Windmills of the Gods (17 page)

She stepped inside and looked around. The room was an incredible combination of metal and glass, covering the floor, the walls, and the ceiling.

Mike Slade closed the heavy door behind them. “This is the Bubble Room. Every embassy in an iron curtain country has one. It’s the only room in the embassy that can’t be bugged.”

He saw her look of disbelief.

“Madam Ambassador, not only is the embassy bugged, but you can bet your last dollar that your residence is bugged, and that if you go out to a restaurant for dinner, your table will be bugged. You’re in enemy territory.”

Mary sank into a chair. “How do you handle that?” she asked. “I mean not ever being able to talk freely?”

“We do an electronic sweep every morning. We find their bugs and pull them out. Then they replace them, and we pull
those
out.”

“Why do we permit Romanians to work in the embassy?”

“It’s their playground. They’re the home team. We play by their rules, or blow the ball game. They can’t get their microphones into this room because there are marine guards on duty in front of that door twenty-four hours a day. Now—what are your questions?”

“I just wondered who the CIA man was.”

“Eddie Maltz, your political consular.”

She tried to recall what Eddie Maltz looked like. Grayhaired and heavy. No, that was the agriculture consular.
Eddie Maltz…ah, he was the middle-aged one, very thin, a sinister face.
Or did she think that now in retrospect because she was told he was CIA?

“Is he the only CIA man on the staff?”

“Yes.”

Was there a hesitation in his voice?

Mike Slade looked at his watch. “You’re due to present your credentials in thirty minutes. Florian is waiting for you outside. Take your letter of credence. You’ll give the original to President Ionescu and put a copy in our safe.”

Mary found that she was gritting her teeth. “I
know
that, Mr. Slade.”

“He requested that you bring the children with you. I’ve sent a car for them.”

Without consulting her.
“Thank you.”

Headquarters for the Romanian government is a forbidding-looking building made of blocks of sandstone in the center of Bucharest. It is protected by a steel wall, with armed guards in front of it. There were more guards at the entrance to the building. An aide escorted Mary and the children upstairs.

President Alexandras Ionescu greeted Mary and the children in a long, rectangular-shaped room on the second floor. The President of Romania had a powerful presence. He was dark, with hawklike features and curly black hair. He had one of the most imperious noses she had ever seen. His eyes were blazing, mesmerizing.

The aide said, “Your Excellency, may I present Madam Ambassador from the United States?”

The President took Mary’s hand and gave it a lingering kiss. “You are even more beautiful than your photographs.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. This is my daughter, Beth, and my son, Tim.”

“Fine-looking children,” Ionescu said. He looked at her expectantly. “You have something for me?”

Mary had almost forgotten. She quickly opened her purse and took out the letter of credence from President Ellison.

Alexandras Ionescu gave it a careless glance. “Thank you. I accept it on behalf of the Romanian government. You are now officially the American ambassador to my country.” He beamed at her. “I have arranged a reception this evening for you. You will meet some of our people who will be working with you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mary said.

He took her hand in his again and said, “We have a saying here. ‘An ambassador arrives in tears because he knows he will be spending years in a foreign place, away from his friends, but when he leaves, he leaves in tears because he must leave his new friends in a country he has grown fond of.’ I hope you will grow to love our country, Madam Ambassador.” He massaged her hand.

“I’m sure I will.”
He thinks I’m just another pretty face,
Mary thought grimly.
I’ll have to do something about that.

Mary sent the children home and spent the rest of the day at the embassy in the large conference room, meeting with the section heads, the political, economic, agriculture, administrative, and commerce consulars. Colonel McKinney was present as the military attaché.

They were all seated around a long, rectangular table. Against the back walls were a dozen junior members of the various departments.

The commerce consular, a small, pompous man, spoke,
rattling off a string of facts and figures. Mary was looking around the room, thinking:
I’ll have to remember all their names.

