“Whatever. You embarrassed the United States.”
“We were cleared to intercept and identify an aircraft entering Polish airspace without a proper clearance.”
“That aircraft,” Beason snapped, “was a Russian diplomatic flight.”
“Most likely hauling drugs,” Pontowski added. “It was escorted by two fighters that committed a hostile act in Polish airspace.”
Beason glared at James. “What’s this? I hadn’t heard about any escorts or hostile acts.”
James gave Pontowski a cold look. “That was forwarded through the air attaché’s report, not my cable.”
Beason drummed his fingers on his desk. “Until I can get to the bottom of this, you’re relieved of all duties.”
“I can appoint an investigation officer,” James said. “Of course, General Pontowski will be placed on an administrative hold until it’s completed.”
Beason snorted. “Do it.”
“Sir,” Pontowski asked, “what about the training package we just negotiated? One pilot is already here and more are on the way.”
“Until I’m told otherwise, it will continue. But you will not be a part of it. Is that clear?”
James coughed for attention. “Mr. Ambassador, there is a related issue with the security-aid package. We are also supporting the Polish security services. Mr. Peter Duncan is in charge of that particular program.”
“I’ll talk to him later,” Beason said. He waved a hand dismissing Pontowski.
Pontowski returned to his office where Peter Duncan was waiting for him. “Well?” he asked.
“I’m relieved of all duties and on administrative hold while James conducts a formal investigation.”
“What about Waldo?”
“He can continue training the Poles until our new ambassador hears otherwise.”
“Without Bender,” Duncan said, “that won’t be long. So, what are you going to do?”
“Beats me. Maybe it’s a chance to go dig up my ancestors.”
“Talk to Ewa. She might have some ideas about sightseeing.”
The White House
The Sit Room, the informal name given to the White House Situation Room, is located in the West Basement across the hall from the White House Mess. Behind the guarded and locked door is a relatively small conference room, no more than twenty-by-thirty feet. It is sound-proofed and the walls are surrounded by computer and communication workstations and two small offices. It is always manned by a watch team of approximately five people, but that varies from day to day depending on the crisis at hand.
And Maddy Turner hated it.
She preferred open, airy rooms with windows to the world outside. The Sit Room staff tried to correct this deficiency and fresh flowers were always on the conference table, unless the cranky secretary of state, Stephan Serick, was present. Then the flowers were removed in deference to Serick’s well-known explosive allergic sneezing fits that would have been funny in a lesser man. On the morning of the third Thursday in February, the flowers were gone.
Nelson Durant leaned forward in his wheelchair and studied the communications equipment in the room. He decided it was adequate but not cutting edge. He glanced through the folder in his lap one last time. His investigation into the attempted assassination of the president was complete. Maybe the FBI or CIA could find something else, but he personally doubted they would since all the key witnesses were dead. But that was the way the Russian Mafiya worked.
“You’re first on the agenda,” the NSC’s executive secretary said. He was Mazie’s most valuable assistant, in charge of the Sit Room, and responsible for moving security information and intelligence to and from the Oval Office. “But you might want to stay for more of the meeting. I think you might find it interesting.” He was really asking for Durant’s seal of approval on what would be a very technical subject.
“I won’t take long,” he assured the executive secretary. The four members of the National Security Advisory Group arrived and took their seats. The guard held the door for Turner to enter. Everyone but Durant stood. “Please forgive me for not rising,” Durant said.
Turner gave him a warm smile. Durant was growing weaker by the day and not expected to live much longer. “Nelson, there’s nothing to forgive. Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t have to.” They shook hands.
Durant gave her one of his rare smiles. She was the first president in the last thirty years he respected and liked. He handed her his report and waited. It took less than two minutes for her to read the thirty pages. She carefully closed the document and looked up.
“So, the three terrorists who fired the missile, the other material witnesses, are all dead.”
“That’s correct, Madame President. When confronted with a problem, murder is the Russian Mafiya’s preferred solution.”
“And eleven people were killed because they got their wires crossed.”
“That is based on numerous intercepted telephone calls. Vashin wanted the president of Poland assassinated. You were not the target. When Vashin confronted Yaponets about the mistake, Yaponets embarrassed himself badly. The vor laughed about it for a week. We also know the Russian Mafiya was behind the assassination of President Lezno and Ambassador Bender.”
“Can we turn anyone in the vor?” Vice President Kennett asked.
Durant shook his head. “Very doubtful.”
Turner’s anger broke through. “The man’s a psychopath. Is there anything we can do?”
The DCI shot Mazie a quick look who nodded slightly in return. This was the second time Turner had asked the question. Now it was time to act. “Madame President,” the DCI replied, taking the first step of plausible denial, “I’ll talk to my operations people and review our options. In the meantime, you might want to see this.” He handed her another folder as a large computer screen next to her came to life. Turner opened the folder and blinked twice. It was the glossy black-and-white photo of Maura the British tabloid had published. But this time there was no artful blurring of the man’s huge, and very erect, penis.
