“How long would it take to set up a special task force, organized and trained to target drug shipments?”
“It already exists — Special Public Services.”
Bender was incredulous. “Special Public Services? It sounds like they’re in charge of sewers.”
Duncan couldn’t help himself. “They are, more or less.”
“I sold the president of the United States a security-aid package for Poland and I never heard of them. This makes me look like a fool.”
“Now don’t go indulging in self-flagellation, General, It’s not the type of special unit the Poles would talk about, least of all to diplomats. Besides, they got problems.”
“Such as?”
“Confused leadership at the top, poor midlevel management, and rotten intelligence. Not to mention lousy pay, which breeds corruption. But the poor bastards are trying, especially at the operational level.”
“How long before the SPS is fully operational?”
“With a little peaking and tweaking, not long.” Bender looked doubtful. Duncan thought for a moment. “I can arrange a tour so you can see for yourself.”
“Set it up for this week.”
Bender fixed Winslow James with an icy stare. He was doing a double burn over his discovery of the Daily Intelligence Summary and Duncan’s revelation about the existence of Special Public Services. Had his staff deliberately omitted it from the security-aid package to send him a message? Or was the omission the product of poor staff work? He didn’t like either answer. He may have only been ambassador for six weeks but it was time to start sending some very direct messages to his staff. He tapped his read file with a finger. “Winslow, I noticed you included the Daily Intelligence Summary in my read file. Obviously, you talked to Ms. Belfort in Communications. That’s good because I want my staff talking to each other. My question is, Why haven’t I seen it before?”
James stammered something about what the former ambassador preferred. Bender tapped the file. “When did you learn about the incident Friday night at Modlin Air Base?”
“Is it important?”
“I’d say a drug shipment valued at approximately a half billion dollars that was forced through Poland at the point of a gun with an armed fighter escort is important.”
“Sir, we don’t interfere in internal matters.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
James swallowed. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Winslow, you’re letting important things fall through the cracks. Starting tomorrow, you will receive an in-country situation brief every day you are on station. Further, I want a summary of that briefing in my read file. Speaking of which, it will be waiting for me on my desk when I arrive at seven-thirty.”
James spluttered. What Bender was ordering meant he would have to be in his office by six at the latest and his secretary even earlier. That wasn’t why they had joined the foreign service. Then he saw a way out “Who will prepare the briefing?”
Bender glanced at the ceiling. “As I recall, the CIA occupies the entire third floor of this building.”
“True, but they won’t do it.”
“Would you care to bet your career on it?” Silence from James. “Next, Peter Duncan is setting up a tour at a special police unit this week. Be sure it happens and I want you to come along.” James started to protest but Bender held up his hand. “Finally, please find a good obstetrician for my wife.” He allowed a little smile at the look on James’s face. “She’s expecting.”
James recovered nicely. “Congratulations, sir.” The meeting was over and he wandered back to his office in a state of mild shock. Pregnant secretaries, wives of younger officers and junior staff members were quite common. But not the ambassador’s wife. It was unheard of. He stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Please have Ewa find an obstetrician for Mrs. Bender.”
FOURTEEN
Geraldine Blake and Tom Johnson flanked Vashin when he walked into Vashin Towers. “I’ve had a team of independent security experts in here for a week,” Johnson explained. “They’ve gone over every square millimeter and Vashin Towers is, without doubt, the most secure structure they’ve ever seen.”
“Not to mention,” Geraldine added, “the most elegant.”
“Better than Trump Tower in Manhattan?” Vashin asked.
“Trump Tower is not even a distant second,” Geraldine replied. She guided him up the escalator to the mezzanine where he could view the entrance mall with its collection of expensive boutiques and restaurants. “This is a masterpiece,” she said. “You have created the symbol of the new Russia.” Vashin stood at the rail and took it in. Below him, people streamed in. The boutiques were busy, the restaurants booked weeks in advance, and every office space rented. Vashin Towers was an instantaneous success.
Vashin turned and smiled. “I’m pleased.” A wave of relief swept over the entourage surrounding him.
Geraldine stepped back. “This way, please.” She led him to the marble-lined alcove and the executive elevator. The doors were open. They stepped inside and Geraldine said, “The Center, please.” The doors closed and they were barely aware of movement.
A computer-generated woman’s voice answered. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I have scanned the building and it is secure.”
“The computer system,” Johnson told him, “was designed and installed by Century Communications International. They are the best in the world.” Vashin grunted an answer. The name Century Communications meant nothing to him.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the Center, the new hub of Vashin’s web that was six stories below street level. It was a modern and efficient office complex worthy of any international corporation. “Your decision to build underground was inspired,” Johnson said, stroking Vashin’s ego. “It increased construction costs but paid off in increased security.” He sensed Vashin’s impatience. “Would you like to see the Action Room first?” Vashin nodded hungrily. They marched down the center hall and through what looked like a vault door. They stepped onto a balcony overlooking an operations center. Rows of consoles faced huge computer-driven displays on the walls and people scurried purposefully around on business. Half of the Action Room could have been a military command post. The other half was a finance center with links to every stock exchange in the world.
“Very good,” Vashin said. He barged ahead and into his new office complex. His desk was in the largest chamber and set against a huge picture window overlooking the Action Room.
“My God,” Geraldine whispered to Johnson. “This is right out of a James Bond movie.”
“Where do you think we got the idea.”
Geraldine found her desk and looked into her computer monitor. An embedded security camera scanned her retina and the screen came to life. She signed on and was ready to go to work. She picked up a leather folder, which now integrated her telecommunicator and personal organizer and linked her into the computer system. She walked into Vashin’s office. He was standing by the window overlooking the Action Room, hands clasped behind his back and a rigid, triumphal scowl on his face. A warning bell tinkled in the back of her mind and, for a brief moment, she was looking down a dark corridor into the past. Then it was gone. “Mikhail, whenever you’re ready. The bankers are in the penthouse.”
She followed Vashin into the express elevator that connected his office to the penthouse. They shot 105 stories skyward. The doors opened and they stepped out. Vashin stopped and turned to the guard. “Is it the same?”
The guard answered with a smile. He inserted a passkey and turned it counterclockwise. There was a slight pause as the elevator moved up to clear the door. The doors opened silently and revealed the dark shaft. A blast of cold air hit them and Vashin smiled. The guard twisted the key, the doors closed, and the elevator descended back into place.