Windmills of the Gods (6 page)

Neusa Muñez seemed to be in no hurry. She moved down the Avenida Belgrano, past the Spanish library, and plodded along the Avenida Cordoba. Lantz watched as she walked into Berenes, a leather shop on San Martin. He stood across the street and observed her chatting with a male clerk. Lantz wondered whether the shop could be a connection with Angel. He made a mental note of it.

Neusa came out a few minutes later carrying a small package. Her next stop was at a
heladería
on Corrientes, for an ice cream. She walked down San Martin, moving slowly. She seemed to be strolling aimlessly with no particular destination in mind.

What the hell happened to her appointment?
Lantz wondered.
Where is Angel?
He did not believe Neusa’s statement
that Angel was out of town. His instincts told him that Angel was somewhere nearby.

Lantz suddenly realized that Neusa Muñez was not in sight. She had turned a corner ahead and disappeared. He quickened his step. When Lantz rounded the corner, she was nowhere to be seen. There were small shops on both sides of the street, and Lantz moved carefully, his eyes searching everywhere, fearful that Neusa might see him before he saw her.

He finally spied her in a
fiambrería,
a delicatessen, buying groceries. Were they for her, or was she expecting someone at her apartment for lunch? Someone named Angel.

From a distance, Lantz watched Neusa enter a
verdulería
and buy fruit and vegetables. He trailed her back to her apartment building. As far as he could tell, there had been no suspicious contacts.

Harry Lantz watched Neusa’s building from across the street for the next four hours, moving around to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Finally he decided that Angel was not going to show up.
Maybe I can get some more information out of her tonight,
Lantz thought,
without fucking her.
The idea of having to make love to Neusa again sickened him.

In the Oval Office at the White House, it was evening. It had been a long day for Paul Ellison. The entire world seemed to be composed of committees and councils and urgent cables and conclaves and sessions and he had not had a moment to himself until now. Well,
almost
to himself. Stanton Rogers was sitting across from him, and the President found himself relaxing for the first time that day.

“I’m keeping you from your family, Stan.”

“That’s all right, Paul.”

“I wanted to talk to you about the Mary Ashley investigation. How is it coming?”

“It’s almost completed. We’ll have a final check on her by tomorrow or the next day. So far it looks very good. I’m getting excited about the idea. I think it’s going to work.”

“We’ll
make
it work. Would you like another drink?”

“No, thanks. Unless you need me for anything else, I’m taking Barbara to an opening at the Kennedy Center.”

“You go ahead,” Paul Ellison said. “Alice and I are due to entertain some relatives of hers.”

“Please give my love to Alice,” Stanton Rogers said. He rose.

“And you give mine to Barbara.” He watched Stanton Rogers leave. The President’s thoughts turned to Mary Ashley.

When Harry Lantz arrived at Neusa’s apartment that evening to take her out to dinner, there was no answer to his knock. He felt a moment of consternation. Had she walked out on him?

He tried the door, and it was unlocked. Was Angel here to meet him? Perhaps he had decided to discuss the contract face-to-face. Harry assumed a brisk, businesslike manner and walked in.

The room was empty. “Hello.” Only an echo. He went into the bedroom. Neusa was lying across the bed, drunk.

“You dumb—” He caught himself. He must not forget that this stupid, drunken broad was his gold mine. He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to rouse her.

She opened her eyes. “Wha’sa matter?”

“I’m worried about you,” Lantz said. His voice throbbed with sincerity. “I hate to see you unhappy, and I think you’re drinking because someone is making you unhappy. I’m your friend. You can tell me all about it. It’s Angel, isn’t it?”

“Angel,” she mumbled.

“I’m sure he’s a nice man,” Harry Lantz said soothingly. “You two probably just had a little misunderstanding, right?”

He tried to straighten her out on the bed.
It’s like beaching a whale,
Lantz thought.

Lantz sat down beside her. “Tell me about Angel,” Lantz said. “What’s he doing to you?”

Neusa stared up at him, bleary-eyed, trying to focus on him. “Les fuck.”

Oh, Jesus!
It was going to be a long night. “Sure. Great idea.” Reluctantly, Lantz began to undress.

When Harry Lantz awakened in the morning alone in bed, memories came flooding into his brain, and he felt sick to his stomach.

Neusa had awakened him in the middle of the night. “You know wha’ I wan’ you to do to me?” she mumbled. She told him.

