“Something’s buggin’ her,” Matt said.
A rare look of concern crossed Brian’s face. “Yeah.” Then he reverted to norm. “So who gives a shit?”
“I guess I do.” Matt sucked at his straw and drained his Coke. He picked up his backpack and followed her.
“Wait a minute,” Brian said. “I’ll go with you.” He dumped his Coke in the trash can and trotted down the stairs after Matt. They found Zeth at a small desk against a wall. She stared at a test paper. From four steps away they could see the big red F emblazoned on the front page. “You blow a big one?” Brian asked.
Zeth nodded. “It doesn’t make sense. I spend more time studying chemistry than all my other classes together and I still blow it.”
Brian sat down opposite her and looked at the test. He didn’t understand a word of it and handed the test to Matt. “Hey Maggot,” he said, enjoying the chance to rag her, “this looks like a piece of cake to me.”
Matt read the questions. “Carbon compounds is tough.”
“Tell me,” Zeth said. “This is my second shot at chemistry. If I don’t make it this time—” She stopped. There was no grade inflation at NMMI and approximately twenty cadets a year flunked out for grades.
“Take biology or geology,” Brian said. “They’re easier.” Then he relented. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“I’m not a total wuss,” she said.
Something in her voice reached Brian. “Then you gotta go for it. Look, why don’t you let Maggot tutor you? He’s getting me through biology. He knows all about this”—he almost said shit.
Zeth looked at Matt. “You do?”
Embarrassed, Matt shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Yeah, I guess so. It just sort’a comes naturally.”
Brian got up and shoved Matt into his chair. “It won’t hurt to give it a try.” He picked up his backpack and headed out the door. He was always a little uncomfortable in the formal lounge. Then he reconsidered and went back inside. He dragged a chair up beside Zeth and sat down, joining in the study session.
“The simplest organic compounds are called hydrocarbons.” Matt began, listing a sequence of formulas. “Now watch how they’re related.”
Chuck Sanford, the Secret Service agent on duty, sat behind the desk with NMMI’s hostess, the trim and proper lady responsible for supervising the lounge and teaching cadets the social graces. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered, watching the three cadets.
“Mr. Turner is turning into a gentleman,” the hostess pronounced. “I’ve seen it happen before.”
ELEVEN
The White House
The blue Air Force staff car joined the line of cars pulling up to the White House. The driver was nervous and she kept glancing in the rearview mirror to check on her passenger. Pontowski sympathized with what the young airman was going through. “Your first time?”
“At night, yes, sir.” The young woman’s reply was a little too quick and the car jerked to a stop. A Marine guard opened the door and Pontowski got out. Automatically, he gave the short jacket of his dark blue formal uniform a tug. “Your hat, sir,” the driver said, handing him his wheel hat.
“Thank you,” Pontowski replied, tucking the hat under his arm for the short walk inside. “I always feel like a penguin in this outfit.”
“You look great, sir,” the driver said, confirming the truth of it. The mess dress uniform fitted him perfectly and he looked like he had stepped out of an Air Force recruiting poster.
Dennis was waiting for him. “General Pontowski, this way please.” Instead of going up the steps with the other guests, Dennis led the way to the second-floor residence. “You’ll escort the president down the main staircase,” he said. “At the bottom landing, stand aside and the president will proceed with the honor guard. An aide will take you to the State Dining Room where she will join you at the head table.”
Pontowski gave a low laugh. “Been there, done that.”
Dennis recovered nicely. “Ah, yes. When your grandfather was president. I doubt that much has changed.” He held open the door and Pontowski entered the family quarters. The old memories came rushing back and for a moment, he was a young second lieutenant and his grandfather was the president of the United States. He smiled when he saw his grandmother’s favorite chair by the fireplace. The elegant and kind woman called Tosh had really raised him after the death of his parents. Then he saw it. His grandfather’s portrait hung over the fireplace.
