Against All Enemies (46 page)

Pontowski shook his head in disbelief. Then it hit him. Brian Turner was a strapping fourteen-year-old with at least six inches and forty pounds on Little Matt. It was with good reason his son carried his nickname and rumor had it that Brian Turner was a spoiled bully.

“Little Matt in a fight?” Pontowski finally replied. “That’s hard to believe. How badly was he hurt?” A vision of Little Matt with a bloody nose and his face streaked with tears flashed in front of him. The poor kid was probably terrified.

McMasters didn’t answer for a moment and Pontowski’s fears started to rise, only to be submerged by a deep anger. Had Brian Turner mauled his son? Or had the Secret Service gotten involved and done something stupid? “For the record,” McMasters said, “Mister Pontowski beat the living hell out of Mister Turner who is now in the infirmary.”

The White House

Maura O’Keith entered her daughter’s bedroom just after seven o’clock in the morning. Madeline O’Keith Turner was sitting at the small table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, still wrapped in an oversized white terry cloth robe, her brown eyes bright and clear. “You’re up early,” Maddy Turner said, a gentle smile on her face. Maura was not at her best in the morning while it was Maddy’s favorite part of the day.

Automatically, Maura pulled a hairbrush from her ever-present handbag and stood behind her daughter. She started to stroke Maddy’s dark brown hair, evaluating the stylist’s work from the day before. Maura had been a hairdresser most of her adult life and liked the way the stylist was highlighting her daughter’s hair with an auburn tint and covering up the gray hair that was beginning to streak back from her forehead. “The superintendent at NMMI telephoned early this morning. I took the call. It was nothing serious so I didn’t wake you.”

“What’s Brian been up to now?” Maddy asked, recalling her meeting with General McMasters. “I was hoping he’d stay out of trouble a little longer.” NMMI did not tolerate problem students.

“He was in a fight with another cadet. He got roughed up a bit and he’s in the infirmary. The doctor says he’s fine.”

“What the hell was the Secret Service doing? It’s their job to protect him. Was it hazing? General McMasters assured me there is no hazing at NMMI.”

Maura recognized the signs. Like most mothers, Maddy was overprotective of her son. She brushed her daughter’s hair harder. “There was no hazing and Brian started the fight.”

“With who? Was some upper classman harassing him because he’s my son?”

Maura brushed a little harder, trying to get Maddy’s attention. “It was another freshman like him.”

“Some hulking Cro-Magnon recruited to play football?”

“No. The other cadet was much smaller. They call him Little Matt.” She could tell from the way Maddy’s shoulders slumped that she would listen now. The older woman dropped into the chair beside her daughter. She eyed the flaky croissants on the table. “I’ve got to go on a diet,” she moaned.

Maddy laughed at the way her mother changed subjects, putting her at ease. “If you can’t be happy with your weight at sixty-nine, when can you?”

“It’s easy for you to say. You haven’t gained a pound in ten years.”

It was true, Maddy Turner still had a trim figure. But in private moments in front of her bathroom mirror, she hated the middle-age sag that was assaulting parts of her body. Madeline O’Keith Turner sighed and faced the truth. “Brian’s a bully, isn’t he?” No answer from Maura. “Should we leave him at NMMI?”

“If we can.”

Maddy shook her head. “I can’t break away every time he gets into trouble.” She looked at her mother. “Can you fly to New Mexico and sort it out?”

Maura nodded. “I’ll take Sarah with me.” Sarah was Maddy’s eleven-year-old daughter, a happy, uncomplicated little girl who hadn’t discovered boys—yet.

“You knew I’d ask, didn’t you?”

Again, Maura nodded. “I asked Richard to arrange it.” Richard Parrish was Maddy’s efficient chief of staff. “We’re leaving this morning.”

Maddy stood up. Her day had started. “Thanks, Mother.”

At exactly eight o’clock, Turner left the second floor residence of the White House and made her way down the hall, heading for the West Wing. Because it was summer, she was wearing an off-white linen business suit with a simple light-blue blouse. As always, her hemline ended six inches above the floor. Turner had made it die accepted style and certain fashion mavens had predicted that if she ever raised her hemline, the world would turn upside down at the sight of presidential legs. Her makeup was undetectable and perfect, highlighting her high cheekbones. She wore little jewelry, only small earrings and the delicate and intricate gold chain that had become her trademark necklace. Her husband had bought it for her on their honeymoon in Greece and she was never seen without it.

Her daily commute to work was a well-rehearsed drill as Richard Parrish and her personal assistant, a quiet, handsome young man named Dennis flanked her. Dennis slouched along, never taking notes or consulting a calendar. He had a photographic, computer-like mind that never failed him. But each evening, after escorting Turner back to the residence, he would update the computer on his desk—just in case. Besides being discreet and totally dedicated to Turner, hidden underneath his bland surface was the personality of a pit bull.

Parrish was talking. “The attorney general is very worried and wants to act now.”

“Frank is always worried,” Turner replied. “He sees a crisis around every corner and a conspirator behind every tree.”

