections.
“Well, Mizz President,” Shaw drawled, his old confidence back in place. “It’s nice to be among friends.”
Gwen Anderson, the secretary of health and human services and a charter member of the Kitchen Cabinet, glared at him. “It’s Mrs. President or Madame President.” She looked at Turner. “Do we really need him?” Her tone of voice proclaimed she would gladly perform a brain transplant on Shaw without benefit of anesthesia.
Shaw regrouped. “Madame President, I suspect I’m here because you’re going to run for reelection. You can manage a campaign without me, but I can do it better than anyone else.”
Gwen Anderson glared at him. The memory of how he had taken her out of consideration for the vice presidency was still sharp and painful. She looked at Kennett. “Sam, you’re a wonderful vice president and my friend. But I can never forgive that man for what he did to me.” She focused all her wrath on Shaw. “If you’re so damn good, convince me.”
Shaw’s whole life revolved around politics and he stayed awake at night plotting destruction on his political enemies who he simply called the bastards. At one time, he had mistakenly lumped Anderson with them. “The bastards are hurtin’ for a candidate. If they get on the stick, they might be able to groom someone to run against Sam here in six years. But for naught-four they’re hurting.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Anderson muttered. “The only way they can win is by attacking the president. It’s going to be a dirty campaign.”
“They’ve got the money and backing to do it,” Kennett added.
Shaw’s big head slumped, his chin on his chest. “Madame President, you’re going to win because I’m gonna make you the greatest president who ever sat in the Oval Office.”
Anderson was skeptical. “And how do you propose to do that?”
Shaw came to his feet, remarkably agile for his weight. He paced the office, alive and animated. “We stake out the moral high ground and never budge. We run on one issue; a vision for the future. We have one message; only the president has the moral integrity and courage to lead the nation forward. Our focus is the middle class and our finances are above reproach.”
Anderson’s voice was full of disbelief. “Do you really think that Ronnie Reagan’s ‘morning in America’ feelgood is going to work when the attack ads start?”
“They won’t,” Kennett replied.
“Right,” Anderson scoffed.
Kennett gestured at Shaw. “They won’t because of him. Everyone knows he wrote the book on dirty tricks and below-the-belt tactics. He’s the master and no one can match him. We keep him in the background, always waiting, ready to leap on the first fool who crosses the line. He’s our hole card no one wants played.”