“The likeness is startling,” Maura said from behind him. “He was a handsome man.” Pontowski turned around. “No hugs,” she declared. “You’ll ruin the getup.” Then she hugged him anyway. “Ouch. Those medals are sharp. What are they for anyway?”
He pointed to the Distinguished Flying Cross. “Well, this one is because my group had 40 percent fewer cavities and—”
She touched another medal, interrupting him. “That’s a Purple Heart isn’t it?”
“I had a bad day.”
“Please, be serious.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, Matt, you must. Maddy likes you, more than she’s willing to admit. Sarah adores you and Brian, well, let’s just say you’re the good example he needs in his life.”
“But this is Washington,” Pontowski added, “and there are no rules for the first woman president. Especially a widow.” His grandfather had taught him well.
“She can be hurt,” Maura murmured, not thinking at all of Washington and its immortal politicians and bureaucrats who treated presidents as temporary interlopers on their terrain.
The door opened and Maddy walked in with a beaming Sarah. “Wow,” Pontowski managed. It was a classic understatement.
“You look lovely, darlin’,” Maura said. Maddy was wearing a slim floor-length dark blue evening dress with narrow straps that gave full play to her bare shoulders and intriguing hints of a trim figure. Her trademark gold chain was gone and, in its place, she wore a thin diamond necklace. The small pendant earrings matched perfectly. “I love your hair,” Maura said, passing her most critical judgment. Maddy’s hair was pulled back off her face and held in a simple arrangement that fell to her shoulders. But it was her gown that demanded a second look and would spur the fashion pundits to create new superlatives for understated elegance and glamour.
“We seem to be a matching pair,” Maddy said, joining Pontowski by the fireplace. She reached out and adjusted his bow tie. “Oh. It’s a real one. I didn’t know men still knew how to tie them.”
“My grandmother taught me.”
“Wasn’t she English?” Maura asked.
“The Lady Wilhelmina Crafton. Everyone called her Tosh.”
“Tosh,” Maddy mused. “What an unusual name.”
“I don’t know where it came from. I asked them about it once but they only smiled at each other. I think it goes back to when they met. My grandfather was flying with the Royal Air Force in World War II and was wounded, actually pretty badly. My grandmother never used her title after they were married. She became an American citizen in 1952.”
“She was an elegant First Lady,” Maura added.
Dennis knocked and entered with Justice Wood, Maura’s escort for the evening. “Madame President, it’s time.”
“Thank you, Dennis.” She turned and took Pontowski’s arm, leading the way into the hall.
“Your daughter,” Justice Wood murmured to Maura, “is going to set the fashion industry on its ear, not to mention a few tongues wagging.”
The dinner party was, by White House standards, a semi-official event in honor of the new president of the Académie Français, that convocation of France’s intellectual elite dedicated to preserving all things French. The elderly gentleman was touring the United States with his new wife, the former Elena Martine, who was thirty years younger. As the guests of honor they sat at the head table with the presidential party. Elena had intended to be the star of the evening in a shimmering gold and dark red gown that had been created by a Parisian fash
ion house for the occasion. But Maddy upstaged everyone. Elena tried to recover by charming them with her French accent while Justice Wood trotted out his rusty French. Then Pontowski joined in, his French near perfect. Elena’s husband was impressed that an American could carry on a conversation in the language and said so.
Bender and Nancy were seated at a nearby table with Senator John Leland and his wife. “Robert,” Nancy said, “isn’t she the woman Matt was involved with during the South African peacekeeping mission?”
“I believe,” Bender said, “she was head of the UN Observer Mission at the time. He had to interact with her.”
“I mean romantic involvement.”
“She’s very attractive,” Leland’s wife said, joining the conversation.
“She’s too flashy,” Leland said grumpily. “And far too young for that old fool.”
“They are French,” Leland’s wife said. “Look how she keeps touching Pontowski. Maddy must be furious.”
“The president is absolutely gorgeous tonight,” Nancy said, leading away from the president’s frame of mind.
