Edge of Honor (15 page)

Sam held him at arm’s length and took him in. “You’ve changed,” she announced. “You’re not Little Matt anymore.” Matthew Pontowski IV, drew himself up and returned her smile. It was true, he was no longer Little Matt.

“I call him Maggot,” Brian said, eager to join the conversation.

Sam laughed. “What a terrible nickname.”

“I don’t mind,” Matt said. “It seems to fit.”

Sam extended her hand to Brian. “I’ve heard all about you. I’m Sam Damell.”

Brian fell back on his training as a cadet and shook hands with her. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He wanted to say something witty, but words escaped him.

Across the room, Maddy spoke to Maura and Dennis. “Who’s the woman with Brian and General Pontowski?”

“She
is
stunning,” Maura said.

“That would be Samantha Darnell,” Dennis said. “She’s a director with CNC-TV and is here covering the dedication. At one time she was, you might say, the significant other in General Pontowski’s life. But they’ve been separated for some time now.”

“Oh, I see.” Maddy turned to meet more local dignitaries.

Sarah tugged at her grandmother’s hand. “What’s the matter with Mom?”

“Nothing, Little Miss Nosy.”

“Why am I always Little Miss this or that?”

“Because you’re growing up too fast.”

Maura O’Keith was coming out of the ladies’ room when she saw Zeth watching TV in the museum’s visitors’ lounge. The sound of a reporter’s voice carried across the small room describing the dedication ceremony. TV coverage was so much a part of Maura’s life that, normally, she paid it no attention. But judging by Zeth’s reaction, something was wrong. She sat down beside the girl and watched the news clip. It was good coverage and Maddy was at her best. But Zeth was clearly upset. “Did I miss something?” Maura asked.

Zeth shook her head, on the verge of tears. “I saw myself on TV. I
am
a trog.”

Maura examined the girl’s face and turned her chin from side to side, examining her hair. She loosened Zeth’s French braid and let her hair fall. “Is a trog some new word or just how you feel about yourself?” Zeth didn’t answer. “Stand up. Let me look at you.” Zeth did as she ordered. “Yes,” Maura murmured, examining her uniform and lack of makeup. Then, “Would you like to go shopping with me this afternoon?”

“I don’t have any money,” Zeth answered.

“Not to worry,” Maura answered. “Do you mind if Sarah comes along?”

Brian and Matt were wearing blue blazers and dark gray trousers for the dinner that culminated Saturday’s activities. Since it was a political fund-raiser where the guests paid $500 a plate for the privilege of eating with the president, they were not in uniform. “Hey, Maggot,” Brian asked, “where’s the Trog? I haven’t seen her since lunch.”

“I think she went shopping with your grandmother and Sarah,” Matt replied. They wandered outside to wait for
everyone to gather for the trip to the Ruidoso Downs Jockey Club where the dinner would be held.

Pontowski joined them, also wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks. “It looks like we all have the same uniform,” he said. “Wow,” he muttered, looking over their heads. The boys turned and were speechless. Zeth stood in the doorway. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and shimmered in the soft light. Maura had applied a light makeup so skillfully that it blended perfectly with her smooth complexion and gave her a radiant glow. She was wearing a simple dress with spaghetti straps and full skirt that ended just above her knees. A white shawl was draped over her bare shoulders.

“Trog?” Brian and Matt said in unison, not believing what they were seeing.

“If you snooze, you loose,” Pontowski murmured. He stepped around the boys and extended an arm. “May I?” She took his arm and he escorted her down the walk to the waiting cars.

The boys were still in a confused state when they returned from dinner at the Jockey Club. They had been pushed aside as every young man, and a few not so young, clustered around Zeth at the reception. One young man, a tall cadet from the Air Force Academy, had talked to the boys and quizzed them about her. Then, using his inside knowledge, he moved in. Within a very short time, he had totally captured her attention. She was still glowing from all the attention when she joined them. “Okay, wussies,” she said, deciding to let them back into her good graces. “It’s poker time. I’ll find some cards and chips. Meet me in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know how to play poker,” Matt protested.

“It’s about time you learned,” Pontowski said.

“Great,” Brian moaned. “Now she’s a card shark.”

“Can I play too?” Sarah asked.

“Until your bedtime,” Maura replied, checking her watch. She stood up. “I’ll keep things under control.” She walked after the kids, leaving Pontowski and Maddy alone.

