Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “What are you two up to?” Bender asked.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Duncan answered, mimicking James, “the interrogatory should only be used when the acknowledgment is acceptable.”

  “Which means?”

  “Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer.”

  “Will you please join my staff for luncheon?” the commander asked.

  Following the meal, Bender and Duncan talked with the commander in his Spartan office. “My main problem is intelligence,” the Pole admitted. “Our national intelligence service is worthless and our informant system is hopelessly compromised by the Russian Mafiya. It is so bad that we assume nothing is reliable.”

  “We can make some of our national sources available to you,” Bender said. “But if your system is so bad, how do we keep the information we give you from going directly to the Mafiya?”

  This was Duncan’s area of expertise. “Limited distribution, through me to the commander.” He sketched a flow diagram as he talked. “Ultimately, the SPS will have to create its own intelligence base. That means you’ll have to find and develop your own sources. We can train your people on how to find and approach potential informants. We have some mighty fine arm twisting techniques to insure cooperation. You’ll have to create a secure system, safe from compromise, to verify and use the information. Again, we can show you how. But you have to do it.”

  The commander was not happy. “For fifty years, informants kept the Communists in power. It was the curse of our lives. Who could we trust? No one.” He hunched over and clasped his hands. “After Poland was free, I waited for two years to make sure the old regime would not return. Then I killed my neighbor. That’s how bad it was. Now you are telling me I must do the same thing. Will my neighbor kill me?”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Duncan said.

  The commander looked at his watch. “They should have located the hostage by now.” The tone of his voice announced his intelligence section had failed. He picked up the phone and told his operations center where the terrorists had taken the hostage. “I think you’ll enjoy this.”

  The commander was right and Bender had to work to maintain a poker face, the dispassionate observer merely recording events. The small, two-room farmhouse where the mock-terrorists had taken the hostage for the exercise was painted bright blue and typical of the ancient farmhouses in the area. But the owners had prospered in recent years and it was deserted in favor of a newer home. Still, it served as a reminder of the not so distant past.

  Duncan kept up a running commentary as the exercise unfolded. “Rule number one, General, isolate and clear the area. Look how they sweep the area of booby traps or ambushes before the terrorists are aware they are even here. I’ve seen cops rush up to a situation and get hosed down in a crossfire. That’s not going to happen with these guys. They’re good.”

  “And rule number two?” Bender asked.

  “Establish communications and bug the place.”

  “Then what happens?”

  Duncan was enjoying himself and wanted to get involved. But that wasn’t going to happen. “Time, talk, and tear gas.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time for that.” Then he remembered a similar exercise from years before. “How long will they hold James?”

  Duncan laughed. “Well, sir, he is the hostage.” Bender took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. He hoped the exercise was not out of control.

  The commander drove up in a U.S.-built Humvee flying antennas and packed with radios. “General Bender, we’re going to assume negotiations have reached the stage where we are giving the terrorists a getaway vehicle.” He pointed to a dark-gray van. He handed Bender a headset. “A team has placed sensitive monitors on the outside walls and we can hear everything inside.”

  Bender listened. He could hear a whimpering moan begging for mercy. A husky woman’s voice kept reassuring him it was just an exercise. Then she added, “You’ll get your clothes back in a few minutes.”

  Bender’s mental deep breath became a gulp. “Was it necessary to strip him?”

  “Well, sir,” Duncan replied, “that’s what happens in real life. He’s probably still got his shoes on and a bag over his head.”

  The commander spoke into his radio. On cue, two men moved silently toward the back wall of the farmhouse. “Always find the blind spot,” Duncan said. The men were against the wall and using hand signals to communicate. They attached a ribbon charge of C-4 plastic explosive on the wall, outlining the opening they intended to create. “That’s the diversion.” Duncan explained. “James is in the other room, so he’s safe.”

  “I hope so.”

  When the charge was in place and the detonator armed, one of the men against the wall raised his hand, his fingers crossed. The charge was armed. The dark-gray van drew up to the front of the farmhouse. The driver got out and opened all the doors to the van showing that it was empty. The driver retreated to safety leaving the engine running.

  The back wall of the home exploded in a flash and one of the men threw a stun grenade into the opening. Even in broad daylight the flash was blinding and the roar deafening. At the same time, six men burst out of the empty van and charged into the farmhouse. “Where did they come from?” Bender gasped.

  “A holographic image of the van’s empty interior is projected in front of a paper curtain inside the cargo compartment.” Gunfire echoed from the farmhouse. Duncan never missed a beat. “The assault team is hidden behind the curtain and just rips through the paper.” A naked James was hustled out of the farmhouse as more gunfire punctuated the scene. “At this point,” Duncan said, “the terrorists should all be dead or acting very friendly.”

  The commander drove back up. “The area is secure.” Duncan and Bender followed him over to the waiting van where James was sitting, a blanket now around his shoulders. “Mr. James,” the commander said, “thank you for volunteering to be the hostage. I hope it was a valuable learning experience for all of us.”

  James glared at him. “This was a gross violation of diplomatic immunity. For your information, I am the deputy charge of mission representing the president of the United States.”

