Windmills of the Gods (15 page)

“You know, of course, that you insulted the sister of a very important senator,” James Stickley informed Mary the following morning.

“Not enough,” Mary said defiantly. “Not enough.”

Thursday morning. Angel was in a bad mood. The flight from Buenos Aires to Washington, D.C., had been delayed because of a telephoned bomb threat.
The world isn’t safe anymore,
Angel thought angrily.

The hotel room that had been reserved in Washington was too modern, too—what was the word?—plastic.
That was it.
In Buenos Aires, everything was
auténtico.

I’ll finish this contract and get back home. The job is simple, almost an insult to my talent. But the money is excellent. I’ve got to get laid tonight. I wonder why killing always makes me horny.

Angel’s first stop was at an electrical supply store, then a paint store, and finally a supermarket, where Angel’s only purchase was six light bulbs. The rest of the equipment was
waiting in the hotel room in two sealed boxes marked
FRAGILE
—
HANDLE WITH CARE
. Inside the first box were four carefully packed army-green hand grenades. In the second box was soldering equipment.

Working very slowly with exquisite care, Angel cut the top off the first grenade, then painted the bottom of it the same color as the light bulbs. The next step was to scoop out the explosive from the grenade and replace it with a seismic explosive. When it was tightly packed, Angel added lead and metallic shrapnel to it. Then Angel shattered a light bulb against a table, preserving the filament and threaded base. It took less than a minute to solder the filament of the bulb to an electrically activated detonator. The final step was to insert the filament into a gel to keep it stable and then gently place it inside the painted grenade. When Angel was finished, it looked exactly like a normal light bulb.

Then Angel began to work on the remaining light bulbs. After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the phone call.

The telephone rang at eight o’clock that evening. Angel picked up the phone and listened, without speaking. After a moment a voice said, “He’s gone.”

Angel replaced the receiver. Carefully, very carefully, the light bulbs were packed into an excelsior-padded container and placed in a suitcase, along with all the scraps of discarded materials.

The taxi ride to the apartment building took seventeen minutes.

There was no doorman in the lobby, but if there had been, Angel was prepared to deal with him. The target apartment was on the fifth floor, at the far end of the corridor. The lock was an early-model Schlage, childishly simple to manipulate. Angel was inside the dark apartment within seconds, standing stock-still, listening. There was no one there.

It was the work of a few minutes to replace six light bulbs in the living room of the apartment. Afterward, Angel headed for Dulles Airport to catch a midnight flight back to Buenos Aires.

It had been a long day for Ben Cohn. He had covered a morning press conference by the secretary of state, a luncheon for the retiring secretary of the interior, and had been given an off-the-record briefing from a friend in the Defense Department. He had gone home to shower and change, and then left again to have dinner with a senior
Post
editor. It was almost midnight when he returned to his apartment building.
I have to prepare my notes for the meeting with Ambassador Ashley tomorrow,
Ben thought.

Akiko was out of town and would not be returning until tomorrow.
It’s just as well. I can use the rest. But Jesus,
he thought with a grin,
the lady sure knows how to eat a banana split.

He put the key in the lock and opened the door. The apartment was pitch-black. He reached for the light switch and pressed it. There was a sudden bright flash of light and the room exploded like an atomic bomb, splashing pieces of his body against the four walls.

The following day Alfred Shuttleworth was reported missing by his wife. His body was never found.

“We just received official word,” Stanton Rogers said. “The Romanian government has approved you as the new ambassador from the United States.”

It was one of the most thrilling moments of Mary Ashley’s life.
Grandfather would have been so proud.

“I wanted to bring you the good news in person, Mary. The President would like to see you. I’ll take you over to the White House.”

“I—I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done, Stan.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Rogers protested. “It was the President who selected you.” He grinned. “And I must say, he made the perfect choice.”

Mary thought of Mike Slade. “There are some people who don’t agree.”

“They’re wrong. You can do more for our country over there than anyone else I can think of.”

“Thank you,” she said soberly. “I’ll try to live up to that.”

She was tempted to bring up the subject of Mike Slade. Stanton Rogers had a lot of power. Perhaps he could arrange to have Slade stay in Washington.
No,
Mary thought.
I mustn’t impose on Stan. He’s done enough already.

“I have a suggestion. Instead of flying directly to Bucharest, why don’t you and the children stop first in Paris and Rome for a few days? Tarom Airlines flies directly from Rome to Bucharest.”

She looked at him and said, “Oh Stan—that would be heaven! But would I have time?”

He winked. “I have friends in high places. Let me work it out for you.”

Impulsively, she hugged him. He had become such a dear friend. The dreams she and Edward had talked about so often were about to come true. But without Edward. It was a bittersweet thought.

Mary and Stanton Rogers were ushered into the Green Room, where President Ellison was waiting for them.

“I want to apologize for the delay in setting things in motion, Mary. Stanton has told you that you’ve been approved by the Romanian government. Here are your credentials.”

