Windmills of the Gods (14 page)

Ben Cohn heard the story from three people who had attended the dinner at the Romanian embassy. He searched through the columns of the Washington and New York newspapers. There was not one word about the incident. Someone had killed the story. It had to be someone very important.

Cohn sat in the small cubicle that the newspaper called an office, thinking. He dialed Ian Villiers’s number. “Hello, is Mr. Villiers in?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“Ben Cohn.”

“One moment, please.” She was back on the line one minute later. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Cohn. Mr. Villiers seems to have stepped out.”

“When can I reach him?”

“I’m afraid he’s fully booked up all day.”

“Right.” He replaced the receiver and dialed the number of a gossip columnist who worked on another newspaper. Nothing happened in Washington without her knowing it.

“Linda,” he said, “how goes the daily battle?”

“
Plus ça change, plus c’est la mime chose.
”

“Anything exciting happening around this gilded watering hole?”

“Not really, Ben. It’s deadly quiet.”

He said casually, “I understand the Romanian embassy had a big wingding last night.”

“Did they?” There was a sudden caution in her voice.

“Uh-huh. Did you happen to hear anything about our new ambassador to Romania?”

“No. I’ve got to go now, Ben. I have a long-distance call.”

The line went dead.

He dialed the number of a friend in the State Department. When the secretary put him through, he said, “Hello, Alfred.”

“Benjie! What’s cooking?”

“It’s been a long time. I thought we might get together for lunch.”

“Fine. What are you working on?”

“Why don’t I tell you about it when I see you?”

“Fair enough. My calendar is pretty light today. Do you want to meet me at the Watergate?”

Ben Cohn hesitated. “Why don’t we make it Mama Regina’s in Silver Spring?”

“That’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?”

Ben said, “Yes.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

“One o’clock?”

“Fine.”

Ben Cohn was seated at a table in the corner when his guest, Alfred Shuttleworth, arrived. The host, Tony Sergio, seated him.

“Would you care for a drink, gentlemen?”

Shuttleworth ordered a martini.

“Nothing for me,” Ben Cohn said.

Alfred Shuttleworth was a sallow-looking middle-aged man who worked in the European section of the State Department. A few years earlier, he had been involved in a drunk-driving accident that Ben Cohn had covered for his newspaper. Shuttleworth’s career was at stake. Cohn had killed the story, and Shuttleworth showed his appreciation by giving him news tips from time to time.

“I need your help, Al.”

“Name it, and you’ve got it.”

“I’d like the inside information on our new ambassador to Romania.”

Alfred Shuttleworth frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Three people called to tell me that she got so stoned at the Romanian ambassador’s party last night that she made a horse’s ass of herself in front of Washington’s who’s who. Have you seen the morning papers today, or the early editions of the afternoon papers?”

“Yes. They mentioned the embassy party, but there was no mention of Mary Ashley.”

“Exactly. The curious incident of the dog in the nighttime. ‘Silver Blaze.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sherlock Holmes. The dog didn’t bark. It was silent. So are the newspapers. Why would the gossip columnists skip
over a juicy story like that? Someone had that story killed. Someone important. If it had been any other VIP who publicly disgraced herself, the press would have had a Roman holiday.”

“That doesn’t necessarily follow, Ben.”

“Al, there’s this Cinderella who comes out of nowhere, is touched by the magic wand of our President, and suddenly becomes Grace Kelly, Princess Di, and Jacqueline Kennedy rolled into one. Now, I’ll admit the lady is pretty—but she isn’t
that
pretty. The lady is bright—but she isn’t
that
bright. In my humble opinion, teaching a political science course at Kansas State University doesn’t exactly qualify anyone to be the ambassador to one of the world’s hot spots. I’ll tell you something else that’s out of kilter. I flew to Junction City and talked to the sheriff there.”

Alfred Shuttleworth drained the remainder of his martini. “I think I’d like another one. You’re making me nervous.”

“Join the club.” Ben Cohn ordered a martini.

“Go on,” Shuttleworth said.

“Mrs. Ashley turned down the President because her husband couldn’t leave his medical practice. Then he was killed in a convenient auto accident.
Voilà!
The lady’s in Washington, on her way to Bucharest. Exactly as someone had planned from the beginning.”

