Edge of Honor (9 page)

Pontowski looked around and saw a cloud of dust coming down the road toward them. “A car’s coming,” he said. Kate’s head bobbed up from behind a bush.

A sheriff’s patrol car pulled up and stopped. “Everything okay here?” the deputy asked, a big smile on his face. He was looking at the bushes where Kate had disappeared.

A scream answered him and Kate ran out of the bushes, pulling up her pants. “A scorpion bit me!” she shouted.

“Where?” Pontowski asked.

She turned and pulled down one side of her jeans and panties, revealing a red mark on a well-shaped buttock. “Oh, dear,” the deputy said. “One of us will just have to suck it out.”

The White House

Maddy Turner stood in the shower and let the hot water course over her head.
Forty-seven
, she thought. The water felt good and she turned up the pressure. Her skin tingled and came alive and, for a moment, she was young again. She turned off the water, wrapped a big towel around herself, and stepped out of the shower. Automatically, she checked the clock. Just after 5:00
A.M.
Who’s the master here? You or me?
She knew the answer. She was a slave to the clock.

She toweled her hair, feeling rested and fresh after a good night’s sleep. Then the number was back. Forty-seven. How many good years do I have left? She reached for the hair dryer and her towel fell away. She glanced at herself in the mirror.
Would a man still find me attractive?
As quickly as it came, the thought was gone and she pulled on a white terry-cloth robe to finish drying her hair. She heard the knock at the door.

It was Mary, one of the duty officers who rotated the night shift in the residence. “Madame President, I’m sorry to disturb you but since I saw your light on—” She didn’t finish the sentence. The light in question was the motion-detector system that tracked the president’s movements in the White House.

“It’s okay,” Maddy said. “I was awake. What’s the problem?”

“The watch officer just received a message from the CIA and thought you should see it. It’s a category three.”

Maddy’s heart stopped racing. A category-three message only required the president’s attention.

“The watch officer said it’s about the exchange of a nuclear weapon and you would want to know about it.”

“Please call my maid,” Maddy said, still drying her hair. She reached out and traced a 47 on the foggy mirror.

Maura and Sarah were finishing their breakfast when Maddy joined them. “I’m famished,” she said, sitting down. Two small gifts and an array of cards were in front of her.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” Sarah sang. She bounced out of her chair, handed Maddy another card, and kissed her on the cheek. Maddy opened Sarah’s card first. It was a hand-painted sketch of flowers blended with real rose petals. “I made it in art class,” Sarah announced. The inscription inside wished her a happy forty-seventh birthday and more flowers twisted around the numbers.

“It’s beautiful, darling. Thank you.” She opened the other cards. One was from Maura, the other from Brian. But it was Brian’s gift that caught their attention. It was a beautiful set of turquoise and silver earrings. She tried them on. “I love them.”

“They go very well with your suit,” Maura said. “Very Southwest.”

“Humph,” Sarah muttered. “Someone must have reminded him it was your birthday. I bet Mrs. McMasters picked them out for him.”

“Be nice,” Maura said. She cast a critical eye over her daughter. “Have you been up long?”

“Since five. Something came up.”

Maura looked worried. She was not a sophisticated woman, but every instinct warned her that Maddy had to be protected from being swamped with minor problems or details. “Couldn’t someone else have handled it?”

“Probably. But I was already awake so I got dressed.” A steward set a plate in front of her. “Thank you, Felipe,” she said. She set to work devouring the light breakfast.

Maura laughed. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with your appetite.” She changed the subject. “Have you thought
about the Family Weekend at NMMI? It’s less than two weeks away.”

Maddy dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and took a sip of coffee. “I’m not going to be able to make it. Why don’t you go?”

“Brian will be disappointed,” Maura said.

“I know.”

“Can I go?” Sarah asked, suddenly very animated.

At exactly eight o’clock, Turner’s chief of staff and personal assistant escorted her to the West Wing. “I’m sorry, Madame President,” Parrish said, “there was no need to wake you. He should have called me first. It could have waited.”

Turner did not reply for a few moments. It was a problem common to every major organization. The night duty watch officer who worked for Parrish had overreacted, partly out of zeal, partly to shine in front of the boss. But in this case, the boss was the president of the United States. The message that had started it all was going to require her personal attention anyway and no real harm had been done as she was already awake. But did she need to send a wake-up call to her staff and do some fine-tuning? Then she thought about the message. That was another problem that needed fixing. She considered her options. “Dennis,” she said to her personal assistant, “we need privacy.” The young man walked on ahead to wait for them by the elevator.