“This is the actual photo of Maura that the British published. This isn’t a first-generation photo taken from the original negative. Consequently, we cannot do our normal checks like microscopic frame-mark analysis. However, we have done others, such as vanishing-point analysis and stereoscopic viewing. I can tell you, this is one of the best fakes we’ve ever seen. But it is a fake. We checked the grain pattern using a digital-enhancement program. Three separate images were used in this photo. On the screen next to you, look at the disruption of the grain pattern where the man’s hand is touching your mother’s shoulder.”
Turner studied the screen. “You said there were three images used. What’s the third?”
The DCI blushed. “Actually, that’s what gave it away. Like I said, this is the one of the best—”
“Gary,” Turner said, interrupting him and using his first name.
The DCI’s blush grew brighter. “It’s the man’s penis. It’s not his.”
“Talk about penile implants,” the vice president quipped.
Durant asked to see the photo. “How many people are capable of doing this quality of work?” he asked.
“We’re not sure,” the DCI answered. “I suspect the number isn’t large.”
Durant studied the photo for a moment before he committed. This was a perfect test for Cassandra, the new intelligence-gathering system he was developing for the government. “Madame President, I’d like to turn this over to my people and see what they can discover.”
“Thank you, Nelson, I’d appreciate that.”
On the thirtieth lap in the pool, Maddy turned and swam for the far side. Her breath came in an easy rhythm. I’m not pushing myself, she thought.
A pretty and athletic Secret Service agent walked along the side of the pool beside her. “You need to pick up the pace, Madame President.”
An image of Noreen Coker flashed in front of Maddy. Then it was gone. She stroked h
arder, pulling hard. Suddenly, she felt better. She increased the pace and flip-turned, determined to do one more lap. Now she swam hard and the agent was calling the count. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”
Maddy touched the edge of the pool and looked up. “Thank you.”
The agent smiled. “Almost like old times, Madame President.” Maddy pulled herself out of the pool and the agent handed her a towel. She wrapped a terry-cloth robe around herself and headed for the dressing room, the agent still behind her. “Mr. Parrish and Mr. Litton are waiting for you. But they said to wait until you were finished.”
Strange, Maddy thought, important enough to come down here but not important enough to interrupt my swim. She steeled herself for what was coming.
Both men stood when she entered the dressing room. Litton spoke first. “Sorry to intrude, Madame President. Liz Gordon backdoored this to us.” He handed her a tear sheet from one of the national scandal newspapers. “It’s hitting the streets this afternoon. It’s a screamer.”
PRESIDENT’S MOTHER POSES NUDE
The headline couldn’t have been more explicit. Directly underneath was a photo of Maddy and Maura during one of her campaigns. “At least they didn’t print that picture.”
“According to Liz,” Litton replied, “they did. It’s on page three. But she couldn’t get a copy of that. She did say they blurred out your mother’s breasts.”
“Does my mother know?”
Parrish shook his head. “The crisis team is waiting in the Oval Office.”
She stared at them, rigidly holding the offending article. “What is the matter with these people?”
Litton was embarrassed. “They’re reporters, Ma’am.”
Warsaw
The chief of the American embassy’s administrative section thumbed through his notebook, making sure all relevant questions were answered. Of all his duties, he disliked formal investigations the most. Most of the time, he knew the person being investigated and that put him on the spot. But more important, he was at risk if the person was well connected and could boomerang the investigation back onto the investigating officer. And the subject of this investigation could certainly do that. Like so many things, survival depended on who you knew. He glanced at his watch. It was just after eight in the evening.
“It is late, General Pontowski, thank you for being so patient.” He reviewed Pontowski’s answers, looking for a way to exonerate him and, at the same time, please the new ambassador. “You mentioned that the fighters were Flankers, which, I believe, are Su-27s.”
“Actually, they were Su-35s, a much improved variant of the Su-27.”
“I see. Does that make a difference?”
“It does if you’re up there hassling with them.”
“I see.” Of course, he didn’t, but maybe someone important would. Back to the original question. “You mentioned that the fighters committed a hostile act. What exactly was that?”
“They were actively jamming us in Polish airspace. That’s a hostile act. We always have the right of self-defense. That’s what all the maneuvering was about.”
The admin officer allowed an inner sigh of relief. He had found what he was looking for and survived another investigation. Now he had to delay submitting the report until some crisis or intervening event would bury it. He calculated five to six weeks would do the trick. Pontowski would be bored, but he too would survive. “Sir, thank you again for your cooperation. Until the ambassador resolves the disposition of your case, you are on administrative leave and relieved of all duties. Your office and most of the embassy is off limits. I’ll need your keys and electronic swipe card.”
Pontowski dropped his keys and swipe card on the desk. Once he left, he was effectively locked out of the embassy. “Can I clear my desk?”
“Of course.” The admin officer closed his notebook and waited. Pontowski gathered up the photograph of his son, address book, and a few mementos from previous assignments. It wasn’t much. Then he walked out and the admin officer locked the door behind him, pocketing the key.
Pontowski sat at Ewa’s desk and stared at his hands. Then he left her a note to please call him at his home. Damn! he raged to himself. How humiliating. He forced himself to calm down, feeling the need to talk. It’s after two in the afternoon in Washington. What the hell, why not? He picked up the phone and asked the operator to dial the White House.
