“I can’t crack the system. Everyone in the embassy is charming and friendly. They appear helpful and promptly pass the buck. No one’s willing to make a decision.”
Bender’s secretary buzzed. Winslow James was ready with the daily intelligence summary. Bender had him sent in. James marched in and handed him the thick read file and a summation of the local situation. He stood while Bender scanned the two-page document. It was accurate, brief, and well-written. “I’m impressed,” Bender said. “Make sure key members of the staff are on the distribution list.”
James frowned. “The CIA will only participate if the intelligence summary is for your eyes only.”
“You got farther with them than I did,” Duncan groused.
Bender stood up. “I think we need to speak to the gentlemen upstairs.” He led the way into the main corridor and to the elevator. “How do we get it to stop at the third floor?”
James punched the button for the third floor and spoke into the speaker. “The ambassador for Mr. Riley.” The elevator rose slowly and passed the third floor. It stopped at the fourth floor. “They don’t like unannounced visits,” James muttered.
Bender hit the button for the third floor and spoke. “Tell Mr. Riley to meet me in the bubble room. Now.” He hit the button for the basement and the elevator rapidly descended. The doors opened and Bender again hit the button for the third floor. “I expect Mr. Riley in two minutes.” He marched out of the elevator and into the hallway. A Marine guard was sitting behind a desk, guarding a door. He stood and came to attention. “Good morning, Corporal Kincaid. We need to use the bubble room.” The Marine punched a four-digit code into the lock and the heavy door swung open.
The three men walked inside. The room’s walls were bare cement and without decoration. A glass partition in the center of the room encircled a small round table with six chairs. Corporal Kincaid entered with an electrical wand and scanned the walls, the chairs, and table. Then he ran it over the three men. He frowned when the wand activated on Duncan. “Pacemaker,” Duncan said. The Marine thoroughly frisked him and then checked the security dossier at his desk, confirming that Duncan did wear a pacemaker.
A nondescript man wearing a dark suit entered the room. He was the face in the crowd that no one ever noticed and he seemed to be part of the furniture. Officially, Evan Riley was carried on the embassy rolls as an administrative officer. Unofficially, he was the CIA chief of station and a power unto himself. Again, the Marine ran the wand over him. “Thank you, Mr. Riley.” He left and closed the door behind him before activating the jamming circuits. A low hum, almost indiscernible, emanated from the walls and the four men sat down inside the glass enclosure. They were “in the bubble” and no known device could monitor their conversation.
“You wished to speak to me,” Riley said.
“First,” Bender said, “let me thank you for helping Winslow compile a daily intelligence summary on the local situation. It is most helpful.” A little nod from Riley. “However, I would like for key members of my staff to also see it.”
“That’ll take a special clearance from Langley,” Riley said. “They’ll want to clear it before circulation.”
“And we lose immediacy.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Second, I want to open an intelligence channel to the Polish SPS through Mr. Duncan in order to…”
Riley shook his head and interrupted him. “Impossible.”
Bender drilled him with a hard look. “…in order to give the SPS the intelligence they need to effectively target the Russian Mafiya.”
Like most government bureaucracies, the CIA was very protective of its turf. While its main objective was intelligence gathering, it demanded control over who had access to its information to prevent a compromise of the system. In general, it was a good policy. Evan Riley’s face was impassive. Above all else, he had to protect his sources and he knew the danger of working with outsiders. Personally, he trusted no one, especially ambassadors. “I’ll forward your request to my superiors.”
“And I expect an answer tomorrow.”
“Then, sir, your answer will be negative.”
Bender took a deep breath. He had dealt with the CIA before. “I understand your need to protect sources. By the time we pass the information to the SPS, they’ll have no idea where it came from.”
“But you can’t guarantee that.”
Bender drummed the table with his fingers. He had to get Riley’s attention. “You probably know that I am in direct communications with Mazana Hazelton.” Again, a little nod from Riley. But James was incredulous and gaped at Bender. If Bender was reporting to the national security advisor, then he had access to the president and was bypassing the secretary of state. Bender smiled at James. “That’s close-hold information and not to go beyond this room.” He turned his full attention on Riley. “Have you ever seen the president angry? Let me assure you, you never want to be the object of that anger.”
Riley’s face paled. “I’m quite sure something can be worked out.”
Bender stood and left. He had the CIA’s attention.
Air Force One, over Texas
Shaw sat beside Turner as she thumbed through the folder with the biographies and photos of the Texas oil and cattle barons she would be meeting in less than an hour. “Don’t let the good-old-boy routine fool you, Mizz President. You can cut their Texas accents like butter on a hot griddle and they’ll be all Southern charm and smiles, but they didn’t get where they are by being fools. All but two are self-made billionaires. Don’t be afraid to speak to them in terms they understand.”
Turner raised an eyebrow. She knew the men by reputation but had never met them. “I’m not about to play the Southern belle.”
Shaw shook his big head. “Think more like the widow who has to run the ranch to keep the family together. They care about two things: price supports for beef and depletion allowances for oil. And they’ll want to hear from you on both of ’em.”
“I’m not in favor of either.”
