Edge of Honor (27 page)

“Adam Lezno is dead?” Turner said, coming fully awake.

“Yes, ma’am. His plane crashed while attempting an emergency landing at Gdańsk.” Turner took a deep breath and gave a little nod. The duty officer plunged ahead. “Madame President, apparently Ambassador Bender was at the controls.” Turner stared at him. “Everyone perished in the crash.”

Madeline O’Keith Turner folded her arms around herself and hung her head as she rocked back and forth. For a moment, the duty officer was afraid she would collapse. But her head came up and her voice was icy calm as tears streaked her face. “What happened?”

“The details are still coming in, but apparently President Lezno’s aircraft was hit with two missiles. The pilots were killed and General Bender tried to save the aircraft. They crashed on landing.”

“Has Mrs. Bender been told?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ll have an answer in a few minutes.”

The president’s words were cold steel and the orders came fast. “Tell Richard to meet me in my study. Activate the situation room, and call Mrs. Hazelton. I want to meet with the National Security Advisory Group and anyone else she deems necessary.” She walked to her bedroom
door and stopped. Without looking at him, she asked, “Do they know what kind of missiles?”

“No, ma’am. Not yet.”

“Thank you, Den…” She almost said Dennis.

“It’s William, ma’am.”

“Thank you, William.” She walked through the door, her eyes dry and the tears góne.

The president of the United States walked into her private study next to the Oval Office twenty-five minutes later. She was dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit, her hair pulled back. Richard Parrish was waiting for her as Felipe, her favorite steward, hovered in the background. “Coffee and toast will be fine, Felipe.” She sat down behind her desk. “Any more news?”

“Yes, ma’am. CNN, Fox, and CNC-TV have video coverage.” He turned on the TV and selected CNC-TV News.

They watched in silence as Liz Gordon’s face appeared on the screen. Her voice was solemn as she related what was known about the crash. She turned to the screen behind her. “This footage was shot from the control tower as President Lezno’s plane attempted to land.” Turner’s face was frozen as the scene unfolded. The jet was touching down as it fireballed, cartwheeling down the runway, strewing wreckage in its path. Finally, it came to rest upside down as crash trucks converged on it. Men reached the fuselage but flames drove them back. The scene ended as the plane exploded, sending a pillar of smoke and fire into the clear morning air. “No one,” Gordon concluded, “survived the holocaust.”

“My God,” Parrish whispered. “He almost made it.”

Felipe entered with a tray and served coffee. “Madame President,” Parrish said, “I know General Bender was a good friend, maybe you should…”

She interrupted him. “He was more than a friend, Richard.” Her mind cast a long look into the recent past. “During the Okinawan crisis, he stood by me. When we were on the brink, he was a rock. I sent him into China and would have sacrificed him…” Her voice cracked. Then she was back in control.

“Madame President, I was going to suggest that you mention him in the State of the Union tonight.”

Turner looked at her best advisor. “Were you afraid I would postpone it?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” The phone rang and he answered. “It’s Mrs. Bender.”

Madeline Turner picked up the phone. “Nancy, I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

Parrish heard the anguish in her voice and left, closing the door behind him. Mazie Hazelton was waiting for him in his office. “How’s she doing?” the national security advisor asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her like this.”

Madeline Turner hated the situation room with its austere walls and military atmosphere. She preferred the light and openness of the West Wing with its bustling activity and often joked that she was going to turn the situation room into an arboretum. But on this day, Wednesday, the twenty-second of January, less than twelve hours before her State of the Union Address, the situation room was a perfect reflection of her will and determination.

Mazie Hazelton entered the room ahead of the president. “Gentlemen, the president.” The seven men were already standing and came to attention as Turner took her seat.

“Please be seated,” Turner said. All but one sat down. She leaned back in her chair and nodded at the director of central intelligence who was still standing. He pressed a button and the large video screen opposite Turner came to life as he recounted in measured tones the assassination of the president of Poland and all on board his aircraft.

“We now have a copy of the audiotape recorded by Gdańsk Approach and the control tower,” the DCI said. He jabbed at a button and they heard Bender’s voice declare a Mayday and describe the emergency.

“He’s a cool one,” Gen. Wayne Charles, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, murmured. He allowed a slight grimace when Bender shouted the grandfather of obscenities at the controller when he was told not to land.

