Edge of Honor (24 page)

“Right. James, please send the miscreants in.”

“Immediately, Madame President.” The usher quickly left.

Maddy relaxed into the couch and stretched, enjoying the moment. “This will take some faking.”

Brian arrived first. Sarah and Matt trailed in behind. Maura came in and sat down. Maddy handed them the photo. “What were you doing?” she asked, trying to act stern.

“Yuck!” Brian said. “I can’t believe Maggot kissed Chubs.”

Sarah glared at her brother. “I was giving Matt a tour. He’s never been to the White House before.”

Pontowski looked at his son. “That is you in the photo?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt answered. He looked embarrassed.

Maddy said, “Sarah, I’ll talk to you later.” She fixed Matt with a serious look and for the rest of his life, he would remember it. “We live in a goldfish bowl here. We have to be very careful what we do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Matt replied.

“We’ll talk later,” Pontowski said to Matt.

“Folks,” Maura said from her corner seat, “this was just two kids kissing under the mistletoe. Let’s not make something out of this when it’s not. Okay?”

“Kissing Chubs,” Brian added. “What a downer.”

Sarah glared at him. She whirled around and ran from the room, tears streaking her face. “Sarah!” Maddy called, concern on her face.

Maura stood slowly, tired from the long day. “That’s the trouble with this place, everything turns into a federal case. We just need to let kids be kids. I’ll take care of it.” With a very audible sigh, she left the room.

“We best go,” Pontowski said. “Thanks again for the invitation.” He took her hand in his. As before, her touch was warm and soft. They said good-bye and he led Matt into the hall. “What were you thinking of?”

“She kissed me, Dad.”

“Did you kiss her back?”

“Naw. I was too surprised.”

Pontowski laughed. “Welcome to the wonderful world of women, son.” He gave Matt a light slap on the back. “If you like her, wait awhile.”

“President Turner isn’t mad at me?”

“Not a bit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me on this one.”

Warsaw

Bender carried the tray with the silver tea service into the bedroom. He set it down beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Nancy struggled into an upright position. “It’s just morning sickness. It should pass in another week or two.” She groaned. “This is all your fault, you know.”

His laugh was low. “I take full responsibility.” He poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. He watched her as she sipped the tea and slowly woke up. It was one of the things he loved about her, the way she woke to the
day, always eager for what was coming. She placed the half-empty cup on the tray.

“Oh,” she said, seeing the small package. She picked it up.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

She slowly unwrapped it, touching the paper and savoring its texture. “What lovely wrapping.” She opened the box. Inside, was a small brooch in the shape of a floral spray. Gold and silver strands twisted together to hold droplets of amber. She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “It’s beautiful, wherever did you find it?”

“Ewa Pawlik knew a jeweler.”

Nancy reached out and took his hand. “I didn’t get you anything half as nice.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on her stomach. “I think you did.” They talked for a few moments and she started to feel better. Finally, she rose to get dressed and he walked into the morning room and sat down. The phone rang and he picked it up. Even though it was Christmas, he was still the ambassador. “Bender here.” It was the embassy duty officer telling him that he had a phone call from Jerzy Fedor requesting an emergency meeting. “Get Peter Duncan to cover it,” he said.

Evan Riley sat in Bender’s office while they waited for Duncan to return from the meeting. “Poland shuts down over Christmas,” Riley said. “It must be important if Fedor is jumping through hoops.” He snorted. “Hell, we’ve all been jumping through hoops since the assassination attempt.”

“Anything new on it?” Bender asked.

“Not that I know of. Apparently the missile came through Poland. But this place is a wide-open pipeline for the Russian Mafiya. Personally, I think the Poles were innocent bystanders on this one.” He grew expansive. “They’re victims of their geography, caught in the middle.” They fell silent when a steward brought in a fresh pot of coffee. Riley helped himself to a cup. “That was a smart move sending Duncan to meet Fedor. We don’t trust him. Too much travel to Russia and the Ukraine.”

Peter Duncan returned an hour later. He was unusually animated and paced the carpet. “The fuckin’ Russian Mafiya’s doing it again. They found out where the gold is stored and are going after it Monday morning. We’re talking major assault on a bank right after it opens. The audacity of the bastards!”

