“I remember my mother crying,” Zeth said. “We were watching the funeral on TV and General Pontowski was giving the eulogy at the National Cathedral. But that was before he was a brigadier general. His wife was there in the front row. She was beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Lenora said. “Matt was devastated when she was killed.”
“What happened?” Sarah asked, her interest now totally aroused. Lenora hesitated, not sure what to tell the young girl.
“You might as well tell her,” Maura said. “She won’t quit pestering people until she finds out.”
“Well,” Lenora said, “Shoshana was murdered by assassins at Tokyo’s Narita airport. But she was very brave and killed four of them before they shot her.” She felt an explanation was in order. “Matt met Shoshana in Spain. He was there on leave. She was a Mossad agent, that’s the Israeli CIA, and on an assignment. Later, she and Matt met again in Israel. Unfortunately, war broke out between the Arabs and the Israelis again. It was touch-and-go for the Israelis for awhile. Shoshana served as a medic in the war and was wounded. She suffered some severe burns. But she recovered nicely. They married a year later.”
Zeth Trogger’s eyes opened wide in amazement and respect. “When was she killed?”
Lenora thought for a moment. “Matt was in southern China with the American Volunteer Group at the time, so it would be six years ago, 1996.”
“They call my mom a widow,” Sarah said. “What’s a man called?”
“A man is called a widower,” Lenora replied.
“He is very attractive,” Maura added, her voice soft and thoughtful.
The White House
About the time Matt Pontowski stepped out of the shower at NMMI, Madeline Turner sat down with her security advisory group. Unlike her famous Kitchen Cabinet, the friends she gathered around her for political advice, the four members of this group were chosen solely for their analytical minds and keen insights into international threats to the security of the United States. As Turner’s national security advisor, Mazie Hazelwood was the group’s nominal leader. But the three men, Sam Kennett, the vice president, Stephan Serick, the secretary of state, and the DCI, or director of central intelligence, all carried equal weight. However, in the end, it was Madeline Turner who dictated the security policy of the United States.
“Madame President,” Mazie began, “we’re getting some strange signals out of Eastern Europe. I’m certain we’re seeing a major shift in Russia’s foreign policy.”
“We have seen no shift in policy,” Stephan Serick, the irritable secretary of state, announced in obvious disagreement. “Only the usual fumbling. Viktor Kraiko is lucky he’s still president and is holding on by his fingertips. Kraiko hasn’t had a new thought rise above his belt buckle in two years. Maybe after the Russians replace him something different will emerge. But not now.” Serick’s Latvian accent always became stronger when he talked about his old enemy, Russia. For him it made no difference the Soviet Union had fallen apart. The hatred was still there.
Mazie let the cranky Serick spew a little more venom before answering. “Russia’s economy is stabilizing,” she said.
“So?” Serick snapped. “And Russia’s military continues to shrink and the old KGB is in shambles since Gromov, that old bastard, died last April.”
“We now believe,” the director of central intelligence said, “that Gromov was executed.”
“Utter nonsense,” Serick grumbled. He stood up and limped around the room, his basset-hound jowls quivering as he spoke. “My God! The man was seventy-eight years old. He died of old age.”
The DCI glanced at his notes. “Then why did his head show up in Poland along with Boris Bakatina’s?”
“Boris Bakatina?” Turner asked.
“The chief godfather of the Russian vor,” the DCI answered. “The vor are the old-guard criminals, Honorable Thieves. They’re different from the Mafiya who are the new kids on the block. Mix them all together and you’ve got ROC, Russian organized crime.”
“We think they lost their heads in a power struggle,” Mazie added.
“That’s an awful pun,” Turner said. “This is bizarre. So why are we spending time here?”
It was a question for Mazie to answer and given the way Turner worked, she didn’t have long to do so. “We’re getting reports of increasing interaction between high-ranking Russian politicians and ROC. We’re not exactly sure of the contours of this new relationship but Poland seems to be a frequent subject of discussion. Then we received three separate reports that these two heads were sent to the Polish Mafia in mid-April.”