The door opened and a man in a wheelchair was wheeled in. The DCI stopped the audio playback and said,
“Madame President, I don’t believe you’ve ever met Nelson Durant. Mr. Durant is leading the investigation into the attempted assassination on your life.”

“Please forgive me for being late,” Durant said. “But sometimes this gets in the way.” His reference to the wheelchair was a cover for his poor state of health.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Turner replied.

The DCI restarted the audiotape and they heard Bender tell the tower he was experiencing control problems and might have to land short of the field. His words were still measured but the strain was obvious. “That was the last transmission,” the DCI said. “However, we have recovered the crash recorder and it is being flown to the States for analysis.”

A frame froze on the screen showing the aircraft just as it touched down. The DCI used his laser pointer to highlight a small streak of flame a few yards behind the plane. “This,” he said, “is a surface-to-air missile homing on the functioning engine. That is what destroyed the aircraft.”

“Who did this?” Turner demanded.

“I can address that issue,” Nelson Durant said. “On the face of it, a dissident group of Polish right-wing radicals. They hated Lezno and considered him a traitor. They’re so far to the right that they consider the Ku Klux Klan a leftist organization.”

“Then Robert was killed,” Turner said, “because he just happened to be traveling with President Lezno at the wrong time.”

“Apparently so,” Durant replied. “We do have communications intercepts that indicate the missiles were supplied by the Polish Mafia.”

“Which is logical,” the DCI said. “The Polish Mafia will sell anything to anyone.”

“But what is interesting,” Durant added, “is who is financing this group of Polish right-wing nuts. It’s a long trail that goes through Germany, to the United States…”

“To who?” Turner snapped, interrupting him.

“A militia group in Arizona,” Durant said. “We were looking at them because we thought they might have something to do with the attempt on your life. Three days
ago, we monitored a telephone conversation between the militia’s commander and an old prison buddy. But the phone call didn’t make much sense until the next day when the militia transferred a large amount of money from its account in an offshore bank in the Bahamas to another account in the same bank, which happens to belong to the Polish Mafia. Two hours later, the missiles were delivered to the nutcases in Poland. We believe it was the payment for the missiles.”

“Where did the militia get the money in the first place?” Mazie asked.

“We don’t know. But the old prison buddy who made the phone call was the cellmate of one of Yaponets’s stooges when he was in prison.”

Turner stood and paced back and forth, her face a grim mask. “So I can assume that Russian organized crime is behind this. Can you prove it?”

Durant shrugged. “Enough to convict anyone in a court of law? Probably not.”

“How deep does this go?”

“We’re still digging.”

Turner stopped pacing and faced her advisors. There would be no diplomatic or legal solution. “I need your honest opinion. Is there any doubt who’s responsible for General Bender’s murder?”

The doors to the chamber of the House of Representatives swung wide and the Doorkeeper of the House stepped through. “Mr. Speaker,” he intoned, his voice carrying over the large assembly, “the president of the United States.” The Supreme Court justices, senators, representatives, all the collected heads of the United States government, came to their feet as Madeline Turner entered. She walked down the aisle with measured solemnity carrying a thin leather folder in the crook of her left arm. The applause that greeted her was not of the countryfair or conquering-hero variety but rather, subdued and respectful. Every man and woman knew of the tragedy in Poland and the bond between this president and her general.

Senator John Leland was mindful to join the applause
when the TV cameras were trained on him. But even so, it was a hollow gesture. The phone call from Dan Beason that morning had reminded him all too clearly that there was an outstanding debt and that payment was due. Leland fancied himself a philosopher and believed that vengeance was a dish best served cold. But it was all too apparent that Dan Beason still burned with revenge for the death of his son.

Leland watched the president’s progress, gauging the temper of his colleagues. It was time to set matters straight.

People extended their hands as she made her way to the rostrum, wanting to touch hands and share the moment. General Wayne Charles, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took her hand in his, gently touching in greeting. “He was the best we had,” Charles said. She moved on. She opened the folder, handed the Speaker a copy of the speech, and stepped to the podium. Her voice was calm and measured as she read the opening words. Then she paused and looked up.

“Early this morning, I was awakened with the news that the president of Poland had been killed in a plane crash. With him, was my good friend and United States ambassador to Poland, Gen. Robert Bender. You have all heard the details and know the tragedy that has been inflicted upon one of our best allies. In so many ways, it was a blow against all that is good and decent in our world. We will consult with our friends and allies to discover who is responsible. But let me assure you, the American people, and, yes, the world, that I will do whatever is necessary to bring these criminals to account.”

