Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘So your health is not affecting your duties as the President’s Advisor for National Security?’

  ‘If it were, I’d tender my resignation.’

  Gordon hit him with the bombshell. ‘Then there is no truth to the rumor that you’ve been diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease?’

  He looked at Sam and made a cutting motion, ending the interview. She shut off her camera. ‘Elizabeth, like I said, it is a private matter. I’m going to have to trust you with this, and off the record, yes, I am undergoing medical tests. But right now, I feel fine and until the tests are final and we know for sure what’s wrong, I want to keep it private.’

  ‘That’s asking a lot, Mr Carroll.’

  Carroll nodded. ‘I know. But if you’ll do this, Liz, I promise that I’ll let you break the story ... if I can.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she answered. ‘Let’s go for a wrap.’

  When they were finished, Gordon hurried Sam down to the studio in the basement to replay and edit the tape. ‘Damn, Sam,’ Gordon said, excitement in her voice. ‘Carroll’s got ALS. It’s the story I need and I’m going to break it.’

  Sam chewed on her lower lip in disapproval. ‘That’s not a good idea. If he has ALS, Carroll’s promised you the story. He’s good for it. You know that. But if you violate his confidence, every source you’ve got in the Administration will dry up. Don’t do it.’ There was command in Sam’s voice.

  ‘But it’s all I got,’ Gordon pleaded.

  ‘But what if he doesn’t have ALS?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I don’t care if I get it right,’ Gordon snapped, ‘as long as I get it first.’

  ‘It’s not the story you want, not right now,’ Sam told her. Among her other duties, Sam had to keep Gordon from committing professional suicide. ‘There’s got to be something else,’ she said, running the tape. She stopped the tape and framed Carroll’s desk. ‘Here’s something,’ she said. ‘Everything on his desk is related to South Africa. Check the labels on the folders ... AWB ... UN Peacekeeping Options ...’ She paused for a moment, trying to read the label of a half-buried folder. She hit the zoom and enlarged the frame.

  ‘Hans and Erik Beckmann,’ Gordon read. ‘Who are they? I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe Jeff has.’

  Jeff Bissell was one of Gordon’s on-again-off-again romances. He was also the aide to Senator Lucknow who chaired the select committee on intelligence. Gordon smiled. ‘Poor Jeff. All I have to do is mention something and he spills everything he knows. I’d marry him if he wasn’t such a flap mouth.’

  *

  Gordon and Bissell met for an early lunch the next day and she was back in the White House press room by twelve-thirty. ‘Sam, Jeff says South Africa is destabilizing ...’

  ‘This is not news,’ Sam interrupted.

  ‘But there’s a twist. Hans and Erik Beckmann are twins, Afrikaners by birth. Hans is a mover and groover in the AWB, whatever that is.’

  ‘Afrikaanse Weerstandsbeweging,’ Sam said. The Afrikaner Resistance Movement. A neo-Nazi group of thugs.’

  ‘Anyway, Hans is the head of a quasi-militia called the Iron Guard that is totally independent of the central government. And brother Erik is a terrorist who hires out to the highest bidder. This all gets interesting because the South Africans had twenty nukes they claim they destroyed in 1994. But the CIA isn’t sure what happened to them. Sam, there’s one hell of a story there ... white separatists with their own army ... nuclear weapons ... country coming apart. You ever been to South Africa?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Sam. ‘What if Carroll left those folders on his desk deliberately? What if he wants us to go rooting around and stirring the pot over there?’

  ‘He’s not that clever.’

  *

  Sunday, December 7

  Kansas City, Missouri

  *

  Little Matt’s eyes were alive with excitement as Pontowski led his son into the Gold Suite. A valet helped them remove their overcoats. ‘Welcome to Arrowhead Stadium, Colonel Pontowski,’ the man said. ‘I hope you enjoy the game. The Chiefs are favored.’ They walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the field and joined John Leonard and his wife Sara.

  It was Little Matt’s first football game and he was jumping with excitement. ‘We’re at the very top,’ he bubbled, ‘and you can see everything from up here.’

