Call to Duty (21 page)

The Capitol, Washington, D.C.

The Army colonel was leaving Courtland’s offices as Tina Stanley, the senator’s aide, entered. She was visibly upset and near tears. “Close the door,” Courtland said. He motioned her to be seated and paced his office. “What did the Coast Guard say?”

“They claim it was a fuel tank explosion. I had to identify the body.” A shudder ran through her slender frame. “It was George.”

“And the other body?”

“No positive identification—yet. But I’m certain it was George’s contact in the CIA. Senator, I think it was a hit.”

“Did their blood test positive for drugs?” Courtland asked. She nodded. “If it was a hit,” the senator said, disappointment in his voice, “then it was drug-related. Pontowski doesn’t work that way.”

“This has been a terrible day,” Tina moaned.

“That colonel had some good news,” Courtland told her. “The Polack is sending Delta Force in to rescue Anderson.” He recounted what the Army colonel had told him. He paced faster. “With a little luck, Operation Dragon Noire will be a bust. Even if he does get Anderson out, it will be a warning to Chiang to get his guard up.” He was swinging his arms like he was holding a baseball bat. “Do you know what that does to the chances for rescuing Heather?” The woman did not know exactly how to answer that question.

“It shoots ’em all to hell,” the senator said. He swung at an imaginary pitch. “Home run!”

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Zack Pontowski walked beside the wheelchair as the nurse pushed his wife to the helicopter that was waiting to fly her to Bethesda Naval Hospital. “Is this really necessary?” she protested.

He smiled at her. “You know how doctors are.” Her old fighting spirit was back and for a moment he remembered the time in Zaragoza when he had been on a gurney being taken away. They reached the helicopter and, for one of those rare times at the White House, the press corps did not yell questions but held back out of respect for her privacy.

“They are being good today,” Tosh said as she waved at the reporters. For a brief moment, Pontowski convinced himself that she would recover like she had in the past. How many times had the doctors expressed amazement at how she fought off the ravages of lupus with sheer willpower. But an inner voice warned him that it was not to be. Not this time.

The staff and support units that surrounded the President moved with their usual efficiency during the short flight to Bethesda. Airspace was cleared and secured, Secret Service agents, some obvious but most totally submerged into the background, moved into place and cast a net of protection around the presidential couple. Radios crackled with coded commands and backup units moved into position. The Vice President was notified that the President was airborne and stayed on the ground. When the helicopter touched down on the pad at the hospital, the staff was prepared and waiting and Tosh was quickly moved into a suite. Pontowski stayed by her side during the entire time and saw how exhausted she was after the short move. He sat down beside her bed and placed his hand gently over hers.

“You are a worrywart,” she told him. “I’ll be all right. Now what do you think Courtland is up to?” As usual, the political animal in Tosh was coming out and, again, she was his most trusted and valued counselor. For a few minutes, they discussed the difficult senator’s latest moves. “I really believe,” she said, “that he would sacrifice his own daughter.”

“He wants the presidency,” Zack said. “He’s got to discredit my administration…”

“If he wants to defeat the candidate you back in the next election,” Tosh said, completing the thought for him.

“Men do strange things when they want the presidency.”

“Yes, they do,” Tosh whispered. But Pontowski wasn’t thinking about Courtland. He was wishing for a time of healing, much like he had in the spring of 1943. “Go on back,” she told him, “and let me take a nap.”

“I’ll be back,” he told her. He gently kissed her and left, taking the first steps of another hard journey while his wife renewed her battle with an old enemy—the wolf.

1943
Sherston Hall, Suffolk, England

The old duke stomped up and down the south terrace of the huge country house, impatient and caustic as usual, ignoring the nurses and officers taking the afternoon sun. He kept eyeing the path that led to the stables and checking his watch. “Impertinent pup,” he grumbled. He occupied his time by surveying the grounds that surrounded Sherston Hall, his eighty-eight-room ancestral home that had been built in the 1650s. He glanced at the crowd on the terrace and snorted.

