SIDNEY SHELDON
WINDMILLS OF THE GODS

Dedication

For Jorja

Contents

Cover

Title page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Three

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

About The Author

Books By Sidney Sheldon

Copyright

About The Publisher

Epigraph

We are all victims, Anselmo. Our destinies are decided by a cosmic roll of the dice, the whims of the stars, the vagrant breezes of fortune that blow from the windmills of the gods.

A Final Destiny H. L. Dietrich

Prologue

Ilomantsi, Finland

The meeting took place in a comfortable, weather-proofed cabin in a remote, wooded area some 200 miles from Helsinki. The members of the Western Branch of the Committee had arrived discreetly at irregular intervals. They came from eight different countries, but their visit had been quietly arranged by a senior minister in the Valtioneuvosto, the Finnish Council of State, and there was no record of entry in their passports. Upon their arrival, armed guards escorted them into the cabin, and when the last visitor appeared, the cabin door was locked and the guards took up positions in the full-throated January winds, alert for any sign of intruders.

The members seated around the large, rectangular table were men in powerful positions, high in the councils of their respective governments. They had met before and under less clandestine circumstances, and they trusted one another because they had no choice. For added security, each had been assigned a code name.

The meeting lasted almost five hours, and the discussion was heated.

Finally, the chairman decided the time had come to call for a vote. He rose, standing tall, and turned to the man seated at his right. ‘Sigurd?’

‘Yes.’

‘Odin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Balder?’

‘We’re moving too hastily. If this should be exposed, our lives would be –’

‘Yes, or no, please?’

‘No …’

‘Freyr?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sigmund?’

‘Nein. The danger –’

‘Thor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tyr?’

‘Yes.’

‘I vote “yes”. The resolution is passed. I will so inform the Controller. At our next meeting, I will give you his recommendation for the person best qualified to carry out the motion. We will observe the usual precautions and leave at twenty-minute intervals. Thank you, gentlemen.’

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, the cabin was deserted. A crew of experts carrying kerosene moved in and set the cabin on fire, the red flames licked by the hungry winds.

When the Palokunta, the fire brigade from Ilomantsi, finally reached the scene, there was nothing left to see but the smouldering embers that outlined the cabin against the hissing snow.

The assistant to the fire chief approached the ashes, bent down and sniffed. ‘Kerosene,’ he said. ‘Arson.’

The fire chief was staring at the ruins, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘That’s strange,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘I was hunting in these woods last week. There was no cabin.’

Part One

Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

Stanton Rogers was destined to be President of the United States. He was a charismatic politician, highly visible to an approving public, and backed by powerful friends. Unfortunately for Rogers, his libido got in the way of his career. Or, as the Washington mavens put it: ‘Old Stanton fucked himself out of the Presidency.’

It was not that Stanton Rogers fancied himself a Casanova. On the contrary, until that one fatal bedroom escapade, he had been a model husband. He was handsome, wealthy, and on his way to one of the most important positions in the world, and although he had had ample opportunity to cheat on his wife, he had never given another woman a thought.

There was a second, perhaps greater irony: Stanton Rogers’ wife, Elizabeth, was social, beautiful and intelligent, and the two of them shared a common interest in almost everything, whereas Barbara, the woman Rogers fell in love with and eventually married after a much-headlined divorce, was five years older than Stanton, pleasant-faced, rather than pretty, and seemed to have nothing in common with him. Stanton was athletic; Barbara hated all forms of exercise. Stanton was gregarious; Barbara preferred to be alone with her husband or to entertain small groups. The biggest surprise to those who knew Stanton Rogers was the political differences. Stanton was a liberal, while Barbara had grown up in a family of arch-conservatives.

Paul Ellison, Stanton’s closest friend, had said. ‘You must be out of your mind, chum! You and Liz are practically in the Guinness Book of Records as the perfect married couple. You can’t throw that away for some quick lay.’

Stanton Rogers had replied tightly, ‘Back off, Paul. I’m in love with Barbara. As soon as I get a divorce, we’re getting married.’

‘Do you have any idea what this is going to do to your career?’

‘Half the marriages in this country end in divorce. It won’t do anything,’ Stanton Rogers replied.

He had proved to be a poor prophet. News of the bitterly fought divorce was manna for the press, and the gossip papers played it up as luridly as possible, with pictures of Stanton Rogers’ love nest, and stories of secret midnight trysts. The newspapers kept the story alive as long as they could, and when the furore died down, the powerful friends who had backed Stanton Rogers for the Presidency quietly disappeared. They found a new white knight to champion: Paul Ellison.

Ellison was a sound choice. While he had neither Stanton Rogers’ good looks nor his charisma, he was intelligent, likeable and had the right background. He was short in stature, with regular, even features and candid blue eyes. He had been happily married for ten years to the daughter of a steel magnate, and he and Alice were known as a warm and loving couple.

Like Stanton Rogers, Paul Ellison had attended Yale and was graduated from Harvard Law School. The two men had grown up together. Their families had adjoining summer homes at Southampton, and the boys swam together, organized baseball teams, and later, double-dated. They were in the same class at Harvard. Paul Ellison did well, but it was Stanton Rogers who was the star pupil. As editor of the Harvard Law Review, he saw to it that his friend Paul became assistant editor. Stanton Rogers’ father was a senior partner in a prestigious Wall Street law firm, and when Stanton worked there summers, he arranged for Paul to be there. Once out of law school, Stanton Rogers’ political star began rising meteorically, and if he was the comet, Paul Ellison was the tail.

The divorce changed everything. It was now Stanton Rogers who became the appendage to Paul Ellison. The trail leading to the top of the mountain took almost fifteen years. Ellison lost an election for the Senate, won the following one, and in the next few years became a highly visible, articulate law-maker. He fought against waste in government and Washington bureaucracy. He was a populist, and believed in international détente. He was asked to give the nominating speech for the incumbent president running for re-election. It was a brilliant, impassioned speech that made everyone sit up and take notice. Four years later, Paul Ellison was elected President of the United States. His first appointment was Stanton Rogers as Presidential Foreign Affairs Adviser.

Marshall McLuhan’s theory that television would turn the world into a global village had become a reality. The inauguration of the forty-second President of the United States was carried by satellite to more than 190 countries.

In the Black Rooster, a Washington, D.C., hang-out for newsmen, Ben Cohn, a veteran political reporter for the Washington Post, was seated at a table with four colleagues, watching the inauguration on the large television set over the bar.

‘The son-of-a-bitch cost me fifty bucks,’ one of the reporters complained.

‘I warned you not to bet against Ellison,’ Ben Cohn chided. ‘He’s got the magic, baby. You’d better believe it.’

The camera panned to show the massive crowds gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue, huddled inside their overcoats against the bitter January wind, listening to the ceremony on loudspeakers set up around the podium. Jason Merlin, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, finished the swearing-in oath, and the new President shook his hand and stepped up to the microphone.

‘Look at those idiots standing out there freezing their asses off,’ Ben Cohn commented. ‘Do you know why they aren’t home, like normal human beings, watching it on television?’

‘Why?’

‘Because a man is making history, my friends. One day all those people are going to tell their children and grandchildren that they were there the day Paul Ellison was sworn in. And they’re all going to brag “I was so close to him I could have touched him.”’

‘You’re a cynic, Cohn.’

‘And proud of it. Every politician in the world comes out of the same cookie cutter. They’re all in it for what they can get out of it. Face it, fellas, our new President is a liberal and an idealist. That’s enough to give any intelligent man nightmares. My definition of a liberal is a man who has his ass firmly stuck in clouds of cotton wool.’

The truth was that Ben Cohn was not as cynical as he sounded. He had covered Paul Ellison’s career from the beginning and, while it was true that Cohn had not been impressed at first, as Ellison moved up the political ladder, Ben Cohn began to change his opinion. This politician was nobody’s ‘yes’ man. He was an oak in a forest of willows.

Outside, the sky exploded into icy sheets of rain. Ben Cohn hoped the weather was not an omen of the four years that lay ahead. He turned his attention back to the television set.

‘The Presidency of the United States is a torch lit by the American people and passed from hand to hand every four years. The torch that has been entrusted to my care is the most powerful weapon in the world. It is powerful enough to burn down civilization as we know it, or to be a beacon that will light the future for us and for the rest of the world. It is our choice to make. I speak today not only to our allies, but to those countries in the Soviet camp. I say to them now, as we prepare to move into the twenty-first century, that there is no longer any room for confrontation, that we must learn to make the phrase “one world” become a reality. Any other course can only create a holocaust from which no nation would ever recover. I am well aware of the vast chasms that lie between us and the Iron Curtain countries, but the first priority of this administration will be to build unshakeable bridges across those chasms.’

His words rang out with a deep, heartfelt sincerity. He means it, Ben Cohn thought. I hope no one assassinates the bastard.

In Junction City, Kansas, it was a pot-bellied stove kind of day, bleak and raw, and snowing so hard that the visibility on Highway 6 was almost zero. Mary Ashley cautiously steered her old station wagon towards the centre of the highway, where the snowploughs had been at work. The storm was going to make her late for the class she was teaching. She drove slowly, careful not to let the car go into a skid.

From the car radio came the President’s voice: ‘… are many in government as well as in private life who insist that America build more moats instead of bridges. My answer to that is that we can no longer afford to condemn ourselves or our children to a future threatened by global confrontations and nuclear war.’

Mary Ashley thought: I’m glad I voted for him. Paul Ellison is going to make a great President.

Her grip tightened on the wheel as the snow became a blinding white whirlwind.

In St Croix, a tropical sun was shining in a cloudless, azure sky, but Harry Lantz had no intention of going outside. He was having too much fun indoors. He was in bed, naked, sandwiched between the Dolly sisters. Lantz had empirical evidence that they were not truly sisters. Annette was a tall, natural brunette, and Sally was a tall, natural blonde. Not that Harry Lantz gave a damn whether they were blood relatives. What was important was that they were both expert at what they did, and what they were doing made Lantz groan aloud with pleasure.

At the far end of the motel room, the image of the President flickered on the television set.

‘… because I believe that there is no problem that cannot be solved by genuine goodwill on both sides, the concrete wall around East Berlin and the Iron Curtain that surrounds the other Soviet Union satellite countries must come down.’

Sally stopped her activities long enough to ask, ‘Do you want me to turn that fuckin’ thing off, hon?’

‘Leave it alone. I wanna hear what he has to say.’

Annette raised her head. ‘Did you vote for him?’

Harry Lantz yelled, ‘Hey, you two! Get back to work …’

‘As you are aware, three years ago, upon the death of Romania’s President, Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania broke off diplomatic relations with the United States. I want to inform you now that we have approached the government of Romania and its President, Alexandros Ionescu, and he has agreed to re-establish diplomatic relations with our country.’

There was a cheer from the crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Harry Lantz sat upright so suddenly that Annette’s teeth sank into his penis. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Lantz screamed. ‘I’ve already been circumcised! What the fuck are you trying to do?’

‘What did you move for, hon?’

Lantz did not hear her. His eyes were glued to the television set.

‘One of our first official acts,’ the President was saying, ‘will be to send an Ambassador to Romania. And that is merely the beginning …’

In Bucharest, it was evening. The winter weather had turned unexpectedly mild and the streets of the late marketplaces were crowded with citizens lined up to shop in the unseasonably warm weather.

Romanian President Alexandros Ionescu sat in his office in Peles, the old palace, on Calea Victoriei, surrounded by half a dozen aides, listening to the broadcast on a short-wave radio.

‘… I have no intention of stopping there,’ the American President was saying. ‘Albania broke off all diplomatic relations with the United States in 1946. I intend to re-establish those ties. In addition, I intend to strengthen our diplomatic relations with Bulgaria, with Czechoslovakia, and with East Germany.’

Over the radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.

‘Sending our Ambassador to Romania is the beginning of a worldwide people-to-people movement. Let us never forget that all mankind shares a common origin, common problems, and a common ultimate fate. Let us remember that the problems we share are greater than the problems that divide us, and that what divides us is of our own making.’

In a heavily guarded villa in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, the Romanian revolutionary leader, Marin Groza, was watching the President on Chaine 2 Television.

‘… I promise you now, that I will do my best, and that I will seek out the best in others …’

The applause lasted fully five minutes.

Marin Groza said thoughtfully, ‘I think our time has come, Lev. He really means it.’

Lev Pasternak, his security chief, replied, ‘Won’t this help Ionescu?’

Marin Groza shook his head. ‘Ionescu is a tyrant, so in the end, nothing will help him. But I must be very careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow Ceausescu. I must not fail again.’

Peter Connors was not drunk – not as drunk as he intended to get. He had finished almost a fifth of Scotch when Nancy, the secretary he lived with, said, ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Pete?’ He smiled and slapped her.

‘Our President’s talkin’. You gotta show some respect.’ He turned to look at the image on the television set. ‘You communist son-of-a-bitch,’ he yelled at the screen. ‘This is my country, and the CIA’s not gonna let you give it away. We’re gonna stop you, Charlie. You can bet your ass on it.’

Chapter Two

Paul Ellison said, ‘I’m going to need a lot of help from you, old friend.’