He had listened in disbelief, but he did the things she had asked him to do. He could not afford to antagonize her. She was a sick, wild animal, and Lantz wondered whether Angel had ever done those things for her. The thought of what he had gone through made Lantz want to vomit.

He heard Neusa singing off-key in the bathroom. He was not sure he could face her.
I’ve had enough,
Lantz thought.
If she doesn’t tell me this morning where Angel is, I’m going to his tailor and shoemaker.

He threw back the covers and went in to Neusa. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Her hair was in fat curlers, and she looked, if possible, even more unattractive than before.

“You and I are going to have a talk,” Lantz said firmly.

“Sure.” Neusa pointed to the bathtub full of water. “I fix a bath for you. When you’re finish’, I fix breakfast.”

Lantz was impatient, but he knew he must not press too hard.

“You like omelettes?”

He had no appetite. “Yeah. Sounds great.”

“I make good omelettes. Angel teach me.”

Lantz watched as she started to take the huge, lumpy curlers out of her hair. He stepped into the bathtub.

Neusa picked up a large electric dryer, plugged it in, and began drying her hair.

Lantz lay back in the warm tub thinking:
Maybe I should get a gun and take Angel myself. If I let the Israelis do it, there’ll probably be a fucking inquiry into who gets the reward. This way there won’t be any question. I’ll just tell them where to pick up his body.

Neusa said something, but Harry Lantz could barely hear her over the roar of the hair dryer.

“What did you say?” he called out.

Neusa moved to the side of the tub. “I got a presen’ for you from Angel.”

She dropped the electric hair dryer into the water and stood there watching as Lantz’s body twitched in a dance of death.

President Paul Ellison put down the last security report on Mary Ashley and said, “Not a blemish, Stan.”

“I know. I think she’s the perfect candidate. “Of course, State isn’t going to be happy.”

“We’ll send them a crying towel. Now let’s hope the Senate will back us up.”

Mary Ashley’s office in Kedzie Hall was a small, pleasant room lined with bookcases that were crammed with reference books on Middle European countries. The furniture was sparse, consisting of a battered desk with a swivel chair, a small table at the window piled with examination papers, a ladder-back chair, and a reading lamp. On the wall behind the desk was a map of the Balkans. An ancient photograph of Mary’s grandfather hung on the wall. It had been taken around the turn of the century, and the figure in the photograph was standing in a stiff, unnatural pose, dressed in the
clothes of the period. The picture was one of Mary’s treasures. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about Romania. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie, and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the prince consort of England, and Alexander II, czar of Russia, and dozens of other thrilling characters.

Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.

She used to have dreams about it.

Mary was in the middle of grading examination papers when the door opened and Dean Hunter walked in.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ashley. Do you have a moment?” It was the first time the dean had ever visited her office.

Mary felt a sudden sense of elation. There could be only one reason for the dean coming here himself: He was going to tell her that the university was giving her tenure.

“Of course,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

He sat down on the ladder-back chair. “How are your classes going?”

“Very well, I think.” She could not wait to relay the news to Edward. He would be so proud. It was seldom that someone her age received tenure from a university.

Dean Hunter seemed ill at ease. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Mrs. Ashley?”

The question caught her completely off guard. “Trouble? I—no. Why?”

“Some men from Washington have been to see me, asking questions about you.”

Mary Ashley heard the echo of Florence Schiffer’s words:
Some federal agent from Washington… He was asking all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy… Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and a good mother?
…

So it had not been about her tenure, after all. She suddenly
found it difficult to speak. “What—what did they want to know, Dean Hunter?”

“They inquired about your reputation as a professor, and they asked questions about your personal life.”

“I can’t explain it. I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m in no kind of trouble at all. As far as I know,” she added lamely.

He was watching her with obvious skepticism.

“Didn’t they tell you
why
they were asking questions about me?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I was asked to keep the conversation in strict confidence. But I have a loyalty to my staff, and I felt it only fair that you should be informed about this. If there is something I should know, I would prefer to hear it from you. Any scandal involving one of our professors would reflect badly on the university.”

She shook her head helplessly. “I—I really can’t think of anything.”

He looked at her a moment, as though about to say something else, then nodded. “So be it, Mrs. Ashley.”

She watched him walk out of her office and wondered:
What in God’s name could I have done?

