“Me,” Shaw replied. “Ms. Gordon is in our stable.”
“What’s the point?” Parrish asked.
Stammerville answered. “The point, Mr. Parrish, is to keep our opponents guessing as long as possible, not only about the president’s intentions, but about Mr. Shaw’s role in the campaign.”
“Patrick’s a liability,” Turner said. “But he’s critical to my campaign.” She stood and paced the room. “This rift was staged to focus attention on Patrick, not the issue I raised with the National Guard. I’m deeply concerned about combat readiness in our armed forces. I wanted to air the idea of an independent commission on it without stirring up a partisan controversy. Identifying problems and finding right solutions may take years.”
Shaw frowned. “You might not like the answers, Mizz President.” He wanted to tell her that independent commissions had the bad habit of revealing the truth, a definite liability in his world. “If you’re serious about winning, postpone the commission until after the election.”
Holt caught the slight tilt of Turner’s head and the set of her mouth. His political instincts warned him that this was not an issue they should raise during a campaign and he had to change her mind. His words came slow. “By appointing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness you may be opening yourself to criticism on a vulnerable issue. Better to wait and let the other side raise it. Then appoint the commission and claim it’s far too serious a question for partisan politics.”
“And take it off the table,” Shaw added. He studied the president, hoping it was now a dead issue. But his instincts warned him otherwise.
“Madame President,” Holt continued, “we need to finalize two items. First, will it be Madeline Turner or Maddy Turner?”
The question was crucial, for the answer would set the campaign’s tone. Would it be presidential or would it be personal? An image of her imperial motorcade driving down an empty street flashed in her mind’s eye. “It’s Maddy Turner.”
“Second, the timing of your announcement is critical. We recommend delaying it until after the first of the year. Perhaps in February.”
Turner pulled into herself and reran all the old arguments. So much of it was gamesmanship and logic said that Holt was right. But her instincts were sending a different message. She made her decision. “Before Christmas.”
Shaw bit off his reply. She had gotten that one wrong.
Winslow James sat in the backseat of the black staff car with Bender and Peter Duncan for the ride to the country manor house where the Poles’ SPS, Special Public Services, was headquartered. It was a long ride into the countryside west of Warsaw and the narrow two-lane road was congested with heavy truck traffic. “This road,” James said, “is the major artery connecting Warsaw to western Poland. As you can see, Poland needs a modern highway system.”
Bender listened while James listed Poland’s transportation problems. He grudgingly gave his DCM high marks for understanding Poland’s economic infrastructure. But he wished James sounded more human. By all normal standards, he was a pompous, overbearing snob impressed with his position and himself. He needs a shot of reality, Bender told himself. Peter Duncan on the other hand was all Irish charm hiding a sharp mind and aggressive disposition. “Pete,” he said, cutting James off, “what’s the agenda for today?”
Duncan handed him a schedule. “Pretty much your normal dog and pony show in the morning with a luncheon at one o’clock. I’ve scheduled an hour for a private conversation with the commander afterward and they want to end the day with a tactical exercise.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” James huffed, “I do have to return to the embassy; the press of official business. I’ve arranged for a staff car to pick me up at noon.”
Bender nodded, his opinion of James slowly solidifying into stone.
The commander of Special Public Services was a big man, all hard lines and rigid attitude. His black combat fatigues were devoid of any rank. The only distinguishing mark was a red shoulder patch shaped like a shield with a white SPS logo; two lightning bolt Ss flanking a P that turned into a double fishhook at the bottom. The commander towered over the much smaller Duncan yet Bender sensed they were both cast from the same mold. Duncan’s words about being a cop carried a fresh meaning. Bender listened, hearing pride and dedication when the commander spoke about his unit. “Five years ago, law enforcement was in shambles. We started to make real progress when our first graduates from your FBI’s National Academy returned.”
James coughed for attention. “Mr. Ambassador, my car is here.” Without waiting for Bender’s reply, he thanked the commander and almost ran to the waiting staff car in his rush to escape. Bender suppressed what he wanted to say. Until James was able to look beyond the facade of diplomatic bureaucracy and protocol and cope with reality, he would never be an effective diplomat.
The commander watched James leave. “We have hundreds like him in our government. How did you get him out of his office?”
“With a crowbar,” Duncan replied.
The commander laughed. “It is good he left. I told my exercise team to lay on a hostage exercise for this afternoon. It would have frightened him.”
Duncan perked up. “Is it a live fire exercise?”
“Of course not.”
“Where will it take place?”
“Finding where the terrorists have taken the hostage is part of the problem. I have given my intelligence section two hours to locate the hostage. If they fail, an informant will reveal the location to speed things along. Then you can see how a tactical squad responds and negotiations are started.”
Duncan said, “So it will be near here.”
“Of course.”
A wicked smile crossed Duncan’s face that made Bender think of a malevolent leprechaun. An unspoken understanding passed between the American and the Pole. “I agree,” the commander said. He spoke into his telecommunicator, issuing orders in Polish. “The exercise has commenced as of now.”
“What are you two up to?” Bender asked.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Duncan answered, mimicking James, “the interrogatory should only be used when the acknowledgment is acceptable.”
“Which means?”
“Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer.”
“Will you please join my staff for luncheon?” the commander asked.
Following the meal, Bender and Duncan talked with the commander in his Spartan office. “My main problem is intelligence,” the Pole admitted. “Our national intelligence service is worthless and our informant system is hopelessly compromised by the Russian Mafiya. It is so bad that we assume nothing is reliable.”
“We can make some of our national sources available to you,” Bender said. “But if your system is so bad, how do we keep the information we give you from going directly to the Mafiya?”
This was Duncan’s area of expertise. “Limited distribution, through me to the commander.” He sketched a flow diagram as he talked. “Ultimately, the SPS will have to create its own intelligence base. That means you’ll have to find and develop your own sources. We can train your people on how to find and approach potential informants. We have some mighty fine arm twisting techniques to insure cooperation. You’ll have to create a secure system, safe from compromise, to verify and use the information. Again, we can show you how. But you have to do it.”
The commander was not happy. “For fifty years, informants kept the Communists in power. It was the curse of our lives. Who could we trust? No one.” He hunched over and clasped his hands. “After Poland was free, I waited for two years to make sure the old regime would not return. Then I killed my neighbor. That’s how bad it was. Now you are telling me I must do the same thing. Will my neighbor kill me?”