You’re a lying sack-of-shit. You’ve got access and a clue. Shaw decided it was time to show a little edge. “Did you work there when it was still Communist Party headquarters?”
“Very good Mr. Shaw. Do you still work in the basement?”
Shaw enjoyed sparring with Fedor. “I’m moving up in the world.”
Fedor sighed. “I wish I could say the same thing.”
Shaw sensed he was dealing with a kindred spirit, a man after his own heart. He decided to crack the door open and peek at the other side. “I’ve got a plane to catch, but I do have a few minutes.”
“We have a mutual problem, Mr. Shaw.”
“We do?” They were still sparring.
“The drug trade. With your help, we were making progress stopping it, but with the death of General Bender…”
Shaw finished the thought for him. “You’re worried we’ll cancel.”
“Exactly.” They were on the same wavelength. “With your help, we can handle the Russians. It’s the Germans we’re worried about.”
“You want us to pull them up short?”
“It would be appreciated.”
Shaw understood perfectly. Fedor wanted him to backdoor a message to the president.
“Why?” He was really asking, What’s in it for me?
Now it was Fedor’s turn to proffer a deal. “Maybe I can help distract your problem.”
You’re good, Shaw thought. They shook hands.
TWENTY-THREE
The dean of the faculty at NMMI was eating breakfast Monday morning when he heard the noise in the backyard. He looked out the window and froze. Two sheep were munching contentedly on his wife’s prize azalea bushes. The third animal, a large ram in a much more agitated state, was mounting one of the ewes. The dean’s shock gave way to laughter and he walked over to Quarters One to tell the superintendent. He didn’t see the black Secret Service sport utility truck parked across the street in the parking lot.
McMasters and the dean walked quickly back to the dean’s house to survey the damage. McMasters’s first impulse was to laugh. “Ranchers take rustling very seriously,” the dean said, killing any humor and bringing them back to reality. Chuck Sanford got out of the truck and joined them.
“I’d better call the sheriff,” McMasters said.
“General McMasters,” Sanford said, “would it help if we returned the sheep?” He paused. “Before you call the sheriff. There may not be a problem.”
The superintendent and the dean exchanged glances. The Secret Service meant Brian Turner was involved and silence was the better part of discretion. “I’d appreciate that,” McMasters said.
Brian stood at attention in front of the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Mr. Turner, are you aware that stealing livestock in the state of New Mexico is a felony offense? It’s called rustling. At least they don’t hang you for it these days. To the best of my knowledge, the rancher is not going to press charges since the sheep were returned unharmed. So, what are we dealing with here?”
“Sir, I borrowed the sheep and intended to return them. I never lied about it and I was on a permit to be offpost.”
“Barracks lawyers,” the commandant moaned. “But you are responsible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. And who helped you?”
Brian braced himself even harder and did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. “Sir, since it was my idea and I organized it, I’d rather not say.”
“I understand two others were involved. Are you telling me you’re willing to serve their punishments?”
Brian’s face turned white. Then, “Yes, sir.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because the dean busted my squad leader for cheating on a test when she didn’t.”
The commandant shook his head. “Mr. Turner, the dean didn’t bust Miss Trogger. I did. I busted her for public display of affection. She was caught putting a lip lock on her zoomie boyfriend. About the charge of cheating, after looking into the matter, both the dean and her teacher agreed that she didn’t cheat. In fact, they commended her for her work and her teacher apologized.”
“I didn’t know,” Brian muttered.
The commandant kicked back in his chair and studied the cadet. There was still the problem of the sheep. It was a prank that, in his day, would have gotten a cadet twenty tours at worst. Now it was a penitentiary offense. But the young man was standing in front of him and taking full responsibility, which he liked. He made his decision.
“As long as the rancher is not going to file charges and the dean is more amused than upset, this is still in my jurisdiction. Sixty tours or suspension for the rest of the year. Your choice.”
Brian never hesitated. “I’ll take the tours, sir.”
The commandant relaxed. “Very well. A word of advice, Mr. Turner. It’s always okay to talk about problems with your friends. But next time, either trust the system or learn all the facts before you take action. And I’d suggest you make amends with the dean’s wife. Dismissed.”
Brian saluted and beat a hasty retreat. The commandant picked up the phone and called McMasters. He smiled at the thought of the superintendent explaining it all to the president of the United States. Then he laughed out loud. “That’s what he gets paid for,” he said to no one.
Outside, Matt was waiting for Brian. “How did it go?”
“No sweat. I gotta walk some tours.”
“I’m gonna tell him I helped.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Brian said. He told Matt what the commandant had told him. “Pelton had to know why she was busted.”
“Why didn’t he tell us?”
“He’s thinking with his prick because he can’t get it on with her. So he’s causin’ some grief.”
The door to the Oval Office started swinging early Tuesday morning, the first week in February, as a string of people marched in, and then quickly out. Turner worked methodically to clear her agenda of last-minute items before concentrating on her upcoming trip to Europe. Finally, the procession stopped and she was able to relax in her rocking chair. “I need more exercise,” she told Parrish.
“You haven’t swum since…” He stopped before mentioning Noreen Coker.
“I miss her,” Turner said. A little smile of remembrance played on her lips. “She had a way of keeping things in perspective.” The hurt was easing. “Try to open up some time.”
Parrish sensed the moment was right. “Madame President, perhaps it’s time to find a replacement for Dennis, or at least someone else to handle your schedule.”
She reached out and touched Parrish’s hand. “You’re right. I have abused you lately.” She considered likely candidates. She didn’t want a servant or a yes-man, but someone who was well organized, willing to work long hours, and be totally loyal. “Ask Nancy Bender if she’d like to try it.”
“But she’s pregnant and in mourning.”
“So? She still needs a life.” Turner laughed at the look on Parrish’s face. “Who’s next?”
“National Security Advisory Group,” Parrish said, finding it hard to switch gears. He opened the door for the four people who were waiting outside.
Turner returned to her desk and opened a folder. “Any progress on finding General Bender’s killers?”
The DCI answered. “Cassandra, Mr. Durant’s new computer system, has traced the missiles back to their source. There’s strong circumstantial evidence the Russian Mafiya was behind it.”
“But we have no hard evidence.” This from Secretary of State Serick.
“And probably never will,” the DCI added. “A van and three badly burned American bodies turned up in Mexico. They were all shot in the back of the head, doused with gas. Torched. We know it was the same van used in the attempt on your life and we’re sure they were the key players. It got interesting when Cassandra traced their movements in Mexico. Our old friend Yaponets fell out of the tree.”