“Sometimes he’s right,” Parrish told her. “I asked Mazie to join us.” Mazana Kamigami Hazelton was Turner’s National Security Advisor. Better known as Mazie to her friends, the petite and beautiful Japanese-Hawaiian was commonly referred to as “the Dragon Lady” in the halls and offices of Congress.

“Mazie will keep him honest,” Turner said.

“Keep the attorney general honest,” Dennis intoned, entering it in his mental computer.

“Delete that,” Turner ordered. Dennis did. He opened the door to the Oval Office and Madeline Turner entered the arena.

Until she retreated to the residence in fourteen hours, she would seldom be alone. Every minute was scheduled. Before lunch, she would hold a policy review meeting, a staff meeting, and a cabinet meeting. In between, a succession of two groups and three individuals would troop through the Oval Office for a brief introduction to the President. The morning would climax with a press conference which always took longer than scheduled. After lunching with three federal judges and six members of congress, she would spend thirty minutes in the Rose Garden for photo opportunities with various visiting dignitaries, swim forty laps in the pool, meet with her national security advisory group, meet eight more people in the Oval Office, and spend time with her chief of staff and his assistants planning future trips and events. Then she would change into formal attire to speak at a “Save the Children” banquet. She would finally return to the White House at ten
P.M.
But her day was not finished. She always read for another two hours before retiring. And sometime in between, she would have to call Maura and her son.

All told, an easy day.

The three men who made up Turner’s Policy Review Committee and Mazie Hazelton were waiting for her. Since the attorney general had asked for the meeting, he sat on the end of the couch closest to Turner’s rocking chair. He nervously fingered his notes as she sat down. Madeline Turner was famous, or infamous, depending on the point of view, for galloping through meetings.

The attorney general cleared his throat and began. “Special Services claims Yaponets is a bigger problem in prison than on the outside,” he said. Special Services was the Department of Justice’s spy system inside the federal prison system and Yaponets, Russian for Japanese, was a senior godfather from eastern Russia and the leading member of the Russian Mafia currently in an American jail. He was a burly, sixty-four-year-old man and anything but Japanese.

“What’s the problem?” Turner asked.

“He’s organizing crime on the outside from the inside,” the attorney general answered. “He’s using our prisons as a command center, a recruiting ground, and as a graduate school for criminals.”

“Isolate him,” Turner said. “Take his telephone away. Throw him in solitary.”

“We would if we could,” the attorney general said. “But the ACLU and prisoner rights organizations would be on our case in a flash. Not to mention some of the highest-priced legal assassins in the country.” Silence. A fact of life in the United States was that ROC, or Russian organized crime, had bought access into every aspect of American life through large charitable donations, political campaign contributions, and astronomical retainer fees paid to some of the craftiest lawyers in the United States.

“What happened to deportation?” the President asked.

“That’s what I was going to recommend,” the attorney general replied.

Now it was Richard Parrish’s turn. As Turner’s chief of staff and primary political advisor, he was always looking for hazards. “That’s political suicide. Senator Leland will beat us silly claiming we’re soft on crime and that we caved into ROC.”

“So by being tough on crime and throwing the bastards in jail,” the attorney general added, “we actually help ROC achieve its ends.”

“It makes you long for the Cosa Nostra, doesn’t it?” Sam Kennett, the vice president, said. “At least the ‘men of honor’ were American.”

“And not too bright,” the attorney general said.

“Don’t sell them short,” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton said. She sat motionless in her chair, an Asian doll whose dainty feet didn’t quite reach the floor. Her words were so soft and low that it was hard to hear her. But they all fell silent when she spoke. “I agree with DOJ.” The attorney general beamed. Too often, the national security advisor was on the other side of the fence from the Department of Justice and time had a perverse way of proving her right. “We need to export our problems, not warehouse them. Exchange him.”

“For who?” This from the attorney general.

“Not for a who,” Mazie said. “For a what.”

“What do you have in mind?” Turner asked.

“Exchange him for a nuke,” Mazie answered.

A military mission on the far side of the world has gone terribly wrong—a momentous failure that will have violent repercussions in a nation bitterly polarized along racial lines
.

Air Force reservist and government prosecutor Hank Sutherland has been handed a case he never asked for but is expected to win: the trial of an African American Captain accused of treason. It is an indictment that promises to bring bloody chaos to the streets of America’s cities. Worse still, it provides a cause for Jonathan Meredith—a dangerous “patriot” and ruthless manipulator of crowds, politics, and history. Together with his personal army, “The First Brigade,” Meredith hopes to expand his already considerable power by reaping the benefits of widespread anger, disillusionment, hatred, and fear. And the deeper Hank Sutherland dives into this seething cauldron of violence, the more evidence he uncovers of a devastating conspiracy—a deadly corruption that is eating its way into the fabric of American life…and which threatens to destroy the freedoms and the future of a nation.

A powerful, brilliantly imagined, almost excruciatingly suspenseful new thriller from the acclaimed author of
POWER CURVE
, RICHARD HERMAN

“A sure winner…a credible and exciting plot with attractive characters and breakneck action…Herman keeps all of his plots spinning and readers…on the edge of their seats.”

Publishers Weekly

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