It had been hard for the old man to adjust to the hodgepodge of medical staff, orderlies, and wounded officers who filled his country house with chatter. He regretted allowing his wife to open up Sherston Hall as a convalescent home for officers wounded in the war. The noise and commotion that went with fifty to sixty young officers on the mend in the company of a bevy of young nurses and female orderlies had shattered his peaceful way of life. “Damn magpies” he called them with gruff impatience. He would never admit that he actually liked his “guests,” at least not to himself. He was anxious for the war to end so he could settle back into his old tyrannical ways.

Still, he had made it his duty to get to know each of the officers while they were under his roof by inviting them to share afternoon tea with him. When, from time to time, one would die or later be killed in action, he always wrote to the parents or wife expressing his and Lady Crafton’s condolences. He had been delivered a severe shock at one of those
teas when a newly arrived RAF officer had spoken with an American accent. He had uttered, “A damn colonial” without thinking and had immediately received a smiling “Oh, I hope so, sir. But it’s only a small imperfection.”

The duke was startled by the reply. Not many were willing to brave his crusty reputation. “Humph,” he snorted. “Never met a colonial who knew damned-all about horses.”

“That’s the worst thing Charles can say about a person,” the duchess said, trying to smooth things over. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

“I know a bit about horses…for a colonial,” the American had said. The duke had proceeded to bombard him with questions and discovered that he knew more than just “a bit about horses.” They became instantaneous friends.

A gust of wind whipped at the duke’s open coat, revealing a well-tailored mustard yellow waistcoat stretched tight across his big stomach. Perhaps because of his age and rotund body, the old-fashioned plus-four trousers that belted below his knees suited him. He pulled at his handlebar mustache when he saw the tall figure he had been waiting for walk around the far bend of the path leading from the stables.

“The boy’s been giving the nags their exercise,” he said to no one in particular. A nurse smiled at him. She, like almost everyone else at the country estate, had come to like the young American and was glad when he was around to divert the duke’s attention at afternoon tea. Somehow, the American had tamed the old man while he recovered from a nasty leg wound and life in the big house had become more pleasant. They would all miss him when he returned to operations. After that, the duke would then turn his full attention to what he called “maintaining civilized behavior under my roof.” She remembered only too well the torrent of abuse he had unleashed on her and a most appealing young RAF flight officer when he had discovered them locked in a passionate embrace in the maze. “Ask Flying Officer Pontowski to join me for tea,” he commanded, again speaking to no specific person. The nurse and two others made a mental promise to get the word to Zack. “Damn nags,” he groused. “Damn magpies.” He stomped down to the far end of the terrace to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, Zack walked through the tall French doors opening out from the drawing room. He had washed
and changed out of the rough clothes he wore when exercising the duke’s horses and was wearing his RAF uniform. The duke studied his gait, much as he would a piece of prized horse flesh. “Humph,” he grunted, gesturing at the chair opposite him. “You look fit enough. Time you stopped wreaking havoc in my stable and abused the king’s property instead.”

Zack ignored his comments and sat down. “I’m expecting a posting anytime,” he said. “The quack said I’m no longer u/s.”

“U/s?” the duke grumbled. “Isn’t that the gibberish you use around those confounded airplanes?”

“It means unserviceable,” Zack told him. “Seems to fit.”

The duke looked genuinely distressed. “Soon?”

“They say the orders will probably come down next week.”

“Then you’ll be here over the weekend. Good. I’d like you to meet my granddaughter…Wilhelmina…headstrong young filly…needs taming.” He stirred his tea and took a sip. “Infatuated with the wrong chap…Roger Bertram…absolutely worthless.”

“I take it that means he can’t ride and doesn’t like horses,” Zack said. He stifled a grin.

“Quite the contrary. Bertram’s mad about them. Rides like a demon. But that’s about all he can mount. Breeding all wrong. Good chest development, short in the withers but weak in the head. All wrong for the girl.”

“If your granddaughter is true to her lineage,” Zack said, “nothing is going to change her mind.” He suspected that Wilhelmina would be built like the duke, horse-faced, and spoiled rotten.

The duke of Crafton humphed at the American and decided not to answer. Underneath his eccentric personality beat the heart of a shrewd and capable breeder.

“Is that the duke’s granddaughter?” Zack asked the orderly, who doubled as the bartender in the evening. He was standing at the bar table in the far end of the reception lounge that had been turned into a common room.