Mary was very quiet during dinner. She wanted to wait until Edward finished eating before she broke the news of this latest development. They would try to figure out the problem together. The children were being impossible again. Beth refused to touch her dinner.

“No one eats meat anymore. It’s a barbaric custom carried over from the caveman. Civilized people don’t eat live animals.”

“It’s not alive,” Tim argued. “It’s dead, so you might as well eat it.”

“Children!” Mary’s nerves were on edge. “Not another word. Beth, go make yourself a salad.”

“She could go graze in the field,” Tim offered.

“Tim! You finish your dinner.” Her head was beginning to pound. “Edward—”

The telephone rang.

“That’s for me,” Beth said. She leaped out of her chair and raced toward the telephone. She picked it up and said seductively, “Virgil?” She listened a moment, and her expression changed. “Oh, sure,” she said disgustedly. She slammed down the receiver and returned to the table.

“What was that all about?” Edward asked.

“Some practical joker. He said it was the White House calling Mom.”

“The White House?”
Edward asked.

The telephone rang again.

“I’ll get it,” Mary said. She rose and walked over to the telephone. “Hello.” As she listened, her face grew grim. “We’re in the middle of dinner, and I don’t happen to think this is funny. You can just—what?…Who? The President?” There was a sudden hush in the room. “Wait a—I—oh, good evening, Mr. President.” There was a dazed expression on her face. Her family was watching her, wide-eyed. “Yes, sir. I do. I recognize your voice. I—I’m sorry about hanging up a moment ago. Beth thought it was Virgil, and—yes, sir. Thank you.” She stood there listening. “Would I be willing to serve as
what
?” Her face suddenly flushed.

Edward was on his feet, moving toward the phone, the children close behind him.

“There must be some mistake, Mr. President. My name is Mary Ashley. I’m a professor at Kansas State University, and—You read it? Thank you, sir… That’s very kind of you… Yes, I believe it is…” She listened for a long time. “Yes, sir, I agree. But that doesn’t mean that I…Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I see. Well, I’m certainly flattered. I’m sure it’s a wonderful opportunity, but I…Of course I will.
I’ll talk it over with my husband and get back to you.” She picked up a pen and wrote down a number. “Yes, sir. I have it. Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye.”

She slowly replaced the receiver and stood there in shock.

“What in God’s name was that all about?” Edward demanded.

“Was that
really
the President?” Tim asked.

Mary sank into a chair. “Yes. It really was.”

Edward took Mary’s hand in his. “Mary—what did he say? What did he want?”

Mary sat there, numb, thinking:
So that’s what all the questioning has been about.

She looked up at Edward and the children and said slowly, “The President read my book and the article of mine in
Foreign Affairs
magazine, and he thought it was brilliant. He said that’s the kind of thinking he wants for his people-to-people program. He wants to nominate me as ambassador to Romania.”

There was a look of total disbelief on Edward’s face.

“You? Why you?”

It was exactly what Mary had asked herself, but she felt that Edward could have been more tactful. He could have said,
“How wonderful! You’d make a great ambassador.”
But he was being realistic.
Why me, indeed?

“You haven’t had any political experience.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Mary responded tartly. “I agree that the whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Are you going to be the ambassador?” Tim asked. “Are we moving to Rome?”

“Romania.”

“Where’s Romania?”

Edward turned to the children. “You two finish your dinner. Your mother and I would like to have a little talk.”

“Don’t we get a vote?” Tim asked.

“By absentee ballot.”

Edward took Mary’s arm and led her into the library. He turned to her and said, “I’m sorry if I sounded like a pompous ass in there. It was just such a—”

“No. You were perfectly right, Edward. Why on earth
should
they have chosen me?”

When Mary called him Edward, he knew he was in trouble.

“Honey, you’d probably make a great ambassador, or ambassadress, or whatever they call it these days. But you must admit it came as a bit of a shock.”

Mary softened. “Try thunderbolt.” She sounded like a little girl. “I still can’t believe it.” She laughed. “Wait until I tell Florence. She’ll die.”

Edward was watching her closely. “You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be?”

Edward chose his words carefully. “It
is
a great honor, honey, and I’m sure it’s not one they would offer lightly. They must have had good reason for choosing you.” He hesitated. “We have to think about this very carefully. About what it would do to our lives.”

She knew what he was going to say, and she thought:
Edward’s right. Of course he’s right.

