Windmills of the Gods (4 page)

“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 neighbors 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 toward the hospital, and Mary driving toward the town of Manhattan, where the university was located, sixteen 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.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Douglas Schiffer?”

“Yes…?”

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an identification card. “My name is Donald Zamlock. I’m with the Security Agency of the State Department.”

“Good God! Don’t tell me Doug has robbed a bank!”

The agent smiled politely. “No, ma’am. Not that we know of. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Mrs. Ashley.”

She looked at him with sudden concern. “Mary? What about her?”

“May I come in?”

“Yes. Of course.” Florence Schiffer led him into the living room. “Sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

“Why would you be asking about Mary?”

He smiled reassuringly. “This is just a routine check. She’s not suspected of any wrongdoing.”

“I should hope not,” Florence Schiffer said indignantly. “Mary Ashley is one of the nicest persons you’ll ever meet.” She added, “
Have
you met her?”

“No, ma’am. This visit is confidential, and I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. How long have you known Mrs. Ashley?”

“About thirteen years. Since the day she moved in next door.”

“Would you say that you know Mrs. Ashley well?”

“Of course I would. Mary’s my closest friend. What—?”

“Do she and her husband get along well?”

“Next to Douglas and me, they’re the happiest couple I’ve ever known.” She thought a moment. “I take that back. They
are
the happiest couple I’ve ever known.”

“I understand Mrs. Ashley has two children. A girl twelve and a boy ten?”

“That’s right. Beth and Tim.”

“Would you say she’s a good mother?”

“She’s a
great
mother. What’s—?”

“Mrs. Schiffer, in your opinion, is Mrs. Ashley an emotionally stable person?”

“Of course she is.”

“She has no emotional problems that you are aware of?”

“Certainly not.”

“Does she drink?”

“No. She doesn’t like alcohol.”

“What about drugs?”

“You’ve come to the wrong town, mister. We don’t have a drug problem in Junction City.”

“Mrs. Ashley is married to a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“If she wanted to get drugs—?”

“You’re way off base. She doesn’t do drugs. She doesn’t snort, and she doesn’t shoot up.”

He studied her a moment. “You seem to know all the terminology.”

“I watch
Miami Vice,
like everybody else.” Florence Schiffer was getting angry. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Mary Ashley’s grandfather was born in Romania. Have you ever heard her discuss Romania?”

“Oh, once in a while she’ll tell stories her grandfather told her about the old country. Her grandfather was born in Romania but he came over here when he was in his teens.”

“Have you ever heard Mrs. Ashley express a negative opinion about the present Romanian government?”

“No. Not that I can remember.”

“One last question. Have you ever heard Mrs. Ashley or Dr. Ashley say anything against the United States government?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Then in your estimation, they’re both loyal Americans?”

“You bet they are. Would you mind telling me—?”

The man rose. “I want to thank you for your time, Mrs. Schiffer. And I’d like to impress upon you again that this matter is highly confidential. I would appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with anyone—not even your husband.”

A moment later he was out the door. Florence Schiffer stood there staring after him. “I don’t believe this whole conversation took place,” she said aloud.

The two agents drove down Washington Street, heading north. They passed a billboard that read:
ENJOY YOURSELF IN THE LAND OF AH’S
.

“Cute,” Rex Olds grunted.

They went by the chamber of commerce and the Royal Order of the Elks building, Irma’s Pet Grooming and a bar called The Fat Chance. The commercial buildings came to an abrupt end.

Donald Zamlock said, “Jesus, the main street is only two blocks long. This isn’t a town. It’s a pit stop.”

Rex Olds said, “To you it’s a pit stop, and to me it’s a pit stop, but to these people it’s a town.”

Zamlock shook his head. “It’s probably a nice place to live, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to visit here.”

The sedan pulled up in front of the state bank and Rex Olds went inside.

He returned twenty minutes later. “Clean,” he said, getting into the car. “The Ashleys have seven thousand dollars in the bank, a mortgage on their house, and they pay their bills on time. The president of the bank thinks the doctor is too soft-hearted to be a good businessman, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s a top credit risk.”

Zamlock looked at a clipboard at his side. “Let’s check out a few more names and get back to civilization before I begin to moo.”

Douglas Schiffer was normally a pleasant, easygoing man, but at the moment there was a grim expression on his face. The Schiffers and the Ashleys were in the middle of their weekly bridge game, and the Schiffers were ten thousand points behind. For the fourth time that evening, Florence Schiffer had reneged.

