It doesn’t matter, Pontowski thought. The jocks know. Suddenly the tension was back as the fifth flight came into view. There were only two aircraft. “I need to talk to the tower,” Pontowski said, his voice calm.
Clark turned to her driver to tell him to get the minivan with its radio. But he was already running for the van. She shook her head. “He’s never moved that fast before.” In less than a minute he drove up and handed Pontowski the mike, its cord stretched out the window.
“Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “this is Bossman. Say status of last flight.” His eyes were fixed on the horizon, looking for the two missing aircraft.
“Bossman,” the tower answered, “Bruiser Three and Four are in the pattern now. One and Two are five minutes out.” Bruiser Three and Four were the second element in Maggot’s flight. Maggot was Bruiser One, and Waldo was Bruiser Two. “Bruiser Two reports partial hydraulic failure,” the tower reported.
“It figures,” Pontowski said to himself. He keyed the radio. “Have they declared an emergency?”
“Negative,” the tower replied. “Precautionary landing only.”
Now they had to wait. Clark saw the two aircraft first. “There,” she said. One of the aircraft was trailing smoke.
“That’s Waldo,” Pontowski muttered.
Clark took the mike. “Tower, scramble the crash trucks. I want to use this as practice.” She handed the mike to the driver. “We’ve got a new crash-response team from Singapore. I hope they’re better.”
“Better than what?” Pontowski asked. He walked toward the runway.
“What was here before,” she answered. Two crash trucks and an ambulance roared out of the trees, lights flashing, and stopped short of the runway. “Much better,” she announced.
Pontowski walked with measured steps back to Clark’s minivan, his eyes locked on the landing aircraft. As expected, Waldo landed first as Maggot flew a loose formation, escorting him down. Pontowski opened the van door, ready to jump in. The driver, sensing the emergency, was already behind the wheel and starting the engine. Waldo made a smooth touchdown and rolled out. He turned off at midfield and taxied into the trees. “Let’s go howdy the man,” Pontowski said, meaning he wanted to find out what had happened. Clark jumped in, and they raced down the access road.
They reached the taxiway where Waldo was stopped and got out of the van. Waldo was still sitting in the cockpit, the canopy raised, talking to a crew chief who had climbed up the boarding steps. When Waldo saw Pontowski and Clark, he climbed down. When he reached the pavement, he dropped his helmet and spread his arms. “I have arrived. You may start the war.”
Pontowski shook his head. “You need a new line, Waldo,” he called.
The dark gray Mercedes sedan drove through the Wednesday-evening traffic. In the backseat Mazie sat with her hands folded while Butler read a highly confidential dossier that should never have left the confines of the State Department. He was still getting up to speed on the situation. “Have you met von Lubeck before?” he asked.
“A few times,” she murmured, not willing to say more. She had dealt with Herbert von Lubeck numerous times and was apprehensive. Von Lubeck was a tall, handsome man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and penetrating blue eyes. On the face of it he was a minor functionary in the German government, the first secretary to the deputy minister for economic research and trapped in the old Cold War capital while the political action swirled in Berlin. But in reality he was a plenipotentiary with wide-ranging powers and influence in the German government. Von Lubeck preferred to remain in the shadows, but the knowledgeable knew that he was the man to see on truly important issues involving the German government. Supposedly only four people in the U.S. government knew who he really was, and Mazie was one of them. However, a fifth person now knew — Bernie Butler. But he would deny it with his last breath.
“So he’s quite the…uh, ladies’ man,” Butler said. He was careful in his choice of words, for one couldn’t ask the national security adviser if von Lubeck had hit on her. But according to the dossier, Mazie Kamigami Hazelton was exactly the type of woman who appealed to von Lubeck.
“He was”—Mazie paused, searching for the right words—“always the gentleman.”
Butler worked to keep his face expressionless. The answer to his unasked question was obviously yes, and she was obviously attracted to von Lubeck. But he had seen it all before; for the rich and influential of the world, power was the ultimate aphrodisiac, and they sought each other out. Butler closed the dossier as the car drove into the basement garage of a nondescript government office building. The driver knew where he was going and pulled into a guarded back bay where two dark-suited young men were waiting. They were most polite in escorting the two Americans to the top floor in a private elevator.
The man waiting for them in the ornate study was a throwback to a previous age — aristocratic, gracious, and gallant. He could have been a cavalry officer mounting a charge during the Franco-Prussian War or a courtier at the court of Frederick the Great. “Mrs. Hazelton,” he said, taking her hand and almost kissing it, but not quite. Butler was certain Mazie wanted her hand kissed. “It is always a pleasure to see you.” He spoke with an English accent. Then he turned to Butler and extended his hand. “And General Butler, I presume.” The two men shook hands. Even von Lubeck’s handshake was perfect for the occasion, just the right strength and duration. He motioned them to comfortable overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “Our first fire of the season,” he said.
He settled into a chair and turned directly to business. “No doubt you’re here because your government wants mine to become involved in the Gulf.”
Mazie allowed a little smile. “No doubt.” Butler listened as they played cat and mouse, circling in on the purpose of the visit. He was surprised how quickly Mazie dropped the first bombshell. “I assume you’re aware of the arrangement our Senator Leland has worked out with Monsieur Cherveaux and his cohorts at the Quai d’Orsay?” Von Lubeck gave a little nod, which meant he wasn’t. “Of course,” Mazie added, setting the hook, “the quid pro quo is based on Leland’s candidate winning the election.”
Von Lubeck smiled. “As your Mr. Shaw is fond of saying, ‘the dreaded quid pro quo.’”
“That always bites someone in the ass,” Mazie replied, startling von Lubeck. She returned his smile. “Which Patrick is also fond of saying.” Now she dropped the second bombshell. “In this case a European backside.”
It was Butler’s turn. “We have reason to believe that if the French can keep NATO out of the war, that will force a stalemate in the Gulf. Which, in turn, will stir up a political firestorm in the States and give the election to the senator’s boy.”
“Your election is five weeks away,” von Lubeck replied. “I seriously doubt if NATO’s intervention would make a difference by then.”
“But it might force the UIF to withdraw or negotiate,” Mazie said.
“Perhaps,” von Lubeck allowed.
“If NATO stays out,” Butler said, “and his boy wins, Leland will allow the French to broker a cease-fire and in the process become the middle man for marketing the UIF’s oil to Europe.”
Again von Lubeck nodded. A noncommittal look played across his face that hid his shock and anger. But, true to the game, he said nothing and waited for the Americans to put something on the table.
“We were hoping,” Mazie said, “that your government would be willing to act in the best interests of the European community.” She was asking the Germans to “do the right thing,” a very weak offer in von Lubeck’s world.