“There’s nothing between us. Not now.”
“It’s not that easy, Matthew Pontowski. We’re an emotional race, tied to our history. Why are those photographs on my wall?”
Pontowski thought for a moment. “Because my grandfather was the first Polish American president. Maddy, I don’t know.”
“Because she is the forty-fourth president of the United States.” She snorted at the confusion on Pontowski’s face. “One of our most famous poets was Adam Mickiewicz. He lived in the nineteenth century when Poland was partitioned between Russia, Prussia, and Austria. He wrote a play, really an epic poem, called Dziady, ‘Forefather’s Eve.’ You’ve heard of it?” He shook his head. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “But that’s why you don’t understand us. In the play, Mickiewicz prophesied the coming of Forty-four, the mysterious savior of Poland.”
“Coincidence,” Pontowski muttered.
“Perhaps,” she replied. “In the play, Forty-four is a man. But how much coincidence do you believe in? You commanded the 303rd Fighter Squadron, yes?” He nodded. “The 303rd was a famous fighter squadron in the Royal Air Force in World War II. The pilots were all Polish and they fought in the Battle of Britain.”
“Still coincidence.”
“Then why did the forty-fourth president of the United States send you here?”
“It had nothing to do with a prophecy.”
“Tell a Pole that and he won’t believe you.”
“But you said Forty-four was a man.”
“That is why my daughter is confused. Maybe Mickiewicz had that part wrong or had left something out. Leave her alone for now.” She pointed at the door. “I have sick people to see.”
Pontowski stumbled outside, a very confused man. The cab driver was waiting for him. “The American embassy,” he said. At least he could still use the small library in the basement.
“General Pontowski,” the Marine guard on duty at the embassy entrance said, “Mr. Riley would like to speak to you. He’s in his office on the third floor.”
“At least it’s not on the forty-fourth,” Pontowski muttered, heading for the elevator. He stepped inside and hit the button, not certain the elevator would stop at the third floor. It did. The doors whooshed open and a trim young woman he had never seen before was waiting for him. She led him into a windowless inner office where Evan Riley was hunched over a large desk reading a pile of messages. He waved Pontowski to a seat. “James forwarded the final report of your investigation to Ambassador Beason this morning. It clears you and Waldo.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Beason still has to sign off.”
“He won’t. He hates my guts.”
“He doesn’t have a choice.” Riley handed him a message stamped TOP SECRET and for the ambassador’s eyes only. The State Department directed Beason to fully support the Office of Defense Cooperation. Effective immediately, Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski was placed on inactive status from the U.S. Air Force and released to the Polish Air Force as a civilian training officer.
“What the hell?” Pontowski muttered. “You’re not authorized to see this.” Another thought came to him. “Why are you showing it to me?”
“I need someone to take Duncan’s place.”
“Doing what?”
“I need you to pass key intelligence to the right people at the right time.”
“You’ve got formal channels for that,” Pontowski said.
“Don’t be cute,” Riley muttered. “We can’t trust half the players the way things are.”
“So why me?”
“Because the Poles trust you. It sends the message that we’re behind them.”
“Behind them on what?”
There was no answer from Riley.
Maddy Turner studied the first photos of the damage caused by the spring storm that was lashing at the Pacific Northwest. She had never seen such devastation and was flying out to view the damage and marshal the government’s relief efforts. Nothing in her experience galvanized the bureaucracy more than a few well-placed presidential questions after a personal visit. Richard Parrish handed her the latest weather report. “The meteorologists are talking about the storm door being wide open. Another big weather cell should hit early next week and there’s more behind it.”
She studied the satellite printout. Another major storm was forming over the central Pacific and a bigger one was building farther to the west. She leaned back and gazed out the window of Air Force One. They were headed west and chasing the setting sun. Golden hues laced the evening sky, turning ever darker into shades of red. Streaks of blue split the clouds like a master artist’s brush strokes. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful here,” she murmured.
The phone beside her seat buzzed and she picked it up. It was Brian. “Mom, I got troubles.” She tensed, expecting the worst. She relaxed as Brian told her the story of Zeth’s revenge on Pelton and how Matt was involved.
“Did you or Matt know that she was going to do it?”
“Naw. But we saw it. Mom, they’re gonna kick her out.”
“There’s not much I can do.”
“Can you talk to General McMasters?”
The Pacific Northwest is drowning and he’s worried about this? she fumed to herself. Well, at least he’s thinking about someone else for a change. “I’ll have my staff check into it.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He broke the connection.
Maddy stared out the window. He’s turning into a young man and I’m missing it. She felt the tears start to form, but just as quickly, they were gone. She had important work to do. “Please have Mazie and Gary come in,” she told Parrish. Within moments, the national security advisor and DCI were sitting down next to her. “Richard,” Turner said, “we need some privacy.” Her chief of staff quickly left, closing the door behind him.
“This storm,” Turner said, “is going to occupy a great deal of time in the coming weeks. However, I want to stay on track with the Germans.”
“I’m meeting with Herbert von Lubeck in Bonn this coming Tuesday, April fifteenth,” Mazie told her. “All off the record and very unofficial.”
The DCI frowned. “I’m not very hopeful. I don’t see us bluffing the Germans on this one. We’ve got to bring something to the table.”
Turner stared at him. “It’s not too late to cancel. I’m willing to consider other suggestions.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, a sure sign it was time to move on to the next subject.
“Sorry, Madame President,” the DCI said. “We just don’t have a lot of options on this one.” He shuffled through his notes. “I have one more item, a request from the Poles. Most unusual. They’re asking for some very specific help in dealing with the Russian problem.”
“Do what you can but I don’t want an Iran-Contra affair haunting us like it did poor President Reagan.”
“I see no problems at this point,” Mazie assured her. “There are a few other items that you should be aware of.” She quickly ran down her list, bringing Turner up to date. Then they were finished and gone. The meeting had taken less than ten minutes.
Joe Litton stuck his head in the door. “More photos from Oregon,” he said. “It’s getting worse.”
Turner bent over the coffee table in front of her and thumbed through the photos. She shook her head. “And the worst is still to come.”
Outside, Mazie huddled with the DCI in a corner. “How close are the Poles to acting?” she asked.
The DCI shook his head. “I don’t know. They seem serious enough. I wish I knew what they were up to.”
“The right something might get the Germans’ attention. You must have a source inside the Polish government?”