  The mayor of Kansas City, Missouri, came over and stuck out his hand. ‘Colonel!’ he boomed, pumping Pontowski’s hand and ignoring the Leonards. ‘We’re glad you could join us. It’s going to be a great game and the halftime show is fantastic.’ The mayor recited the events that had been planned to link the game with the observance of Pearl Harbor. ‘I can’t tell you how much your support has added and the flyby right after the National Anthem is a perfect opener. The crowd is going to love it.’

  Leonard studied the clouds scudding over the stadium. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The weather is not cooperating and the ceiling is pretty low.’

  A worried look crossed the mayor’s face. ‘I really want that flyby.’ He was facing a tough election in the spring and dedicating the game to the Armed Forces, with all the attendant marching units, color guards, bands, and cocktail parties, had been his pet project. It was the type of event the citizens of Kansas City loved. ‘Some important people are counting on it.’

  Pontowski and Leonard heard the implied political threat underlying his words. But the man had never flown an airplane at 240 knots in tight formation and dodged weather. ‘You’ll get your flyby if it’s safe,’ Leonard assured him, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to explain how the weatherman really drove the decision and not the mayor’s political ambitions.

  Again, the mayor ignored Leonard and fixed a hard look on Pontowski. ‘I’m sure your boys won’t let us down. You support us and we support you, right?’ He walked away, leaving the two men alone.

  ‘That’s not a man who likes to be told no,’ Pontowski said.

  Little Matt looked up at his father, comparing him with the other dignitaries who had been invited to watch the game. He liked the way his father looked, tall and lean in his uniform. Most of the other men had potbellies and talked too loudly. Not my dad and Colonel Leonard, he thought. He looked up at Sara Leonard and beamed. There was no doubt in his seven-year-old mind that she was the prettiest woman in the room. He grabbed her hand and jabbered with excitement when the first band marched onto the field for the opening ceremonies. Like his father and Leonard, he came to attention when the massed bands played the National Anthem.

  The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the northeast end of the stadium. You can hear the A-10 Thunderbolts from the 303rd Fighter Squadron led by Captain Dwight Stuart as they approach ...’ His voice was drowned out by the four Warthogs that appeared over the edge of the stadium, skimming under the clouds. They were in a perfect fingertip formation, their wings almost touching. From the high vantage point of the Gold Suite, which was above and to the right of the press box, Pontowski looked down on the four aircraft as they flew past. The four jets lifted up as one to clear the flag poles on the rim of the stadium before disappearing to the southwest.

  Pontowski and Leonard exchanged worried looks. ‘Maggot shouldn’t have done that,’ Leonard grumbled, barely audible over the shouts of approval from the crowd in the box.

  The mayor hurried over, again shaking Pontowski’s hand, always the practising politician. ‘Great show, Colonel. I knew you wouldn’t let us down. The reporters in the press box stood up and applauded.’ He ushered Pontowski, Little Matt, and the Leonards to their seat for the opening kickoff.

  The phone call from the Federal Aviation Agency came halfway through the first quarter. The mayor took the call on the phone at his seat and his face turned beet red before handing the receiver to Pontowski. ‘It’s the Aviation Safety Inspector from the Flight Standards D
istrict Office,’ he said. ‘He said something about a flying violation because of the flyby.’ The mayor lowered his voice. ‘We don’t want any problems,’ he warned.

  Pontowski had been expecting the call. He took the phone and listened for a few moments. ‘Yes, I saw the flyby and your facts are essentially correct.’ He listened again and motioned for Leonard to join him. ‘Right,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll be right there.’ He gave the phone back to the mayor. ‘That was Gene Ponds. He wants to see me right away.’

  ‘Who’s Gene Ponds?’ the mayor demanded.

  ‘A good man,’ Leonard answered, ‘just doing his job.’ Then to Pontowski. ‘Gene will listen to reason.’

  ‘If there’s any to listen to,’ Pontowski added.

  ‘Look,’ the mayor said, ‘I told you I don’t want any trouble over this. You assured me you would only do the flyby if it was safe. So don’t involve me.’

  Once a politician, Pontowski told himself. ‘Tango, will you and Sara take care of Little Matt while I put out this fire?’