“Old news,” Serick scoffed. “More than four-months old. Criminals sending each other presents does not constitute a change in foreign policy. We’re wasting our time.”
“We think it was a message,” Mazie said. “Their mouths were stuffed with gold coins, mostly Krugerrands.”
“So what was the message?” Turner asked.
Mazie spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. This discussion wasn’t going to last much longer. “Gromov and Bakatina were the highest ranking survivors of the old guard, one political and one criminal. They were dinosaurs left over from the Soviet system that raped both Russia and Poland. The message was very clear. The heads were a peace offering. The gold indicates there is money to be made from the death of the old system. It was an invitation from Russian organized crime to do business.”
“Rubbish,” Serick grumbled. “This is all too bizarre. I’m more worried about what’s going on in Germany.”
For the first time the vice president spoke. “Bizarre, yes. But it makes a kind of weird sense. The Poles, including the Polish Mafia, carry a lot of hatred for the Russians. It would take a powerful gesture on the part of the Russians for the Poles to trust them.”
“Do we have anything concrete,” Turner asked, “that suggests such an alliance is taking place?”
The DCI answered. “We have monitored a huge increase in telephone calls and personal contacts between some very strange parties.”
“Such as?” Turner asked.
The DCI consulted his notes. “Viktor Kraiko engaged in long conversations with Mikhail Vashin. After the removal of Boris Bakatina, Vashin appears to be the new leader of Russian organized crime. He’s even got the Circle of Brothers, that’s the senior godfathers of the vor, under his thumb.”
Turner’s fingers beat a tattoo on her desk in a well-known signal. They were about finished with the subject. “If I understand what you’re telling me, we’re seeing some new mix of the political and criminal leaders of Russia. What exactly is the threat stemming from all this? Are there any domestic implications for us?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Mazie replied.
“At best,” Serick said, “it means a legitimization of criminal activity.” He snorted. “Nothing changes in Russia.”
Turner recalled that morning’s discussion about Russian organized crime and Yaponets. “Mazie, keep on top of this and talk to the attorney general.” She paused. Mazie was one of her most trusted advisors and was obviously concerned about the situation. As president, did she need to do more? She turned to the vice president. “Sam, next week—” Her voice trailed off.
Sam Kennett laughed. “I’ll add Poland to my European vacation.”
“No one,” Serick grumbled, “goes to Poland for a vacation.”
The Hill
Zeth Trogger led Maura, Pontowski, and Sarah from Quarters One to Lusk Hall, the administration building. She set a slow pace for Maura O’Keith and patiently answered Sarah Turner’s endless questions about NMMI. Zeth’s answers were right out of the Parents’ Handbook and Pontowski smiled. “What class are you in?” he asked.
“Third Class, sir,” Zeth answered. She was a senior in high school.
“Why did you pick NMMI?” Sarah asked.
“My dad’s an alumnus and I always wanted to come here.” She gave the little girl a serious look. “It’s a tough school. My Rat
year was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Pontowski studied the cadet. Zeth Trogger had beautiful green eyes that flashed with intelligence and spirit. An eighteen-year-old on the cusp of womanhood, she was definitely feminine and curvy. But she wore no makeup and her only concession to femininity was her long hair. She walked with the confidence of an athlete. “Sports?” he asked.
“I’m on the soccer team,” Zeth answered.
“I didn’t know you had a women’s soccer team at NMMI.”
“We don’t,” she answered. She led them to the superintendent’s office on the second floor. She held the door for them to enter and then waited outside.
General McMasters ushered Maura to a seat at the large conference table while Pontowski held a chair for Sarah. The little girl beamed at him, reveling in the courtesy. Nelson Day, the commandant of cadets and a retired Army colonel, joined them and sat next to Maura. “Well,” McMasters began, “we do have a problem here.” He turned the meeting over to Colonel Day who was responsible for cadet discipline.
Day quickly reviewed the basics. The two Rats in question were in the same squad and had taken an instant dislike to each other, mostly because Mr. Pontowski was not as well coordinated and as strong as the others and slowed the squad down. Animosity had flared and the two boys finally decided to settle their differences in a more direct fashion. The other cadets had cooperated and helped them sneak out of their rooms in Hagerman Barracks late at night. Somehow, they had gotten into the Tunnels of NMMI, which were really little more than a series of interconnected basements between the barracks and adjoining buildings.
