Windmills of the Gods

“AI, have you heard of an organization called Patriots for Freedom?”

“No.”

“I keep hearing rumors, but there’s nothing I can pin down.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“It’s supposed to be a cabal of high-level rightwing and leftwing fanatics from a dozen Eastern and Western countries. Their ideologies are diametrically opposed, but what brings them together is fear. The communist members think President Ellison’s plan is a capitalist trick to destroy the Eastern bloc. The rightwingers believe his plan is an open door that will let the Communists destroy us. So they’ve formed this unholy alliance.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There’s more. Besides the VIPS, splinter groups from various international security agencies are said to be involved. Do you think you could check it out for me?”

“I don’t know, Ben. I’ll try.”

Shuttleworth was skeptical about Ben Cohn’s theory. He liked Ben, and he wanted to help, but he had no idea how to go about tracking down a probably mythical organization. If it really did exist, it would be in some government computer. He himself had no access to the computers.

But I know someone who does, Shuttleworth said to himself. I’ll give him a call.

ALFRED Shuttleworth was on his second martini when Pete Connors walked into the bar.

“Sorry I’m late,” Connors said. “A minor problem at the pickle factory.”

Pete Connors ordered a Scotch, and Shuttleworth ordered another martini. “Pete,” Shuttleworth said, “I need a favor. Could you look up something for me in the CIA computer? It may not be in there, but I promised a friend I’d try.”

“Sure,” said Connors. “I owe you a few. Who do you want to know about?”

“It’s not a who, It’s a what. And it probably doesn’t even exist. It’s an organization called Patriots for Freedom. Have you heard of it?”

Pete Connors carefully set down his drink. “I can’t,say that I have, AH. What’s the name of your friend?”

“Ben Cohn. He’s a reporter for the Post.”

THERE was no way to get directly in touch with the Controller. He had organized and financed Patriots for Freedom, but he never attended Committee meetings, and he was completely anonymous. He was a telephone number-untraceable (Connors had tried)-and a recording that said, “You have sixty seconds in which to leave your message.” The number was to be used only in case of emergencies. Connors stopped at a public telephone booth to make the call. He talked to the recording.

The message was received at six p.m.

In Buenos, Aires it was eight p.m.

The Controller listened to the message twice, then dialed a number. He waited for three full minutes before Neusa Mufiez’s voice came on.

I’s(?”

The Controller said, “This is the man who made arrangements with you before about Angel. I have another contract for him. Can you get in touch with him right away?”

“I don’ know.” She sounded drunk.

The woman was impossible. “Listen to me. Tell Angel I need this done immediately. I want him to-“

“Wait a minute. I gotta go to the toilet.”

The Controller heard her drop the phone. He sat there, filled with frustration, until she came back on the line. “A lotta beer makes you go,” she announced.

He gritted his teeth. “This is very important. I want you to get a pencil and write this down. I’ll speak slowly.”

“I WANTED to bring you the good news in person, Mary,” said Stanton Rogers. “We just received official word that the Romanian government has approved you as the new ambassador from the United States. Now President Ellison can give you a letter of credence, and you’ll be on your way.”

“I-I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done, Stan.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Rogers protested. “It was the President who selected you.” He grinned. “And I must say, he made the perfect choice. You can do more for our country over there than anyone else I can think of.”

“Thank you,” she said soberly. “I’ll try to live up to that.”

It was one of the most thrilling moments of Mary Ashley’s life. It seemed almost too good to be true. And for no reason something that Mary’s mother used to tell her popped into her mind: “If something seems to be too good to be true, Mary, you can bet it probably is.”

THURSDAY morning Angel was in a bad mood. The flight from Buenos Aires to Washington, D.C., had been delayed because of a telephoned bomb threat. The world isn’t safe anymore, Angel thought angrily.

The hotel room that had been reserved in Washington was too modern, too-what was the word?-plastic. That was it. In Buenos Aires everything was autgntico. I’ll finish this contract and get back home, Angel thought. The job is simple, almost an insult to my talent, but the money is excellent.

Angel’s first stop was an electrical supply store, then a paint store, and finally a supermarket, where Angel’s only purchase was six light bulbs. The rest of the equipment was waiting in the hotel room in two sealed boxes marked FRAGILE HANDLE with CARE. Inside the first box were four carefully packed army-green hand grenades. In the second box was soldering equipment.

Working very slowly, with :xquisite care, Angel cut the top off the first grenade, then painted the bottom the same color as the light bulbs. The next step was to scoop out the explosive from the grenade and replace it with a seismic explosive. When this was tightly packed, Angel added lead and metallic shrapnel to it. Then Angel shattered a light bulb against a table, preserving the filament and threaded base. It took less than a minute to solder the filament of the bulb to an electrically activated detonator. The final step was to insert it gently inside the painted grenade. When Angel was finished, it looked exactly like a normal light bulb.