  ‘We’d love to, but I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Pontowski replied. ‘But no need for us both to miss the game. Call Maggot and have him meet me at the FAA.’ He bent over and explained the situation to his son. ‘Matt, I’ve got to take care of some Air Force business. But you can stay and watch the game with Colonel and Mrs Leonard. Okay?’

  Sadness filled Little Matt’s eyes and Pontowski ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll see you later, good buddy. I’m proud of you.’ He collected his overcoat and headed for the parking lot. Damn, Pontowski thought, I wanted to see the game with my son and thanks to Maggot it isn’t going to happen.

  *

  Pontowski and Maggot arrived back at the stadium twenty minutes into the victory celebration. Little Matt ran over to Pontowski and grabbed his hand, eager to tell him all about the game. Maggot was an instant celebrity with the crowd and an old retired Marine pilot cornered him for a round of good-natured insults.

  ‘What happened with the FAA?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘You were right,’ Pontowski said. ‘Ponds is a good man. Maggot got caught pushing the weather minimums.’

  ‘If the minimums weren’t good enough,’ Leonard said, ‘they wouldn’t be the minimums.’

  ‘Ponds bought that argument,’ Pontowski replied. ‘But Ponds said that Maggot had better keep his nose clean for the next six months or he’ll stomp all over his scrotum.’

  Pontowski gathered up Little Matt and left with the Leonards while Maggot and the old Marine continued to entertain the party. ‘You Air Force pukes,’ the retired Marine claimed, ‘ain’t got no couth.’

  Maggot feigned outrage. ‘You’re speaking to the 303rd’s Couth Control Officer,’ he announced. ‘We’re so couth that we can eat oysters without touching our lips or tongue.’

  ‘Right,’ the old Marine answered, his disbelief obvious.

  Maggot walked over to the buffet table and rooted through a bowl of oysters, selecting two of the smallest. He walked back to the crowd with his plate. ‘Sure you want to see this?’ he asked the Marine. He nudged one of the oysters to the edge of the plate with the tip of his nose and sniffed hard. The oyster disappeared up a nostril with a soft sucking sound. ‘Want to see it again?’ he asked as a woman ran for the ladies’ room. In her haste, she bowled over a reporter from the Kansas City Star.

  Maggot made page two of the Monday edition.

  *

  ‘Maggot gives a whole new meaning to the term “triple bang”,’ Pontowski told Leonard. They were sitting in his office with the newspaper spread out on his desk. ‘The reporter dug hard and it’s all here; the sexual harassment charge, the low flyby, and the great oyster-sucking scene.’ He gave a mental sigh. ‘We can’t take this kind of heat. I’ve got to fire him.’

  Leonard nodded in agreement. ‘I know. But it’ll hurt morale.’

  Pontowski looked out the window and considered his options. Leonard was right. Firing Maggot would hurt morale. But given a little time, they would get over that. The irony of it all struck him — the Maggots were exactly the personality type he needed when the shooting started. But the Maggots were a liability in a peacetime Air Force. ‘I know,’ Pontowski muttered. Then more strongly, ‘Training a fighter jock in peacetime and then going to war is like raising a tiger in captivity and then turning him loose in the jungle. Neither does very well at first until the old skills and attitudes come back. That’s why we need to keep a few of the Maggots around. They’re the ones who get us through the first ten days alive.’

  Then another thought came to him. ‘We’ll be okay as long as we don’t get caught in a shooting match in the next six months or so.’

  ‘Not much chance of that,’ Leonard conceded.

  Damn, Pontowski moaned to himself, am I the only guy who has to stomp on his best people?

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday, December 17

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  *

  The two men walked down the fourth-floor hallway and let themselves into the small office. They were unremarkable in appearance, two European or American businessmen coming to work in a half-deserted office building. ‘God, it stinks in here,’ Jason Robby, the older of the two men said. He threw open a window to the little-used office while his younger partner checked the answering machine. There was a message for MacKay. ‘Is that Chembo?’ Robby asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kevin Grawley, the youngest member of MacKay’s Intelligence Support Agency team, answered. ‘She wants to meet him tonight.’

