“Thank you for coming, Mrs. President,” Pontowski said, gently taking her hand. The TV cameras recorded that they touched for a few seconds longer than required by protocol. But that was all. Pontowski shook hands with the two former presidents, and both were eager to recall the last time they had met. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks that the friendly reception was proof that Pontowski had a future beyond that of running the presidential library.
“What a magnificent view,” Maddy said, leading the small group to the one secure observation point. Because of two attempted assassinations, the Secret Service made sure that no one was within earshot or, for that matter, any other kind of shot. While security was intense, Maddy still moved without fear among people as the agents standing post worked themselves to a frazzle and into an early retirement. “How’s Little Matt?” Maddy asked.
“Growing like a weed,” Pontowski replied, “and he’s not so ‘little’ anymore. Maybe that’s why everyone is calling him Zack these days.”
Maddy laughed. “Brian never told me. It’s much better than that horrible name Brian was calling him. I know Sarah will like it.” Sarah was Maddy’s fourteen-year-old daughter, who had a not-so-secret crush on Pontowski’s son. Then the tone of Maddy’s voice changed as she became all business. “Have you had time to think about it?”
Pontowski nodded. “The ambassadorship to Poland is tempting, but I’ve got to get the library off the ground. I can’t believe the stacks of documents and files we’re sorting.”
“You’re lucky,” one of the former presidents said. “No real hard issues like the tapes the Nixon Library has to deal with.”
“Anyway, not yet,” the other president allowed.
Again Maddy laughed, enchanting Pontowski. “There’s always a rat in the woodwork.” They all assumed her “rat” was the man ambling toward them. Patrick Flannery Shaw was a shaggy bear of a man given to wearing rumpled plaid suits, scuffed shoes, and outrageous ties. At first glance he seemed totally out of place. But the knowledgeable knew he was a shark swimming in his perfect environment.
“Mizz President,” Shaw said, putting on his thickest southern accent, “we got a passel of people who need tendin’.”
Maddy pleaded helplessness. “What can I do?”
“Win the election,” the older of the two presidents said.
She shook hands all around, coming to Pontowski last. “Matt, please think about it. I don’t need an answer until after the election.” She turned to go. “Oh, Mazie needs to talk to you. Can you escape from all these dusty archives?” “Mazie” was Mazana Kamigami Hazelton, her national security adviser.
“For Mazie,” Pontowski answered, “anytime.”
“I believe she’s free tonight,” Shaw said. “I’ll set it up for after the banquet.” Then the president was gone, locked in a deep conversation with Shaw.
“Sounds like a command performance,” the younger of the two presidents said.
“With the Dragon Lady,” the older growled, “damn right.”
Pontowski only smiled and shook his head.
“General Pontowski,” the Secret Service agent said, “this way please.” Pontowski followed the amazingly fit young man into a service corridor on the ground floor of the Fairmont Hotel. They stopped at a guard station, where Pontowski emptied his pockets and was searched. A uniformed guard ran a wand over him, searching for metallic objects. The wand buzzed when it passed over Pontowski’s right knee, and three guards immediately surrounded him.
“It’s the pins in my knee,” Pontowski explained as he pulled up his pant leg to show the long scars on his knee. “Ejected from an F-16,” he explained. “Bad landing. Shattered my kneecap.”
“Understand, sir,” the Secret Service agent said. “But we’ll need an X ray to confirm, if you’re to see the president.”
Pontowski was confused. “I thought—”
“I can vouch for him,” a familiar voice said. Pontowski turned to see Chuck Sanford. “Evenin’, General. Setting off alarms — again?”
A smile spread across Pontowski’s face. “It’s been a while, Chuck. I thought you were with Brian.” Sanford was normally assigned to guard Brian Turner, the president’s son.
“I’ve been on vacation. I’ll pick up the duty when he goes back to the Hill.” The Hill was the New Mexico Military Institute, where Sanford headed the detail guarding Brian. Because of the close friendship between Brian and Zack, Sanford and Pontowski had met many times. “I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ back to the land of the sane and borin’. How’s Zack doin’?” For a moment the two men were silent. It was not a simple question, because Zack had saved Sanford’s life in New Mexico. But Zack had had to kill a man to do it.*
Pontowski chose his words with care. “He’s doing just fine, and his counselor says he’s handled it as well as any adult.” The relief on Sanford’s face was obvious. “I swear he’s grown three inches over the summer,” Pontowski continued. “He’s been working at the library here until school starts.”
Sanford signed a clipboard and motioned Pontowski to a service elevator. They rode in silence to the presidential floor. The doors swooshed open, and the security drill repeated itself. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Sanford said.
“I understand,” Pontowski replied. “It must be hell during a campaign.”
“You wouldn’t believe,” Sanford allowed. He led the way down the service corridor to a door leading into the Presidential Suite. “I’ll wait here for you,” the agent said. He held the door open, and Pontowski entered a kitchen.
Pontowski’s back stiffened. Mazana Kamigami Hazelton was sitting at a small table with Patrick Flannery Shaw. “Hello, Mazie,” he said, ignoring Shaw. “What can I do for you?” Mazie was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, and the best of her Japanese and Hawaiian heritage was captured in her beautiful face and eyes. She came out of her chair and held Pontowski’s hand with hers, no longer the cool and aloof national security adviser but an old friend.
“It is good to see you,” Mazie said. She stood back and studied him. “It’s not fair. You just keep getting better and better looking.”
“And you’re still the charmer.”
“Maddy wants to see you,” Mazie told him. “But we need to talk first.” They sat down at the small table with Shaw. “She really wants you to be her ambassador to Poland.” Before Pontowski could reply, she held up her hand. “There’s more. Zou Rong is leading the Chinese delegation to the World Trade Organization conference in Chicago next week. He wants to speak to you.”
Pontowski frowned as memories washed over him in full flood. He could no more stop them than change the course of the Mississippi River. For a moment he was back in southern China leading the American Volunteer Group — the AVG, a ragtag collection of pilots flying A-10 Warthogs — in support of Zou and his abortive revolution. Zou had saved himself by cutting a deal with Beijing. Pontowski had extracted the American Volunteer Group at the last moment and brought them back to the States. But it had been a near thing. Now Zou was the chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress — the real power in China — and in line to be the next president. Common wisdom held that Zou was not content to wait until the current president died, and the two were locked in a power struggle.
“Why me?” Pontowski asked.
“That’s what we want to find out,” Mazie said. Pontowski tightened his lips, not liking what he was hearing.
“We need an inside with the new boys in Beijing,” Shaw said.