Only Leland and the small group around him remained seated as the chamber came to its feet and applause echoed over her. She waited patiently for it to subside before continuing. Leland followed her speech on the printed copy Turner’s staff had given him as a courtesy moments before he entered the chamber. He circled those proposals that were dead in the water before they ever reached the Senate. Finally, he turned to the last page. His head jerked up when the words on the page in front of him did not match what he was hearing.

“My fellow citizens, the Constitution requires that from time to time I report to Congress on the state of the union. I can say without hesitation that we are secure and confident, ready to meet the challenges facing us in this new century. We are a united people and, if I may borrow from Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, the mystic cords binding the union together are strong because of Americans like Robert Bender.”

She bowed her head as if in prayer and waited, taking the beat from those in front of her. And only when the chamber rose as one and thundered their approval with applause, did she look up. Leland joined in the tribute, assuming he was in the presence of an astute politician milking the moment for all it was worth, letting words substitute for action.

Warsaw

The Marine corporal standing guard at the front entrance to the embassy opened the door for Pontowski and came to attention. Pontowski was certain the young Marine was more rigid than normal, if such a condition were possible. “Good morning, Corporal Kincaid,” Pontowski said.

“Good morning, sir,” Kincaid replied. There was a slight crack in his voice. Then he did the unthinkable. “Sir, a moment?”

“Certainly,” Pontowski replied, puzzled by the breach in protocol.

Kincaid stared over Pontowski’s right shoulder. He gulped. “I, er, we shall miss the general. Please extend our condolences to Mrs. Bender.” The young corporal looked Pontowski directly in the face, tears in his eyes.

“Thank you. I will.”

Pontowski took the stairs to the second floor, thankful for the exercise. It helped relieve the grief boiling inside him. At the head of the stairs, he almost collided with the middle-aged woman from the communications section in the basement. She was hurrying down the hall like an officious mouse, anxious to deliver the morning’s cables. For a moment she stood there, not moving. Then the folders slipped slowly from her arms and scattered on the floor. “Are you okay, Ms. Belfort?” he asked.

She bent over and scooped up the folders. Pontowski stooped to help her. “No, I am not okay,” she announced,
her voice firm. They stood together. She looked at him, her chin shaking. “He knew my name.”

“That was the general,” Pontowski murmured.

They stood there for a moment, silent. “They only kill the good ones,” she said. Then she was gone, scurrying down the hall.

The protocol officer was waiting for him outside his office. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Then, she too rushed away. Pontowski stood there, deeply moved by the emotional reaction of the staff to Bender’s death.

Winslow James beckoned to him from across the room. “What was that all about?” James asked.

“She’s upset.”

“Of course she is,” James replied, giving Pontowski a patronizing look. “But we all have a great deal of work to do, especially now. We must not be distracted from our duties.” He spun around and walked into his office as Pontowski fought the urge to strangle him.

Behind him a voice said, “James is a raving asshole.” Pontowski turned, surprised to see it was Peter Duncan. “Yes,” Duncan said, “I’ve been drinking. It’s the time-honored way the Irish mourn a friend’s death.” Automatically, their right hands clasped in friendship. “He was a fine man, none better.”

“Most assuredly,” Pontowski replied, sounding exactly like Robert Bender.
I will remember
, he promised himself.

The White House

Joe Litton grinned like the Cheshire cat and almost purred in satisfaction. “The reviews are in, Madame President, your State of the Union Address was a hit. All told, a most positive reaction. But a few of the reporters are asking for clarification on one minor point.” Litton managed to look apologetic. “When you said, ‘I will do whatever is necessary to bring these criminals to account,’ did you mean ‘to justice?’”

“That’s our goal,” Turner replied. “But we have to work with other countries and their idea of justice may not be the same as ours.” The answer satisfied Litton and
he hurried back to his office to feed the hungry lions waiting for him.

“A thankless job,” Parrish muttered under his breath. He checked the day’s schedule and wished she would replace Dennis or detail someone else to manage the daily schedule. “A full day, Madame President.” He handed her the list and unconsciously stepped back. He felt he had to give her room.

