She wanted to do something, to meet the storm head-on. But it wasn’t going to happen. All she could do was wait and trust others to carry out her wishes. Like tax reform, she thought. How hard had they worked on that? Yet in the end, the bureaucrats had gone their own way and done exactly what they wanted. Her lips compressed into a narrow line. She could correct that. Or could she? Who could she trust? Images floated through her mind. It was not a big gallery and was smaller with the deletion of Dennis and Noreen Coker. How she missed those two.
Another image drifted out of her subconscious. “Ah, Mazie,” she said to herself. How I use you. But why do I sense you know it and don’t mind? But the facts were clear. Mazie was up to something because of what she had said.
And there was Bender. “My brave general,” she whispered. The breeze whipped up, turning into a cold wind.
“Madame President. You might want to come inside. It’s starting to rain.” Maddy turned to her new personal assistant. It was Nancy Bender, five months pregnant and beautiful. Maddy went slowly inside to wait for the storm to arrive.
Born, Germany
Herbert von Lubeck carefully stoked the burning logs in the huge fireplace. He was a tall man and had to bend over to reach the hearth. Although it was mid-April, a winter’s cold held the continent in its grip and he wanted his guest to be comfortable. It was one of the amenities of which he was proud. He glanced at the doll-like woman cuddled up in the high wingback chair. So different from her mother-in-law, he thought. Turner should have sent E.M. Hazelton if she wanted results. He shuddered at the thought of doing business with the Bitch Queen of Capitol Hill.
“Brandy or cognac?” he asked.
“Brandy, please,” Mazie answered.
He poured her a snifter from his private reserve. It carried no label, but it was the finest brandy in the world. He handed it to her, remembering the last time he had been in this same room with Mikhail Vashin. So different. And so much easier.
Mazie held the snifter up and examined the golden liquid. She took a delicate taste. “Magnificent,” she murmured. She drew her legs up, cuddling into the chair and, for a brief moment, von Lubeck pictured her nude. Concentrate! he warned himself. Save the distractions for later. He fought the urge to light up a cigar. Let the brandy do its magic.
“E.M. tells me you like cigars,” Mazie said. “I love the smell of a good Havana.”
Von Lubeck bestowed his most charming smile on her and reached for the humidor. “I understand the storm is causing widespread damage on your West Coast.”
“It’s the worst recorded storm in history,” Mazie said, again taking a sip. “It looks like it’s spreading inland.”
“Global warming, no doubt.”
“So the scientists claim. Which is one of the reasons I’m here.” She raised the glass and drank. “This is excellent.”
The conversation had taken an unexpected turn and von Lubeck puffed at his cigar, wanting time to think and for the brandy to give him the edge he needed. But Mazie pressed ahead, taking it away from him. “Our scientists are mostly agreed that it’s due to the greenhouse effect. Automobiles are the major source.”
Von Lubeck sighed. “Ah, the automobile. I do not see you Americans giving up your beloved cars.”
“We won’t have to,” Mazie said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of our research in fuel cells. Our scientists may have made a breakthrough.”
“A development to be desired,” von Lubeck murmured, calculating what Germany could do if it controlled that invention. Dealing with the Arabs then would be an absolute delight. “Our scientists tell me a usable, cheap, mass-produced fuel cell is a ghost on the wind, a fairy tale like cold fusion.”
Mazie smiled. “I understand you have spent billions chasing that particular ghost.”
It was a body blow and von Lubeck almost flinched. “So close,” he murmured.
“Fuel cells are not imaginary,” Mazie said, taking a longer sip of the brandy and wrapping the glass in her hands. It was time to offer the carrot. “We have so much in common, a desire for a stable Europe, strong economies, advanced technologies.”
The pieces fell into place for von Lubeck. “We hold some patents you need,” he said, cutting to the heart.
She smiled at him. “Perhaps.”
“Germany would be most interested in participating in the development of your fuel cells.”
