Windmills of the Gods (21 page)

“I’m afraid there will be a delay, Madam Ambassador. A flat tire. And a thief has stolen the spare. I have sent for one. It should be here in the next hour. Would you like to wait in the car?”

Mary looked up at the full moon shining above. The evening was crisp and clear. She realized she had not walked the streets of Bucharest since she had arrived. She made a sudden decision.

“I think I’ll walk back to the residence.”

He nodded. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk.”

Mary turned and started walking down the street toward
the central square. Bucharest was a fascinating, exotic city. On the street corners were arcane signs:
TUTÚN
…
PIINE
…
CHIMÍST
…

She strolled down the Calea Moşilor and turned into the Strada Maria Rosetti, where there were red and tan trackless trollies crammed with people. Even at this late hour, most of the shops were open, and there were queues at all of them. Coffee shops were serving
gogoaşe,
the delicious Romanian doughnuts. The sidewalks were crowded with late-night shoppers carrying
pungi,
the string shopping bags. It seemed to Mary that the people were ominously quiet. They seemed to be staring at her, the women avidly eyeing the clothes she was wearing. She began to walk faster.

When she reached the corner of Calea Victoriei, she stopped, unsure of which direction to take. She said to a passerby, “Excuse me—could you tell me how to get—?”

He gave her a quick, frightened look and hurried off.

They’re not supposed to talk to foreigners,
Mary remembered.

How was she going to get back? She tried to visualize the way she had come with Florian. It seemed to her that the residence was somewhere to the east. She began walking in that direction. Soon she was on a small side street, dimly lit. In the far distance she could see a broad, well-lit boulevard.
I can get a taxi there,
Mary thought with relief.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, and she involuntarily turned. A large man in an overcoat was coming toward her, moving rapidly. Mary walked faster.

“Excuse me,” the man called out in a heavy Romanian accent. “Are you lost?”

She was filled with relief. He was probably a policeman of some sort. Perhaps he had been following her to make sure she was safe.

“Yes,” Mary said gratefully. “I want to go back to—”

There was the sudden roar of a motor and the sound of a car racing up behind her, and then the squeal of brakes as
the car screamed to a stop. The pedestrian in the overcoat grabbed Mary. She could smell his hot, fetid breath and feel his fat fingers bruising her wrist. He started pushing her toward the open door of the car. Mary was fighting to break free…

“Get in the car!” the man growled.

“No!” She was yelling, “Help! Help me!”

There was a shout from across the street, and a figure came racing toward them. The man stopped, unsure of what to do.

The stranger yelled, “Let go of her!”

He grabbed the man in the overcoat and pulled him away from Mary. She found herself suddenly free. The man behind the wheel started to get out of the car to help his accomplice.

From the far distance came the sound of an approaching siren. The man in the overcoat called out to his companion, and the two men leaped into the car and it sped away.

A blue and white car with the word
Militia
on the side and a flashing blue light on top pulled to a halt in front of Mary. Two men in uniform hurried out.

In Romanian one of them asked, “Are you all right?” And then in halting English, “What happened?”

Mary was fighting to get herself under control. “Two men—they—they tr-tried to force me into their car. If—if it hadn’t been for this gentleman—” She turned.

The stranger was gone.

She fought all night long, struggling to escape the men, waking in a panic, falling to sleep and waking again. She kept reliving the scene: The sudden footsteps hurrying toward her, the car pulling up, the man trying to force her into the car. Had they known who she was? Or were they merely trying to rob a tourist dressed in American clothes?

When Mary arrived at her office, Mike Slade was waiting for her. He brought in two cups of coffee and sat down across from her desk. “How was the theater?” he asked.

“Fine.” What had happened to her afterward was none of his business.

“Did you get hurt?”

She looked at him in surprise. “What?”

He said patiently, “When they tried to kidnap you. Did they hurt you?”

“I—how do you know about that?”

His voice was filled with irony. “Madam Ambassador, Romania is one big, open secret. You can’t take a bath without
everyone knowing about it. It wasn’t very clever of you to go for a stroll by yourself.”

“I’m aware of that now,” Mary said coldly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” His tone was brisk. “Did the man take anything from you?”

“No.”

He frowned.

“It makes no sense. If they had wanted your coat or purse, they could have taken them from you on the street. Trying to force you into a car means it was a kidnapping.”

“Who would want to kidnap me?”

“It wouldn’t have been Ionescu’s men. He’s trying to keep our relations on an even keel. It would have to be some dissident group.”

“Or crooks who planned to hold me for ransom.”

“There are no kidnappings for ransom in this country. If they caught anyone doing that, there wouldn’t be a trial—there would be a firing squad.” He took a sip of his coffee. “May I give you some advice?”

“I’m listening.”

“Go home.”

“What?”

Mike Slade put down the cup. “All you have to do is send in a letter of resignation, pack up your kids, and go back to Kansas, where you’ll be safe.”