Pontowski settled into a leather easy chair near the fire. “Is it like this every day?” he asked. Maddy gave a little
laugh, low and musical, and sank into the chair next to him. She kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs to the fire.

“This was an easy one,” she replied. “Probably because it was something I wanted to do.” She turned to look at him and as before, the way she did it captured him. “I was fifteen when I met Amadis,” she explained. She looked into the fire and remembered. “She had painted a portrait of an old woman. I thought the model had to be at least eighty years old. Amadis said she was only forty-seven. Can you believe that? I’m forty-seven now. That painting really touched me.”

“I think,” Pontowski said very slowly, “that it’s hanging in my room.”

“It can’t be.”

“It’s an easy thing to check.” Without a word, Maddy stood and, without bothering to put on her shoes, they walked into the cool night air.

A Secret Service Agent standing post in the garden spoke into the whisper microphone under the cuff of his black windbreaker. “Magic is moving.” Inside the temporary command post, a light flashed on a control panel, tracing Turner’s path as she moved down the garden. Once she and Pontowski were out of earshot, the agent filled in the details. “Magic is with Pontowski and heading in the direction of his room. She’s not wearing shoes.”

One of the agents on duty in the command post studied the control panel. “Is our commander in chief fraternizing with one of the troops?” he asked, deadpan.

“Don’t go there,” Chuck Sanford ordered.

“I love desert nights,” Maddy said as they approached his room. He held the door open and turned on the light. A fire had been built in the fireplace and the room was too warm. He left the door open. She stood in front of the mantel and gazed at the portrait. “That’s it,” she said. “But I don’t remember it being so small.”

“When you’re young,” Pontowski said, “emotions make things bigger.” He stood beside her, almost touching. On impulse he stepped up to the fireplace and took
the painting down, bringing it back to her. “It is small,” he said.

She held the painting and stroked the canvas. “Her brush strokes were so delicate.” She handed it back to him.

“There’s something taped to the back,” Pontowski said. He turned the painting around for her to see. “I think this is for you,” he said, peeling off an envelope. Bold lettering was scrawled across the face.

FOR MADDY TURNER

Turner carefully broke the seal and pulled out a card. On one side was a bill of sale made out to her. She turned it over.

“The date,” Maddy said. “It’s when I was fifteen.” She looked at Pontowski. “She knew, even then, she knew.”

Pontowski examined the card and the envelope. “Look at the date on the envelope. It’s the day before you were sworn in as vice president.”

“Why did she backdate the bill of sale?”

“I think,” Pontowski said slowly, “she’s telling you she remembers and she wants you to have the painting. By backdating the bill of sale to before you were vice president, you don’t have to turn it over to the Smithsonian or the Treasury Department.”

“I can’t keep it.” Then his words struck home. “You said ‘she’s telling you she remembers’ like she’s still alive.”

Pontowski handed her the painting. “She is. In this.” Their hands touched and for a reason he did not comprehend, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was a light kiss, little more than a brushing of lips. But for a moment they lingered. “Oh,” she whispered. Then she kissed him back, this time much longer. “I need to get back and tuck Sarah in,” she finally said, drawing away and smiling at him. He had seen her smile many times on TV but this
was different. She glowed with a radiance no camera could capture and it was meant for him alone. It captured him and yet, he was lost.

Pontowski followed her out of the room, turning off the light but leaving the door open. Another Secret Service Agent dutifully reported her movement to the command post.

Sunday’s breakfast was a family affair. Sarah was bright and cheery while the boys and Zeth were still half sleep from their late-night poker session. Maura was on her second cup of coffee and finally coming alert. Maddy sat at one corner of the table, elbows resting on a dinner mat while her hands cupped a steaming mug of coffee. Pontowski was sitting at the far corner and occasionally, he would glance at her. Their eyes met twice and a little smile played at the corner of her lips. “Well,” she finally said, “I’m going for a ride. Who’s coming?”

Matt groaned loudly, claiming he wanted to sack out and Brian said he was going to “shoot some hoops.” Sarah glanced around the table. “I’ve got homework. Zeth and General Pontowski can go.” She gave Zeth a meaningful look.

Zeth understood. “I’ve got homework, too,” she said. “We can do it together, if you want.” That decided it and Pontowski stood up, waiting for Maddy. He followed her outside.

