Windmills of the Gods

The material James Stickley had given her was -incredible. No wonder he wants this right back, Mary thought. There were detailed reports on every important Remanian official, from the President to the minister of commerce. There was a dossier on their private habits, financial dealings, friendships, personal traits, and prejudices. Some of the reading was lurid. Mary was up half the night memorizing the names and peccadilloes of the people with whom she would be dealing.

In the morning she returned the secret documents.

Stickley said, “Now you know everything you should know about the Remanian leaders.”

“And then some,” Mary murmured.

“There’s something you should bear in mind: by now the Remanians also know everything there is to know about you.”

“That won’t get them far,” Mary said.

“No?” Stickley leaned back in his chair. “You’re a woman, and you’re alone. You can be sure they’ve already marked you as an easy target. They’ll play on your loneliness. Every move you make will be watched and recorded.”

He’s trying to frighten me, Mary thought. Well, it won’t work.

TIME became a blur, a whirlwind of activity that left Mary exhausted. Besides language lessons, her schedule included a course at the Foreign Service Institute, briefings at the Defense Intelligence Agency, meetings with the secretary of international security affairs and with Senate committees. They all had demands, advice, questions.

On top of all this, a media blitz began. Mary found herself in front of the cameras on Good Morning America, Meet the Press, and Firing Line. She was interviewed by the Washington Post, The New York Times, and half a dozen other important daily papers. She did interviews for the London Times, Der SViegel, Oggi, and Le Monde. Time magazine and People did feature articles on her and the children. Mary Ashley’s photograph seemed to be everywhere, and whenever there was a newsbreak about an event in some far-off corner of the world, she was asked for her comments. Overnight Mary Ashley and her children became celebrities.

Tim said, “Mom, It’s really spooky seeing our pictures on the covers of all the magazines.”

“Spooky is the word,” Mary agreed. Somehow she felt uneasy about the publicity, and she spoke to Stanton Rogers about it.

“Look on it as a part of your job. The President is trying to create an image. By the time you arrive in Remania, everyone there will know who you are.”

“THERE’S something weird happening in this town,” Ben Cohn said. The reporter and his girlfriend, Akiko Hadaka, were watching Mary Ashley on Meet the Press.

The new ambassador to Remania was saying, “I believe that China is heading for a more humane,, iladividualistic communist society with its incorporation of Hong Kong and Macao.”

“Now, what does that lady know about China?” Cohn muttered. He turned to Akiko. “You’re looking at a housewife from Kansas who’s become an expert on everything overnight.”

“She seems very bright,” Akiko said.

,: Bright is beside the point. Every time she gives an interview, the reporters go crazy. It’s like a feeding frenzy. How did she get on Meet the Press? I’ll tell you how. Someone decided that Mary Ashley was going to be a celebrity. The question is who and why.”

“I’m supposed to be the one with the devious Oriental mind,” Akiko said. “I think you’re making more out of this than necessary.” Ben Cohn lit a cigarette and took an angry puff on it. “You could be right,” he grumbled.

An hour later he telephoned Ian Villiers, chief of press relations for the State Department.

“Benjie, my boy, what can I do for you?” asked Villiers.

“I need a favor. I understand you’re handling the press for our new ambassador to Remania.”

A cautious “Yes … ?”

“Who’s behind her buildu’, Ian? I’m interested in-“

“I’m sorry, Ben. That’s State Department business. I’m just a hired hand. You might drop a note to the Secretary.”

Hanging.up, Ben made a decision. “I think I’m going to have to go out of town for a few days,” he told Akiko.

“Where are you going, baby?”

“Junction City, Kansas.”

As it turned out, Ben Cohn was in Junction City for only one day. He spent an hour talking to Sheriff Monster, then drove a rental car to Fort Riley, where he visited the CID office. He caught a late afternoon flight home.

As Ben Cohn’s plane took off, a person-to-person telephone call was placed from the fort to a number in Washington, D.C.

MARY Ashley was walking down the long corridor of the European Affairs section of the State Department, on her way to report to James Stickley, when she heard a deep male voice behind her say, “Now, That’s what I call a perfect ten.”

Mary spun around. A tall stranger was leanin against a wall, staring at her, an insolent grin on his face. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and he looked scruffy and unshaven. There were laugh lines around his mouth, and his eyes were a bright, mocking blue. There was an air of arrogance about him that was infuriating. Mary turned on her heel and angrily walked away, conscious of his eyes following her.

The conference with James Stickley lasted for more than an hour. When Mary returned to her office, the stranger was seated in her chair, his feet on her desk, looking through her papers. She could feel the blood rising to her face.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

The man gave her a long, lazy look and slowly got to his feet. “i’m Mike Slade. My friends call me Michael.”