Leland humphed. “She shouldn’t dress like that.”
“You might say she’s upholding the national honor,” Bender said, deadpan.
Nancy reached out and touched her husband’s hand. “Robert. I believe you just made a funny.”
Leland’s eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. In the low-pressure atmosphere of Washington ethics, a boyfriend was fair game.
In a show of gallantry, the guest of honor asked Maddy to dance when the music started. She rose gracefully and they walked onto the dance floor. “Matt,” Elena said, “shouldn’t we join them?” Reluctantly, Pontowski stood and offered Elena his arm. “Do you remember when we first danced at the state dinner in Cape Town? You were wearing the same uniform and ever so dashing.”
He allowed the memories out of their carefully walled niches where he would return them as soon as possible. “And you were wearing dark pink.”
“You do remember,” she cooed in French. “Do you remember afterward?”
He didn’t answer but the memory of her standing nude by the big window overlooking the South Atlantic as golden firelight played on her skin was vivid and fresh as yesterday. He made a mental resolution to keep it all in the past where it belonged. Elena moved into his arms and they started to dance. Other couples joined them and soon, the dance floor was full. When the music ended, Maddy and Elena’s husband joined them. Maddy touched Matt’s arm, establishing her rights for the next dance and when the orchestra started to play a waltz, most couples left the floor. Maddy arched an eyebrow as if to ask if he knew how to waltz. “Tosh taught me,” he answered. “She loved to dance.”
Maddy stepped into Pontowski’s arms and they picked up the beat, moving in perfect step. The waltz is a formal, stylized dance meant to showcase the couple’s skill and the woman’s gown. But when it is done right, the couple blend into one and move with a sensuous grace. Unlike the tango where the dance is a graphic reenactment of seduction and sexual conquest, the waltz can be a public, but very proper, display of courtship and hidden affection. The other couples on the dance floor moved aside and watched as they spun around the floor. Finally, the music ended and the audience applauded. Maddy’s face glowed with emotion. “Oh,” she finally managed, breaking contact. “That was nice.”
Elena watched them return to the table, determined to have her time in the spotlight—and with Pontowski. “Be careful, my pet,” her husband cautioned in French. “We’re here to build bridges.”
The evening turned into a rare success, partly because of Maddy’s new image and partly because of the vivacious Elena who knew how to work an audience. But mostly because everyone knew who Matt Pontowski was and wanted to discover if he was more than just the president’s escort for the evening. From all appearances, Maddy was the perfect hostess, but, inwardly, she knew that Elena was encroaching on her territory. She fumed with anger.
Late in the evening, Maura leaned her head next to her daughter’s. “Don’t let her upset you,” she murmured. “She’ll be gone in a few days. Besides, he’s not interested in her.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Maddy replied, a little testy. She glanced at Pontowski, not knowing how to read him. Was Maura right or was he infatuated with an old flame who was almost offering herself to him? A commotion in the far corner caught her attention. Someone had collapsed on the dance floor. Maddy stood and saw Bender hovering over his wife. “Get Dr. Smithson,” she ordered, calling for the White House doctor who was on duty. Within moments, Smithson was with Nancy Bender and she was sitting in a chair. Then Bender and Smithson helped her into another room.
“Let’s call it a night,” Maddy said. She motioned to an aide to start the farewell protocols. Twenty minutes later, she was in the residence with Maura and Dennis as Pontowski said good night and left. “Dennis, please check on Mrs. Bender.” He hurried out to do as ordered. Now Maddy could give full play to what was bothering her. She paced back and forth in long strides, her legs whipping at the gown’s skirt. “That woman will never step inside my house again. Can you believe it? The obvious way she fawned over Matt? And he liked it! You would’ve thought they were lovers and her husband a blind dolt.”
“Cuckold, dear,” Maura said. She had to suppress her laughter. “There’s nothing between them.”
But Maddy wouldn’t let it go. “There may not be—now.”