“Nothing is free,” Mazie said.
Von Lubeck nodded. “You mentioned a stable Europe earlier.”
“Exactly. President Turner is very worried about Poland and certain very disturbing trends.” She took the gloves off and picked up the stick. “If Germany continues its massive purchases of land and businesses, western Poland will become your vassal state like the West Bank of the Jordan River is to Israel. That is unacceptable to President Turner.”
The brandy had done its work and she had laid out the quid pro quo too soon. Fuel cells in exchange for an independent Poland. It was easy to counter the offer. “Ah, but it creates a barrier between my country and what the Russians are doing in eastern Poland.”
Mazie ignored his excuse. “If you persist, we will stand aside and let events in Poland play out. Maybe the Russians will prevail and extend their influence right up to the German border. Regardless, we will deal with whomever is in charge after the dust settles.”
Von Lubeck almost laughed. She was saying too much. “You’re bluffing. You have nothing to offer us.”
“I am sorry you believe that,” Mazie said. She stood up. The meeting was over.
Von Lubeck said, “I pity Poland. Your country likes to make promises and encourage others to do the heavy lifting. Then you abandon them at the first sign of trouble. Show us you can contain the Russians and stop the drugs. Then we might be interested.”
“We do need a strong partner in Europe,” Mazie agreed curtly. “There are others who are interested.” They exchanged the usual words of departure. Then she was gone.
Von Lubeck stared into the slowly dying fire. He snorted. “Fuel cells.” He had used the carrot and the stick approach too many times to fall victim. Still, there were reports that had come across his desk. He dismissed them. His world was geopolitics and he called up his mental map of Poland. “Stupid woman,” he muttered, thinking not of Mazie but of the president of the United States. He threw his cigar into the fire and turned to leave. He glanced at Mazie’s snifter of brandy. It was full. His eyes opened wide.
THIRTY
Moscow
It was a ritual the old man adhered to with the rigor worthy of a true believer. Every Wednesday afternoon at exactly three o’clock, his old Russian-made Fiat wheezed up to the newly renovated Sandunovsky Baths and the old man would get out. An attendant would wait for him at the door and escort him inside where the restored statues and tiles of the bathhouse glittered again with czarist splendor. The old man would fish a few rubles out of his pocket and pay the cashier. That was as much a part of the ritual as the weighing-in, soaping, steaming, and rinsing.
After the first round, the old man would sit in the changing room with a sheet wrapped around him and gossip with the other regulars, happy to be among friends. Nothing about him, his clothes or actions, suggested he was one of the most powerful godfathers in the Russian Mafiya, a member of the Circle of Brothers, and wealthy beyond a czar’s wildest dreams. In fact, he had saved the baths and paid for their restoration, a minor out-of-pocket expense.
Two other men, lesser lights in the world of Russian crime joined him. Common knowledge held they were in competition to be the old man’s heir. The regulars moved away, creating a circle of privacy. “Are you going to Yalta?” the youngest asked.
“No,” the old man answered.
“Others may follow your example.”
“That is for them to decide.”
“Mikhail will be insulted.” This from the older of the two.
“He is outside the law.” To accuse Vashin of breaking the codes and rules of t
he vor was the worst accusation the old man could hurl at anyone.
“It will be dangerous not to go,” the youngest man said.
“At my age, danger is the only thing that gives me a hard-on.” Their laughter joined and the tension was broken. Two men, fully dressed and wearing black leather topcoats, walked into the changing room and stood in the doorway. For a moment, the old man and his friends gossiped about the infidelity of a young wife and traded obscene comments. The old man shot the newcomers a disdainful look and jerked his head for them to leave. When they didn’t move, he knew. “Vashin?” he muttered.