Douglas Schiffer slammed down his cards. “Florence!” he exploded. “Which side are you playing on? Do you know how much we’re down?”

“I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “I—I just can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Obviously,” her husband snorted.

“Is anything bothering you?” Edward Ashley asked Florence.

“I can’t tell you.”

They all looked at her in surprise. “What does
that
mean?” her husband asked.

Florence Schiffer took a deep breath. “Mary—it’s about you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?”

Mary stared at her. “Trouble? No. I—what makes you think that?”

“I’m not supposed to tell. I promised.”

“You promised who?” Edward asked.

“A federal agent from Washington. He was at the house this morning asking me all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy.”

“What kind of questions?” Edward demanded.

“Oh, you know. Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and mother? Was she on drugs?”

“Why the devil would they be asking you questions like that?”

“Wait a minute,” Mary said excitedly. “I think I know. It’s about my tenure.”

“What?” Florence asked.

“I’m up for tenure. The university does some sensitive government research on campus, so I suppose they have to check everyone pretty thoroughly.”

“Well, thank God that’s all it is.” Florence Schiffer breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought they were going to lock you up.”

“I hope they do,” Mary smiled. “At Kansas State.”

“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Douglas Schiffer said, “can we get on with the game?” He turned to his wife. “If you renege one more time, I’m going to put you over my knee.”

“Promises, promises.”

Abbeywood, England

“We are meeting under the usual rules,” the chairman announced. “No records will be kept, this meeting will never be discussed, and we will refer to one another by the code names we have been assigned.”

There were eight men inside the library of the fifteenth-century Claymore Castle. Two armed men in plain clothes, bundled up in heavy overcoats, kept vigil outside, while a third man guarded the door to the library. The eight men inside the room had arrived at the site separately a short time earlier.

The chairman continued. “The Controller has received some disturbing information. Marin Groza is preparing a coup against Alexandras Ionescu. A group of senior army officers in Romania has decided to back Groza. This time he could very well be successful.”

Odin spoke up. “How would that affect our plan?”

“It could destroy it. It would open too many bridges to the West.”

Freyr said, “Then we must prevent it from happening.”

Balder asked, “How?”

“We assassinate Groza,” the chairman replied.

“That’s impossible. Ionescu’s men have made half a dozen attempts that we know of, and they’ve all failed. His villa seems to be impregnable. Anyway, no one in this room can afford to be involved in an assassination attempt.”

“We wouldn’t be directly involved,” the chairman said.

“Then how?”

“The Controller discovered a confidential dossier that concerns an international terrorist who’s for hire.”

“Abul Abbas, the man who organized the hijacking of the
Achille Lauro
?”

“No. There’s a new gun in town, gentlemen. A better one. He’s called Angel.”

“Never heard of him,” Sigmund said.

“Exactly. His credentials are most impressive. According to the Controller’s file, Angel was involved in the Sikh Khalistan assassination in India. He helped the Macheteros terrorists in Puerto Rico, and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. He’s masterminded the assassinations of half a dozen army officers in Israel and the Israelis have offered a million-dollar reward for him, dead or alive.”

“He sounds promising,” Thor said. “Can we get him?”

“He’s expensive. If he agrees to take the contract, it will cost us two million dollars.”

Freyr whistled, then shrugged. “That can be handled. We’ll take it from the general fund we’ve set up.”

“How do we get to this Angel person?” Sigmund asked.

“All his contacts are handled through his mistress, a woman named Neusa Muñez.”

“Where do we find her?”

“She lives in Argentina. Angel has set her up in an apartment in Buenos Aires.”

Thor said, “What would the next step be? Who would get in touch with her for us?”

The chairman replied, “The Controller has suggested a man named Harry Lantz.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

The chairman said dryly, “Yes. He’s been in the newspapers. Harry Lantz is a maverick. He was thrown out of the CIA for setting up his own drug business in Vietnam. While he was with the CIA, he did a tour in South America, so he knows the territory. He’d be a perfect go-between.” He paused. “I suggest we take a vote. All those in favor of hiring Angel, please raise your hands.”

Eight well-manicured hands went into the air.

“Then it’s settled.” The chairman rose. “The meeting is adjourned. Please observe the usual precautions.”

It was a Monday, and Constable Leslie Hanson was having a picnic in the greenhouse on the castle’s grounds, where he had no right to be. He was not alone, he later had to explain to his superiors. It was warm in the greenhouse, and his companion, Annie, a buxom country lass, had prevailed upon the good constable to bring a picnic hamper.

“You supply the food,” Annie giggled, “and I’ll supply the dessert.”