Maura touched her daughter’s arm. “Everyone has a past. She was long before you.”
“Mother! I know what men think with.”
Dennis knocked and entered with Dr. Smithson. “Mrs. Bender is fine,” the doctor said. “We’ll run some tests tomorrow. I imagine we’ll find she needs vitamins and perhaps iron.”
“That’s a relief,” Maddy said. Then, “Iron? Is she anemic?”
“Most likely. She may be expecting.”
“She’s pregnant? At her age?”
Maura chuckled. “It does happen.”
Maddy glared at her mother. “What is it with these Air Force men? Do they run around with permanent erections?”
“It’s the women that make them that way, dear.” Maura collapsed on a couch as her laughter finally broke through. “What a wonderful evening!”
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Nancy Bender leaned across the breakfast table in the elegant guest house the State Department maintained for VIPs. She touched her husband’s hand. “Quit playing the great stoneface and say something.”
“Are you sure?”
“They say home tests are very accurate.”
“But—” It was one of the few times in his life that Bender was at a loss for words. He covered his frustration by pouring another cup of coffee.
“It does happen. Menopause does things to your, ah, timing.”
“But—”
“I’m forty-eight and that’s what you get for marrying a child bride. Besides, I haven’t taken precautions in years. I didn’t think it could happen after all the years of wanting another child. Maybe I didn’t care.”
“But—”
“Stop sounding like a stuck record. It’s because of those cold Polish nights with nothing to do. That’s why there’ll always be a Poland.”
A wide smile spread across Bender’s face as he shook his head in wonder. He reached for her hand. “I do love you.”
“You had better. I feel fine, so what’s on the agenda for today?” Then another thought came to her. “I can hardly wait to see the look on Winslow’s face when we tell him.”
“I may have to explain the mechanics to him,” Bender said with a straight face.
Pontowski was driven to the Georgetown guest house that same morning. Bender was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming,” he said, showing him into the sitting room. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Peter Duncan.”
Duncan stood and the two men shook hands. Peter Duncan was short, a fraction over five feet five inches
tall, and built like a tree stump. His jet black hair, unbelievably fair skin, and pale blue eyes declared he was black Irish. His South Boston accent confirmed it. “The pleasure is all mine, General Pontowski.”
“Don’t let Pete fool you with his Irish cop routine,” Bender warned. “He’s been a cop, FBI special agent, lawyer, and DOJ prosecutor.”
“And now you have me sounding like I can’t hold a job,” Duncan protested. He settled back into his chair and the accent disappeared. “At heart, I’m still a cop.”
“Which is why he’s here,” Bender added. “Pete, this laid-back, devil-may-care jet jockey is here because he’s like you. He’s done many things. But in his heart, he’s always been just one thing: a fighter pilot.”
The two men looked at Bender wondering why they were in the same room. Matt gave him his lopsided grin. “Why do I get the impression I’m about to be hosed out of the saddle. Cut to the chase, General.”
“Gentlemen, I want you to help stabilize the situation in Poland.”
“The man’s mad,” Duncan muttered. “That means taking on the Russian Mafiya. Tell your insurance company and they’ll cancel your life insurance.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Pontowski said.
“It is,” Bender replied. He sat back in an overstuffed chair, folded his fingers together with his elbows resting on the arms and studied them. He had set the challenge and knew his men. It was one of the reasons he was a general.
Duncan’s voice went soft. “What do you want us to do, General?” Underneath his calm exterior, his heart was beating rapidly.
“Pete, I want you to help the Poles create a viable anticrime task force similar to our FBI but with more muscle. Matt, the Poles need a tactical air force that can control their own airspace. We’re selling them F-16s through NATO, but they need training. That’s where you come in.”
“Are these related in some way?” Pontowski asked.
Duncan tried to look bored but he had read the reports coming from every major law-enforcement agency in America and Western Europe. “Is Saint Patrick Irish?”
Edge of Honor Page 17