A slight head nod answered him and he sighed in resignation. He stood and walked into the steam room as if for another round of sweating. One of the men drew a sawedoff shotgun from under his leather coat and motioned for the men in the changing room to lie on the floor while the other man threw a grenade into the steam room. He jammed a wedge into the latch and stepped back, pulling out a submachine gun. The explosion blew the door of the steam room off its hinges. The two men sprayed the room with gunfire, killing any witnesses before walking nonchalantly to a waiting Mercedes-Benz.
“Who was the wife they were talking about?” one asked.
“A new widow,” the other answered.
Vashin liked the old-fashioned way Geraldine had organized the Yalta meeting. Easels were erected around her office holding charts diagramming the accommodations where the godfathers and their large entourages would be quartered. In one corner, a big board held the arrival schedules of the aircraft and the number of limousines, cars, and trucks that would be necessary to transport the arrivals to their dachas. It was a carefully integrated flow plan that kept the vehicles in constant motion.
“By controlling transportation,” she told Vashin, “we control all movement.”
“And thereby control them,” Vashin said, seeing the marvelous logic of it. One of his aides entered the room and whispered in his ear. It was a long message. Vashin nodded twice and walked over to the easels. He picked up a black marker pen and lined out three names, one of them a member of the Circle of Brothers. “We suddenly have vacancies,” he told Geraldine.
Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense, was eager to escape the Kremlin and return home after a long and frustrating day. He glanced at his watch. Almost ten o’clock. A telephone rang and an aide answered. He listened for a moment. “The woman wants a meeting. Tonight.”
“Tell her the usual place and time.” He hurriedly gathered up his briefcase and coat to make the meeting. By the time he went down the Red Steps, his car was waiting for him. He gave the driver directions and settled in for the short drive. At the designated corner, the black limousine turned into a side street and slowed. A woman stepped out of the shadows and the limo halted long enough for her to enter.
“He made a mistake,” Geraldine said. She told him of the execution of the godfather and his heirs.
Rodonov leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Finally,” he murmured.
“It’s an opportunity we may not have again,” Geraldine said softly, telling him the obvious.
Tom Johnson drove past the apartment and checked the balcony of the third-floor apartment. A tattered rug was draped over the railing, the signal for a meeting. As long as the rug was hanging there, the meeting was hot and the street was being watched. He made a U-turn, acknowledging the meeting. He had exactly seventeen minutes.
He drove to Gorky Park and parked his battered Lada on the street. He scanned the night to insure he was not being followed before taking a few steps down a path leading into the park. It was too dangerous to go any farther at night. Even the police waited until light to pick up the bodies.
“Here,” Peter Prudnokov, the commander of Transport Aviation, said.
Johnson stepped into the shadows. “Face to face is dangerous,” he muttered.
“I have information. But my family needs protection.”
“From who?”
“Vashin. Who else?”
Johnson gave a little nod. “We’ll do what we can, but it depends on what you have.”
“My command is providing the airlift for Vashin’s conference in Yalta.”
“I’m not impressed.”
“We know when, what airplane, and the route, Vashin himself will be flying.”
“That we can use.”
Warsaw
It was after midnight and Pontowski was still awake hoping for a phone call. The embassy’s copy of Adam Mickiewicz’s Dziady lay in his lap. It had lost much in translation. Yet he could feel the strength and emotion of the poet’s words. It must be my Polish blood, he told himself. At exactly one o’clock, the phone rang. It was his son who called at the same time every week. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not good, Dad.” He told Pontowski about Zeth and how he felt responsible for her expulsion. The remorse and pain he felt reached across two continents. “Would it help if I talked to General McMasters?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Pontowski replied. “But I doubt if it would change anything.” They spoke for a while until Pontowski ended the conversation by saying, “Son, the ball is in your court. You gotta do what you think is right.” They broke the connection and Pontowski leaned back and closed his eyes. It’s tough doing the right thing, he thought. Unbidden, an image of Maddy Turner danced in his mind’s eye, tantalizing him with promises of what might have been. “What went wrong?” he wondered aloud. He tried to dismiss the image. But it persisted with a life of its own, beckoning him into the future. I’ll make it right, he promised himself. If I can. Then he fell asleep in his chair, the book still on his lap.
