Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “Please, Mr. Shaw. It’s not every day that the personal representative of the president of the United States comes to Poland.”

  Shaw was impressed. He had been in Poland fewer than twelve hours and the government was checking him out. Time to change the subject. “I take it you’re from security?”

  “Of course not,” Fedor lied. “I’m only concerned with economic affairs.” Fedor pointed to a big gray building ahead of them on their right. “That’s the stock exchange where I work.”

  You’re a lying sack-of-shit. You’ve got access and a clue. Shaw decided it was time to show a little edge. “Did you work there when it was still Communist Party headquarters?”

  “Very good Mr. Shaw. Do you still work in the basement?”

  Shaw enjoyed sparring with Fedor. “I’m moving up in the world.”

  Fedor sighed. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  Shaw sensed he was dealing with a kindred spirit, a man after his own heart. He decided to crack the door open and peek at the other side. “I’ve got a plane to catch, but I do have a few minutes.”

  “We have a mutual problem, Mr. Shaw.”

  “We do?” They were still sparring.

  “The drug trade. With your help, we were making progress stopping it, but with the death of General Bender…”

  Shaw finished the thought for him. “You’re worried we’ll cancel.”

  “Exactly.” They were on the same wavelength. “With your help, we can handle the Russians. It’s the Germans we’re worried about.”

  “You want us to pull them up short?”

  “It would be appreciated.”

  Shaw understood perfectly. Fedor wanted him to backdoor a message to the president.

  “Why?” He was really asking, What’s in it for me?

  Now it was Fedor’s turn to proffer a deal. “Maybe I can help distract your problem.”

  You’re good, Shaw thought. They shook hands.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Hill

  The dean of the faculty at NMMI was eating breakfast Monday morning when he heard the noise in the backyard. He looked out the window and froze. Two sheep were munching contentedly on his wife’s prize azalea bushes. The third animal, a large ram in a much more agitated state, was mounting one of the ewes. The dean’s shock gave way to laughter and he walked over to Quarters One to tell the superintendent. He didn’t see the black Secret Service sport utility truck parked across the street in the parking lot.

  McMasters and the dean walked quickly back to the dean’s house to survey the damage. McMasters’s first impulse was to laugh. “Ranchers take rustling very seriously,” the dean said, killing any humor and bringing them back to reality. Chuck Sanford got out of the truck and joined them.

  “I’d better call the sheriff,” McMasters said.

  “General McMasters,” Sanford said, “would it help if we returned the sheep?” He paused. “Before you call the sheriff. There may not be a problem.”

  The superintendent and the dean exchanged glances. The Secret Service meant Brian Turner was involved and silence was the better part of discretion. “I’d appreciate that,” McMasters said.

  Brian stood at attention in front of the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Mr. Turner, are you aware that stealing livestock in the state of New Mexico is a felony offense? It’s called rustling. At least they don’t hang you for it these days. To the best of my knowledge, the rancher is not going to press charges since the sheep were returned unharmed. So, what are we dealing with here?”

  “Sir, I borrowed the sheep and intended to return them. I never lied about it and I was on a permit to be offpost.”

  “Barracks lawyers,” the commandant moaned. “But you are responsible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see. And who helped you?”

  Brian braced himself even harder and did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. “Sir, since it was my idea and I organized it, I’d rather not say.”

  “I understand two others were involved. Are you telling me you’re willing to serve their punishments?”

  Brian’s face turned white. Then, “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Because the dean busted my squad leader for cheating on a test when she didn’t.”

  The commandant shook his head. “Mr. Turner, the dean didn’t bust Miss Trogger. I did. I busted her for public display of affection. She was caught putting a lip lock on her zoomie boyfriend. About the charge of cheating, after looking into the matter, both the dean and her teacher agreed that she didn’t cheat. In fact, they commended her for her work and her teacher apologized.”

  “I didn’t know,” Brian muttered.

