Kitabı oku: «Windmills of the Gods»
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.
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