“Certainly, Mikhail.” She turned to leave.
“And,” he said, halting her, “call a full council of the vor for next week.”
Geraldine panicked. To gather the heads of all the families that made up the vor took several weeks, maybe months, to arrange. Egos had to be stroked, cease-fires between feuding families negotiated, security arranged. An arbitrary summons on such short notice was out of bounds, even for Vashin. “That will be difficult.”
Vashin glared at her, knowing she was right. “As soon as possible then.”
She gave him a radiant smile for his understanding. She turned and left. Vashin watched her go, his eyes narrowing. “Can I really trust you?” he muttered. Since Johnson’s disappearance, he was obsessed with his security. Twice, he almost purged the ranks of the vor in a bloodbath that would have rivaled Stalin’s purges. But common sense had prevailed before he gave the order. He forced himself to be rational and returned to the couch to watch TV. His English was much better than Geraldine suspected and it was clear the attack on the SPS had been a disaster. “There is always a price to pay,” he said to no one. He flipped open one of the albums, fully aware that Maddy Turner was beyond his reach. His eyes narrowed when he saw a photo of Brian, Zeth, and Matt in their uniforms. He closed the book and walked back to the window to bathe in the new sunrise.
The wind lashed at Pontowski when he got out of his car. He glanced at the sky as traces of sleet stung his face. For once, the weather matched his mood, solemn and gray. He looked around to see if anyone else from the embassy had come to the airport for the ceremony. He was alone. He jerked at the belt of his uniform’s overcoat and jammed his hat down more tightly against the wind.
Across the parking ramp, he could see the gray outline of the Air Force C-17 that would carry the mortal remains of Peter Duncan home.
An officer and a cadet from the SPS met him at the gate. They were wearing black combat fatigues with their winter field jackets. The cadet held the gate open and the officer saluted. Without a word, the three men walked across the tarmac toward the small group of people huddled under the tail of the waiting aircraft. Pontowski was surprised to see Evan Riley, the CIA’s chief of station, standing beside Jerzy Fedor.
They exchanged greetings and waited as the SPS marched onto the ramp. The commander of the SPS led them, his measured pace matching the somber occasion. The SPS was not an organization given to drill and ceremonies and their ranks and cadence were far from perfect. But the numerous head bandages and arm slings were ample tribute to who and what they were. The commander brought them to a halt behind the C-17 and ordered them to split into two ranks, forming a corridor to the aircraft. An honor guard bearing the Polish flag flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the SPS standard led a black hearse across the ramp.
Six pallbearers from the SPS were waiting for the flag-draped casket. They raised it to their shoulders and, in perfect step, moved slowly toward the aircraft. The standard of the SPS lowered in tribute as they pass. The SPS came to attention and the commander shouted a command. They saluted together. Pontowski came to attention and held his salute as the pallbearers carried the casket into the aircraft.
“He was a friend,” Fedor murmured. “Like the general.”
The commander barked an order and the SPS marched off the field. Pontowski turned to leave. “We need to talk,” Fedor said. “The three of us.”
The three men sat in Fedor’s limousine and sipped hot coffee, glad to be out of the biting wind. “The wind always blows coldest from Russia,” Fedor said.
“Are we talking about the weather?” Riley asked.
Fedor’s smile reminded Pontowski of a grinning skull. “Of course,” Fedor replied.
“Are we going to spend all day talking around it?” Pontowski asked.
A heavy silence ruled the car for a few moments. “We are receiving mixed signals from your government,” Fedor said.
“That’s the nature of the beast,” Riley replied.
“We want to resolve the Vashin problem,” Fedor said. “Can you help us?”
“No help here,” Pontowski said. “I’m cooling my heels pending a formal investigation. I can’t even go into my office.”
Fedor nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
“Now who told you that?” Riley asked, always hoping for a lucky hit. Fedor looked surprised, as if they were discussing common knowledge. The CIA agent conceded the point. “You can’t blame me for trying.” He thought for a moment. “Let me run your request by my people. I’ll get back to you.”
The meeting was over and Pontowski reached for the door handle. “General Pontowski,” Fedor said, “my government would be most appreciative if you would visit your ancestor’s cottage. Tourism, you know.”
“Was this your idea?” Pontowski asked.
“Of course not. Perhaps in two weeks?”
“Sure, why not?”
“We’ll be in touch,” Fedor replied.
Pontowski watched as the limousine sped off, Riley still inside. He walked back to his car and drove to his apartment in Wilanów where, much to his surprise, Riley was waiting for him. “What the hell is going down?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Riley answered.
“Do you trust that son of a bitch?”
“Of course not,” Riley said, mimicking Fedor.
“So why are you here?”
“Instincts. This is one ride we don’t want to miss. Until I find out exactly what we’re looking at, I’d like for you to hang around for as long as possible.”
“Why?”
“The Poles don’t trust anyone, with good reason. But your name carries weight and if they think you’re involved — well, let’s just say that gives me leverage.”
“So I’m a pawn.”
Riley scowled. “More like a poker chip.” His face turned to granite and his voice grew hard. “First the General and now Duncan. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to even the score.”
“Count me in.”
For the first time since his prostate operation, Shaw was turgid and erect. He closed his eyes and stroked the girl’s blond hair as she worked her Saturday-night miracle. Or was it the penile implant? “You can’t keep a good man down,” he muttered.
She felt his scrotum, her fingers gently prodding. “Is this how it works?” She gave the pump embedded next to his testicles a little squeeze. The cylinder in his penis grew harder.
“Whoa, easy,” he said, not sure how much it could be pumped. She licked at him and gave another squeeze. Now he was fully erect and hurting.
“What would happen if I kept pumping?” She was a professional who enjoyed her work — when it put her in control.
He felt her fingers start to contract and his pulse raced. “I don’t even want to think about it.” She gave a playful squeeze and he sucked in his breath. “For God’s sake, if it pops…” The phone rang, claiming his attention. He picked it up. “Shaw.” He listened for a moment while the girl played with him. “Certainly, Mizz President.” The girl looked up at him and found the release cap on top of the pump. “I’ll be right there.”
The girl squeezed the release cap and the pressure bled off.
Suddenly, Shaw was very limp and totally uninterested. “What’s the matter, Hon? You look worried.”
The uniformed Secret Service guard on duty at the entrance to the West Basement checked Shaw’s identification and noted the time in his visitor’s log. Shaw took the first right, walked down a few steps and passed the White House Mess. Farther down the hall, he turned into the small break room where Maddy Turner was waiting. He had never seen her so tired and haggard. Judging by the way her clothes were hanging, she had lost weight.