  The commandant kicked back in his chair and studied the cadet. There was still the problem of the sheep. It was a prank that, in his day, would have gotten a cadet twenty tours at worst. Now it was a penitentiary offense. But the young man was standing in front of him and taking full responsibility, which he liked. He made his decision.

  “As long as the rancher is not going to file charges and the dean is more amused than upset, this is still in my jurisdiction. Sixty tours or suspension for the rest of the year. Your choice.”

  Brian never hesitated. “I’ll take the tours, sir.”

  The commandant relaxed. “Very well. A word of advice, Mr. Turner. It’s always okay to talk about problems with your friends. But next time, either trust the system or learn all the facts before you take action. And I’d suggest you make amends with the dean’s wife. Dismissed.”

  Brian saluted and beat a hasty retreat. The commandant picked up the phone and called McMasters. He smiled at the thought of the superintendent explaining it all to the president of the United States. Then he laughed out loud. “That’s what he gets paid for,” he said to no one.

  Outside, Matt was waiting for Brian. “How did it go?”

  “No sweat. I gotta walk some tours.”

  “I’m gonna tell him I helped.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Brian said. He told Matt what the commandant had told him. “Pelton had to know why she was busted.”

  “Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “He’s thinking with his prick because he can’t get it on with her. So he’s causin’ some grief.”

  The White House

  The door to the Oval Office started swinging early Tuesday morning, the first week in February, as a string of people marched in, and then quickly out. Turner worked methodically to clear her agenda of last-minute items before concentrating on her upcoming trip to Europe. Finally, the procession stopped and she was able to relax in her rocking chair. “I need more exercise,” she told Parrish.

  “You haven’t swum since…” He stopped before mentioning Noreen Coker.

  “I miss her,” Turner said. A little smile of remembrance played on her lips. “She had a way of keeping things in perspective.” The hurt was easing. “Try to open up some time.”

  Parrish sensed the moment was right. “Madame President, perhaps it’s time to find a replacement for Dennis, or at least someone else to handle your schedule.”

  She reached out and touched Parrish’s hand. “You’re right. I have abused you lately.” She considered likely candidates. She didn’t want a servant or a yes-man, but someone who was well organized, willing to work long hours, and be totally loyal. “Ask Nancy Bender if she’d like to try it.”

  “But she’s pregnant and in mourning.”

  “So? She still needs a life.” Turner laughed at the look on Parrish’s face. “Who’s next?”

  “National Security Advisory Group,” Parrish said, finding it hard to switch gears. He opened the door for the four people who were waiting outside.

  Turner returned to her desk and opened a folder. “Any progress on finding General Bender’s killers?”

  The DCI answered. “Cassandra, Mr. Durant’s new computer system, has traced the missiles back to their source. There’s strong circumst
antial evidence the Russian Mafiya was behind it.”

  “But we have no hard evidence.” This from Secretary of State Serick.

  “And probably never will,” the DCI added. “A van and three badly burned American bodies turned up in Mexico. They were all shot in the back of the head, doused with gas. Torched. We know it was the same van used in the attempt on your life and we’re sure they were the key players. It got interesting when Cassandra traced their movements in Mexico. Our old friend Yaponets fell out of the tree.”

  “I’m a patient woman,” Turner replied. “Keep digging. Any progress on the photo?” They all knew she meant the photograph of Maura that had been published in the British tabloid.

  Now it was Mazie Hazelton’s turn. “The FBI has it and is working on it. It’s one of the best fakes they’ve seen. It would help if they had the original to compare the two. They have found the photographer. Unfortunately, she’s suffering from Alzheimer’s and is seldom lucid.”

  “Show her the photo,” Turner said. “That might jolt her back to reality.” She pointed at Parrish. “Get with Joe and see how much longer he can hold the media at bay. You can tell him I’m very pleased with the way the media has shown some responsibility on this.”

  “I’m not so sure how much longer they’ll sit on it,” Parrish replied.