“How did they get past the Secret Service?” Maura asked.
McMasters shifted into a bureaucratic mode. It was the way he covered his impulse to smile at what the cadets had done when he had to be the disciplinarian. “Well, the Secret Service is embarrassed.” He described the security arrangements in detail. “They were geared for intruders, not for cadets going into the Tunnels from the inside. We’ve already fixed that.”
Maura kept shifting her gaze to Pontowski. “General McMasters,” she said, reading the discussion right, “I know you’re worried about losing your most famous student, but this sounds to me like a minor ruckus between two boys who don’t know how to settle their differences peacefully. I only have one question. Can you fix it?”
“I think we can,” McMasters answered.
“They’re going to walk off at least ten demerits,” Day said. “That’s ten tours in the Box.” The Box was the quadrangle in the center of Hagerman Barracks and a tour was fifty minutes of marching back and forth.
“Shouldn’t we hear their side of the story?” Sarah asked. She gave Maura a questioning look. “That’s only fair, isn’t it?”
Maura and Pontowski nodded in agreement and the two miscreants were brought in. Brian Turner was a tall, strapping, good-looking boy who, physically, was going on eighteen. Little Matt was a frail, skinny kid who looked all of eleven. Yet both were within six months in age. Brian had a bruised eye and swollen lip. Little Matt only had a Band-Aid over his right knuckles. The commandant asked each for his side of the story and Brian went to some length justifying his actions and why he had lost the fight. He had slipped on the wet concrete floor and Little Matt had unfairly hit him in the face four or five times before he could regain his balance. Little Matt only said that he did it and the facts were correct.
“How did you get into the Tunnels?” Day asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Little Matt answered. “The door was open.”
They had a problem. Picking a lock was a serious offense but finding the guilty party would be very hard, and did they really want to pursue it and kick some cadet out of NMMI? “General McMasters,” Pontowski said. “May I suggest you give the cadets some wiggle room on this so they can learn from their mistakes? Issue a blanket warning on how serious it is to pick a lock and fix the door.”
“I agree,” Maura said.
“It appears we’re in agreement,” McMasters said. “Colonel Day, it’s in your court.”
Day fixed the two cadets with a hard look and called in Zeth Trogger. “Mr. Turner, Mr. Pontowski, meet your new squad leader. As of now, you are roommates and are welded hip and thigh. You will do everything as a pair and you will learn to get along. Any questions?”
“Please, sir,” Brian begged, “not a girl.”
“Why?” Day asked.
Brian stammered an answer. “Ah…ah…girls can’t hack it.”
Colonel Day grew very serious and put weight in his voice. “How long have you been at NMMI, Mr. Turner?”
“Almost three weeks,” came the answer.
“Then you have a lot to learn,” Day said. “They’re all yours, Miss Trogger.”
“Outside,” Zeth ordered. Pontowski smiled. There was iron in her order. The two Rats double-timed out the door with Zeth right behind them.
McMasters stood and walked to the big windows overlooking the campus. “I think you need to see this,” he said. They all joined him at the windows. Below them, the two cadets were standing at attention while Zeth leaned into them, her face a mask as she spoke. “I imagine,” McMasters said, “that she is explaining a few facts of life to them.”
Zeth’s face was exactly thirty inches away from Brian’s nose. “We seem to have a basic difference of opinion here,” she told them, her voice low-pitched yet hard as nails. “If you’re right and girls can’t hack it, then…”
Brian interrupted her. “Get out of my face, Trogger. You’ve got to stay thirty inches away,” Then, not so sure of himself, “That’s what the regulations say.”
Her laugh was not reassuring to either of the boys. She knew she was at the exact distance allowed by the Blue Book. She leaned in another inch, challenging him. “That’s twenty-nine inches.” She pulled back. “This is thirty, dirtbag. If you’ve got a tape measure, use it. Otherwise, stifle yourself or you’ll be walkin’ tours.”