“Richard, there was no damage done this time. I was already awake. But you should have made the decision to disturb me or Maura. That’s the way I want it.”

“My apologies, Madame President. The watch officer knows that.”

“Then fire him. But do it right. Ask for his resignation first and offer him another job. But not in the White House. This is a minor thing, in-house only, and I don’t want any bad publicity out of this.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He waited for her to start walking. But from her stance, there was more coming. He braced himself.

“Have you had a chance to read the message?” she asked.

He nodded in answer. “Talk about a screwup.”

“That’s what I thought. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Richard, I’ve got to rely on our people to do things right. Otherwise, we’re dead in the water and a sitting target. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good
, she thought. “When I go in there. I’m going to shake things up. I want people to get the message: No more screwups.”

“Madame President, what may seem like a gentle shake to you will register on the Richter scale.”

“Good. I want some shaking going on.”

“How upset are you?”

“Minor damage only. Four point five on the Richter scale.”

Parrish got the message. Everything Madeline Turner did was tightly calculated, even when she was angry. He followed her the rest of the way to the Oval Office. The three members of her Policy Review committee and Mazie Hazelton waited for her. For a moment, Turner considered making Mazie a permanent member of the committee. She quickly discarded the idea: better to keep functions compartmentalized and bring Mazie in as needed. She motioned them all to be seated. Dennis shut the door and retreated to his desk, glad that he had not been invited to stay and face her wrath.

Turner did not sit down. Instead, she leaned against the front of her desk and folded her arms. She stared at them. “What went wrong?”

Silence. Then Mazie started to speak, her voice calm and flat. “As you know, we had arranged to exchange Yaponets for a tactical nuclear weapon, specifically a five-kiloton satchel weapon that had been stolen by the Russian Mafiya from the Ukrainians.” Turner gave a little nod telling everyone that she was up to scratch on the details about the Russian godfather imprisoned in the U.S. “The exchange went as planned,” Mazie continued. “DOJ flew Yaponets to Syria and once the weapon had been delivered
to the CIA in Estonia, we turned him over to the Russian embassy in Damascus.”

“So what went wrong?” Turner asked.

Now it was the attorney general’s turn in the barrel. “The CIA examined the weapon before cabling to release Yaponets. It checked out. Correct weight, correct radiation signature. It was only when we got it back to our labs and disassembled it that we discovered it was a training device.”

“So we were taken,” Turner said. “They got Yaponets for nothing and we got mud kicked in our faces. Lovely.” She shook her head. “How difficult is it to verify a nuclear weapon is a nuclear weapon?” There was no answer. “Don’t we have people at Sandia or Livermore Labs who do this sort of thing?” Again, no answer. “Were they even brought in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have any idea what Senator Leland will do with this?” She paced the floor. “The Senate Foreign Relations Committee is scheduled to start hearings tomorrow on General Bender’s appointment as ambassador to Poland.” She gave Vice President Kennett an approving look. “Thanks to Sam, we’ve worked out a deal with Leland. We let Rudenkowski off the hook and he forwards Bender’s name to the Senate floor with a favorable recommendation.”

“Madame President,” the attorney general said, “these are two separate issues. There is no linkage here.”

“Tell Leland that,” Turner snapped.

“Why should he even know about it?” This from Parrish.

Phoenix, Arizona

The offices of Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube were decorated in a mix of Southwest chic, bad art, and legal pomposity. At first, Pontowski wasn’t sure if he was in a tourist trap or a decorator’s showroom. A secretary held the door to the conference room for him, the FAA inspector, and two members of the NTSB accident investigation team. They sat at the huge table. “May I get you a drink,” she offered. “Coffee, tea, juice?”

“Coffee would be fine,” Pontowski replied. She disappeared.

“Nice table,” the FAA inspector said, running his hand over the highly polished surface.

“All part of the game,” Pontowski told him. “It’s meant to intimidate.”

Kate Winston entered and sat down gingerly on the opposite side of the table. The lawyer’s business suit was in total contrast to the tight jeans and scanty T-shirt she had worn for the flight. “Good morning, gentlemen, General Pontowski.”

