Windmills of the Gods (30 page)

Mike tried to control his excitement. “How does it work?”

“There’s a switch that—”

“No,” Mike said. “Nothing electrical. A spark could set them all off. Can it be done manually?”

“Yes.” The words were tumbling out. “The roof is divided in half. There’s a crank on each side that—” She was talking to herself.

The two men were frantically racing upstairs. When they reached the top floor, they found the door opening onto a loft, and hurried inside. A wooden ladder led to a catwalk above that was used by workmen to clean the ceiling of the ballroom. A crank was fastened to the wall.

“There must be another one on the other side,” Mike said.

He started across the narrow catwalk, pushing his way through the sea of deadly balloons, struggling to keep his balance, trying not to look down at the mob of people far below. A current of air pushed a mass of balloons against him, and he slipped. One foot went off the catwalk. He began to fall. He grabbed the boards as he fell, hanging on. Slowly, he managed to pull himself up. He was soaked in perspiration. He inched his way along the rest of the walk. Fastened to the wall was the crank.

“I’m ready,” Mike called to the colonel. “Careful. No sudden moves.”

“Right.”

Mike began turning the crank very slowly.

Under the table, the timer was down to two minutes.

Mike could not see Colonel McKinney because of the balloons, but he could hear the sound of the other crank being turned. Slowly, very slowly, the roof started to slide open. A few balloons, lifted by the helium, drifted into the night air, and as the roof opened farther, more balloons began to escape. Hundreds of them poured through the opening, dancing into the star-filled night, drawing oohs and ahs from the unsuspecting guests below and the people out in the street.

On the ground floor there were forty-five seconds left on the remote-control timer. A cluster of balloons caught on the edge of the ceiling just out of Mike’s reach. He strained forward
trying to free them. They swayed just beyond his fingertips. Carefully he moved out on the catwalk with nothing to hold on to and strained to push the balloons free.
Now!

Mike stood there watching the last of the balloons escape. They soared higher and higher, painting the velvet night with their vivid colors, and suddenly the sky exploded.

There was a tremendous roar, and the tongues of red and white flames shot high into the air. It was a Fourth of July celebration such as had never been seen before. Below, everyone applauded.

Mike watched, drained, too tired to move. It was over.

The roundup was timed to take place simultaneously, in far-flung corners of the world.

Floyd Baker, the secretary of state, was in bed with his mistress when the door burst open. Four men came into the room.

“What the hell do you mean by—?”

One of the men pulled out an identification card. “FBI, Mr. Secretary. You’re under arrest.”

Floyd Baker stared at them unbelievingly. “You must be mad. What’s the charge?”

“Treason, Thor.”

General Oliver Brooks, Odin, was having breakfast at his club when two FBI agents walked up to his table and arrested him.

Sir Alex Hyde-White, KBE, MP, Freyr, was being toasted at a parliamentary dinner when the club steward approached him. “Excuse me, Sir Alex. There are some gentlemen outside who would like a word with you.…”

In Paris, in the Chambre des Députés de la République Française, a deputy, Balder, was called off the floor and arrested by the DGSE.

In the parliament building in New Delhi, the speaker of the Lok Sabha, Vishnu, was bundled into a limousine and taken to jail.

In Rome, the deputy of the Camera dei Deputati, Tyr, was in a Turkish bath when he was arrested.

The sweep went on:

In Mexico and Albania and Japan, high officials were arrested and held in jails. A member of the Bundestag in West Germany, a deputy in the Nationalrat in Austria, the vicechairman of the Presidium of the Soviet Union.

The arrests included the president of a large shipping company and a powerful union leader, a television evangelist and the head of an oil cartel.

Eddie Maltz was shot while trying to escape.

Pete Connors committed suicide while FBI agents were breaking down the door to his office.

Mary and Mike Slade were seated in the Bubble Room, receiving reports from around the world.

Mike was on the telephone. “Vreeland,” he said. “He’s an MP in the South African government.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Mary. “They’ve got most of them. Except for the Controller and Neusa Muñez—Angel.”

“No one knew that Angel was a woman?” Mary marveled.

“No. She had all of us fooled. Lantz described her to the Patriots for Freedom Committee as a fat, ugly moron.”

“What about the Controller?” Mary asked.

“No one ever saw him. He gave orders by telephone. He was a brilliant organizer. The Committee was broken up into small cells, so that one group never knew what the other was doing.”

Angel was furious. In fact, she was more than furious. She was like an enraged animal. The contract had gone wrong somehow, but she had been prepared to make up for it.

She had called the private number in Washington, and, using her dull, listless voice, had said, “Angel say to tell you not to worry. There was som’ mistake, but he weel take care of it, mester. They will all die nex’ time, and—”

“There won’t be a next time,” the voice had exploded. “Angel bungled it. He’s worse than an amateur.”

“Angel tol’ me—”

“I don’t give a damn what he told you. He’s finished. He won’t get a cent. Just tell the son of a bitch to keep away. I’ll find someone else who knows how to do the job.”

And he had slammed the phone down.

The gringo bastard.
No one had ever treated Angel like that and lived to talk about it. Pride was at stake. The man was going to pay. Oh, how he would pay!

The private phone in the Bubble Room rang. Mary picked it up. It was Stanton Rogers.

“Mary! You’re safe! Are the children all right?”

“We’re all fine, Stan.”