‘You’ll get it,’ Stanton Rogers replied quietly.

They were seated in the Oval Office, the President at his desk with the American flag behind him. It was their first meeting together in this office, and President Ellison was uncomfortable.

If Stanton hadn’t made that one mistake, Paul Ellison thought, he would be sitting at this desk instead of me.

As though reading his mind, Stanton Rogers said, ‘I have a confession to make. The day you were nominated for the Presidency, I was as jealous as hell, Paul. It was my dream, and you were living it. But do you know something? I finally came to realize that if I couldn’t sit in that chair, there was no one else in the world I would want to sit there but you. That chair suits you.’

Paul Ellison smiled at his friend and said, ‘To tell you the truth, Stan, this room scares the hell out of me. I feel the ghosts of Washington and Lincoln and Jefferson.’

‘We’ve also had Presidents who –’

‘I know. But it’s the great ones we have to try to live up to.’

He pressed the button on his desk, and seconds later a white-jacketed steward came into the room.

‘Yes, Mr President?’

Paul Ellison turned to Rogers. ‘Coffee?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Want anything with it?’

‘No, thanks. Barbara wants me to watch my waistline.’

The President nodded to Henry, the steward, and he quietly left the room.

Barbara. She had surprised everyone. The gossip around Washington was that the marriage would not last out the first year. But it had been almost fifteen years now, and it was a success. Stanton Rogers had built up a prestigious law practice in Washington, and Barbara had earned the reputation of being a gracious hostess.

Paul Ellison rose and began to pace. ‘My people-to-people speech seems to have caused quite an uproar. I suppose you’ve seen all the newspapers.’

Stanton Rogers shrugged. ‘You know how they are. They love to build up heroes so they can knock them down.’

‘Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the papers say. I’m interested in what people are saying.’

‘Quite candidly, you’re putting the fear of God into a lot of people, Paul. The armed forces are against your plan, and some powerful movers and shakers would like to see it fail.’

‘It’s not going to fail.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you know the biggest problem with the world today? There are no more statesmen. Countries are being run by politicians. There was a time not too long ago when this earth was peopled with giants. Some were good, and some were evil – but, by God, they were giants. Roosevelt and Churchill, Hitler and Mussolini. Charles de Gaulle and Joseph Stalin. Why did they all live at that one particular time? Why aren’t there any statesmen today?’

‘It’s pretty hard to be a world giant on a twenty-one-inch screen.’

The door opened and the steward appeared, bearing a silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups, each imprinted with the Presidential seal. He skilfully poured the coffee. ‘Can I get you something else, Mr President?’

‘No. That’s it, Henry. Thank you.’

The President waited until the steward had gone. ‘I want to talk to you about finding the right Ambassador to Romania.’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t have to tell you how important this is. I want you to move on it as quickly as possible.’

Stanton Rogers took a sip of his coffee and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll get State on it right away.’

In the little suburb of Neuilly, it was 2 a.m. Marin Groza’s villa lay in ebon darkness, the moon nested in a thick layer of storm clouds. The streets were hushed at this hour, with only the sound of an occasional passer-by rippling the silence. A black-clad figure moved noiselessly through the trees towards the brick wall that surrounded the villa. Over one shoulder he carried a rope and a blanket, and in his arms was cradled an Uzi with a silencer and a dart gun. When he reached the wall, he stopped and listened. He waited, motionless, for five minutes. Finally, satisfied, he uncoiled the nylon rope and tossed up the scaling hook attached to the end of it until it caught on the far edge of the wall. Swiftly, the man began to climb. When he reached the top of the wall, he flung the blanket across it to protect himself against the poisoned-tip metal spikes embedded on top. He stopped again to listen. He reversed the hook, shifting the rope to the inside of the wall, and slid down into the grounds. He checked the balisong at his waist; the deadly Filipino folding knife that could be flicked open or closed with one hand.

The attack dogs would be next. The intruder crouched there, waiting for them to pick up his scent. There were three Dobermans, trained to kill. But they were only the first obstacle. The grounds and the villa were filled with electronic devices, and continuously monitored by television cameras. All mail and packages were received at the gatehouse and opened there by the guards. The doors of the villa were bomb-proof. The villa had its own water supply, and Marin Groza had a food taster. The villa was impregnable. Supposedly. The figure in black was here this night to prove that it was not.

He heard the sounds of the dogs rushing at him before he saw them. They came flying out of the darkness, charging at his throat. There were two of them. He aimed the dart gun and shot the nearest one on his left first, and then the one on his right, dodging out of the way of their hurtling bodies. He spun around, alert for the third dog, and when it came, he fired again, and then there was only stillness.

The intruder knew where the sonic traps were buried in the ground, and he skirted them. He silently glided through the areas of the grounds that the television cameras did not cover, and in less than two minutes after he had gone over the wall, he was at the back door of the villa.

As he reached for the handle of the door, he was caught in the sudden glare of half a dozen floodlights. A voice called out, ‘Freeze! Drop your gun and raise your hands.’

The figure in black carefully dropped his gun and looked up. There were half a dozen men spread out on the roof, with a variety of weapons pointed at him.

The man in black growled, ‘What the fuck took you so long? I never should have got this far.’

‘You didn’t,’ the head guard informed him. ‘We started tracking you before you got over the wall.’

Lev Pasternak was not mollified. ‘Then you should have stopped me sooner. I could have been on a suicide mission with a load of grenades or a god-damn mortar. I want a meeting of the entire staff tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp. The dogs have been stunned. Have someone keep an eye on them until they wake up.’

Lev Pasternak prided himself on being the best security guard in the world. He had been a pilot in the Israeli six-day war and, after the war, had become a top agent in Mossad, one of Israel’s five secret services.

He would never forget the morning, two years earlier, when his colonel had called him into his office.

‘Lev, someone wants to borrow you for a few weeks.’

‘I hope it’s a blonde,’ Lev quipped.

‘It’s Marin Groza.’

Mossad had a complete file on the Romanian dissident. Groza had been the leader of a popular Romanian movement to depose Alexandros Ionescu and was about to stage a coup when he had been betrayed by one of his men. More than two dozen underground fighters had been executed, and Groza had barely escaped the country with his life. France had given him sanctuary. Ionescu denounced Marin Groza as a traitor to his country and put a price on his head. So far half a dozen attempts to assassinate Groza had failed, but he had been wounded in the latest attack.

‘What does he want with me?’ Pasternak asked. ‘He has government protection.’

‘Not good enough. He needs someone to set up a fool-proof security system. He came to us. I recommended you.’

‘I’d have to go to France?’

‘It will only take you a few weeks.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Lev, we’re talking about a mensch. He’s the guy in the white hat. Our information is that he has enough popular support in his home country to knock over Ionescu. When the timing is right, he’ll make his move. Meanwhile, we have to keep the man alive.’

Lev Pasternak thought about it. ‘A few weeks, you said?’

‘That’s all.’

The Colonel had been wrong about the time, but he had been right about Marin Groza. He was a thin, fragile-looking man with an ascetic air about him and a face etched with sorrow. He had an aquiline nose, a firm chin, and a broad forehead, topped by a spray of white hair. He had deep, black eyes, and when he spoke, they blazed with passion.

‘I don’t give a damn whether I live or die,’ he told Lev at their first meeting. ‘We’re all going to die. It’s the when that I’m concerned about. I have to stay alive for another year or two. That’s all the time I need to drive Ionescu out of my country.’ He ran his hand absently across a livid scar on his cheek. ‘No man has the right to enslave a country. We have to free Romania and let the people decide their own fate.’

Lev Pasternak went to work on the security system at the villa in Neuilly. He used some of his own men, and the outsiders he hired were checked out thoroughly. Every single piece of equipment was state-of-the-art.

Pasternak saw the Romanian rebel leader every day, and the more time he spent with him, the more he came to admire him. When Marin Groza asked Pasternak to stay on as his security chief, Pasternak did not hesitate.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, ‘until you’re ready to make your move. Then I will return to Israel.’

They struck a deal.

At irregular intervals, Pasternak staged surprise attacks on the villa, testing its security. Now, he thought: Some of the guards are getting careless. I’ll have to replace them.

He walked through the hallways, carefully checking the heat sensors, the electronic warning systems, and the infrared beams at the sill of each door. As he reached Marin Groza’s bedroom, he heard a loud crash, and a moment later Groza began screaming out in agony.

Lev Pasternak passed Groza’s room and kept walking.

Chapter Three

Headquarters for the Central Intelligence Agency is located in Langley, Virginia, seven miles southwest of Washington, D.C. At the approach road to the Agency is a flashing red beacon on top of a gate. The gatehouse is guarded twenty-four hours a day, and authorized visitors are issued coloured badges giving them access only to the particular department with which they have business. Outside the grey seven-storey headquarters building, whimsically called the ‘Toy Factory’, is a large statue of Nathan Hale. Inside, on the ground floor, a glass corridor wall faces an inner courtyard with a landscaped garden dotted with magnolia trees. Above the reception desk a verse is carved in marble:

And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set ye free.

The public is never admitted inside the building, and there are no facilities for visitors. For those who wish to enter the compound ‘black’ – unseen – there is a tunnel that emerges onto a foyer facing a mahogany elevator door, watched around the clock by a squad of grey-flannelled sentries.

In the seventh-floor conference room, guarded by security aides armed with snub-nosed .38 revolvers under their business suits, the Monday morning executive staff meeting was under way. Seated around the large, oak table were Ned Tillingast, Director of the CIA; General Oliver Brooks, Army Chief of Staff; Secretary of State Floyd Baker; Pete Connors, Chief of Counterintelligence; and Stanton Rogers.

Ned Tillingast, the CIA Director, was in his sixties, a cold, taciturn man, burdened with maleficent secrets. There is a light branch and a dark branch of the CIA. The dark branch handles clandestine operations, and for the past seven years, Tillingast had been in charge of the 4500 employees working in that section.

General Oliver Brooks was a West Point soldier who conducted his personal and professional life by the book. He was a company man, and the company he worked for was the United States Army.

Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, was an anachronism, a throw-back to an earlier era. He was of southern vintage, tall, silver-haired and distinguished-looking, with an old-fashioned gallantry. He was a man who wore mental spats. He owned a chain of influential newspapers around the country, and was reputed to be enormously wealthy. There was no one in Washington with a keener political sense, and Baker’s antennae were constantly tuned to the changing signals around the halls of Congress.

Pete Connors was black-Irish, a stubborn, bulldog of a man, hard-drinking and fearless. This was his last year with the CIA. He faced compulsory retirement in June. Connors was Chief of the Counterintelligence staff, the most secret, highly compartmentalized branch of the CIA. He had worked his way up through the various intelligence divisions, and had been around in the good old days when CIA agents were the golden boys. Pete Connors had been a golden boy himself. He had taken part in the coup that restored the Shah to the Peacock Throne in Iran, and he had been involved in Operation Mongoose, the attempt to topple Castro’s government, in 1961.

‘After the Bay of Pigs, everything changed,’ Pete mourned. The length of his diatribe usually depended upon how drunk he was. ‘The bleeding hearts attacked us on the front pages of every newspaper in the world. They called us a bunch of lying, sneaking clowns who couldn’t get out of our own way. Some anti-CIA bastard published the names of our agents, and Dick Welch, our Chief of Station in Athens, was murdered.’

Pete Connors had gone through three miserable marriages because of the pressures and secrecy of his work, but as far as he was concerned, no sacrifice was too great to make for his country.

Now, in the middle of the meeting, his face was red with anger. ‘If we let the President get away with his fucking people-to-people programme, he’s going to give the country away. It has to be stopped. We can’t allow –’

Floyd Baker interrupted. ‘The President has been in office less than a week. We’re all here to carry out his policies and –’

‘I’m not here to hand over my country to the damned commies, Mister. The President never even mentioned his plan before his speech. He sprang it on all of us. We didn’t have a chance to get together a rebuttal.’

‘Perhaps that’s what he had in mind,’ Baker suggested.

Pete Connors stared at him. ‘By God, you agree with it!’

‘He’s my President,’ Floyd Baker said firmly. ‘Just as he’s yours.’

Ned Tillingast turned to Stanton Rogers. ‘Connors has a point. The President is actually planning to invite Romania, Albania, Bulgaria, and the other communist countries to send their spies here posing as cultural attachés and chauffeurs and secretaries and maids. We’re spending billions of dollars to guard the back door, and the President wants to throw open the front door.’

General Brooks nodded agreement. ‘I wasn’t consulted, either. In my opinion, the President’s plan could damn well destroy this country.’

Stanton Rogers said, ‘Gentlemen, some of us may disagree with the President, but let’s not forget that the people voted for Paul Ellison to run this country.’ His eyes flicked across the men seated around him. ‘We’re all part of the President’s team and we have to follow his lead and support him in every way we can.’ His words were followed by a reluctant silence. ‘All right, then. The President wants an immediate update on the current situation in Romania. Everything you have.’

‘Including our covert stuff?’ Pete Connors asked.

‘Everything. Give it to me straight. What’s the situation in Romania with Alexandros Ionescu?’

