Edge of Honor (35 page)

Pontowski nodded but said nothing.

Two more photographers, a videographer, and the curator of the cottage were waiting for them. Renata got out and held the door for Pontowski. “Ewa is such a lovely child,” she said. “And her English is perfect.”

The curator led them to a small wood-framed house painted a bright blue while the photographers snapped away rapidly. The videographer moved with them, constantly zooming in on Pontowski’s face. “This is a typical peasant farmhouse for the area,” the curator explained. “Only two rooms, a large kitchen where the family lived and one large bedroom where they all slept.”

“Their families were very large,” Renata added.

Pontowski sat on the large bed and looked around. Two trundle beds and two cribs filled the room. “They didn’t have much privacy,” he said.

Renata gave a little smile, knowing what he was thinking. “Farm children learn the facts of life at a very early age.”

Ewa blushed brightly and asked questions about how they cooked and what they ate. “Mostly vegetables and bread,” the curator said. “Meat was a rarity.”

“I’d like to look around outside,” Pontowski said.

“Ah, ah,” the curator stammered, “it’s very muddy.”

“That’s okay,” Pontowski replied. “I’ve stepped in worse.” He walked out with the curator in close tow. “Where’s the barn?”

“They were too poor. They did have little sheds or man-made caves.”

Pontowski looked around and it hit him. This was his heritage! It had always been there, hiding in the mists and taken for granted. An overpowering urge to explore and learn all he could swept over him. “Were the fields this way?” The curator tried to stop him but Pontowski ignored him and walked into the trees.

Renata rushed up. “General, we have a meeting planned with the local priest to show you the parish records…”

“In a few minutes.”

“We’re short of time.”

He came out of the trees and stopped. At first, the rusted, twisted barbed wire and stone foundations made
no sense. Then he saw the guard tower. “What was this?” he demanded.

Renata’s voice was matter of fact. “This was a concentration camp.”

Pontowski stared at her. “I didn’t know about it.”

“Of course, your family was not responsible for this. They had the misfortune to live where the Germans decided to build a camp. The inmates worked in the fields.”

Pontowski relaxed. “Oh, I thought…”

“You thought right,” Ewa said. She was standing behind them. “This is part of Auschwitz.”

“Are we that close?”

“We’re less than ten kilometers away,” Renata said. “We thought you knew. Surely, your grandfather told you.”

“No, he didn’t.”

Renata was the cool professional, dispassionate and objective. “There were fourteen separate camps that made up the Auschwitz-Birkenau complex. Most were for manufacturing things like uniforms.”

“You said my family was not involved. Are you sure?”

“You have relatives who still live in the area. One of your grandfather’s third cousins is still alive. You can speak to her if you wish to discover the truth for yourself.”

Pontowski stared at the ground as conflicting emotions tore at him. “Damn! God damn it to hell!” He was brutally honest. “I don’t want to know.”

Renata said evenly, “Would you like to see the parish records? They go back to the 1600s.”

“No. I want to see Auschwitz.”

Renata’s voice was an echo in his mind while they drove over the bridge and followed the road as it curved through the barren field. A light drizzle fell and he could make out the camp’s rail entrance piercing the tower in the center of the long dark facade. Then he saw train tracks that led through the arch under the tower. “Birkenau, not Auschwitz, was the main death camp,” Renata said.

He got out of the car, forgetting his hat. Renata waved to Ewa to remain behind with the driver. Long experience
had taught her how to handle what was coming. She led him through the arch. “It’s so quiet,” Pontowski said. They stopped for a moment as he stared. A few wooden barracks were still standing as well as most of the permanent brick buildings. Concrete fence posts with barbed wire outlined the perimeter and divided the camp into compounds. “I didn’t realize it was so big.”

She walked straight ahead, leading him into the heart of darkness. “In front of us are the unloading platforms.” The gravel walkway turned into mud as they made the long walk. “The selection was done there.” She pointed to a small concrete platform next to a low building. “If they pointed you to the right, you were immediately put to death.” They continued to walk, her words reverberating in his mind. “On your left are the remains of the gas chamber which was underground.”