He handed her a letter. She read it slowly:

Mrs. Mary Ashley is herewith appointed to be Chief Representative of the President of the United States in Romania, and every United States government employee there is herewith subject to her authority.

“This goes along with it.” The President handed Mary a passport. It had a black cover instead of the usual blue one. On the front, in gold letters, was printed
DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT
.

Mary had been anticipating this for weeks, but now that the time had come, she could scarcely believe it.

Paris!

Rome!

Bucharest!

It seemed almost too good to be true. And for no reason, something that Mary’s mother used to tell her popped into her mind:
If something seems to be too good to be true, Mary, it probably is.

There was a brief item in the afternoon press that
Washington Post
reporter Ben Cohn had been killed by a gas explosion in his apartment. The explosion was attributed to a leaky stove.

Mary did not see the news item. When Ben Cohn did not show up for their appointment, Mary decided that the reporter had either forgotten or was no longer interested. She returned to her office and went back to work.

The relationship between Mary and Mike Slade became steadily more irritating to her.
He’s the most arrogant man I’ve ever met,
Mary thought.
I’m going to have to talk to Stan about him.

Stanton Rogers accompanied Mary and the children to Dulles Airport in a State Department limousine. During the ride, Stanton said, “The embassies in Paris and Rome have been alerted to your arrival. They’ll see to it that the three of you are well taken care of.”

“Thank you, Stan. You’ve been wonderful.”

He smiled. “I can’t tell you how much pleasure it’s given me.”

“Can I see the catacombs in Rome?” Tim asked.

Stanton warned, “It’s pretty scary down there, Tim.”

“That’s why I want to see it.”

At the airport, Ian Villiers was waiting with a dozen photographers and reporters. They surrounded Mary, Beth, and Tim, and called out all the usual questions.

Finally, Stanton Rogers said, “That’s enough.”

Two men from the State Department and a representative
of the airline ushered the party into a private lounge. The children wandered off to the magazine stand.

Mary said, “Stan—I hate to burden you with this, but James Stickley told me that Mike Slade is going to be my deputy chief of mission. Is there any way to change that?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Are you having some kind of problem with Slade?”

“Quite honestly, I don’t like him. And I don’t trust him—I can’t tell you why. Isn’t there someone who could replace him?”

Stanton Rogers said thoughtfully, “I don’t know Mike Slade well, but I know he has a magnificent record. He’s served brilliantly in posts in the Middle East and Europe. He can give you exactly the kind of expertise you’re going to need.”

She sighed. “That’s what Mr. Stickley said.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with him, Mary. Slade’s a troubleshooter.”

Wrong. Slade’s trouble. Period.

“If you have any problem with him, I want you to let me know. In fact, if you have problems with
anyone,
I want you to let me know. I intend to make sure that you get every bit of help I can give you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“One last thing. You know that all your communications will be copied and sent to various departments in Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you have any messages that you want to send to me without anyone else reading them, the code at the top of the message is three
x
’s. I’ll be the only one to receive that message.”

“I’ll remember.”

The Charles de Gaulle Airport was something out of science fiction, a kaleidoscope of stone columns and what seemed
to Mary like hundreds of escalators running wild. The airport was crowded with travelers.

“Stay close to me, children,” Mary urged.

When they got off the escalator, she looked around helplessly. She stopped a Frenchman passing by, and summoning up one of the few French phrases she knew, she asked haltingly,
“Pardon, monsieur, où sont les bagages?”

In a heavy French accent, he said witheringly, “Sorry, madame. I don’t speak English.” He walked away, leaving Mary staring after him.

At that moment, a well-dressed young American hurried up to Mary and the children.

“Madam Ambassador, forgive me! I was instructed to meet you at the plane, but I was delayed by a traffic accident. My name is Peter Callas. I’m with the American embassy.”

“I’m really glad to see you,” Mary said. “I think I’m lost.” She introduced the children. “Where do we find our luggage?”

“No problem,” Peter Callas assured her. “Everything will be taken care of for you.”

He was true to his word. Fifteen minutes later, while the other passengers were starting to wend their way through Customs and Passport Control, Mary, Beth, and Tim were heading for the airport exit.

Inspector Henri Durand, of the general directorate of External Security, the French intelligence agency, watched as they got into the waiting limousine. When the car pulled away, the inspector walked over to a bank of phone booths and entered one. He closed the door, inserted a
jeton,
and dialed.

When a voice answered, he said,
“S’il vous plâit, dire à Thor que son paquet est arrivé à Paris.”

When the limousine pulled up in front of the American embassy, the French press was waiting in force.

Peter Callas looked out of the car window. “My God! It looks like a riot.”

Waiting for them inside was Hugh Simon, the American ambassador to France. He was a Texan, middle-aged, with inquisitive eyes in a round face, topped by a wave of brightred hair.

“Everyone’s sure eager to meet you, Madam Ambassador. The press has been snapping at my heels all morning.”