‘Ionescu’s riding high in the saddle,’ Ned Tillingast replied. ‘Once he got rid of the Ceausescu family, all of Ceausescu’s allies were assassinated, jailed, or exiled. Since he seized power, Ionescu’s been bleeding the country dry. The people hate his guts.’

‘What about the prospects for a revolution?’

Tillingast said, ‘Ah. That’s rather interesting. Remember a couple of years back when Marin Groza almost toppled the Ionescu government?’

‘Yes. Groza got out of the country by the skin of his butt.’

‘With our help. Our information is that there’s a popular groundswell to bring him back. Groza would be good for Romania and, if he got in, it would be good for us. We’re keeping a close watch on the situation.’

Stanton Rogers turned to the Secretary of State. ‘Do you have that list of candidates for the Romanian post?’

Floyd Baker opened a leather attaché case, took some papers from it, and handed a copy to Rogers. ‘These are our top prospects. They’re all qualified career diplomats. Each one of them has been cleared. No security problems, no financial problems, no embarrassing skeletons in the closet.’

As Stanton Rogers took the list, the Secretary of State added, ‘Naturally, the State Department favours a career diplomat, rather than a political appointee. Someone who’s been trained for this kind of job. In this situation, particularly. Romania is an extremely sensitive post. It has to be handled very carefully.’

‘I agree.’ Stanton Rogers rose to his feet. ‘I’ll discuss these names with the President and get back to you. He’s anxious to fill the appointment as quickly as possible.’

As the others got up to leave, Ned Tillingast said, ‘Stay here, Pete. I want to talk to you.’

When Tillingast and Connors were alone, Tillingast said, ‘You came on pretty strong, Pete.’

‘But I’m right,’ Pete Connors said stubbornly. ‘The President is trying to sell out the country. What are we supposed to do?’

‘Keep your mouth shut.’

‘Ned, we’re trained to find the enemy and kill him. What if the enemy is behind our lines – sitting in the Oval Office?’

‘Be careful. Be very careful.’

Tillingast had been around longer than Pete Connors. He had been a member of Wild Bill Donovan’s OSS before it became the CIA. He, too, hated what the bleeding hearts in Congress were doing to the organization he loved. In fact, there was a deep split within the ranks of the CIA between the hard-liners and those who believed the Russian bear could be tamed into a harmless pet. We have to fight for every single dollar, Tillingast thought. In Moscow, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti – the KGB – trains a thousand agents at a time.

Ned Tillingast had recruited Pete Connors out of college, and Connors had turned out to be one of the best. But in the last few years, Connors had become a cowboy – a little too independent, a little too quick on the trigger. Dangerous.

‘Pete – have you heard anything about an underground organization calling itself Patriots for Freedom?’ Tillingast asked.

Connors frowned. ‘No. Can’t say that I have. Who are they?’

‘So far they’re just a rumour. All I have is smoke. See if you can get a lead on them.’

‘Will do.’

An hour later, Pete Connors was making a phone call from a public booth at Hain’s Point.

‘I have a message for Odin.’

‘This is Odin,’ General Oliver Brooks said.

Riding back to the office in his limousine, Stanton Rogers opened the envelope containing the names of the candidates for the ambassadorship and studied them. It was an excellent list. The Secretary of State had done his homework. The candidates had all served in Eastern and Western European countries, and a few of them had additional experience in the Far East or Africa. The President’s going to be pleased, Stanton thought.

‘They’re dinosaurs,’ Paul Ellison snapped. He threw the list down on his desk. ‘Every one of them.’

‘Paul,’ Stanton protested, ‘these people are all experienced career diplomats.’

‘And hide-bound by State Department tradition. You remember how we lost Romania three years ago? Our experienced career diplomat in Bucharest screwed up and we were out in the cold. The pinstriped boys worry me. They’re all out to cover their asses. When I talked about a people-to-people programme, I meant every word of it. We need to make a positive impression on a country that at this moment is very wary of us.’

‘But if you put an amateur in there – someone with no experience – you’re taking a big risk.’

‘Maybe we need someone with a different kind of experience. Romania is going to be a test case, Stan. A pilot run for my whole programme, if you will.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not kidding myself. My credibility is on the line. I know that there are a lot of powerful people who don’t want to see this work. If it fails, I’m going to get cut off at the knees. I’ll have to forget about Bulgaria, Albania, Czechoslovakia, and the rest of the Iron Curtain countries. And I don’t intend for that to happen.’

‘I can check out some of our political appointees who –’

President Ellison shook his head. ‘Same problem. I want someone with a completely fresh point of view. Someone who can thaw the ice. The opposite of the ugly American.’

Stanton Rogers was studying the President, puzzled. ‘Paul – I get the impression that you already have someone in mind. Do you?’

Paul Ellison took a cigar from the humidor on his desk and lit it. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I may have.’

‘Who is he?’

‘She. Did you happen to see the article in the current issue of Foreign Affairs called “Détente Now”?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘I thought it was interesting. The author believes that we’re in a position to try to seduce the communist countries into coming into our camp by offering them economic aid –’ He broke off. ‘It was a lot like your inaugural speech.’

‘Only it was written six months earlier. She’s published brilliant articles in Commentary and Public Affairs. Last year I read a book of hers on Eastern European politics, and I must admit it helped clarify some of my ideas.’

‘All right. So she agrees with your theories. That’s no reason to consider her for a post as impor –’

‘Stan – she went further than my theory. She outlined a detailed plan that’s fascinating. She wants to take the four major world economic pacts and combine them.’

‘How can we –?’

‘It would take time, but it could be done. Look, you know that in 1949, the Eastern bloc countries formed a pact for mutual economic assistance, called COMECON, and in 1958 the other European countries formed the EEC – the Common Market.’

‘Right.’

‘We have the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, which includes the United States, some Western bloc countries and Yugoslavia. And don’t forget that the third world countries have formed a non-aligned movement that excludes us.’ The President’s voice was charged with excitement. ‘Think of the possibilities. If we could combine all these plans and form one big marketplace – my God, it could be awesome! It would mean real world trade. And it could bring peace.’

Stanton Rogers said cautiously, ‘It’s an interesting idea, but it’s a long way off.’

‘You know the old Chinese saying, “A journey of a thousand miles starts with but a single step …”’

‘She’s an amateur, Paul.’

‘Some of our finest ambassadors have been amateurs. Anne Armstrong, the former Ambassador to Great Britain, was an educator with no political experience. Perle Mesta was appointed to Denmark, Clare Boothe Luce was Ambassador to Italy. John Gavin, an actor, was the Ambassador to Mexico. One-third of our current ambassadors are what you call “amateurs”.’

‘But you don’t know anything about this woman.’

‘Except that she’s damned bright, and that we’re on the same wavelength. I want you to find out everything you can about her.’ He picked up a copy of Foreign Affairs and glanced at the table of contents. ‘Her name is Mary Ashley.’

Two days later, President Ellison and Stanton Rogers breakfasted together.

‘I got the information you asked for.’ Stanton Rogers pulled a paper from his pocket. ‘Mary Elizabeth Ashley, Twenty-Seven Old Milford Road, Junction City, Kansas. Age, almost thirty-five, married to Dr Edward Ashley – two children, Beth twelve, and Tim ten. Chairman of the Junction City Chapter of the League of Women Voters. Assistant Professor, East European Political Science, Kansas State University. Grandfather born in Romania.’ He looked up. ‘The more I’ve thought about this, the more sense it makes. She probably knows more about Romania than most ambassadors know about the countries they’re going to serve in.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way, Stan. I’d like to have a full security check run on her.’

‘I’ll see that it’s done.’

Chapter Four

‘I disagree, Professor Ashley.’

Barry Dylan, the brightest and youngest of the students in Mary Ashley’s political science seminar, looked around defiantly. ‘Alexandros Ionescu is worse than Ceausescu ever was.’

‘Can you give us some facts to back up that statement?’ Mary Ashley asked.

There were twelve graduate students in the seminar being held in Kansas State University’s Dykstra Hall. The students were seated in a semicircle facing Mary. The waiting lists to get into her classes were longer than any other professor’s at the University. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humour and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheek-bones of a model and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious, and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.

Barry was wondering if she was happy with her husband. He reluctantly brought his attention back to the problem at hand.

‘Well, when Ionescu took over Romania, he cracked down on all the pro-Groza elements and re-established a hardline, pro-Soviet position. Even Ceausescu wasn’t that bad.’

Another student spoke up. ‘Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?’

‘Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit.’

‘Remember,’ Mary said, ‘Nicolae Ceausescu also had a foot in both camps. What year did that start?’

Barry again. ‘In 1960 when Romania took sides in the dispute between Russia and China to show its independence in international affairs.’

‘What about Romania’s current relationship with the other Warsaw Pact countries, and Russia in particular?’ Mary asked.

‘I’d say it’s stronger now.’

Another voice. ‘I don’t agree. Romania criticized Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan, and they criticized the Russians’ arrangement with the EEC. Also, Professor Ashley –’

The bell sounded. The time was up.

Mary said, ‘Monday we’ll talk about the basic factors that affect the Soviet attitude towards Eastern Europe, and we’ll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison’s plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend.’

Mary watched the students rise and head for the door.

‘You, too, Professor.’

Mary Ashley loved the give and take of the seminars. History and geography came alive in the heated discussions among the bright young graduate students. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fifth year on the faculty of Kansas State University, and teaching still excited her. She taught five political science classes a year in addition to the graduate seminars, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud. I’ve never been to any of the countries I teach about, she thought. I’ve never been outside the United States.

Mary Ashley had been born in Junction City, as had her parents. The only member of her family who had known Europe was her grandfather, who had come from the small Romanian village of Voronet.

Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her Master’s Degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip had turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, 55 miles from Junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.

‘We really must travel next year,’ Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. ‘I’m dying to see Rome and Paris and Romania.’

‘So am I. It’s a date. Next summer.’

But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later, Tim was born. Mary had taken her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta and Denver, Mary had never been out of the State of Kansas.

One day, she promised herself. One day …

Mary gathered her notes together and glanced out of the window. Frost had painted the window a winter grey, and it was beginning to snow again. Mary put on her lined leather coat and a red, woollen scarf and headed towards the Vattier Street entrance, where she parked her car.

The campus was huge, 315 acres, dotted with 87 buildings, including laboratories, theatres and chapels, amid a rustic setting of trees and grass. From a distance, the brown limestone buildings of the University resembled ancient castles, with turrets at the top, ready to repel enemy hordes. As Mary passed Denison Hall, a stranger with a Nikon camera was walking towards her. He aimed the camera at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture. I should have got out of his way, she thought. I’ve spoiled his picture.

One hour later, the negative of the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.

Every town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community (population 20,381), 130 miles west of Kansas City, priding itself on being the geographical centre of the continental United States. It has a newspaper – the Daily Union – a radio station, and a television station. The downtown shopping area consists of a series of scattered stores and gas stations along 6th Street and on Washington. There is a Penney’s, the First National Bank, a Domino Pizza, Flower Jeweller’s, and a Woolworth’s. There are fast food chains, a bus station, a menswear shop, and a liquor store – the type of establishments that are xeroxed in hundreds of small towns across the United States. But the residents of Junction City loved it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, Junction City became the Rest and Recreation Centre for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.

Mary Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon’s Market on her way home and then headed north towards Old Milford Road, a lovely residential area overlooking a lake. Oak and elm trees lined the left side of the road, while on the right side were beautiful houses variously made of stone, brick or wood.

The Ashley house was a two-storey stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. The house had been bought by Dr Edward Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier. It consisted of a large living room, a dining room, library, breakfast room and kitchen downstairs and a master suite and two additional bedrooms upstairs.

‘It’s awfully large for just two people,’ Mary Ashley had protested.

Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. ‘Who said it’s going to be for only two people?’

When Mary arrived home from the University, Tim and Beth were waiting to greet her.

‘Guess what?’ Tim said. ‘We’re going to have our pictures in the paper!’

‘Help me put away the groceries,’ Mary said. ‘What paper?’

‘The man didn’t say, but he took our pictures and he said we’d hear from him.’

Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. ‘Did this man say why?’

‘No,’ Tim said, ‘but he sure had a nifty Nikon.’

On Sunday, Mary celebrated – although that was not the word that sprang to mind – her thirty-fifth birthday. Edward had arranged for a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbours, Florence and Douglas Schiffer, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had known about the party for the past two weeks. She adored Edward. And why not? Who wouldn’t? He was attractive and intelligent and caring. His grandfather and father had been doctors, and it had never occurred to Edward to be anything else. He was the best surgeon in Junction City, a good father, and a wonderful husband.

As Mary blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she looked across at Edward and thought: How lucky can a lady be?

Monday morning, Mary awoke with a hangover. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before, and she was not used to drinking alcohol. It took an effort to get out of bed. That champagne done me in. Never again, she promised herself.

She eased her way downstairs and gingerly set about preparing breakfast for the children, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.

‘Champagne,’ Mary groaned, ‘is France’s vengeance against us.’

Beth walked into the room carrying an armful of books. ‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’

‘Myself.’

‘That’s weird.’

‘When you’re right, you’re right.’ Mary put a box of cereal on the table. ‘I bought a new cereal for you. You’re going to like it.’

