“What the hell is he doing here?” Pelton wondered, now very interested in Zeth and taking the measure of the intruder on his territory. Pelton and the newcomer were both the same age and in the same class at college. However, the Air Force Academy was still the Air Force Academy and that put Pelton at a disadvantage. But Pelton was much better looking and more athletic.
Brian couldn’t help himself and stirred the pot. “I’d guess he’s checking out the Trog.” The music slowed and the couple were clinched in a tight embrace. “I think she’s using him.”
“For what?” Pelton asked.
“To make you jealous.”
“Gimme a break.”
“You gonna let some zoomie bastard just move in?”
Pelton snorted and walked away, looking for some of his buddies. “Why are you egging him on?” Matt asked.
“It’s fun. You got a short-term memory problem? He’s the bastard who chaired you to get back at me, remember?”
“He wasn’t there and Zeth stopped it”
“Yeah, but he was behind it” They watched as Pelton joined the couple and talked to them. The two young men shook hands and Zeth even danced with Pelton for one number. Then she was back with the Air Force Academy cadet and Pelton joined a few of his classmates who were with their girlfriends.
Brian laughed. “Aced out.”
One of the girl rats came up and asked Matt to dance. He blushed brightly. “I don’t know how.”
“I’ll teach you,” she said, her eyes sparkling with fun and something more than just friendship.
“See you later, studly,” Brian said. He wandered through the big double doors and down into the game room in the basement.
Pelton was shooting pool with a buddy. “Askin’ a freakin’ zoomie to the dance,” the other cadet said. “What a bitch.”
Pelton lined up his shot “You got that right” He took the shot and sank the ball.
Bender arrived at the embassy on Monday morning at exactly seven-thirty. It was the same time he always came to work and he was a little concerned that his staff hadn’t got the message that he liked to start early. But rather than ride roughshod over long-established traditions, he decided to give it some time and see if they figured it out for themselves. An embassy staff was a far different critter from a staff in the Air Force where young and eager officers only wanted a chance to show what they could do. With that group, he had to chase them out of the office or they would have worked horrendous hours. The Marine guard came to attention as Bender stepped into the elevator.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Corporal Kincaid,” Bender replied. The Marine was shocked. Not only did Bender know his name, he recognized his rank. The previous ambassador could distinguish a Marine from a cow, but that was about it. Forget about knowing names.
Rather than hit the button to the second floor where his office was located, Bender descended to the basement and walked into the communications section. The clerk on duty was surprised to see him. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Ms. Belfort.” Her mouth opened in surprise that he remembered her name. “I’d like to see my read file, please.”
“The DCM’s secretary hasn’t collated it yet.”
“No problem, I’ll do it.”
“Sir, I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off. Then she showed him the stacks of folders holding the cables that had come in over the weekend. “Most of these came in Friday night after the close of business in Washington.” The timing did not surprise him as bureaucrats liked to clear their desks for the weekend and sent most of their letters and cables out on Friday afternoon. But the amount of message traffic was staggering, far surpassing anything he had experienced in the Air Force.
“Is it always this much?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir. This was an unusually light weekend.”
He quickly thumbed through the folders, Then he saw the Daily Intelligence Summary, which he had never seen before. He extracted the cable and read it. He replaced the message and thanked the clerk. She beamed as he left, little suspecting the anger beneath his surface.
The corridors on the second floor were deserted when he got off the elevator. As he neared his office, be caught a whiff of coffee. “Someone’s awake,” he mumbled to himself. He turned into the Red Room, the large office and reception area that separated his office from Winslow James’s, his deputy charge of mission. The smell of the brewing coffee drew him to a small side office occupied by one of the interpreters who worked for the chief of mission secretary.
A young woman he had never met stood up. “Good, morning, Mr. Ambassador. May I get you some coffee?”
He was stunned and, for a moment, speechless. She was tall, perhaps five feet ten inches, and on the heavy side, classically Rubenesque. Her soft brown hair hung in waves past her shoulders and highlighted beautiful, doe-shaped hazel eyes and high cheekbones. She had the most perfect mouth and lips he had ever seen and a flawless complexion. “Black,” he finally managed to croak. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” She smiled at him and for the first time in his life, he understood why some men reconsidered their marriage vows. He silently gave thanks that he was a happily married man.
“Ewa Pawlik.” She pronounced her first name Eva.
“Ewa Pawlik,” he repeated.
Again, she smiled. “In Poland, Eva is spelled with a w.” She placed a carafe and cup and saucer on a tray. “I’m an interpreter and work part time,” she explained, answering his unasked question why they hadn’t met Her English was near perfect and he could only hear a trace of an accent. She followed him into his office and poured him a cup.
“Well, Ewa, what do you do the other part of the time?” He expected to hear she was a university student.
She captivated him with a serious look and the legend of Helen of Troy made sense. “I help at my mother’s surgery in Praga. She’s a physician, Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik.” Looking at her, he sympathized with artists who tried to capture the magic of true beauty and in the end, always failed. “Well, I must get back to work. Mr. James likes to have a translated summary of the newspapers.”
He watched her as she walked away. He gave a little shudder and forced himself back to reality. She was too beautiful to be true. He made a note to have security run a background check on her. “Who else is here,” he said to himself. He punched at his telephone. He hit pay dirt on the fourth try when Peter Duncan answered. Three minutes later, the former cop, FBI agent, and DOJ prosecutor was in his office, also holding a cup of Ewa’s coffee.
“Lovely girl,” Duncan said.
Bender came right to business. “Have you heard about Friday night?”
“If you mean the so-called diplomatic flight into Modlin Air Base with its cargo of drugs, no.”
Duncan had unknowingly pushed one of Bender’s buttons. “Don’t play smart. You’re wasting my time.”
“Sorry, sir. I learned about it Saturday night through my contacts with the MO. That’s the police.” He tried to pronounce Milicja Obywatelska but failed miserably. “I came into the office Sunday to check it out, but no one was at work. I even tried the CIA. No luck there, either.” His face grew hard. “This place is a model of inefficiency.”
Bender was impressed. Duncan had been in Poland less than a week. “You didn’t waste any time getting involved.”
“As I recall, those were my marching orders.” He leaned forward and tried to explain it. “General, you’d opened the door to the police with President Lezno and I was able to walk right in. The Poles accepted me because, like them, I’m a cop. It’s what I am. They got problems. But last week, I discovered there’re a lot of good cops here. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they talk, the way they do business. They only want to do their job.”