“Someone? Who?”

“That’s the jackpot question.”

“Ben—what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Let me tell you what Sheriff Munster suggested. He thought it was peculiar that half a dozen witnesses showed up out of nowhere in the middle of a freezing winter night just in time to witness the accident. And do you want to hear something even more peculiar? They’ve all disappeared. Every one of them.”

“Go on.”

“I went over to Fort Riley to talk to the driver of the army truck that killed Dr. Ashley.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“Not much. He was dead. Heart attack. Twenty-seven years old.”

Shuttleworth was toying with the stem of his glass. “I assume there’s more?”

“Oh, yes. There’s more. I went over to the CID office at Fort Riley to interview Colonel Jenkins, the officer in charge of the army investigation as well as being one of the witnesses to the accident. The colonel wasn’t there. He’s been promoted and transferred. He’s a major general now, overseas somewhere. No one seems to know where.”

Alfred Shuttleworth shook his head. “Ben, I know you’re a hell of a reporter, but I honestly think this time you’ve gone off the track. You’re building a few coincidences into a Hitchcock scenario. People
do
get killed in auto accidents, people
do
have heart attacks, and officers
do
get promoted. You’re looking for some kind of conspiracy where there is none.”

“Al, have you heard of an organization called Patriots for Freedom?”

“No. Is it something like the DAR?”

Ben Cohn said quietly, “It’s nothing like the DAR. I keep hearing rumors, but there’s nothing I can pin down.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“It’s supposed to be a cabal of high-level right-wing and left-wing fanatics from a dozen Eastern and Western countries. Their ideologies are diametrically opposed, but what brings them together is fear. The Communist members think President Ellison’s plan is a capitalist trick to destroy the Eastern bloc. The right-wingers believe his plan is an open door that will let the Communists destroy us. So they’ve formed this unholy alliance.”

“Jesus! I don’t believe it.”

“There’s more. Besides the VIPs, splinter groups from various international security agencies are said to be involved. Do you think you could check it out for me?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try.”

“I would suggest you do it discreetly. If the organization really exists, they won’t be too thrilled to have anyone nosing around.”

“I’ll get back to you, Ben.”

“Thanks. Let’s order lunch.”

The spaghetti carbonara was superb.

Alfred Shuttleworth was skeptical about Ben Cohn’s theory.
Reporters are always looking for sensational angles,
Shuttleworth thought. He liked Ben Cohn, but Shuttleworth had no idea how to go about tracking down a probably mythical organization. If it really did exist, it would be in some government computer. He himself had no access to the computers.
But I know someone who does,
Alfred Shuttleworth remembered.
I’ll give him a call.

Alfred Shuttleworth was on his second martini when Pete Connors walked into the bar.

“Sorry I’m late,” Connors said. “A minor problem at the pickle factory.”

Peter Connors ordered a straight Scotch, and Shuttleworth ordered another martini.

The two men had met because Connors’s girl friend and Shuttleworth’s wife worked for the same company and had become friends. Connors and Shuttleworth were complete opposites; one was involved in deadly games of espionage, and the other functioned as a desk-bound bureaucrat. It was this dissimilarity that made them enjoy each other’s company, and from time to time they exchanged useful information. When Shuttleworth had first met him, Pete Connors had been an amusing and interesting companion. Somewhere along the line, something had soured him. He had become a bitter reactionary.

Shuttleworth took a sip of his martini. “Pete—I need a
favor. Could you look up something for me in the CIA computer? It may not be in there, but I promised a friend I’d try.”

Connors smiled inwardly.
The poor schmuck probably wants to find out if someone is banging his wife.
“Sure. I owe you a few. Who do you want to know about?”

“It’s not a
who,
it’s a
what.
And it probably doesn’t even exist. It’s an organization called Patriots for Freedom. Have you heard of it?”

Pete Connors carefully set down his drink. “I can’t say that I have, Al. What’s the name of your friend?”

“Ben Cohn. He’s a reporter for the
Post.
”

The following morning, Ben Cohn made a decision. He said to Akiko, “I either have the story of the century, or I have nothing. It’s time I found out.”