“I can’t just leave my practice and walk out on my patients. I have to stay here. I don’t know how long you’d have to be away, but if it really means a lot to you, well, maybe we could work out some way where you could go over there with the children and I could join you whenever—”

Mary said softly, “You crazy man. Do you think I could live away from you?”

“Well—it’s an awfully big honor, and—”

“So is being your wife. Nothing means as much to me as you and the children. I would never leave you. This town can’t find another doctor like you, but all the government
has to do to find a better ambassador than me is to look in the Yellow Pages.”

He took her in his arms. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. It was exciting being asked. That’s enough for—”

The door flew open and Beth and Tim hurried in. Beth said, “I just called Virgil and told him you’re going to be an ambassador.”

“Then you’d better call him back and tell him I’m not.”

“Why not?” Beth asked.

“Your mother has decided she’s going to stay here.”

“Why?” Beth wailed. “I’ve never been to Romania. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Me neither,” Tim said. He turned to Beth. “I told you we’re never going to escape from this place.”

“The subject is closed,” Mary informed them.

The following morning Mary dialed the telephone number that the President had given her. When an operator answered, Mary said, “This is Mrs. Edward Ashley. I think the President’s assistant—a Mr. Greene—is expecting my call.”

“One moment, please.”

A male voice on the other end said, “Hello. Mrs. Ashley?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “Would you please give the President a message for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Would you please tell him that I’m very, very flattered by his offer, but my husband’s profession ties him down here, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to accept. I hope he understands.”

“I’ll pass on your message,” the voice said noncommittally. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashley.” The line went dead.

Mary slowly replaced the receiver. It was done. For one brief moment, a tantalizing dream had been offered her. But
that was all it was. A dream.
This is my real world. I’d better get ready for my next political science class.

The whitewashed stone house was anonymous, hidden among dozens of identical houses a short walk from the
souks,
the large, colorful outdoor markets. It was owned by a merchant sympathetic to the cause of the organization known as the Patriots for Freedom.

“We will need it for only one day,” a voice over the telephone had told him.

It was arranged. Now the chairman was speaking to the men gathered in the living room.

“A problem has arisen,” the chairman said. “The motion that was recently passed has run into difficulty.”

“What sort of difficulty?” Balder asked.

“The go-between we selected—Harry Lantz—is dead.”

“Dead? Dead, how?”

“He was murdered. His body was found floating in the harbor in Buenos Aires.”

“Do the police have any idea who did it? I mean—can they connect this to us in any way?”

“No. We’re perfectly safe.”

Thor asked, “What about our plan? Can we go ahead with it?”

“Not at the moment. We have no idea how to reach Angel. However, the Controller gave Harry Lantz permission to reveal his name to him. If Angel is interested in our proposition, he will find a way to get in touch with him. All we can do now is wait.”

The banner headline in the Junction City
Daily Union
read:
JUNCTION CITY’S MARY ASHLEY DECLINES AMBASSADORSHIP
.

There was a two-column story about Mary, and a photograph
of her. On KJCK, the afternoon and evening broadcasts carried feature stories on the town’s new celebrity. The fact that Mary Ashley had rejected the President’s offer made the story even bigger than if she had accepted it. In the eyes of its proud citizens, Junction City, Kansas, was a lot more important than Bucharest, Romania.

When Mary Ashley drove into town to shop for dinner, she kept hearing her name on the car radio.

“…Earlier, President Ellison had announced that the ambassadorship to Romania would be the beginning of his people-to-people program, the cornerstone of his foreign policy. How Mary Ashley’s refusal to accept the post will reflect on—”

She switched to another station.

“…is married to Dr. Edward Ashley, and it is believed that—”

Mary switched off the radio. She had received at least three dozen phone calls that morning from friends, neighbors, students, and curious strangers. Reporters had called from as far away as London and Tokyo.
They’re building this up all out of proportion,
Mary thought.
It’s not my fault that the President decided to base the success of his foreign policy on Romania. I wonder how long this pandemonium is going to last. It will probably be over in a day or two.

She drove the station wagon into a Derby gas station and pulled up in front of the self-service pump.

As Mary got out of the car, Mr. Blount, the station manager, hurried over to her. “Mornin’, Mrs. Ashley. An ambassador lady ain’t got no call to be pumpin’ her own gas. Let me give you a hand.”

Mary smiled. “Thanks. I’m used to doing it.”