Windmills of the Gods (23 page)

“A lot…”

The daily long lines in front of the embassy continued to disturb Mary. She discussed it again with Mike Slade.

“There must be something we can do to help those people get out of the country.”

“Everything’s been tried,” Mike assured her. “We’ve applied pressure, we’ve offered to sweeten the money pot—the answer is no. Ionescu refuses to cut a deal. The poor bastards are stuck. He has no intention of letting them go. The iron curtain isn’t just
around
the country—it’s
in
the country.”

“I’m going to have a talk with Ionescu again.”

“Good luck.”

Mary asked Dorothy Stone to set up an appointment with the dictator.

A few minutes later, the secretary walked into Mary’s office. “I’m sorry, Madam Ambassador. No appointments.”

Mary looked at her, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. Something weird is going on at the palace. Ionescu isn’t seeing anybody. In fact, no one can even get into the palace.”

Mary sat there, trying to figure out what it could be. Was Ionescu preparing to make a major announcement of some kind? Was a coup imminent? Something important must be happening. Whatever it was, Mary knew she had to find out.

“Dorothy,” she said, “you have contacts over at the presidential palace, don’t you?”

Dorothy smiled. “You mean the ‘old-girl network’? Sure. We talk to one another.”

“I’d like you to find out what’s going on there…”

An hour later, Dorothy reported back. “I found out what you wanted to know,” she said. “They’re keeping it very hush-hush.”

“Keeping what hush-hush?”

“Ionescu’s son is dying.”

Mary was aghast. “Nicu? What happened?”

“He has botulism poisoning.”

Mary asked quickly, “You mean there’s an epidemic here in Bucharest?”

“No, ma’am. Do you remember the epidemic they had in East Germany recently? Apparently Nicu visited there and someone gave him some canned food as a gift. He ate some of it yesterday.”

“But there’s an antiserum for that!” Mary exclaimed.

“The European countries are out of it. The epidemic last month used it all up.”

“Oh, my God.”

When Dorothy left the office, Mary sat there thinking. It might be too late, but still…She remembered how cheerful and happy young Nicu was. He was fourteen years old—only two years older than Beth.

She pressed the intercom button and said, “Dorothy, get me the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia.”

Five minutes later she was speaking to the director.

“Yes, Madam Ambassador, we have an antiserum for botulism poisoning, but we haven’t had any cases reported in the United States.”

“I’m not in the United States,” Mary told him. “I’m in Bucharest. I need that serum immediately.”

There was a pause. “I’ll be happy to supply some,” the director said, “but botulism poisoning works very rapidly. I’m afraid that by the time it gets there…”

“I’ll arrange for it to get here,” Mary said. “Just have it ready. Thank you.”

Ten minutes later she was speaking to Air Force General Ralph Zukor in Washington.

“Good morning, Madam Ambassador. Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. My wife and I are big fans of yours. How are—?”

“General, I need a favor.”

“Certainly. Anything you want.”

“I need your fastest jet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need a jet to fly some serum to Bucharest right away.”

“I see.”

“Can you do it?”

“Well, yes. I’ll tell you what you have to do. You’ll have to get the approval of the secretary of defense. There are some requisition forms for you to fill out. One copy should go to me and another copy to the Department of Defense. We’ll send those on to—”

Mary listened, seething. “General—let me tell you what
you
have to do. You have to stop talking and get that damned jet up in the air. If—”

“There’s no way that—”

“A boy’s life is at stake. And the boy happens to be the son of the President of Romania.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize—”

“General, if that boy dies because some form hasn’t been filled out, I promise you that I’m going to call the biggest press conference you’ve ever seen. I’ll let you explain why you let Ionescu’s son die.”

“I can’t possibly authorize an operation like this without an approval from the White House. If—”

Mary snapped “Then get it. The serum will be waiting at the Atlanta airport. And, General—every single minute counts.”

She hung up and sat there, silently praying.

General Ralph Zukor’s aide said, “What was that all about, sir?”

General Zukor said, “The ambassador expects me to send up an SR-71 to fly some serum to Romania.”