The depthless evil of the gas chamber and all it represented flailed at his soul. This was not a carefully composed photograph nor an eloquently written essay. It was reality and he was part of it. The drizzle turned to rain and streaked his face. “How did they live with themselves?” he whispered.

It was a question Renata couldn’t answer. Instead, “The monument in front of you was built on the rubble of…” Her voice trailed off. He was motionless, staring at the dark monstrosity in front of him. She waited. Physically, he was with her, but emotionally, he was lost in the pandemonium of his emotions. Again, experience had taught her how long to wait. She touched his elbow and gently started him forward. “The monument in front of you is built on the rubble of crematorium number two.” They halted in front of the black structure. It was twisted, low to the ground, with a line of plaques in front, each mounted on a low pedestal.

Renata stood in front of one and looked at him. “They all say the same thing in different languages.
Forever let this place be a cry of despair, a warning to humanity
.” She waited. Then, when she judged the time to be right, “Come, let’s get out of the rain and find some coffee.”

Pontowski nodded dumbly and turned to follow her. He took a few steps and stopped. He looked down at his feet.
His shoes and pant cuffs were caked and splattered with mud. He raised his eyes, his anguish overflowing. “It’s the same mud.” His words at the cottage about stepping in worse things came crashing down on him. “There isn’t anything worse than this.”

Pontowski came out of the shower, finally feeling clean. He pulled on the hotel’s heavy white terry-cloth robe and toweled his hair dry. He padded across the room to the minibar and poured himself a cognac. Certain one miniature would not be enough, he called room service and ordered a full bottle. “When all else fails, drink,” he told himself. He stood in front of the window looking across the Vistula as he sipped. Krakow and the castle were obscured by the night mist.

A knock at the door claimed his attention. Without checking, he opened the door. Ewa stood there. “I thought you were room service,” he said. He held the door open for her. “What brings you here?”

She sat down. “Renata told me to come.”

“Renata?”

She gave a little nod. “We talked. I was right. She’s not a guide.”

“What is she?”

“Remember when she said she had earned a doctorate? She’s a psychiatrist.”

Pontowski snorted. “She’s also a liar. How could my family live with what I saw today and not be involved?” Another knock at the door stopped him. This time it was room service with the bottle of cognac. He tipped the waiter. He sat down beside her and poured a healthy shot into his snifter. “Care for one?”

“That won’t help,” Ewa said. “Renata said your family was not responsible. She never said they were not involved.”

He drained the glass. “So they were part of it.”

She took the glass away from him and touched his cheek. “They did what all our families did. They did what was necessary to survive. They had no choice.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The truth was so simple, yet so hard to accept. What would he have
done? Or his grandfather? Then he knew. They would have resisted and probably been killed. But the hope was that whoever they left behind would live and rebuild the future. Could he fault them for that? Could he accept that for the truth? He didn’t know and he was lost. He felt her hand draw away. Suddenly, he felt cold and lost again. He opened his eyes. Her face was close to his, her eyes filled with tears. She took his hand and held it to her breast. He felt her heartbeat, sure and strong. “Our hearts tell us to live, Matt Pontowski.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.

Then she was in his arms.

Later, she cuddled against him, her hair soft against his face. “I thought there was friction between you and Renata.”

“There was.” She kissed him on the neck. “We settled our differences.” She opened up to him. “Renata was worried you had assumed too much of the guilt. She’s seen it before and thought you needed someone to talk to.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she murmured.

“That I was the first.”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re damn right it matters.”

“You Americans can be so sentimental. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” She drew him to her, kissing his face again and again.

Ewa was gone when he awoke. Certain that she had returned to her room, he showered and shaved, savoring the hot water. He slowly dressed, enjoying the sunshine streaming in the window. He found his cleaned and polished shoes outside the door and slipped them on. Then he went down to the breakfast buffet, hoping to find her there. When he didn’t see her, he called her room, a little concerned.

“I’m sorry, General Pontowski,” the operator said. “Miss Pawlik checked out early this morning.”

