“It did result in a certain stability there,” Parrish said.
“Temporary at best. Soon it will go the way of the rest of Africa below the Sahara.”
“I’m not familiar with that operation,” Turner said. “Or the current situation in South Africa. Put together a briefing book on it.” Parrish made a note to create another blue binder. Turner’s staff had learned the hard way not to procrastinate and it would be ready that afternoon. “The important question,” she said, “is whether there’s any domestic fallout or other linkage here?” Turner was still concerned with von Lubeck and Germany.
“There may be a linkage with what’s going on in Russia,” Mazie said. “The CIA reported that Viktor Kraiko was at a series of meetings with Mikhail Vashin and a Pole over the weekend, a man named Gabrowski. We don’t have anything on him and think he was using an alias.”
Serick’s voice was a low rumble. “What we are seeing inside Russia is nothing more than criminals capturing the legitimate government. The Germans may be opportunistic or imperialistic, depending on your point of view, but they are not criminal. So what is the linkage?”
“Poland is undergoing an economic renaissance since being admitted to the European Union,” Mazie answered. “Maybe the Russians want a piece of the action. The Germans might see that as a threat. Historically, Poland has always been the shatter zone when Russian and German interests collide.”
Turner was ready to move on to another subject. “Enough about shatter zones. I don’t want to be blindsided on some domestic issue because of what we missed in Germany, Eastern Europe, or Russia.” She tapped her right forefinger for emphasis, which they all caught. Her orders came fast. “Mazie, stay on top of the situation. Richard, I want the FBI and the CIA looking for any attempt by the Germans or Russians to buy political influence here, specifically through campaign contributions and lobbying efforts. Stephan, I want State to keep Mazie fully informed on what you’re seeing in that part of the world.” She paused. “I’d like to get rid of Rudenkowski.” Lloyd Rudenkowski was the United States ambassador to Poland, a political appointee she had inherited from President Roberts when he died in office.
Parrish coughed for attention. “Because of the Polish renaissance, Warsaw has become a political plum. Rudenkowski’s appointment made megapoints with the Polish American community.”
“Not to mention megacontributions to the party,” Serick muttered. “Thankfully, we have an excellent deputy charge of mission in Warsaw and he can cover for any appointee with an open checkbook and a large bank account.”
“Get me a short list,” Turner said.
“It will be on your desk by this afternoon, Madame President,” Serick replied. He would warn her in a private memo that Rudenkowski had political clout and how his removal could cause problems. They quickly reviewed the three other security issues on the agenda and five minutes later were finished. It was exactly 8:23 A.M. The day had barely started and Madeline Turner was seven minutes ahead of schedule. Parrish buzzed for Dennis to usher in the next group.
“Oh,” Turner said, “I want to speak to General Bender.” Parrish and Dennis exchanged glances.
Williams Gateway, Arizona
The inspector from the FAA’s Flight Standards Office in Phoenix was temporarily in charge of the accident investigation. Until the investigators from the National Transportation and Safety Board, or NTSB, arrived, it was his job to secure the scene of the accident and gather evidence. Because there had been two major aircraft accidents over the holiday weekend, the NTSB was slow in arriving and the FAA inspector had progressed to interviewing Pontowski. Bender joined them for the interview, acutely aware of the anguish weighing on Pontowski. They were all air-men and accepted the hazards that went with flying. But Pontowski would have to live with what happened and always ask, “What if?”
After taking an oral statement, the inspector reviewed the four videotapes from the accident. The first one had been taken from the control tower where the air boss had videotaped the entire flight from takeoff to the final, cataclysmic crash. The audio portion recorded all radio transmissions heard or made by the tower. The second video was shot by a WSS cameraman from a platform on the opposite side of the field. And while the audio recorded the reactions of the spectators, the sound was of little use. The last two tapes were from the HUDs of the Marchettis and recorded the flight as Pontowski and Johar Adwan saw it.