“Good morning, Ms. Winston,” Pontowski answered in the same tone. “I hope you’re recovered from the flight.”

“Oh, yes.” A little smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “It was an experience.”

“For both of us.”

“Mr. Slater will be here in a moment,” she told them. “Mr. Beason, Sammy’s father, will also be here.” From the look on her face, Pontowski knew she was against the senior Beason attending the meeting because they would be discussing the accident in detail. And all the evidence pointed to his son as the cause.

Jonathan Slater, the partner in charge of the Phoenix office, held the door open for Daniel Beason. Beason was in his late sixties, six feet tall, with a full head of gray hair. His face was red and splotchy. At one time, he had been handsome, but heavy drinking, smoking, and womanizing had ruined his health. Now, he was grossly overweight and his breath came in short gasps. “May I introduce Mr. Daniel Beason?” Slater said. They all stood to shake hands. But when Pontowski extended his hand, Beason turned away and sat down at the head of the table. “Shall we get started?” Slater said.

The head of the NTSB team passed out folders and led them through the preliminary investigation report. He finished by outlining the results of the flight when Pontowski and the FAA inspector re-created the accident profile. He looked sadly at the elder Beason and spoke in bureaucratic tones, trying to soften the reality of what he had to say. “The second flight modeling the mishap fully supports the documentation—”

Beason interrupted him. “I don’t give a damn about your documentation.”

“The documentation in question is the videotape from the mishap aircraft,” the team chief said. He took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. No government official willingly incurred the wrath of Daniel Beason. He plunged ahead. “The accident occurred when the mishap pilot, Johar Adwan, did not have full control of the aircraft. The audio portion of the cockpit videotape indicates the pilot and copilot were fighting over control of the aircraft.”

Beason shot to his feet and leaned across the table, his right hand outstretched, forefinger pointed at Pontowski. He was shaking in his rage. “That bastard killed my son and you’re telling me he’s going to walk!”

“Please, Mr. Beason,” Slater said soothingly. “These are not criminal proceedings.”

Beason’s finger was still wavering at Pontowski. “You’re not getting away with this!” His face was bright red.

Kate Winston came out of her seat and rushed over to Beason. She leaned against him and took his hand, guiding him back into his seat. “Please, Mr. Beason. We understand. We truly do.” It seemed to work and the old man slowly gained control. She gave them all a cautionary look. “Perhaps another day?” she ventured.

“I want to hear what
he
has to say,” Beason rasped, obviously meaning Pontowski.

“Mr. Beason,” Pontowski said, the pain in his voice obvious. “I am very sorry and I would give all I have for this not to have happened. But it was not my idea for your son to go along as a passenger. Nor did I cause the accident. I was simply there, a helpless bystander when the Marchetti went out of control and entered an inverted spin.”

“You’re not walking away from this,” Beason stood up. “I’ll see you in court.”

Pontowski wanted to be gentle. “And your son’s actions will be held up to public scrutiny. Is that what you want?” For a moment, silence ruled.

“Confusion in the cockpit of the mishap aircraft was the primary cause of the accident,” the NTSB team chief
said. Beason spun around and marched out of the conference room. The FAA inspector folded his hands and fixed Slater with a hard look. “There is absolutely no doubt what happened. Your client’s son panicked and took control of the aircraft at a critical moment. He caused the accident. I don’t think you have a case that will stand up in court.”

“So you’re also an expert on courts?” Slater asked.

“No,” the team chief replied. “But I was involved with the TWA Flight 800 court case. Believe me, I know what the legal defenses are.”

“I suppose you’re also a lawyer,” Slater snapped.

“As a matter of fact,” the team chief said, “I am. Don’t embarrass your client with a case you can’t win.” He paused for effect. “Daniel Beason has quite a track record. If you lose this one, which you surely will, he’ll turn on you.” He snapped his briefcase shut. “Think about it.”

The room rapidly emptied leaving Pontowski alone with Kate Winston. She walked around the table and stood next to him. “Mr. Beason has been terribly hurt by the death of his son.”

“I know. I’d be devastated if my son was killed. But Sammy Beason was a poor pilot. Even worse, he didn’t know it. Bringing that out in court, which I will, is only going to hurt him more.”