“We need to talk,” Maura said before the boys could escape. She walked to the door leading into the kitchen and called. “Dennis, we need you.”

Maddy’s personal assistant joined them and sat down in a chair. He folded his hands in front of him on the table and spoke in a smooth and quiet voice. “As you know, everything President Turner does is news and she may be photographed riding with General Pontowski. The media will try to blow it up into some big romance because they were seen alone.”

“Big deal,” Brian snorted. “They’re not alone. What about the Secret Service? They’ll be with them.”

“I assure you,” Dennis insisted, “the Secret Service won’t be in the photo. The reason I’m bringing this up is
to warn you that you might be asked questions by reporters or people who will sell what you say to the newspapers or the tabloids.”

“So what should we say?” This from Matt.

“The truth,” Dennis said. “But don’t embellish it, don’t make anything out of it. General Pontowski was here as your chaperon and they went for a horseback ride. That’s all there is.”

“That’s the truth,” Matt said.

“Yeah,” Brian added. “They’re hardly talking and I don’t think they even like each other.”

Saint Petersburg, Russia

Vashin was pleased. The banquet room in the Hermitage shimmered with the elegance and grandeur of czarist Russia. The champagne and caviar were the best the world could produce and even an acknowledged wine connoisseur representing a consortium of French banks raved over the vintage wine flowing freely. The chefs flown in for the event had outdone themselves. The dinner was a triumph. Not that he was surprised, not after the dream.

It was still crystal clear. He was floating in clouds and suddenly, there was a break in the weather. Below him was Saint Petersburg and the Hermitage. When he mentioned the dream to Geraldine, she turned very serious and told him not to ignore it. It had to mean something. Men like Vashin had dreams for a reason. He believed her and moved the dinner to the Hermitage.

But without doubt, Geraldine was the star of the evening. Vashin had never seen this side of her, confident and regal, the perfect hostess to charm the fourteen bankers who had accepted his invitation to come to Russia. Half of the bankers wanted to sleep with her and the American from Chicago wanted to marry her. For a moment, Vashin considered that possibility for himself. But just as quickly, he rejected it. Better to keep his wife and maintain the image of a responsible husband and father of four children.

Geraldine herded the bankers into the czar’s study for cigars and cognac. It was the final act. Vashin had studied
the dossiers and ranked them in terms of resistance. The Swiss banker would be the hardest to convince, the Chinese the easiest. But if Geraldine was right, every one of these men could be bought. It was simply a matter of approaching them in the right way. He followed her into the smaller, and much more intimate study and stood by the fireplace. He waited for the men to become comfortable. If all other inducements failed, there were the gifts.

He started to speak in Russian as Geraldine translated into English, a language the bankers understood. He was certain the message behind his words was equally as clear. “Again, thank you for coming.” Each had been flown in separately on a private jet that catered to the rich and famous. “I hope you have enjoyed your visit.” Geraldine had been meticulous in pandering to their individual interests and needs. “But all good things must come to an end.” It was time to talk business.

The carrot came first. “As you know, my country is reaching out to the world in new endeavors.” The Russian Mafiya was dominating the drug trade. “Fortunately, we are achieving some success.” The money was flowing in obscene amounts. “Now, we must direct the fruits of our labor into new investments.” We need to launder the money. “But this is beyond our field of expertise.” We want you to do it for us. “What we need are men of your stature and business acumen to guide us through the intricacies of investment opportunities in your countries.” Can you bribe the politicians? “Together, we can all benefit in this combined endeavor and we are most generous in rewarding our friends and allies.” You’re in for a hefty percentage if you come on board.

The Swiss banker swirled his cognac before taking a sip. “Herr Vashin, your proposal is most interesting, certainly worthy of my colleagues’ consideration. But we have heard many stories about the dangers of doing business in your new Russia.”

Vashin smiled, trying to be reassuring. “It is true that, in a manner of speaking, a few Russians have lost their heads”—a nervous titter worked its way around the room—“in ill-timed ventures. But they were not business
men and that was in the past. We are now dealing with a higher level of sophistication.”

The American banker from Chicago guffawed. “Talk about happy horseshit—” A warning look from Geraldine cut him off.

Instead of translating the remark verbatim, she said, “They’re a little skeptical.”