“You think I’m gonna march any freak’n tours?” Brian retorted. “Look, I’m gettin’ out of here and there’s nothing you can do to me.” He motioned to the two men standing in the doorway to Lusk Hall. “See them? They’re Secret Service. You touch me and they’ll be all over you like stink on shit.”
Zeth cast a look at the two men. They were standing rock-still, faces impassive, well within earshot. For a moment, she was confused, off-balance. Then she recovered. “You mean like when Pontowski reached out and touched you?”
Brian blinked, worry now written on his face. She pressed her advantage. “I don’t have to touch you, dirtbag. I’ll heap so much shame and ridicule on you that you’ll be on the World Wide Web under ‘www dot Buttjoke dot com.’” She motioned at the agents. “And they won’t do a thing about it. Mr. Pontowski, a knowledge question. What do you get when you cross Brian Turner with an ape?”
“I do not know, ma’am.”
“A retarded ape.” She leaned into Brian. “Hey, dirtbag, I did that one without trying. Wait until I go high-speed on the Internet. You’ll love it. Check your good buddies who are supposed to guard your worthless butt. Are they laughing?”
Brian chanced a glance. One of the agents was smiling and he heard Little Matt laugh.
Zeth was on a roll. “Stifle yourself, Pontowski. Only one thing is gonna save your two worthless butts.”
“What’s that?” Brian asked, defiance still in his voice. But it was all false bravado and Zeth knew it.
“You two becoming the best Rat buddies who ever marched a tour in the Box. You two will be showdogs for the Corps or the butt of every joke for a year. Your choice. Drop and give me fifty.”
Brian sneered. “Right after you, Miss Trogger.” The challenge was obvious.
Zeth dropped to the ground and rapped out fifty fast push-ups, the maximum allowable as punishment. She bounced to her feet. “Now, drop,” she commanded. The two boys fell to the ground and struggled to repeat her performance.
“How
many?” Brian asked through gritted teeth.
“Until I get tired,” she shot back. She intended to let them go the full fifty but both were running out of steam. “Save me from wussies,” she moaned.
TWO
Moscow
“Natasha, I’m Geraldine Blake, Mr. Vashin’s secretary,” the Englishwoman said in perfect Russian as she extended her hand in a businesslike manner. The girl, still in her teens, gently shook the outstretched hand and nodded, her blond hair flowing gracefully around her face. Everything about her shouted youth, grace, education, and breeding, exactly what Vashin wanted. Geraldine Blake spoke to the guard at the elevator door and he, in turn, spoke into his palm radio. A voice answered and the guard jerked his head. The elevator was descending from the penthouse. They waited in silence until the doors opened, revealing two more guards. Geraldine motioned the beautiful prostitute to enter first. The doors closed behind them.
“Please do exactly what you are told, Natasha,” Geraldine said, “and everything will be fine. Whatever you do, don’t lie.” The girl gave a little nod, her eyes filled with fear. “Take off your wrap,” Geraldine said. The girl handed her the expensive silk cloak draped around her arms. She wore a simple, low-cut flimsy black dress that revealed her lovely shoulders. The dress barely reached the girl’s thighs and was a gossamer cloud designed to showcase her beauty. It cost more than a thousand dollars in Milan.
One of the guards frisked her, his hands moving roughly over the delicate fabric of the dress. Then he reached under her short hemline and groped inside her panties. He ran his fingers from front to back, poking and prodding for a hidden weapon. The girl’s face was impassive as she endured the search. “How old are you, Natasha?” Geraldine asked.
“Seventeen,” came the answer. Her voice was soft and sweet.
“You are a very foolish girl,” Geraldine said. “But I’m sure Mr. Vashin will understand because of your age.” The girl was trembling. The doors whisked open and the Englishwoman led the way into the penthouse. Mikhail Vashin was standing in front of the architectural model of his skyscraper complex, Vashin Towers. It had become his favorite spot and he never seemed to tire of it, especially late at night. A man sat on one of the heavily brocaded couches across from Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation. Two guards stood in front of the elevator doors.
Edge of Honor Page 3