“Thank God it’s over. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“It was Angel. She tried to blow up the residence and—”

“You mean
he.
”

“No. Angel is a woman. Her name is Neusa Muñez.”

There was a long, stunned silence. “
Neusa Muñez?
That fat, ugly moron was
Angel
?”

Mary felt a sudden chill go through her. She said slowly, “That’s right, Stan.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mary?”

“No. I’m on my way to see the children. I’ll talk to you later.”

She replaced the receiver and sat there, dazed.

Mike looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

She turned to him. “You said that Harry Lantz told only some Committee members what Neusa Muñez looked like.”

“Yes.”

Mary said, “Stanton Rogers just described her.”

When Angel’s plane landed at Dulles Airport, she went to a telephone booth and dialed the Controller’s private number.

The familiar voice said, “Stanton Rogers.”

Two days later, Mike, Colonel McKinney, and Mary were seated in the embassy conference room. An electronics expert had just finished debugging it.

“It all fits now,” Mike said. “The Controller
had
to be Stanton Rogers, but none of us could see it.”

“But why would he want to kill me?” Mary asked. “In the beginning, he was
against
my being appointed ambassador. He told me so himself.”

Mike explained. “He hadn’t completely formulated his plan then. But once he realized what you and the children symbolized, everything clicked. After that, he
fought
for you to get the nomination. That’s what threw us off the track. He was behind you all the way, seeing to it that you got a buildup in the press, making sure that you were seen in all the right places by the right people.”

Mary shuddered. “Why would he want to get involved with—?”

“Stanton Rogers never forgave Paul Ellison for being President. He felt cheated. He started out as a liberal, and he married a right-wing reactionary. My guess is that his wife turned him around.”

“Have they found him yet?”

“No. He’s disappeared. But he can’t hide for very long.”

Stanton Rogers’s head was found in a Washington, D.C., garbage dump two days later. His eyes had been torn out.

President Paul Ellison was calling from the White House. “I’m refusing to accept your resignation.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I can’t—”

“Mary, I know how much you’ve been through, but I’m asking you to remain at your post in Romania.”

I know how much you’ve been through.
Did anyone have any idea? She had been so unbelievably naive when she arrived, filled with such ideals and high hopes. She was going to be the symbol and spirit of her country. She was going to show the world how wonderful Americans really were. And all the time she had been a cat’s-paw. She had been used by her President, her government, by everyone around her. She and her children had been placed in mortal danger. She thought of Edward, and of how he had been murdered, and of Louis and his lies and his death. She thought of the destruction Angel had sown all over the world.

I’m not the same person I was when I came here,
Mary thought.
I was an innocent. I’ve grown up the hard way, but
I’ve grown up. I’ve managed to accomplish something here. I got Hannah Murphy out of prison, and I made our grain deal. I saved the life of Ionescu’s son, and I got the Romanians their bank loan. I rescued some Jews.

“Hello. Are you there?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.” She looked across her desk at Mike Slade, who was slouched back in his chair, studying her.

“You’ve done a truly remarkable job,” the President said. “We’re all terribly proud of you. Have you seen the newspapers?”

She did not give a damn about the newspapers.

“You’re the person we need over there. You’ll be doing our country a great service, my dear.”

The President was waiting for an answer. Mary was thinking, weighing her decision.
I’ve become a damned good ambassador, and there’s so much more that still has to be done here.

She said, finally, “Mr. President, if I did agree to stay, I would insist that our country give sanctuary to Corina Socoli.”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I’ve already explained why we can’t do that. It would offend Ionescu and—”

“He’ll get over it. I know Ionescu, Mr. President. He’s using her as a bargaining chip.”

There was a long, thoughtful silence. “How would you get her out of Romania?”

“An army cargo plane is due to arrive in the morning. I’ll send her out in that.”

There was a pause. “I see. Very well. I’ll square it with State. If that’s all—?”

Mary looked over at Mike Slade again. “No, sir. There’s one thing more. I want Mike Slade to stay here with me. I need him. We make a good team.”

Mike was watching her, a private smile on his lips.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the President said firmly.
“I need Slade back here. He already has another assignment.”

Mary sat there, holding the phone, saying nothing.

The President went on. “We’ll send you someone else. You can have your choice. Anyone you want.”

Silence.

“We really do need Mike here.”

Mary glanced over at Mike again.

The President said, “Mary? Hello? What is this—some kind of blackmail?”

Mary sat, silently waiting.

Finally, the President said grudgingly, “Well, I suppose if you really need him, we might spare him for a little while.”

Mary felt her heart lighten. “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll be happy to stay on as ambassador.”

The President had a final parting shot. “You’re a hell of a negotiator, Madam Ambassador. I have some interesting plans in mind for you when you’re finished there. Good luck! And stay out of trouble.”

The line went dead.

Mary slowly replaced the receiver. She looked across at Mike. “You’re going to be staying here. He told me to stay out of trouble.”

Mike Slade grinned. “He has a nice sense of humor.” He rose and moved toward her. “Do you remember the day I met you and called you a perfect ten?”

How well she remembered. “Yes.”

“I was wrong.
Now
you’re a perfect ten.”

She felt a warm glow. “Oh, Mike…”

“Since I’m staying on, Madam Ambassador, we’d better talk about the problem we’re having with the Romanian commerce minister.” He looked into her eyes and said softly, “Coffee?”

Copyright © 1987 by Sheldon Literary Trust

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