She scanned the agenda, automatically balancing each item against the long list of issues, concerns, and problems she carried around in her mind. It was a list she constantly shifted and ranked, working on whatever needed the most attention but never forgetting what was in the background. She hesitated when she saw Sen. John Leland’s name on the afternoon schedule. “What does
he
want?”

“I only talked to his staff. He’d like to discuss General Bender’s replacement.”

Turner stood up, anger flaring. It was such a rare display that Parrish took another step backward. “My God! The man’s not even buried yet.”

“Leland’s concerned about Poland, Madame President.”

Turner paced in front of her desk as she cycled through her mental action list. Poland was definitely in the top ten and moving up. Soon it would challenge the problem of when to announce she was running for a second term. As always, she mentally circled the problem, always looking at it from different angles. Slowly, she drew Poland into sharper focus. She shifted the counters on her mental abacus and came up with a new priority. But an image of Nancy Bender hovered in the background, demanding a claim. “Have Mazie and Stephan at the meeting,” Turner said.

Parrish made a note to have the national security advisor and the secretary of state in attendance.

“Richard, as long as Mazie and Stephan will be here, make some time after Leland leaves for us to meet with Mr. Durant.” She thought for a moment. “Have Sam and the DCI join us.” Parrish added the other two members of the National Security Advisory Group to his list. He knew what the topic was.

Senator John Leland was all white hair, jowly cheeks, and old-fashioned charm when he entered the Oval Office. “Madame President, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Turner extended her hand and they sat on one of the couches in front of her desk. Leland nodded at Mazie and the secretary of state. “Mrs. Hazelton, Stephan, good to see you again.” Besides being charming, the senator was an accomplished liar. He barely tolerated Stephan Serick and hated Mazie with every ounce of passion in his political soul.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries and Leland complimented Turner on her State of the Union Address. “Most moving, Madame President. I agree with your concern over the growing instability in Eastern Europe. We must not desert our friends in that part of the world, especially Poland.” The discussion was low-keyed as Leland made a case for appointing a new ambassador. “We need to reaffirm our commitment to the Polish people during this difficult time.”

“It’s a question of finding the right person,” Serick said.

“I’m quite sure there are many names we would find mutually agreeable,” Leland replied. “I’ll have my staff send over a short list of possible nominees my committee would consider favorably.” He paused. “Madame President, may we speak in private?”

Turner hesitated. Without a witness, Leland would interpret whatever was said to his advantage. “It would clear up many misunderstandings,” he urged.

Against her better judgment, she agreed. When they were alone, Leland said coldly, “Madame President, I am told that our government exchanged a Russian criminal in one of our prisons for a nuclear weapon.”

“We did,” Turner said, her voice flat and noncommittal.

“Then I assume the other part is true.” No answer from Turner. “The weapon we received in return for setting this criminal free was a fake.”

“Actually,” Turner said evenly, “it was a training device. Perfect in all respects but one.”

“Regardless, Madame President, we were snookered. That misguided venture embarrassed our country and weakened our position in Eastern Europe. You should have consulted me first. I would have cautioned you against such a rash move. However, I’m confident this can remain between just you and me.”

“I see,” Turner said. It was a simple enough deal: in exchange for his silence, she must nominate the ambassador he wanted.

Nelson Durant felt the tension the moment he was wheeled into the president’s private study off the Oval Office. He immediately made the connection to Senator Leland whom he had seen leaving as he entered the White House. Maddy Turner stood to greet him warmly and motioned him to a place next to her chair. The four members of her National Security Advisory Group looked at him hopefully. “I wish my investigation had something positive to report,” he began. “Unfortunately, we are running into too many stone walls. But we are finding some cracks.”

“You have no idea who was behind the attempt on the president’s life?” Mazie said.

“I didn’t say that. We know who did it: three crazies from the California militia. It’s just a matter of time until we find them. We also know the missile and payoff money came from the Russian Mafiya. Our problem is that we don’t have hard evidence.”

“Is there any connection to the Lezno and Bender assassinations?” Vice President Kennett asked.

“It all goes to the same source,” Durant replied. “Again, proving it is another matter.”

The DCI coughed for attention. “We know who’s behind this—Mikhail Vashin. He’s nothing but a vicious street thug gone national. Expect more of the same.”

Turner folded her hands on her desk, her face a mask. “I’m willing to consider other options.”

Mazie chose her words carefully. “Sanctioned covert operations are out of the question.” Everyone in the room knew she meant assassinations.

“Why?”