“Thank God!” Akiko exclaimed. “Arthur’s going to be very happy.”

Ben Cohn reached Mary Ashley at her office. “Good morning, Ambassador. Ben Cohn. Remember me?”

“Yes, Mr. Cohn. Have you written that story yet?”

“That’s what I’m calling you about, Ambassador. I went to Junction City and picked up some information that I think will interest you.”

“What kind of information?”

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. I wonder if we could meet somewhere?”

“I have a ridiculously full schedule. Let me see…I have half an hour free on Friday morning. Would that be all right?”

Three days away.
“I guess it can wait until then.”

“Do you want to come up to my office?”

“There’s a coffee shop downstairs in your building. Why don’t we meet there?”

“All right. I’ll see you Friday.”

They said good-bye and hung up. A moment later there was a third click on the line.

There was no way to get directly in touch with the Controller. He had organized and financed the Patriots for Freedom, but he never attended Committee meetings, and he was completely anonymous. He was a telephone number—untraceable—(Connors had tried) and a recording that said, “You have sixty seconds in which to leave your message.” The number was to be used only in case of emergency. Connors stopped at a public telephone booth to make the call. He talked to the recording.

The message was received at six
P.M.

In Buenos Aires it was eight
P.M.

The Controller listened to the message twice, then dialed a number. He waited for three full minutes before Neusa Muñez’s voice came on.

“¿Sí”

The Controller said, “This is the man who made arrangements with you before about Angel. I have another contract for him. Can you get in touch with him right away?”

“I don’ know.” She sounded drunk.

He kept the impatience out of his voice. “When do you expect to hear from him?”

“I don’ know.”

Damn the woman.
“Listen to me.” He spoke slowly and carefully, as though addressing a small child. “Tell Angel I need this done immediately. I want him to—”

“Wait a minute. I gotta go to the toilet.”

He heard her drop the phone. The Controller sat there, filled with frustration.

Three minutes later she was back on the line. “A lotta beer makes you pee,” she announced.

He gritted his teeth. “This is very important.” He was afraid she was going to remember none of it. “I want you to get a pencil and write this down. I’ll speak slowly.”

That evening Mary attended a dinner party given by the Canadian embassy. As she had left the office to go home and dress, James Stickley had said, “I would suggest that you
sip
the toasts this time.”

He and Mike Slade make a wonderful pair.

Now she was at the party, and she wished she were home with Beth and Tim. The faces at her table were unfamiliar. On her right was a Greek shipping magnate. On her left was an English diplomat.

A Philadelphia socialite dripping with diamonds said to Mary, “Are you enjoying Washington, Madam Ambassador?”

“Very much, thank you.”

“You must be thrilled to have made your escape from Kansas.”

Mary looked at her, not understanding. “Escape from Kansas?”

The woman went on. “I’ve never been to Middle America, but I imagine it must be dreadful. All those farmers and nothing but dreary fields of corn and wheat. It’s a wonder you could bear it as long as you did.”

Mary felt a surge of anger, but she kept her voice under control. “That corn and wheat you’re talking about,” she said politely, “feeds the world.”

The woman’s tone was patronizing. “Our automobiles run on gasoline, but I wouldn’t want to live in the oil fields. Culturally speaking, I think one has to live in the East, don’t you? Quite honestly now—in Kansas, unless you’re out harvesting in the fields all day, there really isn’t anything to do, is there?”

The others at the table were all listening closely.

There really isn’t anything to do, is there?
Mary thought of August hayrides and county fairs and exciting classical dramas at the university theater. Sunday picnics in Milford Park and softball tournaments, and fishing in the clear lake.
The band playing on the green and Town Hall meetings and block parties and barn dances and the excitement of harvest time…winter sleigh rides and Fourth of July fireworks rainbowing the soft Kansas sky.

Mary said to the woman, “If you’ve never been to Middle America, you really don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? Because that’s what this country is all about. America isn’t Washington or Los Angeles or New York. It’s thousands of small towns that you’ll never even see or hear of that make this country great. It’s the miners and the farmers and the blue-collar workers. And yes, in Kansas we have ballets and symphonies and theater. And, for your information, we raise a lot more than corn and wheat—we raise honest-to-God human beings.”