“Are they that afraid of you?” Maura asked Shaw.
Shaw chose his words carefully. More than anyone in the room, Maura was the one he had to win over. And she hated his guts more than Gwen Anderson. “I’d like to think they are.” Shaw tried to sound humble, but it ran counter to his nature. “You can never be sure, but last week Dan Beason offered me a consulting job at $2.5 million per year with a five-year contract.” They all knew who Daniel Beason was. “Duties to be negotiated after signing the contract.”
“They really want to sideline you,” Kennett said, amazed at the amount of money.
“That’s why it will work,” Shaw replied.
“I’m intrigued,” Turner said. “Lay it out.” She knew the way Shaw worked and they were hearing a well-planned and rehearsed extravaganza worthy of a Ziegfeld. She listened as he took center stage and orchestrated the opening movement for her reelection. When she had heard enough, she raised a hand, cutting him off in midflow. “We’ll talk next week.” The meeting was over and Maura was the last to leave.
For a moment, they were alone. “Are you sure? Do you really want this?”
Turner gave a little nod. “More than you’ll ever know.”
There were tears in Maura’s eyes. “He’s telling you what you want to hear.”
“I know.”
TWELVE
The motorcade drove in stately grandeur up the twisting drive to the palace overlooking the former capital of West Germany. Vashin gazed out the window as they approached the magnificent structure. “The dream came back last night,” he confided to Geraldine.
“Was it the same or different?”
“Much the same. I was drifting in clouds. Suddenly the mist parted and I could see a golden ray of sunlight shining on the Kremlin. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Were you still in the clouds?”
“Yes. It was like I was ready to descend to earth.”
The Mercedes-Benz limousine turned into the roundabout and coasted to a stop in front of the main entrance. Von Lubeck came down the steps between the flags and honor guard. “The man meeting you is Herbert von Lubeck,” Geraldine said. “His official title is first secretary to the deputy minister for economic research…”
Vashin waved a hand, cutting her off. “He’s nothing. This is an insult. I’m wasting my time here.”
Geraldine shot a worried look at Tom Johnson. She had to smooth over Vashin’s ruffled feelings. “I’ve heard that von Lubeck speaks directly to the chancellor.”
Johnson saved it in the nick of time. “In Washington, he was treated with kid gloves and had direct access to the Oval Office. He’s the man who gets things done with the Germans.”
Vashin finally nodded as the door was opened. He stepped out and greeted von Lubeck like a long-lost friend as they walked into the palace. Geraldine gave Johnson a look of relief. “Thanks Tom. As you Yanks like to say, I owe you one.”
Johnson grinned. “How about tonight? And bring a friend.”
“Male or female?”
“Female. Young, pretty, and blond.”
“And if she has a German accent?”
“Then we’ll have our own international piece conference.”
Geraldine caught the pun and arched an eyebrow.
Von Lubeck stood in front of the fireplace as he lit his cigar. For a moment, he savored the warmth of the fire that held the cold November night at bay. He rolled the cigar and puffed it to life. It was late and they had been dancing around the subject most of Saturday afternoon and well into the evening. It was time to start negotiations. “It has been a delightful evening, my friend,” he said, speaking Russian. It was one of the five languages he spoke fluently. He poured himself another brandy and freshened Vashin’s vodka. “Unfortunately, there are complications.”
“There are always problems. In Russia they are shortlived.”
“Yes, I see.” And von Lubeck did. It confirmed the German estimation of Vashin as a vicious, illiterate peasant. But a very dangerous one. “Then you are aware of the latest difficulty?” No response from Vashin. “Your minister of defense is traveling in secret to Brussels to meet with NATO.”
Vashin’s head snapped up at the mention of Vitaly Rodonov. “When?” His stomach churned in anger.
“Four days from now, on Wednesday.”
“Why?” Vashin spat the word out.
“The president of the United States wants NATO to restrict your diplomatic landing rights in Europe, starting with Poland.”
Vashin forced his anger back into its cage. “I can’t allow the”—he almost said bitch—“United States to do that.”
Von Lubeck studied his guest wondering if he would throw one of the fits German intelligence had reported. The extensive dossier had thoroughly bisected Vashin and described him as a clever sociopath suffering from epileptic fits. But close-up and in the flesh, von Lubeck saw only an illiterate Russian peasant. His instincts told him it was time to speak in terms a peasant understood. “The Americans have a phrase; a dog never shits in his own backyard.”
“In Russia, a dog shits where he wants.”
“German dogs shit where their masters want and most Germans see Poland as their backyard.”
Vashin’s head jerked toward von Lubeck. Geraldine had told him the Germans were interested in “respective areas of interest in Poland.” But he hadn’t believed her. Only recognized heads of state dealt with such matters. He was surprised to see a pleasant smile on the German’s face.
“You see, my friend?” von Lubeck ventured. “We have a problem.” Von Lubeck waited for Vashin’s reply, but as expected, the cagey peasant wanted to hear more. “As long as the Russian dog only shits in eastern Poland and none of the shit flows into Germany, we can reach an accommodation.”
“Sometimes shit flows in directions which the Russian dog did not intend.”
Von Lubeck nodded in understanding. Vashin was telling him he could not keep drugs out of Germany once it hit the streets. “That is not a problem if the Russian dog doesn’t care how we clean it up.”
“We need a map of Poland,” Vashin said.
Zeth barely nodded when she hurried past Brian and Matt in the dining hall. Her lips were compressed into a narrow line. “What’s eating her?” Brian asked. Matt shrugged an answer. They finished supper, bussed their trays, and left to take advantage of the thirty minutes before night study hall began. They wandered into the cadet lounge in John Ross Thomas Hall where Zeth was sitting in a corner looking despondent.
“Is everything okay?” Matt asked.
She pulled a letter out of her pocket and unfolded it. She reread it, still in a state of disbelief. “Do you remember when we went to dinner at the Ruidoso Jockey Club? I met a zoomie there.”
The boys nodded, recalling the tall Third Class cadet from the Air Force Academy they had met. “Yeah,” Brian said. “He was cool.”
“I invited him to the dance Saturday night and he accepted.” She folded the letter and put it back in her pocket.
“Cool,” Matt said.
She hung her head in despair. “I can’t go unless I get my GPA up to 2.0.” She stood up. “I have to call him.”
“Is it chemistry?” Matt asked. A slight nod in answer. “Don’t you have another test tomorrow?”
Again, the little nod. They could tell she was on the edge of tears.
“I need to get at least a B. But I won’t know the results until Friday and then it’ll be too late to stop him from coming down.”
“You won’t bust it,” Matt assured her.