“Mizz President,” Shaw managed to say between bouts of laughter, “this may be Warsaw’s funniest home video.” He especially enjoyed the last scenes. But Maura failed to see the humor of a man writhing on the ground in pain and holding on to his foot. Then the scene shifted to the inside of Exclusive Studios where four partially nude women were kicking at a man rolling around on the floor. He couldn’t decide what needed the most protection, his head or his crotch. The women had no trouble making a decision and worked on both ends. “Smack-dab between the old uprights,” Shaw observed in response to one well-aimed kick.
Maura deliberately spilled some hot coffee in his lap. “Oh, I am sorry. I hope it didn’t hurt.” She dropped a large napkin on his huge stomach.
“What would Noreen say?” Vice President Sam Kennett asked, ignoring Shaw’s discomfort.
Gwen Anderson laughed. “It’s all in the follow-through, girl!” The secretary of health and human services was enjoying herself. “Why don’t we release this to the media?”
Shaw finished dabbing at his pants and fixed Anderson with his I-can’t-believe-you-said-that look. But he sugar-coated his words. “We might want to hold off on that one for a while, Mizz Anderson.” His Southern accent was thick and honey-sweet. “We need a bogeyman to scare Mr. and Mrs. Joe Voter, not make ’em laugh.”
“One of your famous aphorisms?” Anderson scoffed. She doubted that he knew what an aphorism was.
Shaw did. His answer was instinctive, honed by years of dealing with politicians. He became very serious. “Never diminish your enemy because it diminishes you.”
“Why not release the part showing the prisoners being rounded up and loaded on trucks?” Kennett said. “It’s a graphic statement that our foreign-aid program is working.”
Shaw shook his head. “Better to show peace and prosperity in our time. We might want to do some ‘before and after’ sound bites for TV later on. But for now, stick to domestic issues.”
Turner held out her cup for a refill. Shaw moved back when Maura passed too close with a full carafe. “It might help with the speech,” Turner said, referring to her State of the Union Address that was less than three weeks away.
Gwen Anderson agreed, anxious to recover what she may have lost in the exchange with Shaw. “It’s a good chance to sample voter response on that issue.”
“We know how the voters feel on foreign aid,” Shaw muttered. “They don’t like it. At best, it’s a nonissue. Let it lie.”
Turner made her decision. “We’ll release a clip like Sam said and see how it flies.” Gwen Anderson swelled with satisfaction and Shaw knew better than to press his case after the president had made up her mind.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Turner said. “When should I announce my candidacy?”
“You have two choices,” Shaw said. “Announce before the State of the Union and go in as the grand hero. Or, save it until afterward and keep them on pins and needles. Believe me, they won’t miss a word you say.” He chuckled. “Guaranteed to keep them awake.”
“By announcing later,” Kennett said, “it will keep them focused on your speech. They all know you’re running. The question is, on what issues? They’ll be looking for every clue they can find.”
The discussion went around the room and Turner decided to announce after the speech. “I’m going ahead with an independent commission to investigate combat readiness.”
Anderson’s head came up, instantly alert. “Why? We’ve never been more prepared militarily.”
“Then why are people getting out of the services in record numbers?” Kennett asked.
Anderson leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Maddy, don’t do it. The Neanderthals in the Pentagon will use it to reopen the issue of women in combat. We’ve come too far to lose what we’ve attained. Our military has never been more combat ready because we’re using the best of our people.”
At first, Shaw only listened, trying to think of a way to dissuade Turner. Combat readiness was not a bone he wanted to gnaw on during an election campaign. But more worrisome was the tone in Anderson’s voice and what she was saying. He was in the presence of a true believer and Gwen Anderson had an agenda beyond her allegiance to Maddy Turner. But how far beyond? “Madame President,” he finally said, “I think Mizz Anderson is right. This would be counterproductive until after the election.”
“And even then,” Anderson snapped.
“Gwen,” Maddy said, soothing her friend, “I know how you feel about women in the military. But what I want is an honest appraisal of our state of combat readiness. That’s why I want you to head the commission. I know you’ll be fair.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Anderson replied. “I’ll be glad to do it.”
Shaw’s chin dropped to his chest. Maddy Turner had made two mistakes in less than ten minutes.
The young man at the immigration counter barely glanced at Pontowski’s official passport before stamping it. Then he did a classic double take and rechecked the identification page. His eyes opened wide and he stood to hand the passport back. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” Pontowski gave a little nod and headed for the baggage carousels. The young man watched him leave and picked up his phone.
The carousel cranked to life and baggage appeared on the moving ramp. His two suitcases and his old parachute bag came through the opening, but before they reached him, two brown-uniformed guards snatched them-up and walked toward him. They set the bags down and came to attention, their eyes fixed on his face. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” He heard his name murmured in whispers behind him as passengers waiting for their bags flowed toward his carousel, anxious to get a look. “Customs is this way,” one of the guards said, picking up the parachute bag. The crowd parted, opening a corridor to customs.
Every customs agent on duty was lined up behind one counter while more security guards cleared a path. The agent-in-charge glanced at the name tags on the bags and checked them through. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” The five words of greeting were becoming a chant. Scattered applause followed him as he went through the double exit doors into the main terminal, his two baggage carriers in tow.
The big surprise was holding a neatly lettered sign with his name. Ewa Pawlik smiled at him. WELCOME TO POLAND, GENERAL PONTOWSKI. She stepped forward and extended her hand as she introduced herself. Pontowski’s first impression was of a young woman in her midtwenties, on the heavy side, with soft brown hair that cascaded to her shoulders in gentle waves. Her doe-shaped hazel eyes held him for a moment and he was certain, without doubt, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.
Smile, he told himself. He muttered some words, hoping he didn’t sound like a complete idiot, as they shook hands.
“Mr. James asked me to meet you,” she said. “He’s the deputy charge of mission. An embassy car is outside. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he followed her out. Again, scattered applause echoed over him.
“I don’t understand,” he said. She held the car’s rear door open as the driver opened the trunk for his bags. “You’d think I was a celebrity.” She walked around and got in the front passenger’s seat. The two guards who carried his bags stood at attention and saluted as they drove away.