Riley’s eyes darted back and forth. “How did Fedor find out?”

Duncan shook his head. “He wouldn’t say. Obviously, he knows someone or has his own sources. At least the Poles had enough sense to separate the gold from the money. The cash is easily dispersed. The only bank with a vault large enough to hold so much bullion is Credit-Polska on Zlota Street.”

“So what does Fedor want us to do about it?” Bender asked.

“He wants us to tell the SPS so they can save the bacon.”

“Or in this case,” Riley added, “the gold. But if the SPS acts and anything goes wrong, we get blamed because our intelligence was wrong. Why do I smell a setup?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Bender added.

Duncan flopped into a chair. “So how do we make it go right?”

“We need to exploit the Mafiya’s weaknesses,” Riley said, “not play to their strengths. They’re smart and vicious street thugs who are dangerous on their own turf. We need to make ’em play our game where training, fast reaction, good command and control, and movement are the deciding factors.”

“How do we do that?” Bender asked.

Riley asked, “Fedor said it’s planned for Monday morning?”

“Correct,” Duncan answered. “That gives us four days to put a response together.”

Riley shook his head. “It also gives them four days. I want to take that away from them. We force them to act prematurely by moving the gold bullion tonight.”

Duncan tried not to grin. “Not quite.”

A very discreet gold-lettered sign on the double-glass doors announced that
EXCLUSIVE STUDIOS
occupied the top
floor of the building on Zlota Street. It was a good location for business and close to the central train station and the Palace of Culture and Science, the tallest building in Warsaw. Normally, Exclusive Studios was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for any lonely businessman, preferably an elderly Asian, willing to pay the going rate of five hundred to a thousand dollars for an intimate encounter with one of the most beautiful prostitutes in Warsaw. But on Christmas even businesses owned by the Russian Mafiya were closed.

But that was not to say Exclusive Studios was unoccupied. It also had an unobstructed view of Bank Credit-Polska on the opposite side of the street, and line-of-sight communications with an office high in the tower of the Palace of Culture and Science. The office in question was the hub of Vashin’s legitimate business interests in Warsaw. But its real function was to serve as a communications and coordination center for Vashin’s more normal enterprises.

The girls at Exclusive Studios, who were kept under lock and key when not dispensing their charms, were celebrating Christmas and a party of sorts was going on. Consequently, their guards, who should have also been watching the bank, found themselves distracted when the convoy of three trucks, four armored personnel carriers, and one command car lumbered down the street and turned into the alley that led to the rear of the bank.

And that was the problem.

Peter Duncan sat in a truck parked across the street. On the outside, the truck looked like a large delivery van. But inside was some of the world’s most sophisticated communications-monitoring equipment. “Jesus H. Christ,” Duncan said to the SPS communications specialist, “Did anyone see the convoy?”

They wanted the Mafiya to think they were moving the gold. Actually, the trucks were the cover to insert a team of SPS commandos into the bank. The gold bullion would stay in the vault. Duncan and the SPS were betting the Mafiya would key on the convoy and go after it. Or better yet, split their forces to hit both targets in a knee-jerk
reaction. No matter what, they were walking into the waiting arms of the SPS. But the Mafiya needed time to react.

The young Pole looked perplexed. “There’ve been no communications with the Palace of Culture.” He rotated the sound boom on top of the van toward Exclusive Studios and listened. “I can still hear music and laughter.”

“Damn,” Duncan muttered under his breath. “It must be one hell of a party.”

Duncan called the SPS commander on the secure radio. “They didn’t see you arrive at the bank. Drive around the block and make a little noise when you pull up.”

“We’ll unload first,” the commander replied. Duncan waited and, in his mind’s eye, he could see the blacksuited SPS spilling out of the trucks and moving silently into covering positions and into the bank. Within minutes, the commander radioed, “Moving. Any reaction?” The communications specialist in the van shook his head. The Mafiya lookouts were still partying. When the convoy reappeared six minutes later and turned onto Zlota Street, there was still no reaction from Exclusive Studios.