The aide smiled. “I’m sure she has no idea of what’s involved, General.”

“Obviously. But we might as well cover ourselves. Get me Stanton Rogers.”

Five minutes later the general was speaking to the President’s foreign adviser. “I just wanted to go on record with you that the request was made, and I naturally refused. If—”

Stanton Rogers said, “General, how soon can you have an SR-71 airborne?”

“In ten minutes, but—”

“Do it.”

Nicu Ionescu’s nervous system had been affected. He lay in bed, disoriented, sweating and pale, attached to a respirator. There were three doctors at his bedside.

President Ionescu strode into his son’s bedroom. “What’s happening?”

“Your Excellency, we have communicated with our colleagues all over Eastern and Western Europe. There is no antiserum left.”

“What about the United States?”

The doctor shrugged. “By the time we could arrange for someone to fly the serum here—” he paused delicately, “I’m afraid it would be too late.”

Ionescu walked over to the bed and picked up his son’s hand. It was moist and clammy. “You’re not going to die,” Ionescu wept. “You’re not going to die.”

When the jet touched down at Atlanta International Airport, an air force limousine was waiting with the antibotulism serum, packed in ice. Three minutes later the jet was back in the air, on a northeast heading.

The SR-71—the air force’s fastest supersonic jet—flies at three times the speed of sound. It slowed down once to refuel over the mid-Atlantic. The plane made the five-thousand-mile flight to Bucharest in a little over two and a half hours.

Colonel McKinney was waiting at the airport. An army escort cleared the way to the presidential palace.

Mary had remained in her office all night, getting up-to-the-minute reports on developments. The last report came in at six
A.M.

Colonel McKinney telephoned. “They gave the boy the serum. The doctors say he’s going to live.”

“Oh, thank God!”

Two days later, a diamond-and-emerald necklace was delivered to Mary’s office with a note:

I can never thank you enough.

Alexandros Ionescu

“My God!” Dorothy exclaimed when she saw the necklace. “It must have cost half a million dollars!”

“At least,” Mary said. “Return it.”

The following morning, President Ionescu sent for Mary.

An aide said, “The President is waiting for you in his office.”

“May I see Nicu first?”

“Yes, of course.” He led her upstairs.

Nicu was lying in bed, reading. He looked up as Mary entered. “Good morning, Madam Ambassador.”

“Good morning, Nicu.”

“My father told me what you did. I wish to thank you.”

Mary said, “I couldn’t let you die. I’m saving you for Beth one day.”

Nicu laughed. “Bring her over and we’ll talk about it.”

President Ionescu was waiting for Mary downstairs. He said without preamble, “You returned my gift.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

He indicated a chair. “Sit down.” He studied her a moment. “What do you want?”

Mary said, “I don’t make trades for children’s lives.”

“You saved my son’s life. I must give you something”

“You don’t owe me anything, Your Excellency.”

Ionescu pounded his fist on the desk. “I will not be indebted to you! Name your price.”

Mary said, “Your Excellency, there is no price. I have two children of my own. I know how you must feel.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you? Nicu is my only son. If anything had happened to him—” He stopped, unable to go on.

“I went upstairs to see him. He looks fine.” She rose. “If there’s nothing else, Your Excellency, I have an appointment back at the embassy.” She started to leave.

“Wait!”

Mary turned.

“You will not accept a gift?”

“No. I’ve explained—”

Ionescu held up a hand. “All right, all right.” He thought for a moment. “If you were to make a wish, what would you wish for?”

“There is nothing—”

“You must! I insist! One wish. Anything you want.”

Mary stood there, studying his face, thinking. Finally she said, “I wish that the restriction on the Jews waiting to leave Romania could be lifted.”

Ionescu sat there, listening to her words. His fingers drummed on the desk. “I see.” He was still for a long time. Finally he looked up at Mary. “It shall be done. They will not all be allowed out, of course, but—I will make it easier.”

When the announcement was made public two days later, Mary received a telephone call from President Ellison himself.

