Duncan cursed the heavy traffic as he drove south out of Warsaw and it took him an hour to reach Konstancin. After flailing around in the dark trying to find the address, he asked a teenage boy for directions. Much to his surprise, the address was across the street from a dingy yellow army barracks located in the heart of the suburb. He turned into a gated drive and was greeted by a Caucasian shepherd, a huge shaggy gray watchdog. A middle-aged woman came out, tethered the dog, and opened the gate.
Inside, another woman was waiting for him. “I’m sorry but the apartment has been rented,” she said. “I’m not sure you would want it.” She gestured across the street at the barracks. “In the old days girls worked here servicing them.” Duncan almost laughed. The house was a CIA listening post that had been a brothel. She held out her hand and he gave her the slip of paper with the phone number. The way the number was written was his entree. “Forget this number and address.” He nodded and she spoke in a low voice. “The SPS compound at Kutno will be attacked tonight by the Russians. We’re not sure of the exact time or how.”
Again, Duncan nodded. He glanced at his watch. Where could he find Jerzy Fedor at this hour to pass on the warning?
“Do not contact Fedor,” the woman said, anticipating his next move. “He may be compromised.” Duncan reached for his phone to call the SPS. She reached out and stopped him. “Don’t. They’re monitoring the phones at the SPS.”
“Oh, shit.” Duncan ran for his car.
Ewa was still at work at six-thirty that same evening, wading through the paperwork that had piled up on her desk while she was out with Duncan. The last item was a big envelope from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. She carefully opened it and read the cover letter. Suddenly, the long, frustrating day turned wonderful, full of promise. She reached for the phone and hit the speed-dial button.
“Pontowski,” the familiar voice answered.
“This is Ewa. I have a most interesting letter from the Polish government. They’re offering you a chance to visit your family cottage that has been restored as a tourist attraction. Of course, there will be some photographers at the cottage for publicity, but other than that, you’ll be free to explore your heritage.”
“I didn’t know there was a Pontowski cottage. Grandpop only said we were descended from good, lusty, peasant stock.”
“Then it must be a farmhouse,” Ewa told him.
“Where is it?”
She checked the letter. “It’s near Jankowice on the Vistula River. I don’t know where that is. But you”—she almost said we—“will be staying in Krakow. So it must be near there. You’ll love Krakow. It’s a very pretty city, even in winter.”
“Sounds good. Do I get an interpreter or guide?”
“I’ll check into it,” Ewa promised.
The doors leading into the Bethesda Naval Medical Center swung open and the waiting reporters and cameramen waiting outside automatically stepped forward. Just as quickly, they stepped back when Maddy Turner came out. The respectful hush lasted three steps. “Madame President,” a reporter asked, breaking the silence, “how’s your mother?” Turner stopped as more questions were shouted at her.
“She’s stable. The doctors are very optimistic.”
Another question from the back carried over the crowd. The speaker had a deep baritone voice that carried weight and could not be ignored. “Was it because of the photograph?”
Turner didn’t answer at first and fixed the reporter with a hard look. Maura was a tough, savvy woman who knew how the system worked and it was only a matter of time before the doctored photos were published in the U.S. More important, Maura had a history of minor heart problems. But for Turner, it was a moment a politician lives for. It was an opportunity to beat up the media. “I can tell you she was very upset.” Her words came faster, building in momentum. “My God, the woman’s sixty-eight years old. She didn’t deserve this.” Just as quickly, the storm passed and she was in control. “But did that cause her heart attack? I don’t know.”
The deep baritone questioner was back. “Then you don’t hold the press responsible?”
The sharp look on her face said more than any words. But her answer was calm. “I like to think that the media and I have the same moral values. Joe Litton will have a statement in your hands within the hour.” She walked toward the waiting cars.
“Madame President,” a woman said, her voice cracking, “please give our best to your mother. Our prayers are with her.”
Patrick Shaw was waiting for her in the presidential limousine. The president’s departure from the hospital had been as carefully staged as a Broadway production and he was pleased. The reporter with the deep voice he planted had triggered the answers he wanted. But Patrick Shaw was still a very worried man.
Maddy climbed in and sat down. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “She’s fine. It was a minor attack.”
The iron bands around Shaw’s heart eased. “That was a perfect exit, Madame President. You held them by the neck and kicked them where it did the most good.”
“I’m not finished yet. Those bastards are going to learn to play by the rules.”
The bands were back, clamping Shaw’s heart.
The operator on duty in the bunker at the Crown East radar site was like a child with a new toy; he couldn’t keep his hands off the controls of the new TPS-59 radar. Unbidden, his right hand rolled the control ball until the cursor was over the only target on the screen. He pressed the ball to the first detent and the computer displayed a wealth of information. The aircraft was a Russian Antonov-124 transport. The huge cargo plane was the Russian answer to the Americans’ C-5 Galaxy and was rarely seen outside Russia, much less at night. The operator checked the flight plan. The Antonov was on a routine mission and not one of the troublesome diplomatic flights.
He tracked the westbound aircraft as it flew past Warsaw. He almost called the tactical threat officer when the aircraft slowed to 140 knots ground speed. But when it remained at 32,000 feet and on the same heading, he changed his mind. The crazy Russkies were probably having mechanical problems.
The six-man crew on the Antonov-124 were warm and comfortable on the fully pressurized upper deck. On command, the flight engineer depressurized the cargo deck and closely monitored the cabin’s pressure as the rear cargo doors opened. The pilot felt the big aircraft pitch up slightly as the ninety-four men in the rear bailed out. He readjusted the trim while the cargo doors closed and the copilot pushed the throttles back up to cruise speed.
Outside, the jumpers deployed their highly modified parachutes, checked their oxygen for the long descent, and clapped their hands to stay warm in the freezing night air. Thanks to the small Global Positioning System receiver each man carried, they had no trouble steering for the target fifteen miles away. The lead man checked the big watch strapped to the emergency chute on his chest. They would be on the ground in twenty-one minutes.
The commander of the SPS was caged fury when Duncan told him about the impending attack. But he was far too professional to act rashly. He glanced at his watch: almost midnight. “They’ll be monitoring us, if they’re any good.”
“Assume they’re good,” Duncan replied. “If the attackers are in place, activity in the compound will key the attack. If the attackers are still moving into position, activity will probably force an abort.”