“I’ll try to find out what’s brewing,” the DCI promised.
Mazie’s head jerked up when she saw Patrick Shaw walk past. “I didn’t know he was onboard.” They watched suspiciously as he entered the president’s stateroom.
“Mizz President,” Shaw said, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She looked up at him and he slouched into a chair. “I’ve been working with Stammerville and Holt about announcing your reelection. They’ve come up with a new strategy.” He paused, carefully selecting the right words.
“What is it?” Turner asked impatiently.
Shaw took a deep breath. “You don’t. Instead, you go silent and get drafted. Popular demand for you to run again.”
“Is that a chance we want to take?”
“No chance about it. We’ll organize it at the grass roots level and when the news is breaking our way, a huge clamor and gnashing of teeth will arise from the multitudes demanding you lead them out of the wilderness. The bandwagon will roll right out of the heart of America and over anyone who gets in the way.”
“You make it sound so cynical.”
“It solves a lot of problems.”
“Like the fact I’m a woman.”
“And a widow,” he added. He took a deep breath. “And Pontowski.”
She was irritated. “I wasn’t aware he was a problem.”
Shaw hung his head and tried to act contrite. “He’s not right for you, Mizz President. He’s got a history.”
“That was a long time ago, Patrick.”
He dropped the folder he was carrying onto the coffee table. “These were taken in Poland ten days ago. He was out discovering his roots.”
Maddy looked through the photos, seeing the one Shaw had carefully buried, enough to be hidden, but where she would definitely find it. Pontowski was standing in the door of his family’s cottage gazing out. Ewa was looking up at him, her eyes glowing, her face bright. “A beautiful girl. Who is she?”
“His interpreter, Ewa Pawlik. She works at the embassy.”
“Are they close?” Maddy asked.
“Look at her face. That tells me everything I need to know.”
“Fire her.”
“We can’t do that.” The president’s frown demanded an explanation. “Hell, Mizz President, everyone screws the Polish.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Please review this,” Winslow James said, “check the concur box, and sign at the bottom.” He handed Pontowski the completed report of investigation with Ambassador Beason’s letter of transmittal on top.
Pontowski gritted his teeth as he read. “You want me to agree to this?” James nodded. “That means I accept Beason’s so-called corrective actions?” Again the diplomatic nod. “Did you bother to read the report?”
“Of course I read it.”
“Then how do you get from a report which clears Waldo and me of doing anything wrong to Beason’s cover letter?” Pontowski flipped to the letter and read aloud. “‘You are hereby reprimanded for acting in a manner that brought great discredit to the United States, this legation, and yourself.’” He threw the report at James. “Shove this next to your favorite hemorrhoid. The one you think with.”
Nothing in James’s career had prepared him for this. Years of experience in the foreign service had conditioned him not to make waves, to speak in a low voice, and to pass the buck. Becoming aggressive when faced with a problem simply was not done. And no one spoke to a deputy charge of mission like that. “Please remember I represent the president of the United States.”
“I’m sure you do.”
James grimaced, trying to regain his composure. “Your attitude is totally uncalled for. However, you must respond, in writing, to close this investigation.” Pontowski grabbed the report and lined out the concur block. At the bottom he scribbled NOTED and placed his initials next to it. James shook his head in nervous disbelief. No one ever mutilated an official document like that. James stood up. “Please wait here.” He almost ran out of his office, reminding Pontowski of an officious mouse as he scurried across the Red Room to Beason’s office. He was back in a few moments, his face two shades of pale lighter. “The ambassador will see you immediately.” Pontowski followed him on the return journey. The two secretaries watched them in silence.
“Don’t sit down,” Daniel Beason muttered. He looked up and tapped the report on his desk. “I’m sick and tired of you flyboys who think the rules don’t apply to you.”
“What exactly are the rules when somebody wants to shoot you down?”
“That is not my concern here,” Beason snapped. “Because of political influence, you are beyond my control.” He handed Pontowski the official cable from the State Department detaching him to the Polish Air Force as a civilian training officer. “Let me make this perfectly clear. You get into trouble and this embassy will take no action to save your worthless skin. You are on your own and will receive no help from this government. Further, I am holding conversations with the Polish government to have you declared persona non grata.”
“Is that all, sir?” Pontowski asked. Without waiting for an answer, he executed a perfect about-face and walked out. Gathering up his raincoat and briefcase, he headed for the elevator. He punched the button to descend to the lobby and was surprised when the car rose to the third floor. Evan Riley was waiting for him when the doors opened.
“I heard,” was all Riley said, leading the way to his office.
“You don’t miss much.”
“When are you moving over to the Polish Air Force?”
“Soon as I can get out of here.”
“Good. We’ll be in contact as fast as we have any significant intelligence that needs to be passed on.”
“You called me here to tell me that?”
Riley shook his head. “And to warn you about Jerzy Fedor. Don’t trust him. Also, you need to spend a few minutes with my operations officer.”
The “few minutes” Riley mentioned turned into three hours as the station’s ops officer provided Pontowski with dead drops, passwords, and telephone numbers linking him with cutouts. The exposure to basic tradecraft gave meaning to what it meant to be out in “the cold.” Finally, he was finished and able to drive to the squadron at Okecie.
It was now a different organization, full of hustle and purpose. The walls were freshly painted and the floors were clean. But more important, the pilots were in offices and briefing rooms hitting the books and “hangar flying” missions. Pontowski walked past an exercise room where two pilots were working on weight machines strengthening their neck muscles. He found Waldo in a briefing room finishing a training report from a mission. A very unhappy young pilot sat at the table with him. “Don’t get discouraged,” Waldo told him. “You’re doing much better than I did at this stage.” He handed the pilot his training folder and the young man beat a hasty retreat.
“Welcome to the real world,” Waldo deadpanned.
“It looks like they’re getting serious about flying the Viper.”
“Believe it,” Waldo said. “You prepared for a shocker?” He led Pontowski through a guarded door and into the mission planning section. Emil and the squadron commander were huddled with a civilian over the chart table.
“I believe you know Jerzy Fedor,” Emil said.
Pontowski and Fedor shook hands. “What brings you here?” Pontowski asked.
“Yalta,” Fedor replied. He pointed at the chart, showing Pontowski a target complex on the Black Sea. A black line connected it to Rzeszów, an air base in southern Poland. “We have some accounts to settle with the man who killed President Lezno and General Bender.”
Automatically, Pontowski measured the distance; 640 nautical miles. “That’s a bit far to haul bombs without refueling,” Pontowski said.