Maddy Turner’s maid hovered in the background as she undressed for bed. Of all the rooms in the residence, she loved her bedroom. It was personal and feminine, and free of the showroom look demanded by Washington’s political establishment. What would Matt think? she asked herself, trying to envision his reaction to her room. To her bed. “Laura,” she called from the dressing room next to the bath, “you can go. Have a nice weekend.”
“Thank you, Mrs. President,” came the reply.
She was alone as she slipped a simple white silk nightdress over her head. It fell to midthigh and was low cut. It’s almost nothing, she decided, studying herself in a mirror. She sat at her makeup table and brushed her hair. She laid the brush down and pushed the narrow straps of her nightdress away. What would Matt see? She looked at her breasts. She stood and pulled on a full-length terry-cloth robe. But rather than go into her bedroom, she sat back down.
She tried to let her mind wander down some pleasant lane of remembrance. But the present was too strong and demanding, the future too near, and her State of the Union Address only five days away. How are people seeing me? How am I coming over? She chastised herself for constantly linking her self-image to her political image. “Is that all that’s left of me?” she said aloud.
When should I announce? And where? Do I do it at a press conference? Maybe at the conclusion of a speech? For a moment, her mind’s eye saw a children’s hospital in the background. She discarded that image. The press would say she was using children as props for her political ambitions. Maybe it should be an intimate setting with my family? She made a mental note to speak to Shaw about the how and where.
She sat still for a moment, trying to understand the reflection in the mirror. Am I letting too much show or not enough? Noreen would know. Her friend’s laughter echoed in her memory. Now the images were back, sharp and clear. For a moment, she was still in the helicopter and Dennis was spinning her seat around as they plummeted to the earth. She forced the image away.
The image in the mirror seemed to blur and fade, a gossamer mirage in the wind. So fragile. So fragile. She reached for the phone. “Please call Reverend Ford.” She waited. Within moments, the minister was on the line. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she began, “but it’s the crash. It keeps coming back.”
“That’s the way a sane mind deals with an insane act. For now, don’t be afraid of facing it and talking about it. It will become less urgent with time and should fade.”
“I keep asking myself, why me? Why did I survive and no one else?”
“No human knows the answer to that question and no one can speak for God. But there must be a reason.”
“Why do I find that so hard to believe?”
“To believe otherwise invites chaos. Perhaps, we won’t ever know the why of our existence. But we must keep faith, not only in ourselves but in each other. Your friends did not die in vain if you keep their memory and honor them by doing what is right. But no matter what happens, remember them.”
Ford’s words washed over her like a soothing breeze carrying a comforting echo of what Pontowski had so gently revealed to her. “I will,” she promised.
TWENTY
Tom Johnson dropped the videocassette on Geraldine’s desk. “That’s the unedited version,” he told her. “I got it through one of my contacts in Washington. You need to see it first.” Geraldine glanced at the camera that was part of the elaborate security system in the Towers. Vashin had been fixated on the short news clip run by CNC-TV News and any delay was out of the question. Besides, she already knew what was on it, which would have been an even bigger surprise for Johnson.
She picked up the cassette and marched into Vashin’s office. “Mikhail, we have the unedited videotape from Warsaw.” She readied the TV as he settled on a couch. He nodded and she hit the play button. The tape started with the image of a tall man issuing orders in the middle of Zlota Street. “He appears to be the only one not drunk,” Geraldine said.
Vashin watched impassively as four men ran for the back of the bank. Then the camera zoomed in on a man rolling on the ground in pain, holding his foot. “He accidentally shot himself,” Geraldine explained. Vashin gave her a quick, questioning look. She bit her lip at the inadvertent slip. She was getting careless. The scene abruptly cut to four men running up the stairs to Exclusive Studios and kicking in the door. Released from their captors, the girls descended on their former guards like vengeful banshees. Even Vashin flinched when one drove the point of her shoe into a prostrate man’s groin. Vashin watched in silence as sixty-seven men were rounded up and loaded into their own trucks.
“What happened to them?” he asked.
“The police held them for a week and then kicked them out of the country. Unfortunately, they were all photographed, fingerprinted, and typed for DNA before being released. Their records were turned over to Interpol, the British, and the Americans.”
Vashin grunted and replayed the tape. Geraldine watched him for signs of a fit but nothing happened as he reran the tape again and again. “We look like clowns,” he finally said. “Get Yaponets.” Geraldine hurried out of the room to summon the godfather.
Vashin walked across the room to the big picture window overlooking Moscow. The archangel Michael must love heights, he told himself. He stared out the window into a dark gray nothing. A winter storm was battering Moscow with a fierce intensity and the window shook. He mentally reran the tape. They made us look like idiots. In the back of his mind, he could hear people laughing at the sight of his men, at the mention of the Russian Mafiya. AT HIM! The laughter grew louder and seared his soul. The storm beating against the Towers was a perfect reflection of his anger and frustration. I will not have it! Vashin felt the power in the storm as the building swayed.
Who is stronger, the gods or me? His peasant’s soul trembled in fear at the challenge as the huge window rattled in its frame. Suddenly, the wind died and the clouds parted over the center of Moscow. The domes of the Kremlin were bathed in a golden light. He stared in amazement. It was the same as his dream! Or was he still dreaming? For a moment, he wasn’t sure. His eyes opened wide. This is real! Then the break in the storm moved away from the Kremlin, trailing the golden light like a spotlight sweeping the ground. It came to rest over Vashin Towers as the storm stalled above Moscow.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the Towers from the Kremlin, glowing in the sunlight that had once been on it. With a certainty he had never felt before, he knew it was a message. It is me! This is my destiny!
Yaponets found him still standing in front of the window staring into the gray snowstorm that lashed Moscow. He was a patient man and sat down. He studied the set of Vashin’s shoulders, the way he held his head, and the rigidity of his stance. An inner sense warned him that Vashin had changed. “Mikhail,” he said in a low voice. Vashin turned and Yaponets felt an overpowering urge to escape. The look on Vashin’s face reminded him of an evil priest in an old Eisenstein movie he had seen as a child. He fought the impulse to run.
“You need to see this,” Vashin said. He played the videotape and they watched in silence, the two men alone as the windows rattled in the storm. The tape played out. “People are laughing at me.”
“Not in public,” Yaponets replied.