The stick came next. “Please,” Vashin said, “I know you must all think about it and confer with your principals. We do understand your reluctance to join in a new endeavor with an untried partner. If you choose not to participate, there will be no hard feelings, only the hope that we can do business in the future. For now, it is more important that we gain your goodwill. As a remembrance of your visit with us, may I offer some gifts for you and your families?”

On cue, Geraldine threw open the double doors and a string of waiters entered. Some were pushing carts laden with gifts, others carrying paintings or priceless icons. Each banker was first presented with a Fabergé egg for his wife and, as the case required, his mistress. The gifts kept coming, each one carrying an inscribed gold tag with the name of the man’s children and closest living relatives.

A deathly silence ruled the room. The gifts announced that Vashin knew where, and how, they lived.

The Swiss banker was the first to recover. “These are most flattering and I cannot thank you enough. We will be talking in the very near future.” The others rapidly agreed and the evening was over. They had much to think about.

The German banker was the last to leave. He joined Vashin by the fire and spoke in Russian. “Chancellor Gunder sends his regards and asks if you would consider meeting with his representative to discuss matters of mutual interest.”

“I would be honored,” Vashin replied.

The White House

Madeline Turner glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. It was 7:20
A.M.
and she was alone in her office in
the residence on the second floor. She tried to concentrate on the “Quadrennial Defense Review” in her lap but the combination of bureaucratic and military jargon defeated her.
I need an interpreter for this
, she thought. Felipe, her favorite steward, poured her another cup of coffee. She took a sip, enjoying the aroma, as she waited for her Kitchen Cabinet to arrive for breakfast.

Noreen will be first
. Noreen Coker was the most direct of the four friends who were her personal advisors and support group. She read another page of the “Quadrennial Defense Review” and dropped it in a briefcase in frustration.
I’m missing something here
. A knock at the door, a tactful pause, and Noreen entered. Turner smiled. “I’m glad you’re early. We need to talk.”

The tall African American congresswoman from Los Angeles collapsed into an overstuffed chair. “For God’s sake, coffee. No normal human being gets up at this hour.” Felipe handed her a steaming cup.

“Thank you, Felipe,” said Turner. “That will be all.” The steward withdrew, leaving them alone. Turner studied her friend. “Are you putting on weight?”

An unhappy nod from Noreen. “Is it obvious?”

“A man?”

Another nod. “He’s no good but he does stir my bones.”

“I hope that’s all he’s stirring.” Turner wanted to say more but Noreen knew the rules in Washington. Women politicians had to be masters of the double standard. What a male politician could get away with was a career breaker for a woman. “I’m glad you’re early. There’s something we need to discuss. I’m thinking of running for reelection.”

Somewhere deep in Noreen a switch turned and the consummate political professional emerged. She was no longer the flashy congresswoman who represented a poverty-stricken district but the shrewd Washington insider. “I’m not surprised. You’ve got the political base to capture the nomination. But most incumbents do, unless they’re total idiots. Most of the press loves you but a few of the bastards run with Leland and his pack. We can handle them. It’s too early to announce and you need to play coy for a
while, at least until after the congressional elections next month, perhaps until after the first of the year. We’ve got to keep the opposition guessing for as long as possible. Otherwise, they’ll get organized and start raising money. Finances will be a problem for us. We’ll need someone with muscle.”

“I know. I was thinking of bringing Patrick in.”

“Don’t stand too close to that man.”

Turner didn’t answer. But she knew the truth of it. The ugly fact of life in national politics was the amount of money needed to mount a successful presidential campaign. Raising it was not the problem. Keeping it at arm’s length was. Shaw would do the dirty work and be the lightning rod drawing the anger of her opponents. And the more successful her campaign, the stronger the attack. After the election he would have to disappear into the background or she would dump him. Turner glanced at the clock. “The others should be here.” She rose and led the way into the dining room where her Kitchen Cabinet gathered for breakfast.

“Maura will be against it,” Noreen cautioned. “She hates this place.” The switch moved and the facade was back in place. “Girl, you’d think I’d know better than to mess with a man at my age.”

Joe Litton, the press secretary, stood aside as Madeline Turner took the podium in the press briefing room. Everyone was standing and applauding and even Sam Donaldson had exchanged his sharklike grin for a warm smile. As the senior correspondent, Donaldson was the dean of the press corps and sat front and center. “Madame President,” he asked, “the pictures of you horseback riding with Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski have received wide coverage. Is there some romantic interest here?”