  “And I’m the ambassador,” Bender said. “There was no violation of diplomatic immunity and this was a worthwhile exercise.”

  The commander gave James a sympathetic look. “The first time is always the hardest. Unfortunately, if this were a real situation, you’d be dead. The assault team repeatedly shouted, ‘James, drop! Get down!’ You stood up directly into the line of fire. Luckily, we were only firing blanks.”

  “We will lodge an official protest with the ministry of—” The sound of an arriving helicopter drowned James out.

  They waited as the helicopter’s engine spun down and the rotor blades slowed. “We’ll talk about it later,” Bender said, ending the discussion.

  A lanky figure got out of the helicopter. The commander visibly stiffened as Jerzy Fedor walked up to them. “Well, Mr. Ambassador, what do you think of my SPS unit?”

  FIFTEEN

  Air Force One, over Illinois

  Maddy Turner sat with her advisors as Air Force One descended into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Shaw leaned forward in his seat, explaining how Illinois fit into her whirlwind tour of the six states critical to winning a presidential election. “Illinois unlocks the Midwest. The bastards know it, the reporters trailing along sniffin’ up our tail know it, and we know it. So don’t worry about what they’re thinking. Let ’em speculate, percolate, and scramb-a-late while we find out if you’ve got the political base to run in your own right. Think of Chicago as the key to Illinois. But Chicago is a tough objective. We’re talking old-fashioned party politics; rigid organization, precinct captains, organizing the troops, getting out the vote.”

  “You make it sound like a military organization.”

  “In a sense it is. Chicago has a political machine with a rigid hierarchy and a command structure. The trick is to make the g
enerals want to do what you want them to do.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Now we’re talking leadership. You convince the generals you’re the candidate who can win and Illinois is yours. Show ’em you’ve got the popularity to win and then challenge ’em to deliver the vote.” The FASTEN SEAT BELTS lights went on and they strapped in for landing. The 747 touched down and taxied to the commercial side of the field, well away from the passenger terminals and the interminable lines of airliners waiting for takeoff. Shaw looked out his window. “We weren’t expecting anything like this.”

  Turner looked out the window and caught her breath. A huge crowd strained at the barriers and waved crude, hand-lettered signs in the wind. There was a hint of rain and they were bundled up against the cold. Yet, there was a spontaneity and warmth that echoed across the parking ramp. Conflicting emotions tore at her. Ego and vanity blended with pride and satisfaction while purpose and resolution drew her out of her seat and to her feet. And there was awe. But the echo of Maura’s voice reminded her that she was still mortal and fallible.

  Joe Litton came forward before the aircraft had stopped. “Madame President, the Secret Service says this is the biggest crowd they’ve ever seen at an airport. The reporters are hounding me for a quote. You might want to say a few words to them first.”

  Shaw was still looking out the window. “Go talk to them. Be humble, be awed.”

  “I am,” Turner replied.

  Shaw hunched in front of the window trying to gauge the size of the crowd. He was brisk: “You’ve got the popularity, Mizz President. Now challenge the generals to deliver the goods.”

  Warsaw

  Winslow James was about to do the bravest thing in his life. He was going to resign as Bender’s DCM. He carefully adjusted his tie, buttoned his coat, and marched resolutely across the Red Room and into Bender’s office. “Thank you for seeing me,” he began. Bender waved him to a seat. “I’d prefer to remain standing. Mr. Ambassador, I’m afraid we are at total cross-purposes here.”

  “How so?”

  “Apparently, sir, you are operating under several misconceptions. An embassy is not an action agency like the military.”

  “And what would you call the entire third floor?”

  “The CIA functions entirely within the scope of a legation as an intelligence-gathering body. We are, if you will, legal spies.”

  “I assure you, Winslow, that what the CIA is doing is not legal.”

  James refused to be swayed. “Further, you appear to be under the illusion that, as ambassador, you are utterly free to conceive and act in policy formation. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are here to represent the president of the United States and implement her foreign policy, not make it.”

  “And what if the president’s foreign policy is for us to conceive and act in certain areas?”

  “Then you must do so. But not at the expense of the dignity and integrity of your staff.”

  “You’re still angry about the hostage incident.”

  “I was abused,” James replied, his voice huffy and strained.

  “I understand Ewa Pawlik was the interpreter in the staff car. What did she tell you when you were stopped?”

  “She said it was a police exercise and to follow their instructions.”

  “Have you ever planned or participated in a hostage exercise?” James shook his head. “Then,” Bender continued, “perhaps you learned something and will be better prepared if the real thing should occur. I understand there’s an embassy operating instruction on terrorist and hostage situations.” Another nod from James. “You’re in a unique position because of your experience and I can’t think of anyone who can speak with more authority than you on this subject. Perhaps this would be the ideal time to update the operation instruction and brief the staff. Perhaps even an exercise—” He stopped at the look on James’s face.

  “I might be able to do something in that regard,” James allowed, hedging his commitment.