The White House
“Take a seat,” Turner said when Shaw entered the Oval Office. The heads of the six people who made up Turner’s crisis staff turned as one as he found a chair. Shaw’s presence could only mean one thing: she was taking off the gloves and going bare knuckle. She paced the carpet, her arms folded. “I have done some distasteful things in my life,” she said, “but telling my mother about this tops the list. So how do we stop it?”
“I’m not sure we can,” Press Secretary Litton said. “As far as the media is concerned, it’s now a legitimate story. That means we have to start responding to their questions.”
“Treat it as brushfire and stomp it out. I don’t care how, just do it.”
Shaw waited, keying on her every move and gesture as the crisis team discussed their options. Fuckin’ fools, he decided. The moment was right when Turner sat down and leaned back in her chair. Now she would listen. “Mizz President, have Joe here call some of his publisher friends and tell ’em this is all a crock. He’s got it from the highest source. Maybe a little warning about getting too close to this dog because it’s full of fleas.”
Parrish shook his head. “I can hear the New York Times or Washington Post hitting the roof. Don’t do it.”
Shaw shrugged, not pushing. But he knew Turner was considering it. She stroked her cheek before nodding. The press secretary picked up a phone and asked the operator to connect him to the publisher of the Times.
“Joe Litton here. We’ve seen the headlines and are very concerned.” He listened for a moment, hand over the mouthpiece. “They’re going to run it as a straight story.” Then he was back on the phone. “Right. I’m not telling you to kill the story. But let me tell you, this is a crock. And I’ve got that from the highest source. If you’re going to use it, keep going with your own investigation. It’ll prove what I’m saying. If you go with the story as is, there will be a price, a very steep price.” He banged the phone down. “She got the message.”
“Perhaps,” the domestic affairs policy advisor ventured, “it would be best to let Maura respond as a private citizen who has been libeled.”
Before Shaw could step on that, the door burst open and Turner’s secretary rushed into the room. “Madame President, it’s your mother. She’s had a heart attack…”
“Damn those bastards to hell!” Turner blasted. She ran out of the office.
The secretary returned to her desk, deeply worried. The phone rang and she picked it up. “I’m sorry, General Pontowski, but, but,” she broke down in tears, unable to talk.
Shaw took the phone. “Patrick Shaw.”
“I want to speak to Maddy,” Pontowski said.
“Maybe I’m having a senior moment here, but didn’t we discuss this? The president can’t take your call.” He dropped the phone into its cradle with finality.
TWENTY-FIVE
Warsaw
Evan Riley sat at his desk and read through the stack of cables, faxes, telephone call transcripts, and e-mail the CIA had monitored coming into the embassy. It amazed him that the foreign service assumed he didn’t do that type of thing. What he learned from this surreptitious activity reinforced his cynical nature while providing many humorous stories for the CIA agents working on the third floor.
As a result, he saw the cable from the State Department ordering the CIA to stop providing intelligence to the SPS before anyone else. But he had also monitored the backdoor messages between Bender and the national security advisor. He knew what the president wanted. And this wasn’t it. The conflict was not new and, in the give-and-take of foreign policy, it only meant t
he mandarins in the State Department were in ascendancy. Because he considered himself a professional spook, loyal to his masters, he could live with that.
His computer buzzed at him. He spun around in his chair and read the flash message. The CIA had posted a Category-2 warning that the Russian Mafiya was going to attack the SPS in less than eighteen hours. And it didn’t get much better than a Cat-2.
Now he had a problem. “This sucks,” he muttered to no one. He checked his watch. Knowing how the embassy worked, it would take at least two hours before the first message was regularly processed and worked its way to him. Then he would have to act on it and stop providing intelligence to the SPS. He made a decision and phoned Duncan’s office, but there was no answer. He was hesitant about calling Duncan on a cell phone as the call was easily monitored and, coming from Riley, would set off alarms.
Frustrated, he phoned Ewa Pawlik, trusting her discretion. “Ewa, would you and Peter Duncan care to join me at Blikle’s for coffee? Say, in about two hours, around four o’clock?” She said she’d be delighted and would pass the invitation on to Mr. Duncan. Riley rapidly cleared his desk and left, telling his secretary he would be out for most of the afternoon. How could he act on a message he hadn’t seen?
As usual, the cake shop on Nowy Świat Street was crowded. Ewa spoke to a waiter and he pointed to the back room where there was an empty table. Duncan followed her, fully aware she was drawing more than a few appreciative glances from the men and hostile stares from the women. They sat down and before they could order, Evan Riley joined them. He handed Duncan a note with a simple, “This is the telephone number you wanted.” They exchanged a few pleasantries and Riley left, finally able to return to the embassy where his desk was piled with paperwork and the message he knew was waiting for him. Once he read it, he would make sure that no more intelligence was passed to the SPS.
Duncan waited until after they had finished their coffee before whipping out his cell phone and dialing the number. A pleasant woman’s voice answered and told him about an apartment that was available in Konstancin. But he had to act immediately. She gave him an address.
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