For a moment, the room was absolutely silent. Donaldson was not one of Turner’s tame reporters she could rely on to spin her side of the story. She gave him a little smile. “Not that I’m aware of, Sam.”

“So should we assume you’re horse fanciers?”

“Well, you could assume that, but we’re not. Brian and General Pontowski’s son are roommates at NMMI. We
have a common interest as concerned parents. Sam, you graduated from there. You know how difficult the freshman year is.”

Donaldson looked down as if caught up in his own memories. Elizabeth Gordon from CNC-TV was next. She was one of Turner’s tame reporters. “Madame President, is it true that Amadis Escalante willed you one of her paintings?”

“Not exactly willed,” Turner replied. “There is some confusion whether it’s a gift or not. I was quite moved by the thought and the painting. For the time being, it’s hanging in my bedroom. But after I leave the White House, it will be sent to the Smithsonian as part of the national collection.”

Her answer satisfied the reporters and they turned to the hard questions about the economy, defense, and public education. The press secretary leaned against the side wall and relaxed. It was going to be a good day.

The black limousine took the long way from Foggy Bottom to the White House. Normally, the drive from the State Department lasted only a few minutes. But Stephan Serick, the secretary of state, needed the time to abuse his two deputies. His hands twisted in a vain attempt to strangle his cane. “The president knew about Bender’s security-aid package before I did. Why?”

“We’re still staffing it,” the head of the European desk said. “It arrived on my desk less than two weeks ago.”

Serick scowled but the man was right. Two weeks was not even time for the head of a desk to clear his throat, much less digest and forward a cable from an ambassador. Two months was more reasonable. “Unfortunately,” Serick grumbled, “you do not have to discuss it with the president. I do.”

“Bender has overstepped his bounds,” the under secretary said. “Ambassadors do not initiate major policy proposals.”

Serick almost shouted. “This one has.” His heavy jowls quivered and his Latvian accent grew thick. “How did she learn about it?” From his glare, the two professional diplomats knew they were in trouble.

“Not from State,” the under secretary said. “Turner recalled him for discussions and the national security advisor talked to him when he arrived.” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton was a much hated person in the State Department and she was only referred to by her title, never her name.

“And what is our position on this so-called security-aid package?” Serick asked.

Two heads shook as one. State didn’t have a clue.

The limousine went through the southwest appointment gate and deposited Serick at the west entrance to the West Wing. A Marine guard opened the door and Serick stumped into the White House, his right hand clenching his cane, still trying to strangle it. Dennis was waiting for him and led him into the Oval Office.

“Good afternoon, Madame President,” Serick said. He nodded at the other members of the president’s National Security Advisors Group and sat down next to Sam Kennett, the vice president. He nodded at Bender and Mazie. As usual, the director of central intelligence did not even look up to acknowledge his presence and Richard Parrish, Turner’s chief of staff, was sitting against the back wall.

Turner gave Bender a little half smile. “Well, Robert, I believe your security-aid proposal has ruffled some feathers.”

“I must apologize,” Serick said. “I haven’t had a chance to review it.” He muttered something about “the press of other business.”

Turner enjoyed watching Serick squirm. “Robert, can you summarize the high points?”

“Basically, it’s a two-part package. We provide the Poles with the ability to create an FBI-type organization. Second, through the Defense Security Assistance Agency and the NATO connection, we upgrade the Polish Air Force.”

Serick grumped. “And the desired results?”

“The goal,” Bender explained, “is to give the Poles the capability to combat organized crime and to control their own airspace.”

“The first I understand,” Serick said. “But why the concern over the control of airspace?”

“Because the Russian Mafiya leapfrogs at will around
and through Poland using air transport. It’s a fast, efficient way to move drugs and people and it avoids ground interdiction. You can’t arrest them unless you get your hands on them.”

Serick stood up and stomped around the room. “This is too simple and ill conceived. Besides, I am more concerned with what the Germans are doing.”

“I haven’t seen any recent intelligence in the ‘President’s Daily Brief’ about that,” Turner said.

The DCI coughed for attention. “We received a report this morning about a high-level meeting in Saint Petersburg between Mikhail Vashin and a group of foreign bankers. The Germans invited Vashin to a follow-up meeting with Chancellor Gunder. My analysts think they’re reconciling areas of conflict.”