Beth sat down at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. ‘I can’t eat this. You’re trying to kill me.’

‘Don’t put any ideas in my head,’ her mother cautioned. ‘Would you please eat your breakfast?’

Tim, her ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, ‘I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Whatever happened to good morning?’ Mary asked.

‘Good morning. I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Please.’

‘Aw, come on, Mom. I’m going to be late for school.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned that. Mrs Reynolds called me. You’re failing maths. What do you say to that?’

‘It figures.’

‘Tim, is that supposed to be a joke?’

‘I personally don’t think it’s funny,’ Beth sniffed.

He made a face at his sister. ‘If you want funny, look in the mirror.’

‘That’s enough,’ Mary said. ‘Behave yourselves.’

Her headache was getting worse.

Tim asked, ‘Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?’

‘You’re already skating on thin ice. You’re to come right home and study. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who’s failing maths?’

‘It looks okay. You don’t teach maths.’

They talk about the terrible twos, Mary thought grimly. What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens and twelves?

Beth said, ‘Did Tim tell you he got a “D” in spelling?’

He glared at his sister. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Mark Twain?’

‘What does Mark Twain have to do with this?’ Mary asked.

‘Mark Twain said he has no respect for a man who can only spell a word one way.’

We can’t win, Mary thought. They’re smarter than we are.

She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, who was on some kind of crazy new diet.

‘Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today.’

‘If it has no artificial preservatives. I’m not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health.’

Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food? Mary wondered.

Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth’s notebooks. ‘Look at this!’ he yelled. ‘“Dear Beth, let’s sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and –”’

‘Give that back to me!’ Beth screamed. ‘That’s mine.’ She made a grab for Tim, and he jumped out of her reach.

He read the signature at the bottom of the note. ‘Hey! It’s signed Virgil. I thought you were in love with Arnold.’

Beth snatched the note away from him. ‘What would you know about love?’ Mary’s twelve-year-old daughter demanded. ‘You’re a child.’

The pounding in Mary’s head was becoming unbearable.

‘Kids – give me a break.’

She heard the horn of the school bus outside. Tim and Beth started towards the door.

‘Wait! You haven’t eaten your breakfasts,’ Mary said.

She followed them out into the hallway.

‘No time, Mother. Got to go.’

‘’Bye, Mom.’

‘It’s freezing outside. Put on your coats and scarves.’

‘I can’t. I lost my scarf,’ Tim said.

And they were gone. Mary felt drained. Motherhood is living in the eye of a hurricane.

She looked up as Edward came down the stairs, and she felt a glow. Even after all these years, Mary thought, he’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever known. It was his gentleness that had first caught Mary’s interest. His eyes were a soft grey, reflecting a warm intelligence, but they could turn into twin blazes when he became impassioned about something.

‘Morning, darling.’ He gave her a kiss. They walked into the kitchen.

‘Sweetheart – would you do me a favour?’

‘Sure, beautiful. Anything.’

‘I want to sell the children.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Both of them.’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Who’d buy them?’

‘Strangers. They’ve reached the age where I can’t do anything right. Beth has become a health food freak, and your son is turning into a world-class dunce.’

Edward said thoughtfully, ‘Maybe they’re not our kids.’

‘I hope not. I’m making oatmeal for you.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, darling. No time. I’m due in surgery in half an hour. Hank Cates got tangled up in some machinery. He may lose a few fingers.’

‘Isn’t he too old to still be farming?’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’

Mary knew that Hank Cates had not paid her husband’s bills in three years. Like most of the farmers in the community, Hank Cates was suffering from the low farm prices and the Farm Credit Administration’s indifferent attitude towards the farmers. A lot of them were losing farms they had worked on all of their lives. Edward never pressed any of his patients for money, and many of them paid him with crops. The Ashleys had a cellar full of corn, potatoes and wheat. One farmer had offered to give Edward a cow in payment, but when Edward told Mary about it, she said, ‘For heaven’s sake, tell him the treatment is on the house.’

Mary looked at her husband now and thought again: How lucky I am.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I may decide to keep the kids. I like their father a lot.’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m rather fond of their mother.’ He took her in his arms and held her close. ‘Happy Birthday, plus one.’

‘Do you still love me now that I’m an older woman?’

‘I like older women.’

‘Thanks.’ Mary suddenly remembered something. ‘I’ve got to get home early today and prepare dinner. It’s our turn to have the Schiffers over.’

Bridge with their neighbours was a Monday night ritual. The fact that Douglas Schiffer was a doctor and worked with Edward at the hospital made them even closer.

Mary and Edward left the house together, bowing their heads against the relentless wind. Edward strapped himself into his Ford Granada, and watched Mary as she got behind the wheel of the station wagon.

‘The highway is probably icy,’ Edward called. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘You, too, darling.’

She blew him a kiss, and the two cars drove away from the house, Edward heading towards the hospital, and Mary driving towards the town of Manhattan, where the University was located, 16 miles away.

Two men in an automobile parked half a block from the Ashley house watched the cars leave. They waited until the vehicles were out of sight.

‘Let’s go.’

They drove up to the house next door to the Ashleys. Rex Olds, the driver, sat in the car while his companion walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an attractive brunette in her middle thirties.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Douglas Schiffer?’

‘Yes …?’

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an identification card. ‘My name is Donald Zamlock. I’m with the Security Agency of the State Department.’

‘Good God! Don’t tell me Doug has robbed a bank!’

The agent smiled politely. ‘No, ma’am. Not that we know of. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbour, Mrs Ashley.’

She looked at him with sudden concern. ‘Mary? What about her?’

‘May I come in?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Florence Schiffer led him into the living room. ‘Sit down. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

‘Why would you be asking about Mary?’

He smiled reassuringly. ‘This is just a routine check. She’s not suspected of any wrong-doing.’

‘I should hope not,’ Florence Schiffer said indignantly. ‘Mary Ashley is one of the nicest persons you’ll ever meet.’ She added, ‘Have you met her?’

‘No, ma’am. This visit is confidential, and I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. How long have you known Mrs Ashley?’

‘About thirteen years. Since the day she moved in next door.’

‘Would you say that you know Mrs Ashley well?’

‘Of course I would. Mary’s my closest friend. What –?’

‘Do she and her husband get along well?’

‘Next to Douglas and me, they’re the happiest couple I’ve ever known.’ She thought a moment. ‘I take that back. They are the happiest couple I’ve ever known.’

‘I understand Mrs Ashley has two children. A girl twelve and a boy ten?’

‘That’s right. Beth and Tim.’

‘Would you say she’s a good mother?’

‘She’s a great mother. What’s –?’

‘Mrs Schiffer, in your opinion, is Mrs Ashley an emotionally stable person?’

‘Of course she is.’

‘She has no emotional problems that you are aware of?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Does she drink?’

‘No. She doesn’t like alcohol.’

‘What about drugs?’

‘You’ve come to the wrong town, Mister. We don’t have a drug problem in Junction City.’

‘Mrs Ashley is married to a doctor?’

‘Yes.’

‘If she wanted to get drugs –’

‘You’re way off base. She doesn’t do drugs. She doesn’t snort, and she doesn’t shoot up.’

He studied her a moment. ‘You seem to know all the terminology.’

‘I watch Miami Vice, like everybody else.’ Florence Schiffer was getting angry. ‘Do you have any more questions?’

‘Mary Ashley’s grandfather was born in Romania. Have you ever heard her discuss Romania?’

‘Oh, once in a while she’ll tell stories her grandfather told her about the old country. Her grandfather was born in Romania but he came over here when he was in his teens.’

‘Have you ever heard Mrs Ashley express a negative opinion about the present Romanian government?’

‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘One last question. Have you ever heard Mrs Ashley or Dr Ashley say anything against the United States government?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Then in your estimation, they’re both loyal Americans?’

‘You bet they are. Would you mind telling me –?’

The man rose. ‘I want to thank you for your time, Mrs Schiffer. And I’d like to impress upon you again that this matter is highly confidential. I would appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with anyone – not even your husband.’

A moment later he was out of the door. Florence Schiffer stood there staring after him. ‘I don’t believe this whole conversation took place,’ she said aloud.

The two agents drove down Washington Street, heading north. They passed a billboard that read: ‘Enjoy yourself in the land of Ah’s.’

‘Cute,’ Rex Olds grunted.

They went by the Chamber of Commerce and the Royal Order of the Elks building, Irma’s Pet Grooming and a bar called ‘The Fat Chance’. The commercial buildings came to an abrupt end.

Donald Zamlock said, ‘Jesus, the main street is only two blocks long. This isn’t a town. It’s a pit stop.’

Rex Olds said, ‘To you it’s a pit stop, and to me it’s a pit stop, but to these people it’s a town.’

Zamlock shook his head. ‘It’s probably a nice place to live, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to visit here.’

The sedan pulled up in front of the State Bank and Rex Olds went inside.

He returned twenty minutes later. ‘Clean,’ he said, getting into the car. ‘The Ashleys have seven thousand dollars in the bank, a mortgage on their house, and they pay their bills on time. The president of the bank thinks the doctor is too soft-hearted to be a good businessman, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s a top credit risk.’

Zamlock looked at a clipboard at his side. ‘Let’s check out a few more names and get back to civilization before I begin to moo.’

Douglas Schiffer was normally a pleasant, easy-going man, but at the moment there was a grim expression on his face. The Schiffers and the Ashleys were in the middle of their weekly bridge game, and the Schiffers were 10,000 points behind. For the fourth time that evening, Florence Schiffer had reneged.

Douglas Schiffer slammed down his cards. ‘Florence!’ he exploded, ‘which side are you playing on? Do you know how much we’re down?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said nervously. ‘I – I just can’t seem to concentrate.’

‘Obviously,’ her husband snorted.

‘Is anything bothering you?’ Edward Ashley asked Florence.

‘I can’t tell you.’

They all looked at her in surprise. ‘What does that mean?’ her husband asked.

Florence Schiffer took a deep breath. ‘Mary – it’s about you.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?’

Mary stared at her. ‘Trouble? No. I – what makes you think that?’

‘I’m not supposed to tell. I promised.’

‘You promised who?’ Edward asked.

‘A federal agent from Washington. He was at the house this morning asking me all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy.’

‘What kind of questions?’ Edward demanded.

‘Oh, you know. Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and mother? Was she on drugs?’

‘Why the devil would they be asking you questions like that?’

‘Wait a minute,’ Mary said excitedly. ‘I think I know. It’s about my tenure.’

‘What?’ Florence asked.

‘I’m up for tenure at the University. The University does some sensitive government research on campus, so I suppose they have to check everyone pretty thoroughly.’

‘Well, thank God that’s all it is.’ Florence Schiffer breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I thought they were going to lock you up.’

‘I hope they do,’ Mary smiled. ‘At Kansas State.’

‘Well, now that that’s out of the way,’ Douglas Schiffer said, ‘can we get on with the game?’ He turned to his wife. ‘If you renege one more time, I’m going to put you over my knee.’

‘Promises, promises.’

Chapter Five

Abbeywood, England

‘We are meeting under the usual rules,’ the chairman announced. ‘No records will be kept, this meeting will never be discussed, and we will refer to one another by the code names we have been assigned.’

There were eight men inside the library of the fifteenth-century Claymore Castle. Two armed men in plainclothes, bundled up in heavy overcoats, kept vigil outside, while a third man guarded the door to the library. The eight men inside the room had arrived at the site separately, a short time earlier.

The chairman continued. ‘The Controller has received some disturbing information. Marin Groza is preparing a coup against Alexandros Ionescu. A group of senior army officers in Romania has decided to back Groza. This time he could very well be successful.’

Odin spoke up. ‘How would that affect our plan?’

‘It could destroy it. It would open too many bridges to the West.’

Freyr said, ‘Then we must prevent it from happening.’

Balder asked, ‘How?’

‘We assassinate Groza,’ the chairman replied.

‘That’s impossible. Ionescu’s men have made half a dozen attempts that we know of, and they’ve all failed. His villa seems to be impregnable. Anyway, no one in this room can afford to be involved in an assassination attempt.’

‘We wouldn’t be directly involved,’ the chairman said.

‘Then how?’

‘The Controller discovered a confidential dossier that concerns an international terrorist who’s for hire.’

‘Abul Abbas, the man who organized the hijacking of the Achille Lauro?’

‘No. There’s a new gun in town, gentlemen. A better one. He’s called Angel.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Sigmund said.

‘Exactly. His credentials are most impressive. According to the Controller’s file, Angel was involved in the Sikh Khalistan assassination in India. He helped the Macheteros terrorists in Puerto Rico, and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. He’s master-minded the assassination of half a dozen army officers in Israel and the Israelis have offered a million-dollar reward for him, dead or alive.’

‘He sounds promising,’ Thor said. ‘Can we get him?’

‘He’s expensive. If he agrees to take the contract, it will cost us two million dollars.’

Freyr whistled, then shrugged. ‘That can be handled. We’ll take it from the general fund we’ve set up.’

‘How do we get to this Angel person?’ Sigmund asked.

‘All his contacts are handled through his mistress, a woman named Neusa Muñez.’

