For a moment, he was surrounded by silence. Then the talking, laughter, and drinking really began.
The price of the evening was a hangover the next morning. It pounded at Pontowski with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he was a young lieutenant at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona. Ewa took one look at him when he entered his office and handed him a cup of coffee. He sipped at it. “I should know better at my age,” he said.
“Yes, you should,” she chided. But there was amusement in her hazel eyes. “Did you learn anything else last night?”
“Most assuredly,” he answered.
She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Ambassador Bender said that many times.”
Pontowski felt a tug of emotion but quickly buried it. He checked his address book and jotted down a number. “I’m gonna hire some American fighter jocks to train your pilots. Please call this number in Tucson, Arizona, for me.”
“It’s one in the morning there. You’ll wake them.”
“He won’t mind.”
She went to her office and quickly made the connection. Pontowski picked up the phone and listened for the familiar voice. “Walderman.”
“Waldo, you current in the Viper?”
George Walderman recognized Pontowski’s voice immediately. “I’m still a weekend warrior. Flying with the 162nd Tac Fighter Group here at Tucson.”
“How would you like to get a life?”
“You want me to play hero again, don’t you?”
“Nope. Just train a few.”
“Where?”
“Poland.”
“No one goes to Poland in January.” A long pause. “When do you want me there?”
“Yesterday.”
“Can do. By the way, who’s picking up the paycheck?”
“You’ll be a civilian working for the Polish government.”
“That’s a different show,” he allowed.
Patrick Flannery Shaw sat in the staff room down the hall from the kitchen and poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s. He swirled the whiskey and savored its aroma. But he didn’t drink; not when he needed to be at the top of his game. He had spent too many sleepless nights playing out scenarios and had come to the same conclusion every time.
The upcoming election was going to be a squeaker, but Maddy Turner was going down to defeat. And he knew why. The thought of Leland and his buddies running the nation sent a chill down his back. Could he prevent it? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to work with, not given Maddy’s scruples. But he had to try. He also knew exactly what she would do to him if she found out. His advice to her about sacrificing subordinates who overstepped the bounds had struck home.
“Patrick,” Turner said, bringing him back to the moment.
He stood up. “Madame President.”
She sat down and poured herself a root beer. “No Mizz President? You must be worried.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I know you’re under pressure to announce for reelection to avoid being labeled a lame duck. But I think it’d be better if you held off announcing as long as possible.”
“Why?”
“Too many balls in the air. And we need to force Leland’s hand.”
“Is he going to run?”
Shaw shook his head. “The Senate hasn’t seen the likes of him since Lyndon Baines Johnson. Leland knows the presidency destroyed LBJ, so why risk what he has in the Senate when he can be a kingmaker?”
She gave a little nod in agreement. “He is a problem.” In a few short sentences she told him about the private meeting with the senator, the deal exchanging Yaponets for a nuclear weapon that went sour, and what Leland wanted for his silence.
“How in hell did he find out?” Shaw muttered. He looked at the woman who had become the focal point of his life. She was all that he could never be, the sum of all he valued. She walked on center stage and commanded the spotlight while he was consigned to the wings. But he didn’t care. In his heart, he loved her like the daughter he never had. His resolve stiffened and he knew what he had to do.
Regretfully, he poured the whiskey back into the bottle and corked it. “Make the deal.”
TWENTY-TWO
It was a business meeting easily arranged. Tom Johnson simply called headquarters Transport Aviation, identified who he worked for, and asked to speak to the commander, Gen. Col. Peter Prudnokov. Two hours later, Johnson walked into the gray and decaying building that was less than a mile from the Kremlin. A severe woman wearing the rank of lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. She led the way to the only working elevator and they rode in silence up to the third floor.
Prudnokov’s office was as austere as the man himself. “What is the purpose of this meeting?” the general demanded.
“I’m responsible for Mr. Vashin’s security,” Johnson said.
“I know what you do,” Prudnokov replied.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult to provide the security Mr. Vashin requires, especially when he flies. Perhaps your Tupolev can be made available for his use?” The aircraft in question was a VIP version of the Tupolev-204.
“That requires the approval of the Security Council and President Kraiko.”
“Easily arranged.”
“Then I will make the Tupolev available,” Prudnokov replied. “Is that all?”
“No.” Johnson came to the reason he was there personally. “Last September, Mr. Vashin told me to find your daughter.” Johnson handed Prudnokov a photograph. “Is this your daughter?” The general’s face was impassive as he studied the picture. He nodded once. “I’m sorry to tell you that I have bad news,” Johnson said. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”
“How did she die?”
The image of the naked girl walking to the elevator in Vashin’s old penthouse and being shoved down the dark shaft burned in Johnson’s memory. “I’m not sure, but she may have been murdered.” He reached into the bag he carried and handed Prudnokov a small ornate silver urn. “Her ashes.”
Prudnokov stared at the American. “Who did it? I must know.”
“If Mr. Vashin approves, I’ll find out.”
“I would be most grateful if this was only between you and me.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Johnson said. The hook was set. But first, he had to notify his control that the operation was in motion.
Vashin leafed through the thick notebooks like a child with a new toy. He was fascinated by the wealth of information, photos, and endless trivia about the president of the United States. “Has Geraldine seen these?” Vashin asked.
“Of course not,” Yaponets answered. “She knows nothing of your interest.”
Vashin turned the pages of the third notebook. “Who’s this with her son?”
Yaponets studied the photos taken at NMMI. “The smaller boy is Matt Pontowski. He is Brian Turner’s roommate and they’re good friends. Brian calls him Maggot.”
“Pontowski. I know that name.”
“The boy’s great-grandfather was the president of the United States,” Yaponets explained. “His father, Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski III, is currently in Poland training the Polish Air Force. In the last folder, there is mention of a romantic connection between Turner and the father.”
“So, the wolves breed more cubs to trouble us.”
Yaponets studied the photos, his eyes hard and unblinking. “We know where they live.”
Vashin nodded in agreement.
“There is another problem,” Yaponets said. “My contacts in the States tell me the CIA knows about your dreams.”
Vashin turned to the big window. “The source of this information?”
“An aide who works for Sen. John Leland. He likes high-priced call girls and talks to impress them. He blabbers about his work on Leland’s intelligence committee and what the CIA tells them.”