She could feel her face getting red. “Mr. Slade, I made a mistake. It’s not the first one I’ve made, and it probably won’t be the last one. But I was appointed to this post by the President of the United States, and until he fires me, I don’t want you or anyone else telling me to go home.” She fought to keep control of her voice. “I expect the people in this embassy to work with me, not against me. If that’s too much for you to handle, why don’t
you
go home?” She was trembling in her anger.

Mike Slade stood up. “I’ll see that the morning reports are put on your desk, Madam Ambassador.”

The attempted kidnapping was the sole topic of conversation at the embassy that morning.
How had everyone found out?
Mary wondered.
And how had Mike Slade found out?
Mary wished she could have learned the name of her rescuer, so that she could thank him. In the quick glimpse she had had of him, she had gotten the impression of an attractive man, probably in his early forties, with prematurely gray hair. He had had a foreign accent—possibly French. If he was a tourist, he could have left Romania by now.

An idea kept gnawing at Mary, and it was hard to dismiss. The only person she knew of who wanted to get rid of her was Mike Slade. What if he had set up the attack to frighten her into leaving? He had given her the theater tickets. He had known where she would be. She could not put it out of her mind.

Mary had debated whether to tell the children about the attempted kidnapping, and decided against it. She did not want to frighten them. She would simply see to it that they were never alone.

There was a cocktail party to attend at the French embassy that evening in honor of a visiting French concert pianist. Mary was tired and nervous and would have given anything to have gotten out of it, but she knew she had to go.

She bathed and selected an evening gown, and as she reached for her shoes, she noticed that one shoe had a broken heel. She rang for Carmen.

“Yes, Madam Ambassador?”

“Carmen, would you please take this to a shoemaker and have it repaired?”

“Certainly, Madam. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s all, thank you.”

When Mary arrived at the French embassy, it was already crowded with guests. She was greeted at the entrance by the French ambassador’s aide, whom Mary had met on a previous visit to the embassy. He took her hand and kissed it.

“Good evening, Madam Ambassador. It is so kind of you to come.”

“It was so kind of you to invite me,” Mary said.

They both smiled at their empty phrases.

“Permit me to take you to the ambassador.” He escorted her through the crowded ballroom, where she saw the familiar faces she had been seeing for weeks on end. Mary greeted the French ambassador, and they exchanged pleasantries.

“You will enjoy Madame Dauphin. She is a remarkable pianist.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Mary lied.

A servant passed by with a tray of glasses filled with champagne. Mary had learned by now to sip drinks at the various embassies. As she turned to greet the Australian ambassador, she caught sight of the stranger who had rescued her from the kidnappers. He was standing in a corner talking to the Italian ambassador and his aide.

“Please excuse me,” Mary said. She moved across the room toward the Frenchman.

He was saying, “Of course I miss Paris, but I hope that next year—” He broke off as he saw Mary approaching.

“Ah, the lady in distress.”

“You know each other?” the Italian ambassador asked.

“We haven’t been officially introduced,” Mary replied.

“Madam Ambassador, may I present Dr. Louis Desforges.”

The expression on the Frenchman’s face changed.
“Madam Ambassador?
I beg your pardon! I had no idea.” His voice was filled with embarrassment. “I should have recognized you, of course.”

“You did better than that,” Mary smiled. “You saved me.”

The Italian ambassador looked at the doctor and said, “Ah! So
you
were the one.” He turned to Mary. “I heard about your unfortunate experience.”

“It would have been unfortunate if Dr. Desforges hadn’t come along. Thank you.”

Louis Desforges smiled. “I’m happy that I was in the right place at the right time.”

The ambassador and his aide saw an English contingent enter.

The ambassador said, “If you will excuse us, there is someone we have to see.”

The two men hurried off. Mary was alone with the doctor.

“Why did you run away when the police came?”

He studied her a moment. “It is not good policy to get involved with the Romanian police. They have a way of arresting witnesses, then pumping them for information. I’m a doctor attached to the French embassy here, and I don’t have diplomatic immunity. I do, however, know a great deal about what goes on at our embassy, and that information could be valuable to the Romanians.” He smiled. “So forgive me if I seemed to desert you.”

There was a directness about him that was very appealing. In some way that Mary could not define, he reminded her a little bit of Edward. Perhaps because Louis Desforges was a doctor. But, no, it was more than that. He had the same openness that Edward had had, almost the same smile.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Dr. Desforges said, “I must go and become a social animal.”

“You don’t like parties?”

He winced, “I despise them.”

“Does your wife enjoy them?”

He started to say something, and then hesitated. “Yes—she did. Very much.”

“Is she here this evening?”

“She and our two children are dead.”

Mary paled. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. How—?”

His face was rigid. “I blame myself. We were living in Algeria. I was in the underground, fighting the terrorists.” His words became slow and halting. “They found out my identity and blew up the house. I was away at the time.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said again. Hopeless, inadequate words.

“Thank you. There is a cliche that time heals everything. I no longer believe it.” His voice was bitter.

Mary thought about Edward and how much she still missed him. But this man had lived with his pain longer.

He looked at her and said, “If you will excuse me, Madam Ambassador…” He turned and walked over to greet a group of arriving guests.