‘Where do we find her?’

‘She lives in Argentina. Angel has set her up in an apartment in Buenos Aires.’

Thor said, ‘What would the next step be? Who would get in touch with her for us?’

The chairman replied, ‘The Controller has suggested a man named Harry Lantz.’

‘That name sounds familiar.’

The chairman said drily, ‘Yes. He’s been in the newspapers. Harry Lantz is a maverick. He was thrown out of the CIA for setting up his own drug business in Viet Nam. While he was with the CIA, he did a tour in South America, so he knows the territory. He’d be a perfect go-between.’ He paused. ‘I suggest we take a vote. All those in favour of hiring Angel please raise your hands.’

Eight well-manicured hands went into the air.

‘Then it’s settled.’ The chairman rose. ‘The meeting is adjourned. Please observe the usual precautions.’

It was a Monday, and Constable Leslie Hanson was having a picnic in the greenhouse on the castle’s grounds, where he had no right to be. He was not alone, he later had to explain to his superiors. It was warm in the greenhouse, and his companion, Annie, a buxom country lass, had prevailed upon the good constable to bring a picnic hamper.

‘You supply the food,’ Annie giggled, ‘and I’ll supply the dessert.’

The ‘dessert’ was five feet six inches, with beautiful, shapely breasts and hips that a man could sink his teeth into.

Unfortunately, in the middle of dessert Constable Hanson’s concentration was distracted by a limousine driving out of the castle gate.

‘This bloody place is supposed to be closed on Mondays,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t lose your place,’ Annie coaxed.

‘Not likely, pet.’

Twenty minutes later, the constable heard a second car leaving. This time he was curious enough to get up and peer out of the window. It looked like an official limousine, with darkened windows that concealed the passengers.

‘Are you comin’, then, Leslie?’

‘Right. I just can’t figure out who could be in the castle. Except for tour days, it’s closed down.’

‘Exactly what’s going to happen to me, love, if you don’t hop it.’

Twenty minutes later when Constable Hanson heard the third car leave, his libido lost out to his instincts as a policeman. There were five more vehicles, all limousines, all spaced twenty minutes apart. Because one of the cars stopped long enough to let a deer run by, Constable Hanson was able to note the licence-plate number.

‘It’s supposed to be your bloody day off,’ Annie complained.

‘This could be important,’ the constable said. And even as he said it, he wondered whether he was going to report it.

‘What were you doing at Claymore Castle?’ Sergeant Twill demanded.

‘Sight-seeing, sir.’

‘The castle was closed.’

‘Yes, sir. The greenhouse was open.’

‘So you decided to sight-see in the greenhouse?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Alone, of course?’

‘Well, to tell the truth –’

‘Spare me the grotty details, Constable. What made you suspicious of the cars?’

‘Their behaviour, sir.’

‘Cars don’t behave, Hanson. Drivers do.’

‘Of course, sir. The drivers seemed very cautious. The cars left at intervals of twenty minutes.’

‘You are aware, of course, that there are probably a thousand innocent explanations. In fact, Hanson, the only one who doesn’t seem to have an innocent explanation is yourself.’

‘Yes, sir. But I thought I should report this.’

‘Right. Is this the licence number you got?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Be off with you.’ He thought of one witticism to add. ‘Remember – it’s dangerous to throw stones at people if you’re in a glass house.’ He chuckled at his bon mot all morning.

When the report on the licence plate came back, Sergeant Twill decided that Hanson had made a mistake. He took his information upstairs to Inspector Pakula and explained the background.

‘I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, Inspector, but the licence-plate number –’

‘Yes. I see. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

At SIS headquarters, Inspector Pakula had a brief meeting with one of the senior heads of the British Secret Intelligence Service, a beefy, florid-faced man, Sir Alex Hyde-White.

‘You were quite right to bring this to my attention,’ Sir Alex smiled, ‘but I’m afraid it’s nothing more sinister than trying to arrange a Royal vacation trip without the press being aware of it.’

‘I’m sorry to have bothered you about this, sir.’ Inspector Pakula rose to his feet.

‘Not at all, Inspector. Shows your branch is on its toes. What did you say the name of that young constable was?’

‘Hanson, sir. Leslie Hanson.’

When the door closed behind Inspector Pakula, Sir Alex Hyde-White picked up a red telephone on his desk. ‘I have a message for Balder. We have a small problem. I’ll explain it at the next meeting. Meanwhile, I want you to arrange for three transfers. Police Sergeant Twill, an Inspector Pakula, and Constable Leslie Hanson. Spread them out a few days. I want them sent to separate posts, as far from London as possible. I’ll inform the Controller and see if he wants to take any further action.’

In his hotel room in New York, Harry Lantz was awakened in the middle of the night by the ringing of the telephone.

Who the hell knows I’m here? he wondered. He looked blearily at the bedside clock, then snatched up the phone. ‘It’s four o’fucking clock in the morning! Who the –?’

A soft voice at the other end of the line began speaking, and Lantz sat upright in bed, his heart beginning to pound. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Yes, sir … No, sir, but I can arrange to make myself free.’ He listened for a long time. Finally he said, ‘Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll be on the first plane to Buenos Aires. Thank you, sir.’

He replaced the receiver, reached over to the bedside table and lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. The man he had just spoken to was one of the most powerful men in the world, and what he had asked Harry to do …What the hell is going down? Harry Lantz asked himself. Something big. The man was going to pay him $50,000 to deliver a message. It would be fun going back to Argentina. Harry Lantz loved the South American women. I know a dozen bitches there with hot pants who would rather fuck than eat.

The day was starting out great.

At 9 a.m. Lantz picked up the telephone and dialled the number of Aerolineas Argentinas. ‘What time is your first flight to Buenos Aires?’

The 747 arrived at the Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at 5 p.m. the following afternoon. It had been a long flight, but Harry Lantz had not minded it. Fifty thousand dollars for delivering a message. He felt a surge of excitement as the wheels lightly kissed the ground. He had not been to Argentina for almost five years. It would be fun to renew old acquaintances.

As Harry Lantz stepped out of the plane, the blast of hot air startled him for a moment. Of course. It’s summer here.

During the taxi ride into the city, Lantz was amused to see that the graffiti scrawled on the sides of buildings and sidewalks had not changed. Plebiscito las pelotas (Fuck the Plebiscite). Militares, Asesinos (Army, Assassins). Tenemos hambre (We are hungry). Marihuana na libre (Free pot). Droga, sexo y muncho rock (Drugs, sex and rock ’n’ roll). Juicio y castigo a los culpables (Trial and punishment for the guilty).

Yes, it was good to be back.

Siesta was over and the streets were crowded with people lazily walking to and from appointments. When the taxi arrived at the Hotel El Conquistador in the heart of the fashionable Barrio Norte sector, Lantz paid the driver with a million peso note.

‘Keep the change,’ he said. Their money was a joke.

He registered at the desk in the huge, modern lobby, picked up a copy of the Buenos Aires Herald and La Prensa, and let the assistant manager show him to his suite. Sixty dollars a day for a bedroom, bathroom, living room and kitchen, air-conditioned, with television. In Washington, this set-up would cost an arm and a leg, Harry Lantz thought. I’ll take care of my business with this Neusa broad tomorrow, and stay around a few days and enjoy myself

It was more than two weeks before Harry Lantz was able to track down Neusa Muñez.

His search began with the city telephone directories. Lantz started with the places in the heart of the city: Plaza Constitución, Plaza San Martin, Barrio Norte, Catalinas Norte. None of them had a listing for a Neusa Muñez. Nor was there any listing in the outlying areas of Bahia Blanca or Mar del Plaza.

Where the hell is she? Lantz wondered. He took to the streets, looking up old contacts.

He walked into La Biela, and the bartender cried out, ‘Señor Lantz! Por dios – I heard you were dead.’

Lantz grinned. ‘I was, but I missed you so much, Antonio, I came back.’

‘What are you doing in Buenos Aires?’

Lantz let his voice grow pensive. ‘I came here to find an old girl friend. We were supposed to get married, but her family moved away and I lost track of her. Her name is Neusa Muñez.’

The bartender scratched his head. ‘Never heard of her. Lo siento.’

‘Would you ask around, Antonio?’

‘Por qué no?’

Lantz’s next stop was to see a friend at police headquarters.

‘Lantz! Harry Lantz! Dios! Qué pasa?’

‘Hello, Jorge. Nice to see you, amigo.’

‘Last I heard about you, the CIA kicked you out.’

Harry Lantz laughed. ‘No way, my friend. They begged me to stay. I quit to go into business for myself.’

‘Si? What business are you in?’

‘I opened up my own detective agency. As a matter of fact, that’s what brings me to Buenos Aires. A client of mine died a few weeks ago. He left his daughter a bundle of money, and I’m trying to locate her. All the information I have on her is that she lives in an apartment somewhere in Buenos Aires.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Neusa Muñez.’

‘Wait here a moment.’

The moment stretched into half an hour.

‘Sorry, amigo. I can’t help you. She is not in our computer or in any of our files.’

‘Oh, well. If you should come across any information about her, I’m at the El Conquistador.’

‘Bueno.’

The bars were next. Old familiar haunts. The Pepe Gonzalez and Almeida, Café Tabac.

‘Buenas tardes, amigo. Soy de los Estados Unidos. Estoy buscando una mujer. El nombre es Neusa Muñez. Es una emergencia.’

‘Lo siento, señor. No la conozco.’

The answer was the same everywhere. No one has ever heard of the fucking broad.

Harry Lantz wandered around La Boca, the colourful waterfront area where one could see old ships rusting at anchor in the river. No one around there knew of Neusa Muñez. For the first time, Harry Lantz began to feel he might be on a wild goose chase.

It was at the Pilar, a small bar in the barrios of Flores, that his luck suddenly changed. It was a Friday night, and the bar was filled with working men. It took Lantz ten minutes to get the bartender’s attention. Before Lantz was half way through his prepared speech, the bartender said, ‘Neusa Muñez? Si. I know her. If she wishes to talk to you, she will come here mañana, about midnight.’

The following evening, Harry Lantz returned to the Pilar at eleven o’clock, watching the bar gradually fill up. As midnight approached, he found himself getting more and more nervous. What if she did not show up? What if it was the wrong Neusa Muñez?

Lantz watched as a group of giggling young women came into the bar. They joined some men at a table. She’s got to show up, Lantz thought. If she doesn’t, I can kiss the fifty grand goodbye.

He wondered what she looked like. She had to be a stunner. He was authorized to offer her boyfriend, Angel, a cool two million dollars to assassinate someone, so Angel was probably up to his ass in millions. He would be well able to afford a beautiful young mistress. Hell, he could probably afford a dozen of them. This Neusa had to be an actress or model. Who knows, maybe I can have a little fun with her before I leave town. Nothing like combining business and pleasure, Harry Lantz thought happily.

The door opened and Lantz looked up expectantly. A woman was walking in alone. She was middle-aged and unattractive, with a fat, bloated body and huge, pendulous breasts that swayed as she walked. Her face was pockmarked, and she had dyed blonde hair, but her dark complexion indicated mestizo blood inherited from an Indian ancestor who had been bedded by a Spaniard. She was dressed in an ill-fitting skirt and sweater meant for a much younger woman. A hooker down on her luck, Lantz decided. But who the hell would want to fuck her?

The woman looked around the bar with vacant, listless eyes. She nodded vaguely to several people and then pushed her way through the crowd. She walked up to the bar.

‘Wanna buy me a drink?’ She had a heavy Spanish accent, and up close she was even more unattractive.

She looks like a fat, unmilked cow, Lantz thought. And she’s drunk. ‘Get lost, sister.’

‘Esteban say you are lookin’ for me, no?’

He stared at her. ‘Who?’

‘Esteban. The bartender.’

Harry Lantz still could not accept it. ‘He must have made a mistake. I’m looking for Neusa Muñez.’

‘Si. Yo soy Neusa Muñez.’

But the wrong one, Harry Lantz thought. Shit! ‘Are you Angel’s friend?’

She smiled drunkenly. ‘Si.’

Harry Lantz recovered swiftly. ‘Well, well.’ He forced a smile. ‘Can we go to a corner table and talk?’

She nodded indifferently. ‘Ess okay.’

They fought their way across the smoky bar, and when they were seated, Harry Lantz said, ‘I’d like to talk about –’

‘You buy me a rum, si?’

Lantz nodded. ‘Sure thing.’

A waiter appeared, wearing a filthy apron, and Lantz said, ‘One rum and a Scotch and soda.’

Muñez said, ‘Make mine a double, huh?’

When the waiter left, Lantz turned to the woman seated beside him. ‘I want to meet with Angel.’

She studied him with her dull, watery eyes. ‘Wha’ for?’

Lantz lowered his voice. ‘I have a little present for him.’

‘Si? What kin’ a presen’?’

‘Two million dollars.’ Their drinks arrived. Harry Lantz raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’

‘Yeah.’ She downed her drink in one gulp. ‘Wha’ for you wanna give Angel two million dollars?’

‘That’s something I’ll have to discuss with him in person.’

‘Tha’s not possible. Angel, he don’ talk to nobody.’