“Then let Congress take the heat, not you. Sidestep the issue. Tell them money is like manure. You got to spread it around to do any good.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“A lot to them. I’ll backdoor a few comments like, ‘The president is more concerned with maintaining low prices than supports or allowances.’ They’ll put the two together and think you can live with the current system as long as they don’t get greedy. They’ll be reaching for the checkbooks before we’re back on Air Force One.”
“It’s so manipulative.”
“They know what we’re doing, Mizz President. Never forget these gentlemen are gamblers and they hedge their bets. They’ll contribute more to whoever Leland backs for president. But they’re willing to invest a couple of million to keep the door open just in case we win.”
“Speaking of Leland, what is he up to these days?”
“Like everyone else, lying low until he’s sure you’ve got the wherewithal to run.”
Turner handed him the folder and buzzed for her traveling staff. “How far is it to Roswell from Dallas?” she asked.
“Approximately an hour’s flying time,” came the answer.
“I’d like to stop there for a few hours tomorrow and visit Brian. I’ve never been to NMMI.”
Worried glances all around. “That’s pretty short notice, Madame President,” Parrish murmured.
“I’m quite sure you can arrange it,” she said.
Warsaw
The call from the third floor of the embassy came at exactly 4:00 P.M., the last Friday of November. It was Evan Riley. “Mr. Ambassador, I was wondering if we might meet in the bubble room. Could Mr. Duncan also be there?” Bender said they would be there in fifteen minutes. Riley was waiting for them when they arrived and actually allowed a smile. “Mr. Ambassador, I must apologize for taking so long to get back to you, but the wheels grind slowly sometimes.” They sat down and Riley handed Bender a thin folder.
> “Let’s see,” Duncan said, enjoying the chance to heckle the CIA head of station. “On Wednesday morning, General Bender asked for a response in twenty-four hours.” He did the math in his head. “That was fifty-six hours ago. For the CIA, that’s moving at warp speed.”
“Well, we did sidestep some mountains on this one.”
Duncan chuckled, enjoying the exchange. “You mean you monitored an interesting phone call between the general and the national security advisor.”
“For the record, no,” Riley said. “The ambassador has been the soul of patience on this one. We checked you out. Most impressive, Mr. Duncan. I had no idea. How many mobsters have you put in jail?”
“Important ones? Six.”
“Is that why there’s a contract on your head?”
“Only one? I’m disappointed.” The two men laughed.
Bender opened the folder and read. “How good is this information?” He passed the folder to Duncan to read.
“Please, sir,” Riley replied, “don’t ask that question. Let’s just say it’s worth acting on.”
Duncan shook his head. “It’s too good to be true. A major shipment of money all on one airplane whose last stop is at Modlin Air Base here in Poland. Mikhail Vashin can’t be that stupid.”
“That,” Riley said, “was the initial reaction of our analysts. But we’ve put together a profile on him that makes for very interesting reading. Vashin is acting within the Russian tradition of grand gestures, big buildings, fancy cars, and beautiful women. It appeals to the Russian character and success breeds authority and power. There is one story about a bizarre funeral last April that is very illuminating.” He gave a little shudder. “Anyway, on analysis, this becomes more believable.”
“So who are we dealing with here?” Bender asked.
“An egomaniac,” Riley answered. He paused for a moment. “I’ll get a copy of the profile to you.” Another pause. “Vashin is emerging as the new Russian strongman.”
“A new Stalin?” Duncan asked.
“Different, but just as ruthless.”
Duncan rubbed his jaw, calculating the probability of success. “Sunday night is awfully short notice and I don’t think SPS can be ready in time. This’ll be their first operation. They need a success the first time out. It’s too risky.”
Now it was Riley’s turn to press for action. But he had to convince them without revealing, or even alluding to, the source of the CIA’s information. The CIA had a spy so highly placed that Vashin was wired for sound. “Our analysts have correlated this with other intelligence and believe this money shipment is a one-time event. It’s a chance to send Vashin a message he understands.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Bender asked.
Again, Riley briefly considered what he could tell them. “We estimate approximately fifteen to twenty billion dollars in securities, gold, and actual money.”
The buccaneer in Duncan came out and he licked his lips in anticipation. “This is better than a Spanish treasure galleon loaded with gold.” Another thought came to him. “How much space does that much money take up?”
Riley shrugged. “At least a planeload.”
Bender made the decision. “Pass this on to the SPS.”
“Can you keep Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers out of the loop?” Riley asked.
“Why?” Bender replied.
“That’s another question we’d rather not answer.”
Duncan exhaled loudly. “It’s still pretty short notice.”
“You can make it happen,” Bender reassured him.
“What exactly,” Duncan wondered, “is Vashin going to do with twenty billion dollars?”
SIXTEEN
Moscow
Vashin threw down the latest edition of the Megapolis Express. He was furious at the lead article detailing the current successes of Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense. “Why isn’t Rodonov dead?” he shouted.