But without doubt, the audio portion of Johar’s video was the most important because it recorded Johar’s shout of “Let go the stick!”
After the video had rewound, the FAA inspector glanced at his notes and then at Pontowski. “This is the best-documented accident I’ve ever seen. But did this qualify as an aerial demonstration?”
“It was a demonstration of air combat training,” Pontowski explained. “ACT is not choreographed like a normal aerial demonstration. But it does have rules.” He handed the inspector a cassette tape. “I tape-recorded the prebrief. I flew the mission as briefed and we were inside the box.”
They all listened to the tape. “I think it’s pretty obvious what happened,” Bender said.
The FAA inspector nodded in agreement. “That was no time to have someone else voting on the stick.” Again, he looked at Pontowski. “But damn it, you were pressing the envelope.” He held up his hand to shut off discussion. “I know, I know. You had clearance to perform a multiship aerial demonstration in the box. But this was not what we had in mind. You had a lot of confidence in Adwan’s abilities. Perhaps your confidence was misplaced.”
The what-ifs were back, pounding at Pontowski, demanding their price. Slowly, he shook his head, still trying to quiet his demon of responsibility. “Johar Adwan was a good pilot. I flew against him in combat and was damn lucky to have survived.” He read the disbelief on the inspector’s face. “He never lost situational awareness yesterday.”
“How can you be sure of that?” the inspector asked.
“Because there was no fire. I looked inside the wreckage when I retrieved the videotape from his HUD. Johar had turned off the ignition and the fuel selector valve before impacting the ground. He knew he was going to crash and never gave up.”
The inspector closed his notebook and gathered up the tapes. “Well, we have a lot of work to do.” He paused. “General Pontowski, I’m going to have to ask you for your logbook.”
Pontowski shook his head. “I’ll send you a certified copy.”
“Please, don’t play games with me.”
The two men looked at each other, neither wanting to get into an argument. But they were staking out the boundaries of the investigation. Pontowski almost said the FAA was not the Gestapo but was saved when the door opened and a man and a woman carrying briefcases marched in. Both were dressed in dark business suits. The man snapped out a business card and handed it to Bender because he looked like he was in charge. “Jonathan Slater from Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.” The woman sat down and clicked open her slim briefcase. Bender read the card, frowned, and handed it to the FAA inspector. Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube was a high-powered law firm with offices in every major city in the United States. Just to get them to answer the telephone required a yearly retainer fee of $50,000. “We represent Mr. Beason’s family,” Slater announced as if he spoke for an ecclesiastical power.
The woman handed the FAA inspector a subpoena. “We’re filing a wrongful-death action against all parties for the death of Samuel Beason, and subpoenaing all relevant documents.” She reached for the tapes.
The FAA inspector slapped her hand. “Don’t get grabby,” he told her. He unfolded the subpoena and started to read.
A cell phone buzzed and all five reached for their phones. It was for Bender. He flipped it open. “Bender here.” Even in that simple greeting, there was authority. He listened to the summons from the White House. No emotion crossed his face. He broke the connection and waited for the inspector to finish reading the subpoena.
“You had bette
r get a federal judge involved,” the inspector told the lawyers.
“This is a court order,” the man said. “Are you defying it?”
The inspector shook his head in disgust at the legal gimmicks lawyers would try, even very high-priced ones when they were out of ideas. “Wrong court.” A little smile crossed his face. “We’ll provide you copies at the proper time.”
The two lawyers exchanged glances. “We’re sorry you’ve chosen not to cooperate,” the woman said. The smile never left the inspector’s face as the two lawyers retreated, slamming the door behind them.
“Eat shit,” the inspector muttered. “They want to bury the tapes.”
Pontowski decided he liked the man. “You’ll have my logbook as soon as I can find a Xerox and make a copy for myself.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to get back to Washington ASAP,” Bender told the two men. “There’s a plane waiting for me at Sky Harbor.” Sky Harbor was Phoenix’s international airport twenty-six miles away. But to get there through traffic and into the terminal could take more than an hour.