‘Lady, for two million dollars –’

‘Kin I have ’nother rum? A double, huh?’

My God, she already looks like she’s about to pass out. ‘Sure.’ Lantz summoned the waiter and ordered the drink. ‘Have you known Angel a long time?’ He made his tone casual.

She shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

‘He must be an interesting man.’

Her vacant eyes were fixed on a spot on the table in front of her.

Jesus! Harry Lantz thought. It’s like trying to have a conversation with a fucking wall.

Her drink arrived, and she finished it in one long swallow.

She has the body of a cow and the manners of a pig. ‘How soon can I talk to Angel?’

Neusa Muñez struggled to her feet. ‘I tol’ you, he don’ talk to nobody. Adios.’

Harry Lantz was filled with a sudden panic. ‘Hey! Wait a minute! Don’t go.’

She stopped and looked down at him with bleary eyes. ‘Wha’ you wan’?’

‘Sit down,’ Lantz said slowly, ‘and I’ll tell you what I want.’

She sat down heavily. ‘I need a rum, huh?’

Harry Lantz was baffled. What the fuck kind of man is this Angel? His mistress is not only the ugliest broad in all of South America, but she’s a lush.

Lantz did not like dealing with drunks. They were too unreliable. On the other hand, he hated the thought of losing his $50,000 commission. He watched as Muñez gulped her drink. He wondered how many she had had before coming to meet him.

Lantz smiled and said reasonably, ‘Neusa, if I can’t talk to Angel, how can I do business with him?’

‘Ess simple. You tell me what you wan’. I tell Angel. If he say si, I tell you si. If he say no, I tell you no.’

Harry Lantz distrusted using her as a go-between, but he had no choice. ‘You’ve heard of Marin Groza.’

‘No.’

Of course she hadn’t. Because it wasn’t the name of a rum. This stupid bitch was going to get the message all wrong and screw up the deal for him.

‘I need a drink, huh?’

He patted her fat hand. ‘Certainly.’ He ordered another double rum. ‘Angel will know who Groza is. You just say Marin Groza. He’ll know.’

‘Yeah? Then wha’?’

She was even stupider than she looked. What the fuck did she think Angel was supposed to do for two million dollars? Kiss the guy? Harry Lantz said carefully, ‘The people who sent me want him blown away.’

She blinked. ‘Wha’s “blown away”?’

Christ! ‘Killed.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded indifferently. ‘I’ll ass’ Angel.’ Her voice was beginning to slur even more. ‘Wha’ you say the man’s name is?’

He wanted to shake her. ‘Groza. Marin Groza.’

‘Yeah. My baby’s outta town. I’ll call him tonight ’n meet you here tomorrow. Kin I have ’nother rum?’

Neusa Muñez was turning out to be a nightmare.

The following evening, Harry Lantz sat at the same table in the bar from midnight until four in the morning, when the bar closed. Muñez did not appear.

‘Do you know where she lives?’ Lantz asked the bartender.

The bartender looked at him with innocent eyes. ‘Quien sabe?’

The bitch had fouled everything up. How could a man who was supposed to be as smart as Angel get hooked up with such a rum dummy? Harry Lantz prided himself on being a pro. He was too smart to walk into a deal like this without first checking it out. He had cautiously asked around, and the information that impressed him most was that the Israelis had put a price of a million dollars on Angel’s head. A million bucks would buy a lifetime’s worth of booze and young hookers. Well, he could forget about that and he could forget about his $50,000. His only link to Angel had been broken. He would have to call The Man and tell him he had failed.

I won’t call him yet, Harry Lantz decided. Maybe she’ll come back here. Maybe the other bars will run out of rum. Maybe I should have had my ass kicked for saying yes to this fucking assignment.

Chapter Six

The following night at eleven o’clock, Harry Lantz was seated at the same table in the Pilar, intermittently chewing peanuts and his fingernails. At 2 a.m. he saw Neusa Muñez stumble in the door, and Harry’s heart soared. He watched as she made her way over to his table.

‘Hi,’ she mumbled, and slumped into a chair.

‘What happened to you?’ Harry demanded. It was all he could do to control his anger.

She blinked. ‘Huh?’

‘You were supposed to meet me here last night.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We had a date, Neusa.’

‘Oh. I went to a movie with a girl frien’. There’s this new movie, see? Ess ’bout this man who falls in love with this fuckin’ nun an’ –’

Lantz was so frustrated he could have wept. What could Angel possibly see in this dumb, drunken bitch? She must have a golden pussy, Lantz decided. ‘Neusa – did you remember to talk to Angel?’

She looked at him vacantly, trying to understand the question. ‘Angel? Si. Kin I have a drink, huh?’

He ordered a double rum for her and a double Scotch for himself. He needed it desperately. ‘What did Angel say, Ñeusa?’

‘Angel? Oh, he say yeah. Ess okay.’

Harry Lantz felt a surge of relief. ‘That’s wonderful!’ He no longer gave a damn about his messenger boy mission. He had thought of a better idea. This drunken bitch was going to lead him to Angel. One million dollars reward money.

He watched her slop down her drink, spilling some of it down her already soiled blouse. ‘What else did Angel say?’

Her brow knit in concentration. ‘Angel, he say he wanna know who your people are.’

Lantz gave her a winning smile. ‘You tell him that’s confidential, Neusa. I can’t give him that information.’

She nodded, indifferent. ‘Then Angel say to tell you to fuck off. Kin I have a rum ’fore I go?’

Harry Lantz’s mind started working at top speed. If she left, he was sure he would never see her again. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Neusa. I’ll telephone the people I’m working for, and if they give me permission, I’ll give you a name. Okay?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’ care.’

‘No,’ Lantz explained patiently, ‘but Angel does. So you tell him I’ll have an answer for him by tomorrow. Is there some place I can reach you?’

‘I guess so.’

He was making progress. ‘Where?’

‘Here.’

Her drink arrived, and he watched her gulp it down like an animal.

Lantz wanted to kill her.

Lantz made the telephone call collect, so it could not be traced, from a public telephone booth on Calvo Street. It had taken him one hour to get through.

‘No,’ the Controller said. ‘I told you that no names are to be mentioned.’

‘Yes, sir. But there’s a problem. Neusa Muñez, Angel’s mistress, says he’s willing to make a deal, but he won’t move without knowing who he’s dealing with. Naturally, I told her I had to check it out with you first.’

‘What is this woman like?’

The Controller was not a man to play games with. ‘She’s fat and ugly and stupid, sir.’

‘It’s much too dangerous for my name to be used.’

Harry Lantz could feel the deal slipping away from him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘I understand. The only thing is, sir, Angel’s reputation is based on his being able to keep his mouth shut. If he ever started talking, he wouldn’t last five minutes in his business.’

There was a long silence. ‘You have a point.’ There was another silence, even longer. ‘Very well. You may give Angel my name. But he is never to divulge it, and never to contact me directly. He’ll work only through you.’

Harry Lantz could have danced. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him. Thank you, sir.’ He hung up, a big grin on his face. He was going to collect the $50,000.

And then the million-dollar reward.

When Harry Lantz met Neusa Muñez late that evening, he immediately ordered a double rum for her and said, happily, ‘Everything’s set. I got permission.’

She looked at him indifferently. ‘Yeah?’

He told her the name of his employer. It was a household word, and he expected her to be impressed.

She shrugged. ‘Never heard’a him.’

‘Neusa, the people I work for want this done as quickly as possible. Marin Groza is hiding out in a villa in Neuilly, and –’

‘Where?’

God Almighty! He was trying to communicate with a drunken moron. He said patiently, ‘It’s a little town outside of Paris. Angel will know.’

‘I need ’nother drink.’

An hour later, Neusa was still drinking. And this time Harry Lantz was encouraging her. Not that she needs much encouragement, Lantz thought. When she’s drunk enough, she’s going to lead me to her boyfriend. The rest will be easy.

He looked over at Neusa Muñez staring filmy-eyed into her drink.

It shouldn’t be hard to catch Angel. He may be tough, but he can’t be very bright. ‘When is Angel coming back to town?’

She focused her watery eyes on him. ‘Nex’ week.’

Harry Lantz took her hand and stroked it. ‘Why don’t you and I go back to your place?’ he asked softly.

‘Okay.’

He was in.

Neusa Muñez lived in a shabby, two-room apartment in the Belgrano district of Buenos Aires. The apartment was messy and unkempt, like its tenant. When they walked through the door, Neusa made straight for the little bar in the corner. She was unsteady on her feet.

‘How ’bout a drink?’

‘Not for me,’ Lantz said. ‘You go ahead.’ He watched as she poured out a drink and downed it. She’s the most ugly, repulsive bitch I’ve ever met, he thought, but the million dollars is going to be beautiful.

He looked around the apartment. There were some books piled on a coffee table. He picked them up, one by one, hoping to get an insight into Angel’s mind. The titles surprised him: Gabriela, by Jorge Amado; Fire From The Mountain, by Omar Cabezas; One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Garcia Marquez; At Night The Cats, by Antonio Cisneros. So Angel was an intellectual. The books did not fit with the apartment or the woman.

Lantz walked over to her and put his arms around her huge, flabby waist. ‘You’re damned cute, do you know that?’ He reached up and stroked her breasts. They were the size of watermelons. Lantz hated big-breasted women. ‘You’ve got a really great body.’

‘Huh?’ Her eyes were glazed.

Lantz’s arms moved down and stroked her fat thighs through the thin cotton dress she wore. ‘How does that feel?’ he whispered.

‘Wha’?’

He was getting nowhere. He had to think of an approach that would get this amazon into bed. But he knew he had to make his move carefully. If he offended her, she might go back and report him to Angel, and that would be the end of the deal. He could try to sweet talk her, but she was too drunk to know what he was saying.

As Lantz was desperately trying to think of a clever gambit, Neusa mumbled, ‘Wanna fuck?’

He grinned in relief. ‘That’s a great idea, baby.’

‘Come on ’n the bedroom.’

She was stumbling as Lantz followed her into the small bedroom. It contained one closet with the door ajar, a large unmade bed, two chairs and a bureau with a cracked mirror above it. It was the closet that caught Harry Lantz’s attention. In it he glimpsed a row of men’s suits hanging on a rack.

Neusa was at the side of the bed, fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. Under ordinary circumstances, Harry Lantz would have been at her side, undressing her, caressing her body and murmuring exciting indecencies into her ear. But the sight of Muñez sickened him. He stood there watching as her skirt dropped to the floor. She was wearing nothing under it. Naked, she was uglier than when dressed. Her huge breasts sagged, and her protruding stomach shook like jelly as she moved. Her fat thighs were a mass of cellulite. She’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen, Lantz thought. Think positively, Lantz told himself. This will be over in a few minutes. The million bucks will last forever.

Slowly, he forced himself to get undressed. She was propped up in bed, like a leviathan, waiting for him, and he crawled in beside her.

‘What do you like?’ he asked.

‘Huh? Choc’late. I like choc’late.’

She was drunker than he had thought. That’s good. It will make things easier. He began to caress her flabby, fish-white body. ‘You’re a very pretty woman, hon. You know that?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I like you a lot, Neusa.’ His hands moved down towards the hairy mound between her fat legs, and he began to make small, titillating circles. ‘I’ll bet you live an exciting life.’

‘Huh?’

‘I mean – being Angel’s girl friend. That must be really interesting. Tell me, baby, what’s Angel like?’

There was a silence, and he wondered if Neusa had fallen asleep. He inserted his fingers in the soft, damp cleft between her legs, and felt her stir.

‘Don’t go to sleep, sweetheart. Not yet. What kind of man is Angel? Is he handsome?’

‘Rich. Angel, he’s rich.’

Lantz’s hand continued its work. ‘Is he good to you?’

‘Yeah. Angel’s good t’ me.’

‘I’m going to be good to you, too, baby.’ His voice was soft. His problem was that everything was soft. What he needed was a million-dollar erection. He started thinking about the Dolly sisters and some of the things they had done to him. He visualized them working on his naked body with their tongues and fingers and nipples, and his penis began to grow hard. He quickly rolled over on top of Neusa and inserted himself into her. God, it’s like sticking it in a fucking pudding, Harry Lantz thought. ‘Does that feel good?’

‘Ess okay, I guess.’

He could have strangled her. There were dozens of beautiful women around the world who were thrilled by his lovemaking, and this fat bitch was saying Ess okay, I guess.

He began moving his hips back and forth. ‘Tell me about Angel. Who are his friends?’

Her voice was drowsy. ‘Angel got no fren’s. I’m his fren’.’

‘Of course you are, babe. Does Angel live here with you, or does he have his own place?’

Neusa closed her eyes. ‘Hey, I’m sleepy. When you gonna come?’

Never, he thought. Not with this cow. ‘I already came,’ Lantz lied.

‘Then le’s go to sleep.’

He rolled off her and lay at her side, fuming. Why couldn’t Angel have had a normal mistress? Someone young and beautiful and hot-blooded. Then he would have had no trouble getting the information he needed. But this stupid bitch –! Still … there were other ways.