“I’ll find out,” Geraldine answered, watching carefully for the signs of a fit. She retreated to her office and placed a call to Tom Johnson. Then, to be on the safe side, she called Le Coq d’Or and ordered the two girls, Naina and Liya, to come to the penthouse suite. She sat at her desk and scrolled through Vashin’s calendar while she weighed her options. Vashin was changing and that offered new possibilities as well as dangers. Johnson arrived and they went into the penthouse where Vashin was still standing in front of the big picture window overlooking Moscow.
“Mikhail,” Geraldine said, bringing him back to the moment.
“Why isn’t Rodonov in the ground?”
“He didn’t take the honey trap,” Johnson said. “Apparently, he’s a happily married family man.” Vashin shot him a deadly look. “We can’t blame the girls,” Johnson hastily added.
“Then use more direct means.”
“That’s an easy solution with potentially bad consequences. No one must be able to trace it to you or your organization. We made one failed attempt.”
Vashin’s head jerked up. “I didn’t know there had been an attempt on his life.”
Johnson gave a little nod. “Perhaps you remember the car the Belarussian separatists blew over the Moscow Business Bank in Minsk?”
Vashin looked puzzled. “But that had nothing to do with Rodonov.”
Johnson said glumly, “Rodonov was in Minsk for a secret meeting. We discovered he would be driving down Serafimovicha Street. So we planted a bomb like the Belarussians use in the sewer and waited for him to drive over it. We got the wrong car.”
“Why wasn’t I told about it?”
Johnson was brutally frank. “For two reasons. First, because we failed. Second…”
Vashin interrupted him. “So it could never be traced back to me.”
“Exactly.”
Vashin looked out the window. “Very good.” Johnson took that as a dismissal and left, leaving them alone.
Geraldine sensed the timing was right. “Why should you be concerned with Vitaly Rodonov? He’s beneath you, not worthy of your concern. Besides, he did go to NATO and saved our European landing rights. The gateway is still wide open.”
“But not as open as it was before,” Vashin muttered.
“Progress is not a straight road. You taught me that.” She sensed Vashin was in a receptive mood. “Vashin Towers is a major junction on that road and a symbol of what you can do. But it is a building. Now the people need to see the man behind the great accomplishments. Perhaps it is time for grand gestures and maybe even forgiveness. Show the people, your followers, that great power also means mercy.”
Vashin liked what he was hearing. “Perhaps, you’re right.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Are you still having the same dream?” He nodded, not looking at her. “Only the gods live in clouds, Mikhail. I’m certain it’s a message. What else can it mean? Everything you do, all that you touch, should be big and godlike.”
The Hill
The Box echoed with commands and, at exactly eleven o’clock Saturday morning, the Corps marched out of Hagerman Barracks. The ranks were a little straighter, the turns sharper, and their step more purposeful as they came onto the parade field. The Tactical Leadership Advisors watched nervously as their charges passed by and, occasionally, cast furtive glances at the waiting crowd. The grandstands were overflowing and the field lined with spectators. What had promised to be a normal Saturday morning parade attended by a few townspeople had turned into a major event.
The reason for the sudden interest was sitting on the reviewing stand with General McMasters, his wife, and the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Madame President,” Lenora McMasters asked, “have you ever seen a military parade before?”
“This is my first time,” Maddy replied. “Does the town always turn out like this?”
“Sometimes,” Lenora answered. “It’s probably because you are the first sitting president to ever visit Roswell.” They talked while the Corps moved onto the field.
&nb
sp; “I think Brian has mentioned you three or four times. He calls you the Cookie Lady. How many have you baked?”
Lenora laughed. “I quit counting after the first year. It’s such a little thing, even silly, but for some reason…”
Maddy reached out and touched Lenora’s hand. “Thank you.” They fell silent as the superintendent stepped up to the microphone. He began by calling for the chaplain to give the invocation. The appropriate honors were played for the president and adjutant’s call, was sounded. “Colonel Day,” Maddy asked, “what’s happening?”
The commandant beamed with pride as he explained a standard military parade. Then it was time for the Corps to pass in review. McMasters and Day escorted her to the front of the reviewing stand to review the cadets as they passed by. The commands were sharp as Alpha Troop approached, its guidon lowered. “Eyes right” echoed over the field. As one, the cadets’ heads snapped to the right.
“They’re wonderful,” Maddy said. “You must be very proud of them.”
“We are, Madame President,” McMasters said. He gave a low laugh. “And sometimes, they’re show dogs.” Maddy looked at him, not sure how to interpret his remark. “They’re still kids, Madame President. But they know when to shine.”
“Indeed they do.” She watched as Brian’s troop marched by. She barely recognized her son and her eyes misted over.
It had been a long day and finally Maddy was alone with Brian in his room. “I can’t believe how neat and clean it is.”
“We had a big room inspection this morning.”
“Before the parade?”
“And we had an open ranks inspection before that.”
The mother in Maddy came out. “That’s asking too much.”
“Ah, Mom. I got it all locked up. Thanks to Maggot and the Trog.”
Maddy looked at her son, hearing something new. He was not the same willful, very spoiled boy she had sent to New Mexico. “Are you happy here?”
Brian shrugged. “I got some good friends.” He fell silent. Then, “I want to come back next year.”
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