“And thereby control them,” Vashin said, seeing the marvelous logic of it. One of his aides entered the room and whispered in his ear. It was a long message. Vashin nodded twice and walked over to the easels. He picked up a black marker pen and lined out three names, one of them a member of the Circle of Brothers. “We suddenly have vacancies,” he told Geraldine.
Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense, was eager to escape the Kremlin and return home after a long and frustrating day. He glanced at his watch. Almost ten o’clock. A telephone rang and an aide answered. He listened for a moment. “The woman wants a meeting. Tonight.”
“Tell her the usual place and time.” He hurriedly gathered up his briefcase and coat to make the meeting. By the time he went down the Red Steps, his car was waiting for him. He gave the driver directions and settled in for the short drive. At the designated corner, the black limousine turned into a side street and slowed. A woman stepped out of the shadows and the limo halted long enough for her to enter.
“He made a mistake,” Geraldine said. She told him of the execution of the godfather and his heirs.
Rodonov leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Finally,” he murmured.
“It’s an opportunity we may not have again,” Geraldine said softly, telling him the obvious.
Tom Johnson drove past the apartment and checked the balcony of the third-floor apartment. A tattered rug was draped over the railing, the signal for a meeting. As long as the rug was hanging there, the meeting was hot and the street was being watched. He made a U-turn, acknowledging the meeting. He had exactly seventeen minutes.
He drove to Gorky Park and parked his battered Lada on the street. He scanned the night to insure he was not being followed before taking a few steps down a path leading into the park. It was too dangerous to go any farther at night. Even the police waited until light to pick up the bodies.
“Here,” Peter Prudnokov, the commander of Transport Aviation, said.
Johnson stepped into the shadows. “Face to face is dangerous,” he muttered.
“I have information. But my family needs protection.”
“From who?”
“Vashin. Who else?”
Johnson gave a little nod. “We’ll do what we can, but it depends on what you have.”
“My command is providing the airlift for Vashin’s conference in Yalta.”
“I’m not impressed.”
“We know when, what airplane, and the route, Vashin himself will be flying.”
“That we can use.”
It was after midnight and Pontowski was still awake hoping for a phone call. The embassy’s copy of Adam Mickiewicz’s Dziady lay in his lap. It had lost much in translation. Yet he could feel the strength and emotion of the poet’s words. It must be my Polish blood, he told himself. At exactly one o’clock, the phone rang. It was his son who called at the same time every week. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not good, Dad.” He told Pontowski about Zeth and how he felt responsible for her expulsion. The remorse and pain he felt reached across two continents. “Would it help if I talked to General McMasters?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Pontowski replied. “But I doubt if it would change anything.” They spoke for a while until Pontowski ended the conversation by saying, “Son, the ball is in your court. You gotta do what you think is right.” They broke the connection and Pontowski leaned back and closed his eyes. It’s tough doing the right thing, he thought. Unbidden, an image of Maddy Turner danced in his mind’s eye, tantalizing him with promises of what might have been. “What went wrong?” he wondered aloud. He tried to dismiss the image. But it persisted with a life of its own, beckoning him into the future. I’ll make it right, he promised himself. If I can. Then he fell asleep in his chair, the book still on his lap.
A knock at the door woke him. Morning sunlight streamed in the window and he was stiff from sleeping in the chair. He padded to the door but no one was there, only an advertisement for maid service tucked into the doorjamb. It was a signal that Evan Riley had a message for him. He had the procedure memorized and started on the trail that ultimately led to the dead drop. At the second stop, the trail changed and he was given an address in Konstancin, an upscale community south of Warsaw. It took him thirty minutes to find the house across from the drab yellow army barracks in the heart of the suburb. Riley was waiting for him inside.
“Was this an old brothel?” Pontowski asked.
“Now it’s a safe house.” Riley pointed to the barracks across the street. “When the Soviet Army was here, that was an intelligence headquarters and this was a whorehouse. They pumped the girls and we pumped them.” He chuckled. “Those were the good old days.” He sat down. “What are the Poles going to do about Vashin?”
“Bomb the hell out of him at Yalta.”
“So they are serious. Have they got the right target?”
“According to Jerzy Fedor they do.”
Riley shook his head. “The only guy more twisted than Fedor is on our side, what’s-his-face Shaw.” He handed Pontowski a manila envelope. “You might find this interesting. It’s Vashin’s flight plan.”
The rain sheeted down, pounding the big picture window. Inside, the rattling glass forced Maddy to take two steps back. “I’ve never seen it rain like this,” she said.
“It’s much worse up north,” Parrish replied. “Portland and Seattle have lost over half their normal phone service. Thank God for cellular phones.” He checked his clipboard. “But even they’re out in some areas where the wind’s knocked down towers.”
“How’s FEMA doing?” she asked.
“In place and responding.” Parrish looked worried. “But it’s going to take much more.”
“Alert the Pentagon,” she said at once.
“They haven’t much to give,” Parrish gave her a folder. Inside was a list of every operation, peacekeeping mission, and deployment the Department of Defense was supporting around the world.
“I didn’t realize they were stretched so thin,” she said.
“It’s a problem.” He thought for a moment. “Knowing Wild Wayne, he’s ahead of us and knocking heads and kicking backsides.” General Wayne Charles was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and had a habit of living up to his nickname. “They’ll come through.”
The computer buzzed and Parrish played with the mouse, clicking on the conference icon. “We’re ready to go with the National Security Advisory Group,” he told the president. She sat down in front of the computer and the video cam. The images of the four members appeared on the screen. “Good morning,” she said into the microphone. “Mazie, how did it go with the Germans?”
“Not good, Madame President. They want to see some action on our part reining in Russian organized crime before they back off.”
“Madame President,” Stephan Serick said grumpily, “you should have consulted with me before sending Mrs. Hazelton off on this venture. I’ve dealt with von Lubeck. He doesn’t bluff.”
“The Poles may give us what we need,” the DCI said.
“What exactly are they up to?” Vice President Kennett asked.
The DCI was uncomfortable. “Vashin is attending a conference at Yalta and they’re planning to attack his villa. It’s in retaliation for the assassination of President Lezno.”
“What the Poles do is not our concern,” Turner said. “Mazie, wait a few days and then follow up with von Lubeck. If the Germans are still dragging their feet, tell them I’m reconsidering our trade policies.”