Lantz lay there quietly for a long time, until he was certain Neusa was asleep. Then he carefully arose from the bed and padded over to the closet. He switched the closet light on and closed the door so the light would not awaken the snoring behemoth.

There were a dozen suits and sports outfits hanging on the rack, and six pairs of men’s shoes on the floor. Lantz opened the jackets and examined the labels. The suits were all custom-made by Herrera, Avenue La Plata. The shoes were made by Vill. I’ve hit the jackpot! Lantz gloated. They’ll have a record of Angel’s address. I’ll go to the shop first thing in the morning and ask a few questions. A warning sounded in his mind. No. No questions. He had to be more clever than that. He was, after all, dealing with a world-class assassin. It would be safer to let Neusa lead him to Angel. Then all I have to do is tip off my friends in the Mossad and collect the reward. I’ll show Ned Tillingast and the rest of the fucking CIA bunch that old Harry Lantz hasn’t lost his touch. All the bright boys have been chasing their asses trying to find Angel, and I’m the only one smart enough to pull it off.

He thought he heard a sound from the bed. He carefully peeked out of the closet door, but Neusa was still asleep.

Lantz turned out the closet light and walked over to the bed. Muñez’s eyes were closed. Lantz tiptoed to the bureau and began looking through the drawers, hoping to find a photograph of Angel. That would be a help. No luck. He crept back into bed. Neusa was snoring loudly.

When Harry Lantz finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams were filled with visions of a white yacht crowded with beautiful, naked girls with small, firm breasts.

In the morning when Harry Lantz awakened, Neusa was gone. For an instant, Lantz panicked. Had she already left to meet Angel? He heard noises in the kitchen. He hurried out of bed and slipped into his clothes. Neusa was at the stove.

‘Beunos dias,’ Lantz said.

‘Wan’ coffee?’ Neusa mumbled. ‘I can’t fix no breakfast. I got ’n appointment.’

With Angel. Harry Lantz tried to hide his excitement. ‘That’s fine. I’m not hungry. Why don’t you go and keep your appointment and we’ll meet for dinner tonight.’ He put his arms around her, fondling her pendulous breasts. ‘Where would you like to have dinner? Nothing but the best for my girl.’ I should have been an actor, Lantz thought.

‘I don’ care.’

‘Do you know Chiquin on Cangallo Street?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll like it. Why don’t I pick you up here at eight o’clock? I have a lot of business to attend to today.’ He had no business to attend to.

‘Okay.’

It took all his willpower to lean over and kiss Neusa goodbye. Her lips were flabby and wet and disgusting. ‘Eight o’clock.’

Lantz walked out of the apartment and hailed a taxi. He hoped Neusa was watching from the window.

‘Turn right at the next corner,’ he instructed the driver.

When they had turned the corner, Harry Lantz said, ‘I’ll get out here.’

The driver looked at him in surprise. ‘You wish to ride only one block, señor?’

‘Right. I have a bad leg. War wound.’

Harry Lantz paid him, then hurried back to a tobacconist’s shop across from Neusa’s apartment building. He lit a cigarette and waited.

Twenty minutes later, Neusa came out of the apartment building. Harry watched as she waddled down the street, and he followed her at a careful distance. There was no chance of his losing her. It was like following the Lusitania.

Neusa Muñez seemed to be in no hurry. She moved down Florida Street, past the Spanish Library, and plodded along the Avenida Cordoba. Lantz watched as she walked into Berenes, a leather shop on San Martin. He stood across the street and observed her chatting with a male clerk. Lantz wondered whether the shop could be a connection with Angel. He made a mental note of it.

Neusa came out a few minutes later carrying a small package. Her next stop was at a heladeria on Corrientes, for an ice cream. She walked down San Martin, moving slowly. She seemed to be strolling aimlessly with no particular destination in mind.

What the hell happened to her appointment? Lantz wondered. Where is Angel? He did not believe Neusa’s statement that Angel was out of town. His instincts told him that Angel was somewhere nearby.

Lantz suddenly realized that Neusa Muñez was not in sight. She had turned a corner ahead and disappeared. He quickened his step. When Lantz rounded the corner, she was nowhere to be seen. There were small shops on both sides of the street, and Lantz moved carefully, his eyes searching everywhere, fearful that Neusa might see him before he saw her.

He finally spied her in a fiambreria, a delicatessen, buying groceries. Were they for her, or was she expecting someone at her apartment for lunch? Someone named Angel.

From a distance, Lantz watched Neusa enter a verduleria and buy fruit and vegetables. He trailed her back to her apartment building. As far as he could tell, there had been no suspicious contacts.

Harry Lantz watched Neusa’s building from across the street for the next four hours, moving around to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Finally he decided that Angel was not going to show up. Maybe I can get some more information out of her tonight, Lantz thought, without fucking her. The idea of having to make love to Neusa again sickened him.

In the Oval Office at the White House, it was evening. It had been a long day for Paul Ellison. The entire world seemed to be composed of committees and councils and urgent cables and conclaves and sessions and he had not had a moment to himself until now. Well, almost to himself. Stanton Rogers was sitting across from him, and the President found himself relaxing for the first time that day.

‘I’m keeping you from your family, Stan.’

‘That’s all right, Paul.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about the Mary Ashley investigation. How is it coming?’

‘It’s almost completed. We’ll have a final check on her by tomorrow or the next day. So far it looks very good. I’m getting excited about the idea. I think it’s going to work.’

‘We’ll make it work. Would you like another drink?’

‘No, thanks. Unless you need me for anything else, I’m taking Barbara to an opening at the Kennedy Center.’

‘You go ahead,’ Paul Ellison said. ‘Alice and I are due to entertain some relatives of hers.’

‘Please give my love to Alice,’ Stanton Rogers said. He rose.

‘And you give mine to Barbara.’ He watched Stanton Rogers leave. The President’s thoughts turned to Mary Ashley.

When Harry Lantz arrived at Neusa’s apartment that evening to take her out to dinner, there was no answer to his knock. He felt a moment of consternation. Had she walked out on him?

He tried the door, and it was unlocked. Was Angel here to meet him? Perhaps he had decided to discuss the contract face to face. Harry assumed a brisk, businesslike manner and walked in.

The room was empty. ‘Hello.’ Only an echo. He went into the bedroom. Neusa was lying across the bed, drunk.

‘You dumb –’ He caught himself. He must not forget that this stupid, drunken broad was his gold mine. He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to rouse her.

She opened her eyes. ‘Wha’sa matter?’

‘I’m worried about you,’ Lantz said. His voice throbbed with sincerity. ‘I hate to see you unhappy, and I think you’re drinking because someone is making you unhappy. I’m your friend. You can tell me all about it. It’s Angel, isn’t it?’

‘Angel,’ she mumbled.

‘I’m sure he’s a nice man,’ Harry Lantz said soothingly. ‘You two probably had a little misunderstanding, right?’

He tried to straighten her out on the bed. It’s like beaching a whale, Lantz thought.

Lantz sat down beside her. ‘Tell me about Angel,’ Lantz said. ‘What’s he doing to you?’

Neusa stared up at him, bleary-eyed, trying to focus on him. ‘Le’s fuck.’

Oh, Jesus! It was going to be a long night. ‘Sure. Great idea.’ Reluctantly, Lantz began to undress.

When Harry Lantz awoke in the morning alone in bed, memories came flooding into his brain, and he felt sick to his stomach.

Neusa had awakened him in the middle of the night. ‘You know wha’ I wan’ you to do to me?’ she mumbled. She told him.

He had listened in disbelief, but he had done the things she asked him to do. He could not afford to antagonize her. She was a sick, wild animal, and Lantz wondered whether Angel had ever done those things for her. The thought of what he had gone through made Lantz want to vomit.

He heard Neusa singing off-key in the bathroom. He was not sure he could face her. I’ve had enough, Lantz thought. If she doesn’t tell me this morning where Angel is, I’m going to his tailor and shoemaker.

He threw back the covers and went in to Neusa. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Her hair was in fat curlers, and she looked, if possible, even more unattractive than before.

‘You and I are going to have a talk,’ Lantz said firmly.

‘Sure.’ Neusa pointed to the bathtub full of water. ‘I fix a bath for you. When you’re finish’, I fix breakfast.’

Lantz was impatient, but he knew he must not press too hard.

‘You like omelettes?’

He had no appetite. ‘Yeah. Sounds great.’

‘I make good omelettes. Angel teach me.’

Lantz watched as she started to take the huge, lumpy curlers out of her hair. He stepped into the bathtub.

Neusa picked up a large, electric dryer, plugged it in, and began drying her hair.

Lantz lay back in the warm tub thinking: Maybe I should get a gun and take Angel myself. If I let the Israelis do it, there’ll probably be a fucking inquiry into who gets the reward. This way there won’t be any question. I’ll just tell them where to pick up his body.

Neusa said something, but Harry Lantz could barely hear her over the roar of the hair dryer.

‘What did you say?’ he called out.

Neusa moved to the side of the tub. ‘I got a presen’ for you from Angel.’

She dropped the electric hair dryer into the water and stood there watching as Lantz’s body twitched in a dance of death.

Chapter Seven

President Paul Ellison put down the last security report on Mary Ashley and said, ‘Not a blemish, Stan.’

‘I know. I think she’s the perfect candidate. Of course, State isn’t going to be happy.’

‘We’ll send them a crying towel. Now let’s hope the Senate will back us up.’

Mary Ashley’s office in Kedzie Hall was a small, pleasant room lined with bookcases crammed with reference books on Middle European countries. The furniture was sparse, consisting of a battered desk with a swivel chair, a small table at the window, piled with examination papers, a ladder-back chair, and a reading lamp. On the wall behind the desk was a map of the Balkans. An ancient photograph of Mary’s grandfather hung on the wall. It had been taken around the turn of the century, and the figure in the photograph was standing in a stiff, unnatural pose, dressed in the clothes of the period. The picture was one of Mary’s treasures. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about Romania. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie, and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the Prince Consort of England, and Alexander II, Tsar of Russia, and dozens of other thrilling characters.

Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.

She used to have dreams about it.

Mary was in the middle of grading examination papers when the door opened and Dean Hunter walked in.

‘Good morning, Mrs Ashley. Do you have a moment?’ It was the first time the Dean had ever visited her office.

Mary felt a sudden sense of elation. There could be only one reason for the Dean coming here himself: He was going to tell her that the University was giving her tenure.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

He sat down on the ladder-back chair. ‘How are your classes going?’

‘Very well, I think.’ She could not wait to relay the news to Edward. He would be so proud. It was seldom that someone her age received tenure from a university.

Dean Hunter seemed ill at ease. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Mrs Ashley?’

The question caught her completely off guard. ‘Trouble? I – No. Why?’

‘Some men from Washington have been to see me, asking questions about you.’

Mary Ashley heard the echo of Florence Schiffer’s words: Some federal agent from Washington … He was asking all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy … Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and a good mother …?

So it had not been about her tenure, after all. She suddenly found it difficult to speak. ‘What – what did they want to know, Dean Hunter?’

‘They inquired about your reputation as a professor, and they asked questions about your personal life.’

‘I can’t explain it. I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m in no kind of trouble at all. As far as I know,’ she added lamely.

He was watching her with obvious scepticism.

‘Didn’t they tell you why they were asking questions about me?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I was asked to keep the conversation in strict confidence. But I have a loyalty to my staff, and I felt it only fair that you should be informed about this. If there is something I should know, I would prefer to hear it from you. Any scandal involving one of our professors would reflect badly on the University.’

She shook her head, helplessly. ‘I – I really can’t think of anything.’

He looked at her a moment, as though about to say something else, then nodded. ‘So be it, Mrs Ashley.’

She watched him walk out of her office and wondered: What in God’s name could I have done?

Mary was very quiet during dinner. She wanted to wait until Edward finished eating before she broke the news of this latest development. They would try to figure out the problem together. The children were being impossible again. Beth refused to touch her dinner.

‘No one eats meat any more. It’s a barbaric custom carried over from the caveman. Civilized people don’t eat live animals.’

‘It’s not alive,’ Tim argued. ‘It’s dead, so you might as well eat it.’

‘Children!’ Mary’s nerves were on edge. ‘Not another word. Beth, go make yourself a salad.’

‘She could go graze in the field,’ Tim offered.

‘Tim! You finish your dinner.’ Her head was beginning to pound. ‘Edward –’

The telephone rang.

‘That’s for me,’ Beth said. She leaped out of her chair and raced towards the telephone. She picked it up and said seductively, ‘Virgil?’ She listened a moment, and her expression changed. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said disgustedly. She slammed down the receiver and returned to the table.

‘What was that all about?’ Edward asked.

‘Some practical joker. He said it was the White House calling Mom.’

‘The White House?’ Edward asked.

The telephone rang again.

‘I’ll get it,’ Mary said. She rose and walked over to the telephone. ‘Hello.’ As she listened, her face grew grim. ‘We’re in the middle of dinner, and I don’t happen to think this is funny. You can just – what? … Who? The President?’ There was a sudden hush in the room. ‘Wait a – I – oh, good evening, Mr President.’ There was a dazed expression on her face. Her family was watching her, wide-eyed. ‘Yes, sir. I do. I recognize your voice. I – I’m sorry about hanging up a moment ago. Beth thought it was Virgil, and – yes, sir. Thank you.’ She stood there listening. ‘Would I be willing to serve as what?’ Her face suddenly flushed.