The man looked in the direction of the big double doors opening onto the main hall and studied the young, short
dumpy blonde who had just entered. “Sorry, sir. Never seen ’er ladyship before. But this one does match the lot.” The young woman was talking with the marked accent that went with the English upper class.

“I was afraid of that,” Zack said, thinking of ways to escape without the duke seeing him. But he was too late; the old man came in and motioned for him to come over. “Where are those orders,” he moaned, walking across the room. “I need to get out of here.”

The duke said, “I want you to meet my granddaughter, Wilhelmina.”

Zack turned to the woman. “Hello, pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Willi’s cousin, silly.” She looked behind Zack and nodded. “This is Willi.”

He turned and felt his mouth go dry. Standing in the doorway was a slender blonde. Her naturally curly hair fell in a heavy cloud down to her shoulders and in high heels, she matched his height. Her hair framed a beautiful face, a classic peaches-and-cream complexion, and the most profound blue eyes he had ever seen. He was speechless.

“Lieutenant Pontowski,” she said, extending her hand. Her voice was a cool contralto that matched her face. “Grandfather has been singing your praises.” He shook her hand dumbly, not sure what to say.

“Very quiet for a Yank,” a voice said beside her. For the first time, Zack noticed the tall British Navy officer standing with her. “Could we have a polite American in our midst?” His laughter made Zack think of a horse trying to imitate a goose’s honk.

Zack could sense the hostility behind the officer’s words and his combative instincts flared. Be careful, he warned himself. If this is the guy the duke told me about, Roger Bertram, he is only protecting his territory—Wilhelmina. “Perhaps,” Zack said. “There must be at least one of us over here by now.”

“How refreshing,” the Englishman replied.

“Please, Roger,” Willi said. “They are our guests. Behave yourself.” She gave Zack a perfunctory smile and dismissed him. “So nice to have met you,” she said and swept past him into the lounge with Roger Bertram in tow.

“Overpaid, oversexed, and over here,” Roger said in a loud voice.

“Not overpaid in the RAF,” Zack said in a loud stage whisper. From the way their backs stiffened he knew he had hit home. Willi turned and shot him a cold look. “A drink, please,” she said, walking away.

“Damned wrong,” the duke said, capturing Zack’s attention. “I did that all wrong. Told her you were a decent chap. Should have called you a scoundrel, worthless. Then she’d have been interested.”

Zack was up early the next morning. He dressed quickly in the old comfortable clothes the head coachman had lent him for riding and stole down to the kitchen, careful not to wake his roommate. As usual, the two cooks let him eat breakfast in the kitchen. After he had gulped down a last cup of tea, he thanked them and headed for the stables. “He’s the only decent one here,” one of the cooks said. “I hear he’s leaving shortly. I’ll miss him.” The other cook agreed.

At the stables, he was surprised to see all the horses but one gone. “Sorry, sir,” the old coachman who had come out of retirement to care for the duke’s horses said. “Miss Wilhelmina and her friends went for an early-morning ride.”

Zack shrugged and went to work helping the old man muck out the stalls and pitch fresh hay down from the loft. The smell of the hay brought back a vivid image of Chantal and he paused, resting on his pitchfork, thinking. An ache boomed through his chest as he visualized her curled up in the hay, waking from a night’s sleep. And then other images played across his memory, her kneeling in the hay, a playful look on her face as he taught her English, the first brief sight of her totally nude, and then the last glimpse of her standing in the hospital corridor as he was wheeled into the operating room. For a moment, he could again feel her body pressed against his, her heart racing, as the heavy footsteps of the gendarme stomped down the hall toward their room. Will I ever see you again? he wondered. He forced his mind to think of the present and forget the past. “The past is gone and best forgotten,” he told himself.

The one horse left behind in the stables was a mare, too old to ride and kept in graceful retirement by the duke. Zack
forced his attention onto her and was carefully grooming the horse when the duke walked past on his early-morning inspection. The old mare had been his favorite mount when he had still been able to ride. But a stiff hip, the result of an artillery barrage in the Boer War, had finally put an end to his equestrian endeavors. “There, there Nancy,” he said, feeding the horse a handful of carrots. Zack leaned against the stall wall cleaning the curry comb while the duke examined his handiwork. “Well done, lad. Who taught you?”