Vashin stared them into silence. “A temporary setback. Nothing more.” He waved his hand at the four aluminum suitcases still stacked in a corner. “There should be over a billion dollars there. Take it. More is coming.”
The oldest godfather cleared his throat to speak and they fell silent, more in deference to his age and experience than the power he wielded as the head of the fifth-largest family in Russia. “A year ago, there were 321 active godfathers in Russia. Today, the number is over 400. Many are acting on their own. Our unity is our strength. They must be brought under control or we will be destroyed.”
Vashin nodded slowly as if he were giving great weight to the godfather’s words. “That is why I’m calling a meeting in Yalta. Everyone will be invited, the vor, the Mafiya, everyone.”
“Why should they come?” a godfather asked. “Why Yalta?” He answered the last question himself. “Brilliant. Yalta is in the Ukraine, neutral territory. Everyone will be safe.” His eyes opened in admiration as more pieces fell into place. “You’re inviting our Ukrainian brothers.”
“And the Belarussian families,” Vashin added. “Geraldine will explain.”
“Mr. Vashin selected Yalta because it is a resort where security is already in place. Many vacation dachas are available and all the amenities will be provided. Also, it will be spring and a welcome break from winter.”
The old godfather wouldn’t let it go. “But why will they come?”
“Because Stalin settled the fate of the world after World War II at Yalta,” Vashin answered. “They can either join me as I build the new Russia and reap the benefits, or they can die on the trash heap of history.”
Fedor was wide awake at the sound of the doorlock clicking open. He reached for the small automatic under his pillow and thumbed the safety off. The door to his hotel room swung open as he raised the pistol. A woman was silhouetted in the light. “Jerzy?” Geraldine called in a soft voice. He lowered his weapon and turned on the light. She closed the door, dropped her topcoat on a chair, and stepped out of her shoes. She sat on the bed beside him and stroked his chest.
“We need to talk about Yalta,” she whispered.
Brian buffed his boots, putting the finishing touches on for Saturday morning’s inspection and parade. He chanted, keeping cadence with the strokes.
“What you doing over vacation?” Matt asked, arranging the shelves in his locker.
“I’m thinkin’ of going to summer school and then trying out for football.”
“I thought you hated this place.”
“I do.”
“Yeah, right.”
A pretty Rat who had her eye on Brian poked her head in the door. That was as close as she could get without getting stuck and placed on report. “You heard the latest?” she asked. “Pelton and the Trog are getting it on. He says she’s pregnant.”
“No way,” Brian said. “Pelton’s living in a wet dream because he can’t score.”
“Yeah,” Matt muttered, feeling responsible, “the guy’s pure hogbreath. Full of…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Well,” the girl said, having the last word, “everyone in Saunders Barracks is talking about it.”
“That’s gonna piss her off,” Brian said. The girl flounced away, teasing him with her walk. They went back to work bringing the room up to inspection standard and finished thirty minutes before call to quarters.
Zeth knocked at the open door. From the look on her face, they knew she had heard the latest rumor and Matt felt like crawling headfirst into the nearest trash can. “Zeth, I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Pelton’s mouth is the problem,” she said, “not yours. Don’t worry about it.” She paused looking at them. “You two are all right.” Then she was gone.
“What was that all about?” Brian wondered.
“It was almost like she was saying good-bye,” Matt replied.
The Box echoed with commands as the cadets marched off Stapp Parade Field. The Saturday morning parade had been a little ragged, not up to the Corps’ usual standard, and the cadet regimental commander was not happy. He huddled with his staff as the troops marched onto their assigned walks. Rick Pelton looked over the CO’s shoulder and froze. Zeth was standing in front of her troop and going through the standard manual of arms, her rifle flashing in the sunlight. “What the hell?” Pelton said. Every cadet was watching her and a hush fell over the Box, the only sound the slap of her hands on the rifle.
When she finished, she held the rifle by the upper stock and lowered the butt to the ground. Twice, she rapped out two sharp clicks, the metal butt plate striking the pavement, demanding everyone’s attention. Then she right-shouldered the rifle and marched up the center walk, straight for Rick Pelton. As she neared, her hands flashed and she lowered the rifle, much like in bayonet practice. She held the trigger guard by her right hip and the muzzle pointed forward, slightly lowered.
“Cadet Trogger,” the CO barked, “return to ranks.”
Zeth ignored him and halted directly in front of Pelton. She jammed the muzzle between his knees and jerked upward, hard, catching the front sight under his crotch. He groaned in pain. Then she ripped the muzzle back, holding it inches from his crotch. Her right forefinger squeezed the trigger and the click echoed over the Box.
“You’re lucky the bore’s blocked, trashmouth,” she said, her voice amazingly calm and matter-of-fact. She executed a perfect about-face, right-shouldered the rifle, and marched smartly back to her troop.
The short drive across the Vistula River into Praga was like stepping through a time warp for Pontowski. The five-or six-story, ramshackle brick buildings, clanging trams, and sidewalks full of people hurrying to work, reminded him of the time he accompanied his grandfather on a tour of Eastern Europe as a child. The cab driver easily found the address on a side street and deposited him at the corner, saying it was perfectly safe to walk in the morning since the muggers were still asleep.
Pontowski walked down the street until he located a painted wooden door with a brass plaque announcing the surgery of Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik. Inside, he found a waiting room full of people. Since there was no receptionist or nurse on duty, he stood until someone came in for the next patient. One of the men recognized him and stood up, offering Pontowski his seat. Pontowski smiled, shook his head, and thanked him. An old woman studied his face. “Is he Pontowski’s son?” she asked in Polish.
“General Pontowski,” the man said, “is indeed, President Pontowski’s grandson.”
The side door opened and Elzbieta Pawlik looked in to call her next patient. She glanced at Pontowski and motioned him inside. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I can wait,” he said. “They were here first.”
“They know who you are,” she said, pointing to a seat.
He sat down, surprised to see a photograph of Maddy Turner on the wall next to one of his grandfather. “I’m looking for Ewa.” The doctor didn’t answer. “Can you help me find her?”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s important.”
“Because you slept with her?”
“It’s much more than that,” he replied.
Elzbieta gave a little snort. “She’s confused and needs time to, think.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“You would only confuse her more.” She pointed to the wall with the photographs. “Ewa is no match for her.”