“I can fly you there in the Mentor,” Pontowski offered. It was quickly arranged.
“I hope you’re coming back,” the inspector said.
“Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” Pontowski asked.
“Well, we’ve still got three Marchettis that are good to go and since Fine, Schlossmaker, and Trouble want to gather evidence, maybe we can model the accident for them.” Pontowski didn’t reply, but the idea of reflying the accident appealed to him. “Perhaps,” the inspector continued, his face solemn but his eyes giving him away, “we could take those two legal beagles along.” He paused. “Since they’re gathering evidence, of course.”
“Most assuredly,” Bender allowed.
“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Pontowski replied.
The White House
Dennis escorted the four local politicians from Maddy Turner’s hometown in California into the Oval Office and checked his watch. It was late afternoon and they were thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule. He beat a hasty retreat to ensure that the photographers were ready to record the meeting. Then he made a panic phone call to Maura O’Keith. They had a problem.
Photographers loved Turner. She was naturally photogenic and captured the camera. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for one of her guests. One woman, who happened to be the mayor and one of Turner’s most avid supporters, had a sense of fashion caught somewhere between bag lady and troll. Dennis shuddered at the thought of a photo of the two together. Such pictures had a life of their own and always came back to haunt the White House. Five minutes later, Maura was in the secretary’s office as Dennis explained the problem. The intercom buzzed. They were ready for the photographers and Dennis wished that Turner was a little less efficient in shortening her schedule.
Maura spoke to a secretary, appropriated her scarf, and followed the photographers into the Oval Office, tying the scarf around her shoulders. She made a pretense of examining her daughter’s hair, pronounced it fit for photographing, and generally acted like a mother, which thoroughly charmed the visitors. Then she did the same for them. She lingered over the mayor and smiled. “I know just the thing. It’s the light in here, you know.” She produced a hairbrush from her ever-present handbag, brushed the woman’s hair back on one side and curled it down and around the other cheek. She stepped back, surveyed her handiwork, and then draped the secretary’s scarf around the woman’s shoulders and tied it with a loose knot. The improvement was dramatic and the photographers went to work. Maura spoke to the woman when Dennis ushered them out. “The scarf looks so much better on you. Why don’t you keep it as a souvenir of your visit?” The woman beamed at Maura.
As usual, Parrish stayed behind. The day was over and they went over the next day’s schedule. “That’s about it, Madame President. Nothing’s brewing, so you should have a quiet evening.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Did Stephan send over a list of names to replace Rudenkowski?”
Parrish nodded and extracted the list from his folder. “And this,” he said, handing her a private memo.
Turner looked through the list and the brief biographies before reading the memo. “So Stephan is certain that replacing Rudenkowski will have adverse fallout.”
“Well,” Parrish said, “he has made major campaign contributions to Senator Leland and does have influence. Rudenkowski probably figures he paid for the ambassadorship and deserves to keep it.”
“Richard, my instincts tell me Poland is going to be a problem. Exactly how, I’m not sure. I want a professional over there as head of mission. But if I read Stephan’s memo correctly, Rudenkowski will cause problems if I request his resignation.”
“Big problems, Madame President.”
She stared at the painting over the fireplace, considering her options. “Check and see if there’s something else we can offer him.” She thought for a moment. “And have the FBI and treasury take another look into his background. Poke around a bit but keep State out of the loop for now. I want to be sure there is nothing that could prove embarrassing if it became public knowledge.” Parrish understood perfectly. It was the old carrot-and-stick approach. “Like Patrick used to say,” she said, thinking of Patrick Flannery Shaw, her former chief of staff, “kiss them on the cheek before you kick ’em in the Charlies.”
“I never realized Shaw was that subtle.”