  Turner mentally checked off that block and went on to the next item, her upcoming trip to Europe. “I read the briefing books last night. I don’t see any problems in Spain. I’d like to get out and visit more troops in Bosnia. I need something to announce in Poland. And finally, I’d like to get the Germans’ attention. It looks like they’re buying Western Poland an acre at a time.”

  Serick cleared his throat for attention. “As to the Germans, we don’t have much in the way of counters. But it never hurts to voice your concern. At least you might slow them down. For Poland, I’d suggest you announce your choice for the new ambassador. But we need to clear the name through Leland first. We don’t need him shooting down our nominee after we’ve gone public.”

  Turner tapped the folder she had been looking at. “He’s acceptable to Leland?”

  “Leland recommended him,” Serick said.

  “And he has contributed to the party,” Parrish added.

  Turner signed the transmittal letter and handed the folder to Serick. “Send it over.” The discussion went on for another six minutes before they were finished.

  “Well, Madame President,” Parrish said, “it looks like you have some time for that swim.”

  The office rapidly emptied and the DCI walked with Mazie to her corner office. “I’m worried,” the DCI said. “The way she’s still in overdrive tells me she isn’t over it yet.”

  “She’s healing,” Mazie replied.

  Warsaw

  The embassy was controlled chaos as James bounced off the walls getting ready for the president’s arrival. As the deputy charge of mission, James would be in the official party greeting her and it was his chance to shine. The mandarins in the State Department would have to notice him now. In an effort to cover all contingencies, he had the embassy staff working around the clock.

  Ewa Pawlik hurried into her office with a fresh stack of Polish newspaper articles to translate. The Polish press was in a frenzy over Turner’s visit. She went to work, frowning at the repeated linking of Matt Pontowski’s name with the president’s.

  “Ma’am?” a soft voice said, drawing her away from the article she was translating. The voice belonged to a short man, almost five feet six inches tall. He was overweight, with a large stomach that strained at his suit coat. He had a round face and friendly brown eyes, all topped with a heavy mass of prematurely gray hair that defied his military-style haircut. She felt like smiling at the teddybear image until she noticed his corded neck muscles. He was not what he seemed. “I’m Lt. Col. George Walderman and I’m looking for General Pontowski.”

  Ewa buzzed Pontowski and repeated the name. The door burst open and Pontowski came out. “Waldo, what took you so long?”

  “Ten days and you’re complaining?”

  Pontowski smiled. “Ewa, meet Waldo. Don’t let the image fool you. He’s one of the best fighter jocks who ever strapped on an F-16.” He punched at Waldo’s big stomach. “It amazes me how you can still get into the cockpit.”

  “Greased shoehorns are a wonderful thing,” Waldo said.

  The phone buzzed and Ewa answered. She listened for a moment. “Do you own a yellow Ferrari with French license plates?” Waldo nodded and explained he had bought it in France while on his way to Poland. “You need to move it,” Ewa said.

  “Will do.” He turned to leave.

  “Waldo,” Pontowski called, “why don’t you go with us to meet Air Force One when it lands this afternoon?”

  “You got a special invitation?” Pontowski shook his head and Waldo grinned. “You’re slipping, Boss.”

  Suddenly, Ewa felt much better.

  Pontowski led Ewa and Waldo through the dense crowd that was packing the airport for Turner’s arrival. They reached the entrance to the VIP area and he gave the guards their names. Waldo wasn’t on the list and the guard shook his head. Ewa pushed forward and showed the guard her identification. She spoke in a low voice. “Ewa can work wonders,” Pontowski said.

  “She’s working wonders with me,” Waldo muttered.

  “Sounds like a sexist remark if I ever heard one.”

  “Things are changing, Boss. It’s okay to admit we’re attracted to members of the opposite sex now. Sex doesn’t equal harassment.”

  “So we’re getting back to basics.”

  “One hopes.”