“By God,” he said, “I thought I was sending over a diplomat, and I got a miracle worker.”

“I was just lucky, Mr. President.”

“It’s the kind of luck I wish all my diplomats had. I want to congratulate you, Mary, on everything you’ve been doing over there.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

She hung up, feeling a warm glow.

“July is just around the corner,” Harriet Kruger told Mary. “In the past, the ambassador always gave a Fourth of July party for the Americans living in Bucharest. If you’d prefer not to—”

“No. I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“Fine. I’ll take care of all the arrangements. A lot of flags, balloons, an orchestra—the works.”

“Sounds wonderful. Thank you, Harriet.”

It would eat into the residence’s expense account, but it would be worth it.
The truth is,
Mary thought,
I miss home.

Florence and Douglas Schiffer surprised Mary with a visit.

“We’re in Rome,” Florence screamed over the telephone. “Can we come and see you?”

Mary was thrilled. “How soon can you get here?”

“How does tomorrow grab you?”

When the Schiffers arrived at Otopeni Airport the following day, Mary was there to meet them with the embassy limousine. There was an excited exchange of hugs and kisses.

“You look fantastic!” Florence said. “Being an ambassador hasn’t changed you a bit.”

You’d be surprised,
Mary thought.

On the ride back to the residence, Mary pointed out the sights, the same sights she had seen for the first time only four months earlier. Had it been only four months? It seemed an eternity.

“This is where you live?” Florence asked as they drove into the gates of the residence, guarded by a marine. “I’m impressed.”

Mary gave the Schiffers a tour of the residence.

“My God!” Florence exclaimed. “A swimming pool, a theater, a thousand rooms, and your own park!”

They were seated in the large dining room, having lunch and gossiping about their neighbors in Junction City.

“Do you miss the place at all?” Douglas wanted to know.

“Yes.” And even as she said it, Mary realized how far she had come from home. Junction City had meant peace and security, an easy, friendly way of life. Here, there was fear and terror and obscene threats scrawled on her office walls in red paint.
Red, the color of violence.

“What are you thinking?” Florence asked.

“What? Oh, nothing. I was just daydreaming. What are you lovely people doing in Europe?”

“I had to attend a medical convention in Rome,” Douglas said.

“Go on—tell the rest,” Florence prompted.

“Well, the truth is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, but we were concerned about you and wanted to find out how you were doing. So here we are.”

“I’m so glad.”

“I never thought I’d know such a big star,” Florence sighed.

Mary laughed. “Florence, being an ambassador doesn’t make me a star.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“Don’t you really know?”

“Know what?”

“Mary, there was a big article about you in
Time
last week, with a picture of you and the children. You’re being written about in all the magazines and newspapers at home. When Stanton Rogers gives news conferences about foreign affairs, he uses you as a shining example. The President talks about you. Believe me, your name is on everyone’s lips.”

“I guess I’ve been out of touch,” Mary said. She remembered what Stanton had said:
The President ordered the buildup.
“How long can you stay?” Mary asked.

“I’d love to stay forever, but we planned three days here and then we’re on our way back home.”

Douglas asked, “How
are
you getting along, Mary? I mean about—you know—Edward?”

“I’m getting better,” Mary said slowly. “I talk to him every night. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not really.”

“It’s still hell. But I try. I try.”

“Have you—er—met anyone?” Florence asked delicately.

Mary smiled. “As a matter of fact, maybe I have. You’ll meet him at dinner tonight.”

The Schiffers took to Dr. Louis Desforges immediately. They had heard that the French were aloof and snobbish, but Louis proved to be friendly and warm and outgoing. He and Douglas got into long discussions about medicine. It was one of Mary’s happiest evenings since she had come to Bucharest. For a brief time she felt safe and relaxed.

At eleven o’clock the Schiffers retired upstairs to the guest room that had been prepared for them. Mary was downstairs saying good night to Louis.

He said, “I like your friends very much. I hope I shall see them again.”

“They liked you too. They’re leaving for Kansas in a couple of days,” Mary said.