“It’s a moral question. We simply don’t do it.”

Again, the DCI coughed for attention. “There’s a very practical reason. They tried it on you and look at the reaction. Do we want to risk getting into the same pickle? I think not.”

Turner leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I agree with everything you’ve said. So continue with the investigation for now.” She looked around the room. “Anything else?” The meeting was over.

Outside in the main hallway, Mazie asked the DCI to come to her corner office. Once the door was closed, she said, “I’m worried.”

“That she’ll authorize me to go after Vashin?”

“That she’s even considering it.”

“No one kills an American ambassador and gets away with it,” the DCI replied.

“So what are our options?”

“We don’t have many. Congress has seen to that.”

“So you’re telling me there is nothing more we can do.”

“I didn’t say that. Through its oversight function, Congress sets the bounds for intelligence, especially covert operations. However, they haven’t etched a hard line in concrete but rather laid down a broad chalk line. My shoes are white with dust from standing on that line. There are things I can get away with, but the president cannot.”

Mazie drew into herself.
Am I reading the signs right? Maddy wants us to do something, but what? No matter what we do, plausible denial must be the rule
.

“This is a tough one,” the DCI said, thinking the same thing.

“If she brings it up again,” Mazie said, “we’ll have to do something.”

For the first time since Mazie had known him, the DCI smiled. “I’ll work on it.”

The Hill

It was Monday afternoon between the end of classes and supper roll call when a cadet had some time of his own.
The time was even sweeter because they did not have to form up to march to supper. Brian almost ran back to their room to change into his gym clothes, looking forward to some time on the basketball court in the Godfrey Athletic Center. Lately, the coach had been talking to him about trying out for the team and some of the older cadets were actually treating him as a species of subhuman, a big improvement over his Rat status.

But before he climbed the stairs to the second stoop, Matt corralled him. “We gotta talk to the Trog.”

“Gimme a break. What’s she want now?”

“She maxed a chemistry test.”

“This is a problem?”

“The teacher says she cheated. No one’s ever maxed it before.”

Brian was dumbfounded. “The Trog, cheatin’? You gotta be kiddin’.” Matt only shook his head. “Come on, we gotta find her,” Brian said, the basketball game totally forgotten.

They finally found her on the parade field. She was running lap after lap, pushing herself to exhaustion. The regimental XO, Rick Pelton, was running with her and on the next lap, he shot them a worried look. “Zeth,” he called, pulling up beside the boys, “I need a break.” Zeth ignored them and continued to run. Pelton bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Wow, is she mad.”

“Is she okay?” Matt asked.

Pelton shook his head. “She’s talking about resigning.”

“That’s dumb,” Brian said. “She loves this place.” He pulled into himself and, for the first time in his life, thought hard about helping another person. “We need to talk to the dean and tell him that Maggot tutored her.”

“Who’s gonna believe a Rat can do that for Third Class chemistry?”

Matt squared his shoulders. “Gimme a chance and I’ll convince ’em.”

“He’ll need proof he did it,” Pelton said.

“Ah, shit,” Matt said, sounding like Brian. “How we gonna get proof?”

Brian almost shouted. “I got it. I was with you most
of the time and the Secret Service saw us. I bet they even got a log.” Brian and Matt followed Pelton into the TLA’s office where Chuck Sanford, the lead Secret Service agent, worked.

“Pelton’s okay,” Brian allowed.

“Yeah,” Matt muttered, not so sure he shared Brian’s opinion. But he couldn’t say why.

Warsaw

The telephone call from the brigadier general commanding the 1st Air Regiment came on the last Wednesday in January, exactly two weeks after Pontowski’s flight with Emil. The brigadier was ecstatic; his regiment had received a trainload of JP-8 jet fuel from NATO and for the first time, his fuel dump was full. “And there’s more on the way,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Pontowski replied.

“Now I have two problems,” the brigadier said. “How to use it effectively and how to keep it from being stolen.”

“I’ve got the man you need to speak to. His name is Peter Duncan and he’s a security expert.” A meeting was quickly arranged and Pontowski thought that was the end of it.

Then, very hesitantly, “My pilots have much to learn. Perhaps you would like to fly with them again?”

“I’d love to. Any time. All we need is good flying weather.”

“If you are available today, we currently have ten miles visibility, broken overcast, clear on top.”

Pontowski felt the old itch and, suddenly, the day got much better.