  ‘Better get the message to him,’ Robby said. ‘Cape Town is still wetting its knickers over what she gave us last time.’ He stood in the shadows beside the window and scanned the street. ‘I’m still coming up dry for contacts. How ’bout you?’

  ‘Nothing since old Charles got the crispy critter treatment with the necklace,’ Grawley answered.

  ‘Damn,’ Robby muttered. ‘Your shadow is still out there.’

  ‘He’s harmless,’ Grawley answered. ‘I can shake him anytime I want. I don’t think he’s made you and the Boss never comes here, so he’s clean.’ He stood to leave. ‘I’ll tell him about the message. Besides, he likes her.’

  ‘He better put a clamp on the love stud,’ Robby said. ‘We don’t need him getting his ass shot off because a terminal case of the hornies blew away the last of his good judgment. It won’t read well on a death certificate.’

  Grawley opened the door. ‘Yeah, I like him too.’

  *

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, MacKay told himself as he mingled with the crowd outside the Market Theater. Come on woman, he thought, where are you? You were the one who called.

  He breathed easier when he saw Ziba sitting on a low brick wall next to the entrance. They had been out of touch for over a month and his control officer, the CIA Station Chief in Cape Town, was hounding him for more information. But after the Stevens were killed at the funeral rally, he had held back, worried that a premature contact would compromise her or his operation. Now he was back in business and his two ISA operatives, Jason Robby and Kevin Grawley, could stop crawling the walls for lack of activity.

  A strong urge swept over him and he could feel a heat building in his groin. You’re acting like a young blood sniffing after pussy, he thought.

  Ziba stood and smiled at him. ‘I have missed you, John Arthur.’ All his worries vanished, blown away by the sound of her voice and the way she looked at him.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘This is an important place,’ she told him. ‘Much of our struggle for freedom started here. We used the stage to tell our story to the world. There are times when it is more than art.’ They walked arm-in-arm around the small square, mingling with the holiday crowd and vendors.

  ‘I thought you had moved,’ he ventured.

  ‘The Slavins have moved to Bloemfontein,’ she replied. ‘I overheard him talk about working at the Boyden Observatory. But I wante
d to see you before I left.’ The sound of police sirens echoed over the crowd and drowned out her words. MacKay closed his eyes and listened. In the distance, he could hear a faint sound that reminded him of surf at a beach. Then he sniffed the air — a trace of smoke then nothing. Ziba spoke to a man and turned to him. ‘There’s trouble, much trouble, around the train station. We need to leave ... now.’ In the distance, he heard the unmistakable clatter of a submachine gun.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s an office near here ... on Commissioner Street. We’ll be safe there.’ He grabbed her hand and they ran. The streets were deserted and at first they only saw a single person coming toward them — a black teenager. Then more people were running and they heard seven rapid gunshots from a semi-automatic pistol.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ MacKay muttered. But they were almost to Commissioner Street and he pressed ahead. A group of shouting blacks surged into the street and blocked their way. He pulled Ziba into a doorway as a car’s headlights swept the street. The glare framed a man on his knees, begging for his life. A teenager jammed a pistol against the back of his head and fired.

  ‘What are my brothers doing?’ Ziba moaned.

  MacKay threaded his way through the back streets and finally reached the office building. It was dark except for the lights on the fourth floor. ‘That’s the office. Wait here.’ He headed for the building, using the dark for cover. On impulse, he ducked into an alley and looked back. He was being followed. Damn, he cursed to himself, where did he come from?

  What little hope MacKay harbored for his operation evaporated. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket, finding the one to the side door of the office building. He ran, using the darkness and parked cars for cover, anything to prevent a shot. He climbed the steps to the building in two strides and was through the side door, deliberately leaving it unlocked.

  Inside, he ripped a fire extinguisher off its mount and jerked out the safety pin. He bounded up the stairwell, his long legs taking five steps at a stride, gaining him precious seconds. Come on, you mutha, he thought. Behind him, he heard footsteps. He ran past his floor and stopped on the next landing, twelve steps above. He allowed a tight smile when he heard his pursuer’s labored breathing. Come on, you know the floor, he thought. Go on through.