A knock at the door woke him. Morning sunlight streamed in the window and he was stiff from sleeping in the chair. He padded to the door but no one was there, only an advertisement for maid service tucked into the doorjamb. It was a signal that Evan Riley had a message for him. He had the procedure memorized and started on the trail that ultimately led to the dead drop. At the second stop, the trail changed and he was given an address in Konstancin, an upscale community south of Warsaw. It took him thirty minutes to find the house across from the drab yellow army barracks in the heart of the suburb. Riley was waiting for him inside.
“Was this an old brothel?” Pontowski asked.
“Now it’s a safe house.” Riley pointed to the barracks across the street. “When the Soviet Army was here, that was an intelligence headquarters and this was a whorehouse. They pumped the girls and we pumped them.” He chuckled. “Those were the good old days.” He sat down. “What are the Poles going to do about Vashin?”
“Bomb the hell out of him at Yalta.”
“So they are serious. Have they got the right target?”
“According to Jerzy Fedor they do.”
Riley shook his head. “The only guy more twisted than Fedor is on our side, what’s-his-face Shaw.” He handed Pontowski a manila envelope. “You might find this interesting. It’s Vashin’s flight plan.”
The Western White House, California
The rain sheeted down, pounding the big picture window. Inside, the rattling glass forced Maddy to take two steps back. “I’ve never seen it rain like this,” she said.
“It’s much worse up north,” Parrish replied. “Portland and Seattle have lost over half their normal phone service. Thank God for cellular phones.” He checked his clipboard. “But even they’re out in some areas where the wind’s knocked down towers.”
“How’s FEMA doing?” she asked.
“In place and responding.” Parrish looked worried. “But it’s going to take much more.”
“Alert the Pentagon,” she said at once.
“They haven’t much to give,” Parrish gave her a folder. Inside was a list of every operation, peacekeeping mission, and deployment the Department of Defense was supporting around the world.
“I didn’t realize they were stretched so thin,” she said.
“It’s a problem.” He thought for a moment. “Knowing
Wild Wayne, he’s ahead of us and knocking heads and kicking backsides.” General Wayne Charles was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and had a habit of living up to his nickname. “They’ll come through.”
The computer buzzed and Parrish played with the mouse, clicking on the conference icon. “We’re ready to go with the National Security Advisory Group,” he told the president. She sat down in front of the computer and the video cam. The images of the four members appeared on the screen. “Good morning,” she said into the microphone. “Mazie, how did it go with the Germans?”
“Not good, Madame President. They want to see some action on our part reining in Russian organized crime before they back off.”
“Madame President,” Stephan Serick said grumpily, “you should have consulted with me before sending Mrs. Hazelton off on this venture. I’ve dealt with von Lubeck. He doesn’t bluff.”
“The Poles may give us what we need,” the DCI said.
“What exactly are they up to?” Vice President Kennett asked.
The DCI was uncomfortable. “Vashin is attending a conference at Yalta and they’re planning to attack his villa. It’s in retaliation for the assassination of President Lezno.”
“What the Poles do is not our concern,” Turner said. “Mazie, wait a few days and then follow up with von Lubeck. If the Germans are still dragging their feet, tell them I’m reconsidering our trade policies.”
“Madame President,” Serick said, “I must protest. The Germans are among our best allies. We can’t treat them this way.”
“They’re on the edge here,” Turner replied. “I want them to step back and do the right thing in Poland, take the honorable course.”
“And letting the Poles assassinate Vashin for us is honorable?”
“I believe,” Turner said icily, “they are doing it for Poland.”
Washington, D.C.
The images had barely faded from Mazie’s computer screen when her telephone buzzed. It was the DCI and they went secure. “Serick may have shot off his foot,” the DCI said.
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