Edward was on his feet, moving towards the phone, the children close behind him.

‘There must be some mistake, Mr President. My name is Mary Ashley. I’m a professor at Kansas State University, and – You read it? Thank you, sir … That’s very kind of you … Yes, I believe it is …’ She listened for a long time. ‘Yes, sir, I agree. But that doesn’t mean that I … Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I see. Well, I’m certainly flattered. I’m sure it’s a wonderful opportunity, but I … Of course I will. I’ll talk it over with my husband and get back to you.’ She picked up a pen and wrote down a number. ‘Yes, sir. I have it. Thank you, Mr President. Goodbye.’

She slowly replaced the receiver and stood there in shock.

‘What in God’s name was that all about?’ Edward demanded.

‘Was that really the President?’ Tim asked.

Mary sank into a chair. ‘Yes. It really was.’

Edward took Mary’s hand in his. ‘Mary – what did he say? What did he want?’

Mary sat there, numb, thinking: So that’s what all the questioning has been about.

She looked up at Edward and the children and said slowly, ‘The President read my book and the article of mine in Foreign Affairs magazine, and he thought they were brilliant. He said that’s the kind of thinking he wants for his people-to-people programme. He wants to nominate me as Ambassador to Romania.’

There was a look of total disbelief on Edward’s face.

‘You? Why you?’

It was exactly what Mary had asked herself, but she felt that Edward could have been more tactful. He could have said, How wonderful! You’d make a great ambassador. But he was being realistic. Why me, indeed?

‘You haven’t had any political experience.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ Mary responded tartly. ‘I agree that the whole thing is ridiculous.’

‘Are you going to be the Ambassador?’ Tim asked. ‘Are we moving to Rome?’

‘Romania.’

‘Where’s Romania?’

Edward turned to the children. ‘You two finish your dinner. Your mother and I would like to have a little talk.’

‘Don’t we get a vote?’ Tim asked.

‘By absentee ballot.’

Edward took Mary’s arm and led her into the library. He turned to her and said, ‘I’m sorry if I sounded like a pompous ass in there. It was just such a –’

‘No. You were perfectly right, Edward. Why on earth should they have chosen me?’

When Mary called him Edward, he knew he was in trouble.

‘Honey, you’d probably make a great ambassador, or ambassadress, or whatever they call it these days. But you must admit it came as a bit of a shock.’

Mary softened. ‘Try thunderbolt.’ She sounded like a little girl. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ She laughed. ‘Wait until I tell Florence. She’ll die.’

Edward was watching her closely. ‘You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be?’

Edward chose his words carefully. ‘It is a great honour, honey, and I’m sure it’s not one they would offer lightly. They must have had good reason for choosing you.’ He hesitated. ‘We have to think about this very carefully. About what it would do to our lives.’

She knew what he was going to say, and she thought: Edward’s right. Of course he’s right.

‘I can’t just leave my practice and walk out on my patients. I have to stay here. I don’t know how long you’d have to be away, but if it really means a lot to you, well, maybe we could work out some way where you could go over there with the children and I could join you whenever –’

Mary said softly, ‘You crazy man. Do you think I could live away from you?’

‘Well – it’s an awfully big honour, and –’

‘So is being your wife. Nothing means as much to me as you and the children. I would never leave you. This town can’t find another doctor like you, but all the government has to do to find a better ambassador than me is to look in the yellow pages.’

He took her in his arms. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m positive. It was exciting being asked. That’s enough for –’

The door flew open and Beth and Tim hurried in. Beth said, ‘I just called Virgil and told him you’re going to be an ambassador.’

‘Then you’d better call him back and tell him I’m not.’

‘Why not?’ Beth asked.

‘Your mother has decided she’s going to stay here.’

‘Why?’ Beth wailed. ‘I’ve never been to Romania. I’ve never been anywhere.’

‘Me, neither,’ Tim said. He turned to Beth. ‘I told you we’re never going to escape from this place.’

‘The subject is closed,’ Mary informed them.

The following morning Mary dialled the telephone number that the President had given her. When an operator answered, Mary said, ‘This is Mrs Edward Ashley. I think the President’s assistant – a Mr Greene – is expecting my call.’

‘One moment, please.’

A male voice on the other end said, ‘Hello. Mrs Ashley?’

‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘Would you please give the President a message for me?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Would you please tell him that I’m very, very flattered by his offer, but my husband’s profession ties him down here, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to accept. I hope he understands.’

‘I’ll pass on your message,’ the voice said non-committally. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ashley.’ The line went dead.

Mary slowly replaced the receiver. It was done. For one brief moment, a tantalizing dream had been offered her. But that was all it was. A dream. This is my real world. I’d better get ready for my fourth period history class.

Manama, Bahrain

The whitewashed stone house was anonymous, hidden among dozens of identical houses, a short walk from the souks, the large, colourful outdoor markets. It was owned by a merchant sympathetic to the cause of the organization known as the Patriots for Freedom.

‘We will need it for only one day,’ a voice over the telephone told him.

It was arranged. Now the chairman was speaking to the men gathered in the living room.

‘A problem has arisen,’ the chairman said. ‘The motion that was recently passed has run into difficulty.’

‘What sort of difficulty?’ Balder asked.

‘The go-between we selected – Harry Lantz – is dead.’

‘Dead? Dead, how?’

‘He was murdered. His body was found floating in the harbour in Buenos Aires.’

‘Do the police have any idea who did it? I mean – can they connect this to us in any way?’

‘No. We’re perfectly safe.’

Thor asked, ‘What about our plan? Can we go ahead with it?’

‘Not at the moment. We have no idea how to reach Angel. However, the Controller gave Harry Lantz permission to reveal his name to him. If Angel is interested in our proposition, he will find a way to get in touch with him. All we can do now is wait.’

The banner headline in the Junction City Daily Union read: JUNCTION CITY’S MARY ASHLEY DECLINES AMBASSADORSHIP.

There was a two-column story about Mary, and a photograph of her. On KJCK, the afternoon and evening broadcasts carried feature stories on the town’s new celebrity. The fact that Mary Ashley had rejected the President’s offer made the story even bigger than if she had accepted it. In the eyes of its proud citizens, Junction City, Kansas, was a lot more important than Bucharest, Romania.

When Mary Ashley drove into town to shop for dinner, she kept hearing her name on the car radio.

‘… Earlier, President Ellison had announced that the ambassadorship to Romania would be the beginning of his people-to-people programme, the cornerstone of his foreign policy. How Mary Ashley’s refusal to accept the post will reflect on –’

She switched to another station.

‘… is married to Dr Edward Ashley, and it is believed that –’

Mary switched off the radio. She had received at least three dozen phone calls that morning from friends, neighbours, students and curious strangers. Reporters had called from as far away as London and Tokyo. They’re building this up all out of proportion, Mary thought. It’s not my fault that the President decided to base the success of his foreign policy on Romania. I wonder how long this pandemonium is going to last? It will probably be over in a day or two.

She drove the station wagon into a Derby gas station and pulled up in front of the self-service pump.

As Mary got out of the car, Mr Blount, the station manager, hurried over to her. ‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley. An ambassador lady ain’t got no call to be pumpin’ her own gas. Let me give you a hand.’

Mary smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m used to doing it.’

‘No, no. I insist.’

When the tank was filled, Mary drove down Washington Street and parked in front of the Shoe Box.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley,’ the clerk greeted her. ‘How’s the ambassador this mornin’?’

This is going to get tiresome, Mary thought. Aloud, she said, ‘I’m not an ambassador, but I’m fine, thank you.’ She handed him a pair of shoes. ‘I’d like to have Tim’s shoes re-soled.’

The clerk examined them. ‘Ain’t these the ones we did last week?’

Mary sighed. ‘And the week before.’

Mary’s next stop was at Long’s Department Store. Mrs Hacker, the manager of the dress department, said to her, ‘I jest heard your name on the radio. You’re puttin’ Junction City on the map. Yes, sir. I guess you and Eisenhower and Alf Landon are Kansas’ only political big shots, Mrs Ambassador.’

‘I’m not an ambassador,’ Mary said patiently. ‘I turned it down.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

It was no use. Mary said, ‘I need some jeans for Beth. Preferably something in iron.’

‘How old is Beth now? About ten?’

‘She’s twelve.’

‘Land’s sake, they grow so fast these days, don’t they? She’ll be a teenager before you know it.’

‘Beth was born a teenager, Mrs Hacker.’

‘How’s Tim?’

‘He’s a lot like Beth.’

The shopping took Mary twice as long as usual. Everyone had some comment to make about the big news. She went into Dillon’s to buy some groceries, and was studying the shelves when Mrs Dillon approached.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Ashley.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Dillon. Do you have a breakfast food that has nothing in it?’

‘What?’

Mary consulted a list in her hand. ‘No artificial sweeteners, no sodium, fats, carbohydrates, caffeine, caramel colouring, folic acid or flavourites.’

Mrs Dillon studied the paper. ‘Is this some kind of medical experiment?’

‘In a sense. It’s for Beth. She’ll only eat natural foods.’

‘Why don’t you just put her out to pasture and let her graze?’

Mary laughed. ‘That’s what my son suggested.’ Mary picked up a package and studied the label. ‘It’s my fault. I never should have taught Beth how to read.’

Mary drove home carefully, climbing the winding hill towards Milford Lake. It was a few degrees above zero, but the wind chill factor brought the temperature down to well below zero, for there was nothing to stop the winds from their biting sweep across the endless plains. The lawns were covered with snow, and Mary remembered the previous winter when an ice storm had swept the county and the ice snapped the power lines. They had no electricity for almost a week. She and Edward made love every night. Maybe we’ll get lucky again this winter, she grinned to herself.

When Mary arrived home, Edward was still at the hospital. Tim was in the study watching a science fiction programme. Mary put away the groceries and went in to confront her son.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?’

‘I can’t.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because I don’t understand it.’

‘You’re not going to understand it any better by watching Star Trek. Let me see your lesson.’

Tim showed her his fifth grade mathematics book. ‘These are dumb problems,’ Tim said.

‘There are no such things as dumb problems. There are only dumb students. Now let’s take a look at this.’

Mary read the problem aloud. ‘A train leaving Minneapolis had one hundred and forty-nine people on board. In Atlanta more people boarded the train. Then there were two hundred and twenty-three on the train. How many people boarded in Atlanta?’ She looked up. ‘That’s simple, Tim. You just subtract one hundred and forty-nine from two hundred and twenty-three.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Tim said glumly. ‘It has to be an equation. One hundred and forty-nine plus n equals two hundred and twenty-three. n equals two hundred and twenty-three minus one hundred and forty-nine. n equals seventy-four.’

‘That’s dumb,’ Mary said.

As Mary passed Beth’s room, she heard noises. Mary went in. Beth was seated on the floor, cross-legged, watching television, listening to a rock record, and doing her homework.

‘How can you concentrate with all this noise?’ Mary shouted.

She walked over to the television set and turned it off and then turned off the record player.

Beth looked up in surprise. ‘What did you do that for? That was George Michael.’

Beth’s room was wallpapered with posters of musicians. There was Kiss and Van Halen, Motley Crue and Aldo Nova and David Lee Roth. The bed was covered with magazines: Seventeen and Teen Idol and half a dozen others. Beth’s clothes were scattered over the floor.

Mary looked around the messy room in despair. ‘Beth – how can you live like this?’

Beth looked up at her mother, puzzled. ‘Live like what?’

Mary gritted her teeth. ‘Nothing.’

She looked at an envelope on her daughter’s desk. ‘You’re writing to Rick Springfield?’

‘I’m in love with him.’

‘I thought you were in love with George Michael.’

‘I burn for George Michael. I’m in love with Rick Springfield. Mother, in your day didn’t you ever burn for anybody?’

‘In my day we were too busy trying to get the covered wagons across the country.’

Beth sighed. ‘Did you know Rick Springfield had a rotten childhood?’

‘To be perfectly honest, Beth, I was not aware of that.’

‘It was awful. His father was in the military and they moved around a lot. He’s a vegetarian, too. Like me. He’s awesome.’

So that’s what’s behind Beth’s crazy diet!

‘Mother, may I go to a movie Saturday night with Virgil?’

‘Virgil? What happened to Arnold?’

There was a pause. ‘Arnold wanted to fool around. He’s dorky.’

Mary forced herself to sound calm. ‘By “fooling around”, you mean –?’

‘Just because I’m starting to get breasts the boys think I’m easy. Mom, did you ever feel uncomfortable about your body?’

Mary moved up behind Beth and put her arms around her. ‘Yes, my darling. When I was about your age, I felt very uncomfortable.’

‘I hate having my period and getting breasts and hair all over. Why?’

‘It happens to every girl, and you’ll get used to it.’

‘No, I won’t.’ She pulled away and said fiercely, ‘I don’t mind being in love, but I’m never going to have sex. No one’s going to make me. Not Arnold or Virgil or Kevin Bacon.’

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