Moscow

Jerzy Fedor rubbed an amber cuff link with his right hand and tried to remain calm. His eyes darted to the open doors of the elevator that had carried him to Vashin’s penthouse. But there was no car waiting to take him to safety, only a black pit, a yawning chasm. An image of a beautiful girl flashed in front of him. With a jolt, he remembered her name, Little Dove. Was he next?

“I want the money the SPS stole from me,” Vashin growled. “All of it.”

Fedor gestured helplessly at the four large aluminum suitcases. “This was all I could find—over a billion dollars in negotiable securities.” The look on Vashin’s face was ample warning that it was not enough. “There may be more,” Fedor conceded.

“Find it,” Vashin ordered. He turned his back on the flustered Pole.

Geraldine motioned Fedor to the elevator. He was surprised to see the car was now waiting.
When did that happen?
He took a few tentative steps, still not believing he was going to get out of the meeting alive. Geraldine touched his elbow and stepped with him into the elevator. The doors closed. Geraldine’s presence and the soft hum of the machinery reassured him he was going to make it. Geraldine scribbled a note on her note pad for him to read.

Do not leave Moscow until we talk
.

Geraldine practiced economy as she went down her checklist. Everything was ready for Vashin’s meeting with the Circle of Brothers. She hurried to change into something more appropriate for a meeting with the seven men who made up the inner sanctum of Russian organized crime. Satisfied they would be adequately impressed by the black evening gown she had chosen, she returned to Vashin’s penthouse in time to greet Yaponets. He always was the first to arrive and the last to leave. “Oleg Gora will not be here,” Yaponets told her.

Geraldine gave an inward sigh of relief. It had been exactly one year since Gora had strangled, then quickly decapitated, Yegor Gormov in the snow at Boris Bakatina’s funeral. “He’s never missed a meeting,” she said.

“He’s doing a little job for Mikhail,” Yaponets said. Geraldine glanced at him with feigned disinterest. “Oleg enjoys his work,” Yaponets explained. “Besides, he’s never been to the States before.”

Geraldine filed the information away for follow up. Few things were more important than a meeting of the Council of Brothers and it had to be a very sensitive contract for Vashin to send Gora. At that moment, the elevator arrived and three more members of the Circle arrived. Their arrival and departure followed a strict protocol. The last two men arrived together and the Circle was complete. She knocked on the bedroom door.

Vashin came out, freshly showered and shaved. A young girl followed him and quickly left. Geraldine handed him a folder for the meeting and took her usual seat by the wall to be of instant service. He thanked the men for coming and opened the folder, ready to turn to business.

“Mikhail,” Yaponets said, “as our brothers in the States are fond of saying, we have a cash flow problem.” A low hungry growl worked its way around the room. The drug money from Europe had been shut off and was having the same effect on the
vor
as the loss of the Spanish treasure galleons did on the Spanish Empire in the eighteenth century.

Vashin stared them into silence. “A temporary setback. Nothing more.” He waved his hand at the four aluminum
suitcases still stacked in a corner. “There should be over a billion dollars there. Take it. More is coming.”

The oldest godfather cleared his throat to speak and they fell silent, more in deference to his age and experience than the power he wielded as the head of the fifth-largest family in Russia. “A year ago, there were 321 active godfathers in Russia. Today, the number is over 400. Many are acting on their own. Our unity is our strength. They must be brought under control or we will be destroyed.”

Vashin nodded slowly as if he were giving great weight to the godfather’s words. “That is why I’m calling a meeting in Yalta. Everyone will be invited, the
vor
, the Mafiya, everyone.”

“Why should they come?” a godfather asked. “Why Yalta?” He answered the last question himself. “Brilliant. Yalta is in the Ukraine, neutral territory. Everyone will be safe.” His eyes opened in admiration as more pieces fell into place. “You’re inviting our Ukrainian brothers.”

“And the Belarussian families,” Vashin added. “Geraldine will explain.”

“Mr. Vashin selected Yalta because it is a resort where security is already in place. Many vacation dachas are available and all the amenities will be provided. Also, it will be spring and a welcome break from winter.”

