“Speaking of Leland, what is he up to these days?”
“Like everyone else, lying low until he’s sure you’ve got the wherewithal to run.”
Turner handed him the folder and buzzed for her traveling staff. “How far is it to Roswell from Dallas?” she asked.
“Approximately an hour’s flying time,” came the answer.
“I’d like to stop there for a few hours tomorrow and visit Brian. I’ve never been to NMMI.”
Worried glances all around. “That’s pretty short notice, Madame President,” Parrish murmured.
“I’m quite sure you can arrange it,” she said.
The call from the third floor of the embassy came at exactly 4:00 P.M., the last Friday of November. It was Evan Riley. “Mr. Ambassador, I was wondering if we might meet in the bubble room. Could Mr. Duncan also be there?” Bender said they would be there in fifteen minutes. Riley was waiting for them when they arrived and actually allowed a smile. “Mr. Ambassador, I must apologize for taking so long to get back to you, but the wheels grind slowly sometimes.” They sat down and Riley handed Bender a thin folder.
“Let’s see,” Duncan said, enjoying the chance to heckle the CIA head of station. “On Wednesday morning, General Bender asked for a response in twenty-four hours.” He did the math in his head. “That was fifty-six hours ago. For the CIA, that’s moving at warp speed.”
“Well, we did sidestep some mountains on this one.”
Duncan chuckled, enjoying the exchange. “You mean you monitored an interesting phone call between the general and the national security advisor.”
“For the record, no,” Riley said. “The ambassador has been the soul of patience on this one. We checked you out. Most impressive, Mr. Duncan. I had no idea. How many mobsters have you put in jail?”
“Important ones? Six.”
“Is that why there’s a contract on your head?”
“Only one? I’m disappointed.” The two men laughed.
Bender opened the folder and read. “How good is this information?” He passed the folder to Duncan to read.
“Please, sir,” Riley replied, “don’t ask that question. Let’s just say it’s worth acting on.”
Duncan shook his head. “It’s too good to be true. A major shipment of money all on one airplane whose last stop is at Modlin Air Base here in Poland. Mikhail Vashin can’t be that stupid.”
“That,” Riley said, “was the initial reaction of our analysts. But we’ve put together a profile on him that makes for very interesting reading. Vashin is acting within the Russian tradition of grand gestures, big buildings, fancy cars, and beautiful women. It appeals to the Russian character and success breeds authority and power. There is one story about a bizarre funeral last April that is very illuminating.” He gave a little shudder. “Anyway, on analysis, this becomes more believable.”
“So who are we dealing with here?” Bender asked.
“An egomaniac,” Riley answered. He paused for a moment. “I’ll get a copy of the profile to you.” Another pause. “Vashin is emerging as the new Russian strongman.”
“A new Stalin?” Duncan asked.
“Different, but just as ruthless.”
Duncan rubbed his jaw, calculating the probability of success. “Sunday night is awfully short notice and I don’t think SPS can be ready in time. This’ll be their first operation. They need a success the first time out. It’s too risky.”
Now it was Riley’s turn to press for action. But he had to convince them without revealing, or even alluding to, the source of the CIA’s information. The CIA had a spy so highly placed that Vashin was wired for sound. “Our analysts have correlated this with other intelligence and believe this money shipment is a one-time event. It’s a chance to send Vashin a message he understands.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Bender asked.
Again, Riley briefly considered what he could tell them. “We estimate approximately fifteen to twenty billion dollars in securities, gold, and actual money.”
The buccaneer in Duncan came out and he licked his lips in anticipation. “This is better than a Spanish treasure galleon loaded with gold.” Another thought came to him. “How much space does that much money take up?”
Riley shrugged. “At least a planeload.”
Bender made the decision. “Pass this on to the SPS.”
“Can you keep Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers out of the loop?” Riley asked.
“Why?” Bender replied.
“That’s another question we’d rather not answer.”
Duncan exhaled loudly. “It’s still pretty short notice.”
“You can make it happen,” Bender reassured him.
“What exactly,” Duncan wondered, “is Vashin going to do with twenty billion dollars?”
SIXTEEN
Vashin threw down the latest edition of the Megapolis Express. He was furious at the lead article detailing the current successes of Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense. “Why isn’t Rodonov dead?” he shouted.
“I’ll find out,” Geraldine answered, watching carefully for the signs of a fit. She retreated to her office and placed a call to Tom Johnson. Then, to be on the safe side, she called Le Coq d’Or and ordered the two girls, Naina and Liya, to come to the penthouse suite. She sat at her desk and scrolled through Vashin’s calendar while she weighed her options. Vashin was changing and that offered new possibilities as well as dangers. Johnson arrived and they went into the penthouse where Vashin was still standing in front of the big picture window overlooking Moscow.
“Mikhail,” Geraldine said, bringing him back to the moment.
“Why isn’t Rodonov in the ground?”
“He didn’t take the honey trap,” Johnson said. “Apparently, he’s a happily married family man.” Vashin shot him a deadly look. “We can’t blame the girls,” Johnson hastily added.
“Then use more direct means.”
“That’s an easy solution with potentially bad consequences. No one must be able to trace it to you or your organization. We made one failed attempt.”
Vashin’s head jerked up. “I didn’t know there had been an attempt on his life.”
Johnson gave a little nod. “Perhaps you remember the car the Belarussian separatists blew over the Moscow Business Bank in Minsk?”
Vashin looked puzzled. “But that had nothing to do with Rodonov.”
Johnson said glumly, “Rodonov was in Minsk for a secret meeting. We discovered he would be driving down Serafimovicha Street. So we planted a bomb like the Belarussians use in the sewer and waited for him to drive over it. We got the wrong car.”
“Why wasn’t I told about it?”
Johnson was brutally frank. “For two reasons. First, because we failed. Second…”
Vashin interrupted him. “So it could never be traced back to me.”
“Exactly.”
Vashin looked out the window. “Very good.” Johnson took that as a dismissal and left, leaving them alone.
Geraldine sensed the timing was right. “Why should you be concerned with Vitaly Rodonov? He’s beneath you, not worthy of your concern. Besides, he did go to NATO and saved our European landing rights. The gateway is still wide open.”
“But not as open as it was before,” Vashin muttered.
“Progress is not a straight road. You taught me that.” She sensed Vashin was in a receptive mood. “Vashin Towers is a major junction on that road and a symbol of what you can do. But it is a building. Now the people need to see the man behind the great accomplishments. Perhaps it is time for grand gestures and maybe even forgiveness. Show the people, your followers, that great power also means mercy.”