Mary’s press conference ran longer than an hour, and when it was over she was exhausted. Mary and the children were taken to Ambassador Simon’s office.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad that’s over. When I arrived here to take up this job, I think it got one paragraph on the back page of
Le Monde.
” He smiled. “Of course, I’m not as pretty as you are.” He remembered something. “I received a telephone call from Stanton Rogers. I have life-and-death instructions from the White House to see that you and Beth and Tim enjoy every moment that you’re in Paris.”

“
Really
life and death?” Tim asked.

Ambassador Simon nodded. “His words. He’s very fond of you all.”

“We’re very fond of him,” Mary assured him.

“I’ve arranged a suite for you at the Ritz. It’s a lovely hotel off the Place de la Concorde. I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable there.”

“Thank you.” Then she added nervously, “Is it very expensive?”

“Yes—but not for you. Stanton Rogers has arranged for the State Department to pick up all your expenses.”

Mary said, “He’s incredible.”

“According to him, so are you.”

The afternoon and evening newspapers carried glowing stories of the arrival of the President’s first ambassador in his people-to-people program. The event was given full coverage on the evening television news programs, and in the morning papers the following day.

Inspector Durand looked at the pile of newspapers and smiled. Everything was proceeding as planned. The buildup was even better than expected. He could have predicted the Ashleys’ itinerary during the next three days.
They’ll go to all the mindless tourist places that Americans want to see,
he thought.

Mary and the children had lunch at the Jules Verne restaurant in the Tour Eiffel, and later they went to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

They spent the following morning gazing at the treasures of the Louvre, had lunch near Versailles, and dinner at the Tour d’Argent.

Tim stared out the restaurant window at Notre Dame and asked, “Where do they keep the hunchback?”

Every moment in Paris was a joy. Mary kept thinking how much she wished Edward were there.

The next day after lunch, they were driven to the airport. Inspector Durand watched them as they checked in for their flight to Rome.

The woman is attractive—quite lovely, in fact. An intelligent face. Good body, great legs and derrière. I wonder what she would be like in bed.
The children were a surprise. They were well mannered for Americans.

When the plane took off, Inspector Durand went to a telephone booth.
“S’il vous plaît, dire à Thor que son paquet est en route à Rome.”

In Rome, the paparazzi were waiting at the Leonardo da Vinci Airport. As Mary and the children disembarked, Tim said, “Look, Mom, they followed us!”

Indeed it seemed to Mary that the only difference was the Italian accents.

The first question the reporters asked was, “How do you like Italy…?”

Ambassador Oscar Viner was as puzzled as Ambassador Simon had been.

“Frank Sinatra didn’t get this big a reception. Is there something about you I don’t know, Madam Ambassador?”

“I think I can explain,” Mary replied. “It isn’t
me
the press is interested in. They’re interested in the President’s people-to-people program. We’ll soon have representatives in every iron curtain country. It will be an enormous step toward peace. I think
that’s
what the press is excited about.”

After a moment, Ambassador Viner said, “A lot is riding on you, isn’t it?”

Captain Caesar Barzini, the head of the Italian secret police, was also able to predict accurately the places Mary and her children would visit during their brief stay.

The inspector assigned two men to watch the Ashleys, and each day when they reported back it was almost exactly as he had anticipated.

“They had ice cream sodas at Doney’s, walked along the Via Veneto, and toured the Colosseum.”

“They went to see the Trevi Fountain. Threw in coins.”

“Visited Termi de Caracalla and then the catacombs. Boy became ill and was taken back to hotel.”

“Subjects went for a carriage ride in Borghese Park and walked along the Piazza Navona.”

Enjoy yourselves,
Captain Barzini thought sardonically.

Ambassador Viner accompanied Mary and the children to the airport.

“I have a diplomatic pouch to go to the Romanian embassy. Would you mind taking it along with your luggage?”

“Of course not,” Mary said.

Captain Barzini was at the airport to watch the Ashley family board the Tarom Airlines plane bound for Bucharest.
He stayed until the plane took off, and then made a telephone call.
“Ho un messaggio per Balder. Il suo pacco è in via a Bucharest.”

It was only after they were airborne that the enormity of what was about to happen really struck Mary Ashley. It was so incredible that she had to say it aloud. “We’re on our way to Romania, where I’m going to take up my post as ambassador from the United States.”

Beth was looking at her strangely. “Yes, Mother. We know that. That’s why we’re here.”

But how could Mary explain her excitement to them?

The closer the plane got to Bucharest, the more her excitement increased.

I’m going to be the best damned ambassador they’ve ever seen,
she thought.
Before I’m finished, the United States and Romania are going to be close allies.

The
NO SMOKING
sign flashed on, and Mary’s euphoric dreams of great statesmanship evaporated.

We can’t be landing already,
Mary thought in a panic.
We just took off. Why is the flight so short?

She felt the pressure on her ears as the plane began to descend, and a few moments later the wheels touched the ground.
It’s really happening,
Mary thought incredulously.
I’m not an ambassador. I’m a fake. I’m going to get us into a war. God help us. Dorothy and I should never have left Kansas.