The “dessert” was five feet six inches, with beautiful, shapely breasts and hips that a man could sink his teeth into.

Unfortunately, in the middle of dessert Constable Hanson’s concentration was distracted by a limousine driving out of the castle gate.

“This bloody place is supposed to be closed on Mondays,” he muttered.

“Don’t lose your place,” Annie coaxed.

“Not likely, pet.”

Twenty minutes later, the constable heard a second car leaving. This time he was curious enough to get up and peer out the window. It looked like an official limousine, with darkened windows that concealed the passengers.

“Are you comin’, then, Leslie?”

“Right. I just can’t figure out who could be in the castle. Except for tour days, it’s closed down.”

“Exactly what’s going to happen to me, love, if you don’t hop it.”

Twenty minutes later, when Constable Hanson heard the third car leave, his libido lost out to his instincts as a policeman. There were five more vehicles, all limousines, all spaced twenty minutes apart. Because one of the cars stopped long enough to let a deer run by, Constable Hanson was able to note the license-plate number.

“It’s supposed to be your bloody day off,” Annie complained.

“This could be important,” the constable said. And even as he said it, he wondered whether he was going to report it.

“What were you doing at Claymore Castle?” Sergeant Twill demanded.

“Sight-seeing, sir.”

“The castle was closed.”

“Yes, sir. The greenhouse was open.”

“So you decided to sight-see in the greenhouse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alone, of course?”

“Well, to tell the truth—”

“Spare me the grotty details, Constable. What made you suspicious of the cars?”

“Their behavior, sir.”

“Cars don’t behave, Hanson. Drivers do.”

“Of course, sir. The drivers seemed very cautious. The cars left at intervals of twenty minutes.”

“You are aware, of course, that there are probably a thousand innocent explanations. In fact, Hanson, the only one who doesn’t seem to have an innocent explanation is yourself.”

“Yes, sir. But I thought I should report this.”

“Right. Is this the license number you got?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Be off with you.” He thought of one witticism to add. “Remember—it’s dangerous to throw stones at people if you’re in a glass house.” He chuckled at his
bon mot
all morning.

When the report on the license plate came back, Sergeant Twill decided that Hanson had made a mistake. He took his information upstairs to Inspector Pakula and explained the background.

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, Inspector, but the license-plate number—”

“Yes. I see. I’ll take care of it.’”

“Thank you, sir.”

At SIS Headquarters, Inspector Pakula had a brief meeting with one of the senior heads of the British Secret Intelligence Service, a beefy, florid-faced man, Sir Alex Hyde-White.

“You were quite right to bring this to my attention,” Sir Alex smiled, “but I’m afraid it’s nothing more sinister than trying to arrange a royal vacation trip without the press being aware of it.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you about this.” Inspector Pakula rose to his feet.

“Not at all, Inspector. Shows your branch is on its toes. What did you say the name of that young constable was?”

“Hanson, sir. Leslie Hanson.”

When the door closed behind Inspector Pakula, Sir Alex Hyde-White picked up a red telephone on his desk. “I have a message for Balder. We have a small problem. I’ll explain it at the next meeting. Meanwhile, I want you to arrange for three transfers. Police Sergeant Twill, an Inspector Pakula, and Constable Leslie Hanson. Spread them out a few days. I want them sent to separate posts, as far from London as
possible. I’ll inform the Controller and see if he wants to take any further action.”

In his hotel room in New York, Harry Lantz was awakened in the middle of the night by the ringing of the telephone.

Who the hell knows I’m here?
he wondered. He looked blearily at the bedside clock, then snatched up the phone. “It’s four o’fucking clock in the morning! Who the—?”

A soft voice at the other end of the line began speaking, and Lantz sat upright in bed, his heart beginning to pound. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir…No, sir, but I can arrange to make myself free.” He listened for a long time. Finally he said, “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll be on the first plane to Buenos Aires. Thank you, sir.”

He replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. The man he had just spoken to was one of the most powerful men in the world, and what he had asked Harry to do…
What the hell is going down?
Harry Lantz asked himself.
Something big.
The man was going to pay him fifty thousand dollars to deliver a message. It would be fun going back to Argentina. Harry Lantz loved the South American women.
I know a dozen bitches there with hot pants who would rather fuck than eat.

The day was starting out great.

At nine
A.M.
Lantz picked up the telephone and dialed the number of Aerolíneas Argentinas. “What time is your first flight to Buenos Aires?”