He reminds me a little of you, Edward. You’d like him. He’s a very brave man. He’s in a lot of pain, and I think that’s what draws me to him. I’m in pain too, darling. Will I ever get over missing you? It’s so lonely here. There’s no one I can talk to. I desperately want to succeed. Mike Slade is trying to get me to go home. I’m not going. But oh, how I need you. Good night, my darling.

The following morning, Mary telephoned Stanton Rogers. It was wonderful to hear his voice.
It’s like a lifeline to home,
she thought.

“I’m getting some excellent reports on you,” Stanton Rogers said. “The Hannah Murphy story made headlines here. You did an excellent job.”

“Thank you, Stan.”

“Mary, tell me about the attempted kidnapping.”

“I’ve talked to the prime minister and the head of Securitate, and they have no clues at all.”

“Didn’t Mike Slade warn you not to go out alone?”

Mike Slade.
“Yes, he warned me, Stan.”
Shall I tell him that Mike Slade told me to go home?
No, she decided.
I’ll handle Mr. Slade in my own way.

“Remember—I’m always here for you. Anytime.”

“I know,” Mary said gratefully. “I can’t tell you what it means to me.”

The telephone call made her feel much better.

“We have a problem. There’s a leak somewhere in our embassy.”

Mary and Mike Slade were having a cup of coffee before the daily staff meeting.

“How serious is it?”

“Very. Our commerce consular, David Victor, held some meetings with the Romanian minister of commerce.”

“I know. We discussed it last week.”

“Right,” Mike said. “And when David went back for a second meeting, they were ahead of us on every counterproposal we made. They knew exactly how far we were prepared to go.”

“Isn’t it possible that they just figured it out?”

“It’s possible, yes. Except that we discussed some new proposals, and they were ahead of us again.”

Mary was thoughtful for a moment. “You think it’s someone on the staff?”

“Not just
someone.
The last executive conference was held in the Bubble Room. Our electronics experts have traced the leak to there.”

Mary looked at him in surprise. There were only eight people allowed at the conferences in the Bubble Room, each an executive member of the embassy.

“Whoever it is is carrying electronic equipment, probably a tape recorder. I suggest you call a conference meeting this
morning in the Bubble Room and have the same group in. Our instruments will be able to pinpoint the guilty person.”

There were eight persons seated around the table in the Bubble Room. Eddie Maltz, the political consular and CIA agent; Patricia Hatfield, the economic consular; Jerry Davis, public affairs; David Victor, commerce consular; Lucas Janklow, administrative consular; and Colonel William McKinney. Mary was at one end of the table, Mike Slade at the other.

Mary turned to David Victor. “How are your meetings going with the Romanian minister of commerce?”

The commerce consular shook his head. “Frankly, not as well as I had hoped. They seem to know everything I have to say before I say it. I come in with new proposals, and they’ve already prepared their arguments against them. It’s as though they’re reading my mind.”

“Maybe they are,” Mike Slade said.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re reading somebody’s mind in this room.” He picked up a red telephone on the table. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the huge door was pushed open and a man dressed in civilian clothes entered, carrying a black box with a dial on it.

Eddie Maltz said, “Wait a minute. No one is allowed in—”

“It’s all right,” Mary said. “We have a problem and this man is going to solve it.” She looked up at the newcomer. “Please go ahead.”

“Right. I’d like everyone to just stay where you are, please.”

As the group watched, he walked over to Mike Slade and held the box close to him. The needle on the dial remained at zero. The man moved on to Patricia Hatfield. The needle remained still. Eddie Maltz was next, then Jerry Davis and Lucas Janklow. The needle remained still. The man moved
to David Victor, and finally to Colonel McKinney, but the needle still did not move. The only person left was Mary. When he approached her, the needle began to swing wildly.

Mike Slade said, “What the hell—” He got to his feet and went over to Mary. “Are you sure?” Mike demanded of the civilian.

The dial was moving crazily.

“Talk to the machine,” the man said.

Mary rose in confusion.

“Do you mind if we break up this meeting?” Mike asked.

Mary turned to the others. “That’s it for now, thank you.”

Mike Slade said to the technician, “You stay.”

When the others had left the room, Mike asked, “Can you pinpoint where the bug is?”

“Sure can.” The man slowly moved the black box down, inches away from Mary’s body. As it got closer to her feet, the dial began to move faster.

The civilian straightened up. “It’s your shoes.”

Mary stared at him incredulously. “You’re mistaken. I bought these shoes in Washington.”

Mike said, “Would you mind taking them off?”

“I—” This whole thing was ridiculous. The machine had to be crazy. Or someone was trying to frame her. This could be Mike Slade’s way of getting rid of her. He would report to Washington that she had been caught spying and giving information to the enemy. Well, he was not going to get away with it.

She stepped out of her shoes, picked them up, and dropped them into Mike’s hands. “Here,” she said, angrily.

He turned them over and examined them. “Is this a new heel?”

“No, it’s—” And then she remembered:
Carmen, would you please take this to a shoemaker in the morning and have it repaired?

Mike was breaking open the heel of the shoe. Inside was a miniature tape recorder.