“Patrick had his moments,” Turner replied, thinking of all she had learned from him.
“Will there be anything else, Madame President?”
“I was hoping to speak to General Bender today.” It was a gentle reprimand that her staff had not done their job.
“We found him in Arizona,” Parrish said. She arched an eyebrow. “He,” Parrish rushed to add, “will be available tomorrow. When would you like to see him?”
“Whenever it’s convenient.” That was her code for It-had-better-happen-tomorrow.
It was a quiet evening at home. Sarah was sitting on the floor wearing a headset and listening to music while she did her homework. Maura was sitting in a recliner reading one of her fashion magazines with her knitting in her lap. Occasionally, she drifted off to sleep, only to give a little honk and wake herself up. In the background, the TV was turned to CNN. Madeline Turner was curled up in the corner of her favorite couch wearing a baggy track suit and woolly socks. She was reading the blue binder on the UN South African peacekeeping mission she had requested that morning. The room was a scene of domestic tranquility paparazzi would have killed for to photograph. But Maddy’s fierce protection for her family’s privacy made that impossible.
Maura gave a little honk and woke up. “Mother,” Maddy asked, closing the three-ring binder, “you met Matthew Pontowski at NMMI. What was your impression?”
“Little Matt?” Maura asked, still drowsy.
“No, his father.”
Now the older woman was fully awake. It had been a long time since her daughter had asked her opinion about a single man. “He’s very attractive,” Maura replied. “A widower, you know. Lenora McMasters told me all about him. He was very wild in his younger days when he was a fighter pilot.”
Maddy shook her head in disapproval. She had met too many Pontowskis in her time; good-looking men who reeled women in with far too much success and ease. “The top-gun image,” she said. “I never knew if they were talking about their penis or their airplanes. Why do women fall for it?”
“Fall for what?” Sarah asked, pulling off her headset.
Both women sighed in resignation. Once Sarah joined in a conversation, she pursued a topic with bulldog-like determination. “The things men do to attract women,” Maddy answered.
“Oh,” Sarah replied, apparently satisfied with that answer. Then, “Mom, who are the Moody Blues?”
“An old rock-and-roll group from the early 1970s,” Maddy answered. “I don’t think they’re still recording.”
“Your father and I loved them,” Maddy said. “We used to sit and hold hands listening to them.” She caught Maura’s amused look and, for a moment, was back with Brian Kelly Turner. Indeed, they had listened to the Moody Blues, but they weren’t exactly holding hands. They were usually in bed making love. The sex had been wonderful. But there had been a rough spot when she discovered she was pregnant and not sure if she wanted to marry him. However, Brian Kelly Turner had pursued her so doggedly that she finally gave in. Then she had a miscarriage.
But it was an excellent marriage that had grown stronger over the years. His death from a heart attack while playing tennis at forty-eight had devastated her. It had happened in the middle of the election when she was running for vice president on the Quinton Roberts ticket. Shaw used her husband’s death as the springboard to victory. He turned around the losing campaign by casting her as a devoted mother of two young children gamely soldiering on. It had worked because it was true. It also covered up her thin political record and captured 88 percent of the women’s vote.
“Maddy,” Maura said, drawing her back to the moment and Matt Pontowski. “People do change, you know. Why did you ask?”
“I’m reading about a peacekeeping mission he was on in South Africa. Apparently, he was involved with a woman down there, Elena Martine, the head of the UN Observer Mission.”
“Didn’t we meet her at a reception?”
“How could I forget,” Maddy replied. Elena Martine had been introduced by the French ambassador and had been the star of the evening, upstaging every woman there. More than one tongue had been seen wagging or drooling, depending on the sex of the owner. As a result, Elena had gone on every Washington hostess’s blacklist. No wife in her right mind wanted a temptation like Elena floating around the cocktail and dinner party circuit.
“What’s wrong with Little Matt’s dad being involved with someone if he’s single?” Sarah asked.
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