Then it was the turn of Ted Thompson, the agriculture consular. “The Romanian agriculture minister is in worse trouble than he’s admitting. They’re going to have a disastrous crop this year, and we can’t afford to let them go under.”

The economic consular, Patricia Hatfield, protested, “We’ve given them enough aid, Ted. Romania’s already operating under a favored-nations treaty. It’s a GSP country.” She looked at Mary, covertly.

She’s doing this deliberately,
Mary thought,
trying to embarrass me.

Patricia Hatfield said, patronizingly, “A GSP country is—”

“—is a generalized system of preferences,” Mary cut in. “We treat Romania as a less-developed country so that they get import and export advantages.”

Hatfield’s expression changed. “That’s right,” she said. “We’re already giving the store away and—”

David Victor, the commerce consular, interrupted. “We’re not giving it away—we’re just trying to keep it open so we can shop there. They need more credit in order to buy corn from us. If
we
don’t sell it to them, they’re going to buy it from Argentina.” He turned to Mary. “It looks like we’re going to lose out on soybeans. The Brazilians are trying to undercut us. I would appreciate it if you’d talk to the prime minister as soon as possible and try to make a package deal before we’re shut out.”

Mary looked over at Mike Slade, who was seated at the opposite end of the table slouched in his chair, doodling on a pad, seemingly paying no attention. “I’ll see what I can do,” Mary promised.

She made a note to send a cable to the head of the Commerce
Department in Washington asking permission to offer more credit to the Romanian government. The money would come from American banks, but they would make the loans only with government approval.

Eddie Maltz, the political consular as well as the CIA agent, spoke up. “I have a rather urgent problem, Madam Ambassador. A nineteen-year-old American student was arrested last night for possession of drugs. That’s an extremely serious offense here.”

“What kind of drugs did he have on him?”

“Her. It’s a young girl. Marijuana. Just a few ounces.”

“What’s the girl like?”

“Bright, a college student, rather pretty.”

“What do you think they’ll do to her?”

“The usual penalty is a five-year prison sentence.”

My God,
Mary thought.
What will she be like when she gets out?
“What can we do about it?”

Mike Slade said lazily, “You can try your charm on the head of Securitate. His name is Istrase. He has a lot of power.”

Eddie Maltz went on. “The girl says she was framed, and she may have a point. She was stupid enough to have an affair with a Romanian policeman. After he fu—took her to bed, he turned her in.”

Mary was horrified. “How could he?”

Mike Slade said dryly, “Madam Ambassador, here, we’re the enemy—not them. Romania is playing patty-cake with us, and we’re all buddies, and it’s smiles and hands across the sea. We let them sell to us and buy from us at bargainbasement discounts because we’re trying to woo them away from Russia. But when it comes right down to it, they’re still Communists.”

Mary made another note. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” She turned to the public affairs consular, Jerry Davis. “What are your problems?”

“My department is having trouble getting approvals for repairs on the apartments our embassy staff live in. Their quarters are in a disgraceful condition.”

“Can’t they just go ahead and have their own repairs made?”

“Unfortunately, no. The Romanian government has to approve all repairs. Some of our people are without heat, and in several of the apartments the toilets don’t work and there’s no running water.”

“Have you complained about this?”

“Yes, ma’am. Every day for the last three months.”

“Then why—?”

“It’s called harassment,” Mike Slade explained. “It’s a war of nerves they like to play with us.”

Mary made another note.

“Madam Ambassador, I have an extremely urgent problem,” Jack Chancelor, the head of the American library, said. “Only yesterday some very important reference books were stolen from…”

Ambassador Ashley was beginning to get a headache.

The afternoon was spent listening to a series of complaints. Everyone seemed unhappy. And then there was the reading. On her desk was a blizzard of white paper. There were the English translations of newspaper items that had appeared the day before in Romanian papers and magazines. Most of the stories in the popular newspaper
Scinteia Tineretului
were about the daily activities of President Ionescu, with three or four pictures of him on every single page.
The incredible ego of the man,
Mary thought.