The old godfather wouldn’t let it go. “But why will they come?”

“Because Stalin settled the fate of the world after World War II at Yalta,” Vashin answered. “They can either join me as I build the new Russia and reap the benefits, or they can die on the trash heap of history.”

Fedor was wide awake at the sound of the doorlock clicking open. He reached for the small automatic under his pillow and thumbed the safety off. The door to his hotel room swung open as he raised the pistol. A woman was silhouetted in the light. “Jerzy?” Geraldine called in a soft voice. He lowered his weapon and turned on the light. She closed the door, dropped her topcoat on a chair, and stepped out of her shoes. She sat on the bed beside him and stroked his chest.

“We need to talk about Yalta,” she whispered.

The Hill

Brian buffed his boots, putting the finishing touches on for Saturday morning’s inspection and parade. He chanted, keeping cadence with the strokes.

“What you doing over vacation?” Matt asked, arranging the shelves in his locker.

“I’m thinkin’ of going to summer school and then trying out for football.”

“I thought you hated this place.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, right.”

A pretty Rat who had her eye on Brian poked her head in the door. That was as close as she could get without getting stuck and placed on report. “You heard the latest?” she asked. “Pelton and the Trog are getting it on. He says she’s pregnant.”

“No way,” Brian said. “Pelton’s living in a wet dream because he can’t score.”

“Yeah,” Matt muttered, feeling responsible, “the guy’s pure hogbreath. Full of…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Well,” the girl said, having the last word, “everyone in Saunders Barracks is talking about it.”

“That’s gonna piss her off,” Brian said. The girl flounced away, teasing him with her walk. They went back to work bringing the room up to inspection standard and finished thirty minutes before call to quarters.

Zeth knocked at the open door. From the look on her face, they knew she had heard the latest rumor and Matt felt like crawling headfirst into the nearest trash can. “Zeth, I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Pelton’s mouth is the problem,” she said, “not yours. Don’t worry about it.” She paused looking at them. “You two are all right.” Then she was gone.

“What was that all about?” Brian wondered.

“It was almost like she was saying good-bye,” Matt replied.

The Box echoed with commands as the cadets marched off Stapp Parade Field. The Saturday morning parade had been a little ragged, not up to the Corps’ usual standard, and the cadet regimental commander was not happy. He huddled with his staff as the troops marched onto their assigned walks. Rick Pelton looked over the CO’s shoulder and froze. Zeth was standing in front of her troop and going through the standard manual of arms, her rifle flashing in the sunlight. “What the hell?” Pelton said. Every cadet was watching her and a hush fell over the Box, the only sound the slap of her hands on the rifle.

When she finished, she held the rifle by the upper stock and lowered the butt to the ground. Twice, she rapped out two sharp clicks, the metal butt plate striking the pavement, demanding everyone’s attention. Then she right-shouldered the rifle and marched up the center walk, straight for Rick Pelton. As she neared, her hands flashed and she lowered the rifle, much like in bayonet practice. She held the trigger guard by her right hip and the muzzle pointed forward, slightly lowered.

“Cadet Trogger,” the CO barked, “return to ranks.”

Zeth ignored him and halted directly in front of Pelton. She jammed the muzzle between his knees and jerked upward, hard, catching the front sight under his crotch. He groaned in pain. Then she ripped the muzzle back, holding it inches from his crotch. Her right forefinger squeezed the trigger and the click echoed over the Box.

“You’re lucky the bore’s blocked, trashmouth,” she said, her voice amazingly calm and matter-of-fact. She executed a perfect about-face, right-shouldered the rifle, and marched smartly back to her troop.

Warsaw

The short drive across the Vistula River into Praga was like stepping through a time warp for Pontowski. The five-or six-story, ramshackle brick buildings, clanging trams, and sidewalks full of people hurrying to work, reminded him of the time he accompanied his grandfather on a tour
of Eastern Europe as a child. The cab driver easily found the address on a side street and deposited him at the corner, saying it was perfectly safe to walk in the morning since the muggers were still asleep.

