A frame froze on the screen showing the aircraft just as it touched down. The DCI used his laser pointer to highlight a small streak of flame a few yards behind the plane. “This,” he said, “is a surface-to-air missile homing on the functioning engine. That is what destroyed the aircraft.”
“Who did this?” Turner demanded.
“I can address that issue,” Nelson Durant said. “On the face of it, a dissident group of Polish right-wing radicals. They hated Lezno and considered him a traitor. They’re so far to the right that they consider the Ku Klux Klan a leftist organization.”
“Then Robert was killed,” Turner said, “because he just happened to be traveling with President Lezno at the wrong time.”
“Apparently so,” Durant replied. “We do have communications intercepts that indicate the missiles were supplied by the Polish Mafia.”
“Which is logical,” the DCI said. “The Polish Mafia will sell anything to anyone.”
“But what is interesting,” Durant added, “is who is financing this group of Polish right-wing nuts. It’s a long trail that goes through Germany, to the United States…”
“To who?” Turner snapped, interrupting him.
“A militia group in Arizona,” Durant said. “We were looking at them because we thought they might have something to do with the attempt on your life. Three days ago, we monitored a telephone conversation between the militia’s commander and an old prison buddy. But the phone call didn’t make much sense until the next day when the militia transferred a large amount of money from its account in an offshore bank in the Bahamas to another account in the same bank, which happens to belong to the Polish Mafia. Two hours later, the missiles were delivered to the nutcases in Poland. We believe it was the payment for the missiles.”
“Where did the militia get the money in the first place?” Mazie asked.
“We don’t know. But the old prison buddy who made the phone call was the cellmate of one of Yaponets’s stooges when he was in prison.”
Turner stood and paced back and forth, her face a grim mask. “So I can assume that Russian organized crime is behind this. Can you prove it?”
Durant shrugged. “Enough to convict anyone in a court of law? Probably not.”
“How deep does this go?”
“We’re still digging.”
Turner stopped pacing and faced her advisors. There would be no diplomatic or legal solution. “I need your honest opinion. Is there any doubt who’s responsible for General Bender’s murder?”
The doors to the chamber of the House of Representatives swung wide and the Doorkeeper of the House stepped through. “Mr. Speaker,” he intoned, his voice carrying over the large assembly, “the president of the United States.” The Supreme Court justices, senators, representatives, all the collected heads of the United States government, came to their feet as Madeline Turner entered. She walked down the aisle with measured solemnity carrying a thin leather folder in the crook of her left arm. The applause that greeted her was not of the countryfair or conquering-hero variety but rather, subdued and respectful. Every man and woman knew of the tragedy in Poland and the bond between this president and her general.
Senator John Leland was mindful to join the applause when the TV cameras were trained on him. But even so, it was a hollow gesture. The phone call from Dan Beason that morning had reminded him all too clearly that there was an outstanding debt and that payment was due. Leland fancied himself a philosopher and believed that vengeance was a dish best served cold. But it was all too apparent that Dan Beason still burned with revenge for the death of his son.
Leland watched the president’s progress, gauging the temper of his colleagues. It was time to set matters straight.
People extended their hands as she made her way to the rostrum, wanting to touch hands and share the moment. General Wayne Charles, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took her hand in his, gently touching in greeting. “He was the best we had,” Charles said. She moved on. She opened the folder, handed the Speaker a copy of the speech, and stepped to the podium. Her voice was calm and measured as she read the opening words. Then she paused and looked up.
“Early this morning, I was awakened with the news that the president of Poland had been killed in a plane crash. With him, was my good friend and United States ambassador to Poland, Gen. Robert Bender. You have all heard the details and know the tragedy that has been inflicted upon one of our best allies. In so many ways, it was a blow against all that is good and decent in our world. We will consult with our friends and allies to discover who is responsible. But let me assure you, the American people, and, yes, the world, that I will do whatever is necessary to bring these criminals to account.”
Only Leland and the small group around him remained seated as the chamber came to its feet and applause echoed over her. She waited patiently for it to subside before continuing. Leland followed her speech on the printed copy Turner’s staff had given him as a courtesy moments before he entered the chamber. He circled those proposals that were dead in the water before they ever reached the Senate. Finally, he turned to the last page. His head jerked up when the words on the page in front of him did not match what he was hearing.
“My fellow citizens, the Constitution requires that from time to time I report to Congress on the state of the union. I can say without hesitation that we are secure and confident, ready to meet the challenges facing us in this new century. We are a united people and, if I may borrow from Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, the mystic cords binding the union together are strong because of Americans like Robert Bender.”
She bowed her head as if in prayer and waited, taking the beat from those in front of her. And only when the chamber rose as one and thundered their approval with applause, did she look up. Leland joined in the tribute, assuming he was in the presence of an astute politician milking the moment for all it was worth, letting words substitute for action.
PART THREE
TWENTY-ONE
The Marine corporal standing guard at the front entrance to the embassy opened the door for Pontowski and came to attention. Pontowski was certain the young Marine was more rigid than normal, if such a condition were possible. “Good morning, Corporal Kincaid,” Pontowski said.
“Good morning, sir,” Kincaid replied. There was a slight crack in his voice. Then he did the unthinkable. “Sir, a moment?”
“Certainly,” Pontowski replied, puzzled by the breach in protocol.
Kincaid stared over Pontowski’s right shoulder. He gulped. “I, er, we shall miss the general. Please extend our condolences to Mrs. Bender.” The young corporal looked Pontowski directly in the face, tears in his eyes.
“Thank you. I will.”
Pontowski took the stairs to the second floor, thankful for the exercise. It helped relieve the grief boiling inside him. At the head of the stairs, he almost collided with the middle-aged woman from the communications section in the basement. She was hurrying down the hall like an officious mouse, anxious to deliver the morning’s cables. For a moment she stood there, not moving. Then the folders slipped slowly from her arms and scattered on the floor. “Are you okay, Ms. Belfort?” he asked.
She bent over and scooped up the folders. Pontowski stooped to help her. “No, I am not okay,” she announced, her voice firm. They stood together. She looked at him, her chin shaking. “He knew my name.”