  Ewa’s back was to them but she had overheard every word. Americans are so naïve, she thought. But the guard wouldn’t let Waldo into the VIP area. She played her trump card. “Call Jerzy Fedor,” she murmured, handing him her cell phone and a card with a telephone number. The guard punched in the number and paled when the Ministry of Justice answered. He cut the connection and let Waldo enter.

  The VIP area was less than twenty feet from the temporary stage where Turner would speak and they had a clear view of Air Force One as it coasted to a stop. The new president of Poland greeted Madeline Turner as she descended the stairs and walked with her as she reviewed the honor guard. Then they were on the stage and she was behind the podium.

  “She’s very attractive in person,” Ewa said. She studied Pontowski’s face but couldn’t read his reaction. She split her attention between Pontowski and Waldo as she listened to Turner’s speech. At first, it was what she expected. But with surprising speed, it changed. “I can only extend my heartfelt sympathies to the Polish people for the death of your president. I share your grief in a very personal way, for my good friend and ambassador, Robert Bender, died with him. But we must not be so overwhelmed with grief that we lose our way. We must continue what we have started and I have nominated a new ambassador and sent this name to the United States Senate for confirmation. The Senate shares my concern and I have been assured he will be quickly approved. Our commitment to Poland remains unchanged as my new ambassador, Daniel Beason, will prove.” Applause swept over the stage.

  “I’ve got to speak to her,” Pontowski muttered. He disappeared into the crowd.

  “Fuck me in the heart,” Waldo muttered.

  Ewa’s head jerked around at the obscenity. “Is there a problem?”

  “You betcha there’s a problem. Daniel Beason thinks Pontowski killed his son.”

  Ewa was shocked, as much by the change in Waldo as by his news. “Did he?”

  “No. Beason’s son couldn’t fly worth shit and buffooned his plane into the ground.” Waldo stood close to her and told her about the air show and the accident where Danny Beason was killed.

  “You seem to know a great deal about it,” Ewa said.

  “We’re a close-knit group.”

  Pontowski’s name was enough to get him through the first security ring surrounding the presidential party. Th
en he ran out of luck. Out of desperation, he called James on his cell phone. But James cut him off with an abrupt “If this is a personal matter, speak to her aide, not me.” The connection went dead. Not about to give up, he followed the flow of people to the press room where a familiar voice caught his attention.

  “Matt Pontowski,” Liz Gordon said. “I heard you were over here.”

  He turned to face CNC-TV News’s star reporter. He and Liz went back to the peacekeeping mission in South Africa and, at best, an uneasy truce existed between them. He gave her his lopsided grin. “I’m with Foreign Military Sales in the embassy,” he told her.

  “One of Bender’s boys,” she replied. “I hear you have a history with the new ambassador.”

  Pontowski was noncommittal. “We’ve met. Any buzz on why Maddy selected him?”

  “Conventional wisdom’s that she’s about to announce her bid for reelection and needs to mend fences with Senator Leland. Daniel Beason is one of Leland’s major campaign backers, a real rainmaker. Voilà, instant ambassadorship and obligation paid.” Liz paused for a moment, hoping there was an exchange of information in the works.

  A quid pro quo was in order and Pontowski considered his answer. “The situation over here requires…”

  Liz’s director rushed up, breaking into the conversation. “We’ve got a one-on-one with Richard Parrish. But it’s got to go now.” An exclusive interview with the president’s chief of staff pushed Pontowski off Liz’s radarscope and she turned to go.

  “Can I tag along?” Pontowski asked. Liz shrugged in response. He took it for a yes and followed them into a temporary studio where Parrish was waiting. A White House staff member stopped him.

  “I’m sorry, General Pontowski, but you’re not on my list.”

  Pontowski arched an eyebrow as if to say, “Do you know who I really am?” But it didn’t work. He was up against the hard reality of politics. Power was measured by money, access, and information. At best, he only had the latter and long experience had taught him he was up against a stone wall. Unless Maddy asked to see him, he wasn’t going anywhere. He called his office to see if there were any messages. There weren’t. He gave up and wandered back to the VIP area to find Waldo and Ewa.