There were other condensations to read:
The Romania Libera,
the weekly
Flacara Rosie,
and
Magafinul.
And that was only the beginning. There was the wireless file and the summary of news developments reported in the United States. There was a file of the full texts of important American officials’ speeches, a thick report on arms-control negotiations,
and an update on the state of the United States economy.

There’s enough reading material in one day,
Mary thought,
to keep me busy for years, and I’m going to get this every morning.

But the problem that disturbed Mary most was the feeling of antagonism from her staff. That had to be handled immediately.

She sent for Harriet Kruger, her protocol officer.

“How long have you worked here at the embassy?” Mary asked.

“Four years before our break with Romania, and now three glorious months.” There was a note of irony in her voice.

“Don’t you like it here?”

“I’m a McDonald’s and Coney Island girl. Like the song says, ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home.’”

“May we have an off-the-record conversation?”

“No, ma’am.”

Mary had forgotten. “Why don’t we adjourn to the Bubble Room?” she suggested.

When Mary and Harriet Kruger were seated at the table in the Bubble Room, with the heavy door safely closed behind them, Mary said, “Something just occurred to me. Our meeting today was held in the conference room. Isn’t that bugged?”

“Probably,” Kruger said cheerfully. “But it doesn’t matter. Mike Slade wouldn’t let anything be discussed that the Romanians aren’t already aware of.”

Mike Slade again.

“What do you think of Slade?”

“He’s the best.”

Mary decided not to express her opinion. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is because I got the feeling today that the morale around here isn’t very good. Everyone’s complaining. No one seems happy. I would like to know whether it’s because of me, or whether it’s always that way.”

Harriet Kruger studied her for a moment. “You want an honest answer?”

“Please.”

“It’s a combination of both. The Americans working here are in a pressure cooker. We break the rules, and we’re in big trouble. We’re afraid to make friends with Romanians because they’ll probably turn out to belong to the Securitate, so we stick with the Americans. We’re a small group, so pretty soon that gets boring and incestuous.” She shrugged. “The pay is small, the food is lousy, and the weather is bad.” She studied Mary. “None of that is your fault, Madam Ambassador. You have two problems: The first is that you’re a political appointee and you’re in charge of an embassy manned by career diplomats.” She stopped. “Am I coming on too strong?”

“No, please go on.”

“Most of them were against you before you even got here. Career workers in an embassy tend not to rock the boat. Political appointees like to change things. To them, you’re an amateur telling professionals how to run their business. The second problem is that you’re a woman. Romania should have a big symbol on its flag: a male chauvinist pig. The American men in the embassy don’t like taking orders from a woman, and the Romanians are a lot worse.”

“I see.”

Harriet Kruger smiled. “But you sure have a great publicity agent. I’ve never seen so many magazine cover stories in my life. How do you do it?”

Mary had no answer to that.

Harriet Kruger glanced at her watch. “Oops! You’re going to be late. Florian’s waiting to take you home so you can change.”

“Change for what?” Mary asked.

“Haven’t you looked at the schedule I put on your desk?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had time. Don’t tell me I’m supposed to go to some party!”

“
Parties.
Three of them tonight. You have twenty-one parties altogether this week.”

Mary was staring at her. “That’s impossible. I have too much to—”

“It goes with the territory. There are seventy-five embassies in Bucharest, and on any given night, some of them are celebrating something.”

“Can’t I say no?”

“That would be the United States saying no to them. They would be offended.”

Mary sighed. “I guess I’d better go change.”

The cocktail party that afternoon was held at the Romanian State Palace for a visiting dignitary from East Germany.

As soon as Mary arrived, President Ionescu walked over to her. He kissed her hand and said, “I have been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. I too.”

She had a feeling he had been drinking heavily. She recalled the dossier on him:
Married. One son, fourteen, the heir apparent, and three daughters. Is a womanizer. Drinks a lot. A shrewd peasant mentality. Charming when it suits him. Generous to his friends. Dangerous and ruthless to his enemies.
Mary thought:
A man to beware of.