The 747 arrived at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at five
P.M.
the following afternoon. It had been a long flight, but Harry Lantz had not minded it.
Fifty thousand dollars for delivering a message.
He felt a surge of excitement as the wheels lightly kissed the ground. He had not been to Argentina
for almost five years. It would be fun to renew old acquaintances.

As Harry Lantz stepped out of the plane, the blast of hot air startled him for a moment.
Of course. It’s summer here.

During the taxi ride into the city, Lantz was amused to see that the graffiti scrawled on the sides of buildings and sidewalks had not changed.
PLEBISCITO LAS PELOTAS
(Fuck the plebiscite).
MILITARES
,
ASESINOS
(Army, assassins).
TENEMOS HAMBRE
(We are hungry).
MARIHUANA LIBRE
(Free pot).
DROGA
,
SEXO Y MUCHO ROCK
(Drugs, sex and rock ‘n’ roll).
JUICIO Y CASTIGO A LOS CULPABLES
(Trial and punishment for the guilty).

Yes, it was good to be back.

Siesta was over and the streets were crowded with people lazily walking to and from appointments. When the taxi arrived at the Hotel El Conquistador in the heart of the fashionable Barrio Norte sector, Lantz paid the driver with a million-peso note.

“Keep the change,” he said. Their money was a joke.

He registered at the desk in the huge, modern lobby, picked up a copy of the
Buenos Aires Herald
and
La Prensa,
and let the assistant manager show him to his suite. Sixty dollars a day for a bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen, air-conditioned, with television.
In Washington, this setup would cost an arm and a leg,
Harry Lantz thought.
I’ll take care of my business with this Neusa broad tomorrow, and stay around a few days and enjoy myself.

It was more than two weeks before Harry Lantz was able to track down Neusa Muñez.

His search began with the city telephone directories. Lantz started with the places in the heart of the city: Area Constitution, Plaza San Martin, Barrio Norte, Catelinas Norte. None of them had a listing for a Neusa Muñez. Nor was there any
listing in the outlying areas of Bahía Blanca or Mar del Plata.

Where the hell is she?
Lantz wondered. He took to the streets, looking up old contacts.

He walked into La Biela, and the bartender cried out, “
Señor
Lantz!
Por dios
—I heard you were dead.”

Lantz grinned. “I was, but I missed you so much, Antonio, I came back.”

“What are you doing in Buenos Aires?”

Lantz let his voice grow pensive. “I came here to find an old girl friend. We were supposed to get married, but her family moved away and I lost track of her. Her name is Neusa Muñez.”

The bartender scratched his head. “Never heard of her.
Lo siento.
”

“Would you ask around, Antonio?”

“¿Por qué no?”

Lantz’s next stop was to see a friend at police headquarters.

“Lantz! Harry Lantz!
¡Dios! ¿Qué pasa?”

“Hello, Jorge. Nice to see you, amigo.”

“Last I heard about you, the CIA kicked you out.”

Harry Lantz laughed. “No way, my friend. They begged me to stay. I quit to go into business for myself.”

“
¿Sí?
What business are you in?”

“I opened up my own detective agency. As a matter of fact, that’s what brings me to Buenos Aires. A client of mine died a few weeks ago. He left his daughter a bundle of money, and I’m trying to locate her. All the information I have on her is that she lives in an apartment somewhere in Buenos Aires.”

“What’s her name?”

“Neusa Muñez.”

“Wait here a moment.”

The moment stretched into half an hour.

“Sorry, amigo. I can’t help you. She is not in our computer or in any of our files.”

“Oh, well. If you should come across any information about her, I’m at the El Conquistador.”

“Bueno.”

The bars were next. Old familiar haunts. The Pepe Gonzalez and Almeida, Café Tabac.

“Buenas tardes, amigo. Soy de los Estados Unidos. Estoy buscando una mujer. El nombre es Neusa Muñez. Es una emergencia.”

“Lo siento, señor. No la conozco.”

The answer was the same everywhere.
No one has ever heard of the fucking broad.

Harry Lantz wandered around La Boca, the colorful waterfront area where one could see old ships rusting at anchor in the river. No one around there knew of Neusa Muñez. For the first time, Harry Lantz began to feel he might be on a wild-goose chase.

It was at the Pilar, a small bar in the barrios of Floresta, that his luck suddenly changed. It was a Friday night and the bar was filled with workingmen. It took Lantz ten minutes to get the bartender’s attention. Before Lantz was halfway through his prepared speech, the bartender said, “Neusa Muñez?
Sí.
I know her. If she wishes to talk to you, she will come here
mañana,
about midnight.”