“Slow down,” Duncan ordered. The trucks did as ordered and chugged slowly down the street, gearboxes whining and engines revving. Still no reaction. “They must be screwin’ themselves deaf in there,” he muttered to himself. “How in the hell can they miss this?” Desperate, he radioed, “We need an accident. Have one of the APCs sideswipe a parked car.”

On cue, the last armored personnel carrier brushed against a car. It was meant to be little more than a kiss, but the mass of the six-wheeled APC crushed it. The convoy pulled around the wreck and slowly turned into the alley leading to the back of the bank, again disappearing from view. The communications specialist scanned his instruments and shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” Duncan grumbled. He pointed to one of the men who was dressed in civilian clothes. “Go ring their doorbell and ask if that’s their car that was hit. Tell them who did it.”

The man jumped out of the van and ran to the double-glass doors to Exclusive Studios. On the third ring, a voice on the intercom said they were closed. The man shouted back, describing the accident. From the van, Duncan
pointed to the bank and gave him the high sign to say more. The man said the APC that did it was still parked behind the bank with a convoy of trucks. Duncan motioned him to leave when a shadow appeared at one of the studio windows. In the van, the communications specialist gave Duncan a thumbs-up. Someone had finally made a telephone call. Now they had to wait.

Forty minutes later, the SPS commander called on the secure radio. “Are they coming?”

“The road-watch teams report negative activity,” Duncan said.

“It’s too obvious if we stay here any longer,” the commander said. “Moving now.” The convoy started engines and reappeared from behind the bank. It drove slowly past the studio and turned south on Chalubinskiego Street.

The communications specialist listened to the telephone traffic and gave Duncan a thumbs-up. “They saw you leave,” Duncan radioed. “Drive slowly and go straight ahead. Maybe someone will follow you. Make it easy for them to find you.”

Two minutes later, the road-watch teams reported a string of cars approaching Zlota Street from the north. Duncan radioed the convoy. “They’ve taken the bait. They wanted you to move. Expect guests in a few minutes. They’re coming up behind you.” But much to his surprise, all the cars turned into Zlota Street and stopped well short of the bank. Duncan swore under his breath, certain the Mafiya was playing a game. He keyed his radio and called the convoy. “Is anyone following you?”

“Negative.”

“Slow down and stand by,” Duncan transmitted.

Men jumped out of the cars and gathered in a large group in the center of Zlota Street. They all had on hip-length black leather jackets and a few carried AK-47s. The communications specialist swung the van’s sound boom around to hear what they were saying. “They’re drunk!”

“Damn,” Duncan groused. “They like to party on Christmas. That’s why it was planned for Monday. They needed time to sober up.” Another car skidded around the corner and slammed to a stop, scattering men in front of
it. A tall man wearing a full-length leather trench coat got out and shouted orders. “Get this on video,” Duncan ordered. One of the specialists trained the infrared camera on top of the van on the man and punched at the video controls. Another specialist readied a handheld camera.

The newcomer had created some semblance of order and four men carrying AK-47s ran down the alley to the rear of the bank. Two trucks drove up and more men jumped out of the back, adding to the confusion. The trucks started to back up but three more cars arrived and blocked their exit. A loud argument broke out and peaceful Zlota Street turned into a mob scene. Duncan was incredulous and keyed his radio, relaying the scene to the SPS commander. “These guys are clowns and can’t make up their minds what to do.”

A single shot rang out. “What was that?” Duncan asked. The communications specialist roared with laughter as he replayed the videotape. A thug was waving his AK-47 around and accidentally fired a single shot. He fell to the ground, holding his foot.

“One just shot himself in the foot,” Duncan radioed.

“We better put them in the bag before they hurt someone,” the commander replied.

Duncan shrugged. “Why not?”

It was easily coordinated and the APCs from the convoy raced back. They roared into position and blocked off both ends of Zlota Street as the commandos inside the bank surged out the back. The four Mafiyosi covering the rear raised their hands without transmitting a warning and the commandos moved up the alley. A bullhorn on one of the APCs ordered the men in the street to surrender and it was over.