  “Why don’t you think about it and get back to me.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will.” James spun around and left. Halfway back to his office, he stopped and remembered his original purpose. For the first time in months, he was excited and felt good. He wanted to update the antiterrorist/hostage operation instruction and test it. Perhaps it could even be a model for other embassies. His resignation could wait.

  Air Force One, over California

  Shaw was on a roll.

  “We got momentum here, Mizz President. I’ve never seen anything like it. After the turnout at the airport, those Chicago fat cats rolled over and begged you to stroke their bellies.” He laughed. “And you did. I never heard ’em purr like that. My Gawd, it was almost obscene, they were so contented. Now let’s see if we can repeat it in the land of la-la.” An aide handed him the latest news clips taken off the Internet. He hunched over and studied them. “It’s a slow news day. We’re on page one because nothin’ else is hot.” He paced the president’s cabin, waving the pages in the air like a fly swatter. “Hollywood is the heart of the beast.”

  “Hollywood doesn’t have a heart,” Richard Parrish muttered.

  Shaw shook his head. “Americans crave theater. Entertain me, entertain me. But they also want someone to look up to and admire. Since we ain’t got a king or queen to stand up and be deified, the public picks whoever is available. More often than not, the whoever comes from Hollywood. If you don’t believe me, just schedule yourself opposite the Academy Awards and find out who comes in suckin’ hind tit.”

  “What’s your point?” Turner asked.

  Shaw sat down. “This is gonna take a different approach. Substance doesn’t count here, style does. In Chicago, you had to challenge ’em. Here you got to wow ’em.”

  “How do you propose I do that?”

  “Well, Mizz President, give ’em what they want and they’ll come out every time.”

  Turner was equal parts annoyance and amusement. “Patrick, I’ve heard that line before. Get to the point.”

  “I had a fashion designer work up a new wardrobe for this trip,” Shaw said. Turner arched an eyebrow in disapproval and he grew very serious. “Trust me on this one, Madame President.” He gave a friendly shrug. “Couldn’t hurt to look.”

  The chartered aircraft carrying the press on the presidential tour landed at Burbank thirty minutes before Air Force One arrived. The size of the crowd the Secret Service was predicting would have totally disrupted Los Angeles International and the airport authorities asked the White House to find another arrival location. Although the change was announced twenty-four hours in advance, there was still confusion and many of the reporters could not find their TV crews.

  Liz Gordon from CNC-TV scrambled to find her cameraman and was running toward the arrival area when Air Force One taxied in. Shaw had warned her to find a location that would give her a good shot of the president getting off the plane. Liz pushed her way through the crowd and bullied past lesser luminaries in the reporting world. Her cameraman was still setting up when the stairs were pushed against the forward entrance of the 747 and the door opened. Liz gave her hair a shake and did a sound balance. Then she was live, looking into the camera with Air Force One in the background.

  “This is the fourth stop on President Turner’s whirlwind tour. While it is becoming increasingly obvious that…”

  “Go to the president,” a voice in her earphone said.

  Gordon never missed a beat as she turned toward the aircraft. “…the president is personally testing the depth of her support in key states.” She stopped at a loss for words, not sure if she was seeing the president or not. A woman stood in the doorway wearing a stylish hip length leather jacket and very chic but impeccably tailored pants. A tie belt snared her narrow waist and the collar to her jacket was open enough to reveal a man’s-style white silk shirt. Then it hit. It was Maddy Turner.

  “Talk,” the voice in Gordon’s earphone commanded.

  �
��This is the first time,” Gordon managed to say, “that the president has appeared in public wearing trousers. Judging by the reaction around me, she has caused a sensation. I hope the camera can capture the full effect she is having on this crowd. By simply changing her style of dress, she has reached out to them and said, ‘I am one of you.’”

  Aboard Air Force One, Shaw charted her progress from a TV monitor in the communications section. He grunted in satisfaction as he channel surfed. The reaction was unanimously favorable. “That got their attention,” he muttered to himself.

  Warsaw

  Peter Duncan collapsed on the couch in Bender’s office. He was freshly showered and shaved but fatigue was etched on his face. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in two days. Automatically, Bender buzzed the outer office for coffee. “It’s too early,” he grumbled. His staff still hadn’t gotten the word that he liked to start work early. Ewa Pawlik answered on the fourth ring and promised to bring a tray in.

  “Problems,” Duncan muttered. “I’ve been on a field exercise with Special Public Services for the last thirty-six hours. They’re peaked and ready to go. I don’t envy their commander. It’s like having two hundred hungry Doberman pinschers in your backyard with their balls all tied to the same tree.”

  “So what’s the problem?” said Bender.

  “Intelligence.” He fell silent when Ewa knocked and entered with a tea cart.

  “Your secretary is here,” she said, “and Mr. James has just arrived with your read file.” The two men watched her as she poured them coffee. Then she was gone.

  Duncan sighed. “Lovely girl. Some lucky devil.”

  “I asked security to run an expanded background check on her,” Bender said. “She came up clean.”

  Duncan nodded. “There are times when beauty is suspect in itself.” He took a sip of the strong brew and savored it for a moment. “SPS is ready to go but we’re not providing the intelligence they need.”

  “Why?”