Pontowski walked down the street until he located a painted wooden door with a brass plaque announcing the surgery of Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik. Inside, he found a waiting room full of people. Since there was no receptionist or nurse on duty, he stood until someone came in for the next patient. One of the men recognized him and stood up, offering Pontowski his seat. Pontowski smiled, shook his head, and thanked him. An old woman studied his face. “Is he Pontowski’s son?” she asked in Polish.

“General Pontowski,” the man said, “is indeed, President Pontowski’s grandson.”

The side door opened and Elzbieta Pawlik looked in to call her next patient. She glanced at Pontowski and motioned him inside. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I can wait,” he said. “They were here first.”

“They know who you are,” she said, pointing to a seat.

He sat down, surprised to see a photograph of Maddy Turner on the wall next to one of his grandfather. “I’m looking for Ewa.” The doctor didn’t answer. “Can you help me find her?”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s important.”

“Because you slept with her?”

“It’s much more than that,” he replied.

Elzbieta gave a little snort. “She’s confused and needs time to, think.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“You would only confuse her more.” She pointed to the wall with the photographs. “Ewa is no match for her.”

“There’s nothing between us. Not now.”

“It’s not that easy, Matthew Pontowski. We’re an emotional race, tied to our history. Why are those photographs on my wall?”

Pontowski thought for a moment. “Because my grandfather was the first Polish American president. Maddy, I don’t know.”

“Because she is the forty-fourth president of the United
States.” She snorted at the confusion on Pontowski’s face. “One of our most famous poets was Adam Mickiewicz. He lived in the nineteenth century when Poland was partitioned between Russia, Prussia, and Austria. He wrote a play, really an epic poem, called
Dziady
, ‘Forefather’s Eve.’ You’ve heard of it?” He shook his head. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “But that’s why you don’t understand us. In the play, Mickiewicz prophesied the coming of Forty-four, the mysterious savior of Poland.”

“Coincidence,” Pontowski muttered.

“Perhaps,” she replied. “In the play, Forty-four is a man. But how much coincidence do you believe in? You commanded the 303rd Fighter Squadron, yes?” He nodded. “The 303rd was a famous fighter squadron in the Royal Air Force in World War II. The pilots were all Polish and they fought in the Battle of Britain.”

“Still coincidence.”

“Then why did the forty-fourth president of the United States send you here?”

“It had nothing to do with a prophecy.”

“Tell a Pole that and he won’t believe you.”

“But you said Forty-four was a man.”

“That is why my daughter is confused. Maybe Mickiewicz had that part wrong or had left something out. Leave her alone for now.” She pointed at the door. “I have sick people to see.”

Pontowski stumbled outside, a very confused man. The cab driver was waiting for him. “The American embassy,” he said. At least he could still use the small library in the basement.

“General Pontowski,” the Marine guard on duty at the embassy entrance said, “Mr. Riley would like to speak to you. He’s in his office on the third floor.”

“At least it’s not on the forty-fourth,” Pontowski muttered, heading for the elevator. He stepped inside and hit the button, not certain the elevator would stop at the third floor. It did. The doors whooshed open and a trim young woman he had never seen before was waiting for him. She led him into a windowless inner office where Evan Riley was hunched over a large desk reading a pile of
messages. He waved Pontowski to a seat. “James forwarded the final report of your investigation to Ambassador Beason this morning. It clears you and Waldo.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Beason still has to sign off.”

“He won’t. He hates my guts.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.” Riley handed him a message stamped
TOP SECRET
and for the ambassador’s eyes only. The State Department directed Beason to fully support the Office of Defense Cooperation. Effective immediately, Brig. Gen. Matthew Pontowski was placed on inactive status from the U.S. Air Force and released to the Polish Air Force as a civilian training officer.

“What the hell?” Pontowski muttered. “You’re not authorized to see this.” Another thought came to him. “Why are you showing it to me?”

“I need someone to take Duncan’s place.”

“Doing what?”

“I need you to pass key intelligence to the right people at the right time.”

“You’ve got formal channels for that,” Pontowski said.