Windmills of the Gods

Mike Slade appeared suddenly out of the darkness. “Thanks for coming. We can clear this up very quickly. You said you thought someone was poisoning Mary Ashley.”

: ,know it. Someone was feeding her arsenic.”

“And you think I’m responsible?”

“You could have put it in her coffee a little bit at a time.”

:, Have you reported this to anyone?”

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

I’m glad you did,” Mike said. He took his hand out of his pocket. In it was a -357-caliber Magnum pistol.

Louis stared. “What-what are you doing? Listen to me! You can’t-””

Mike Slade pulled the trigger and watched the Frenchman’s chest explode into a red cloud.

MARY was in the bubble room telephoning Stanton Bogers office on the secure line. It was six p.m. in Washington and one o’clock in the morning in Bucharest. “This is Ambassador Ashley.

I know that Mr. Rogers is in China with the President, but it’s urgent that I speak to him. Is there any way I can reach him there?”

“I’m sorry, Madam Ambassador. His itinerary is very flexible. I have no telephone number for him.”

Mary felt her heart plummet. “When will you hear from him?”

“It’s difficult to say. They have a very busy schedule. Perhaps someone in the State Department could help you.”

“No,” Mary said dully. “No one else can help me. Thank you very much.”

There she sat, surrounded by the most sophisticated electronic equipment in the world, and none of it was of any use to her.

Mike Slade was trying to murder her. She had to let someone know. But whom could she trust? The only one who knew what Mike Slade was trying to do was Louis Desforges.

Mary tried the number at his residence again, but there still was no answer. She remembered what Stanton Rogers had told her: “If you have any messages that you want to send to me without anyone else reading them, the code at the top of the message is three x’s.”

Mary hurried back to her office and wrote out an urgent message. She placed three x’s at the top, took out the black code book from a locked drawer in her desk, and carefully encoded what she had written. At least if anything happened to her now, Stanton Rogers would know who was responsible.

Mary walked down the corridor to the communications room.

Eddie Maltz, the CIA agent, happened to be behind the cage.

“Good evening, Madam Ambassador. You’re working late.”

“Yes. There’s a message I want sent off right away.”

“I’ll take care of it personally.”

“Thank you.” She handed it to him and headed for the door.

When Eddie Maltz finished decoding the message, he read it through twice, frowning. He walked over to the shredder and watched the message turn into confetti.

Then he placed a call to Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, in Washington. Code name: Thor.

IT TOOK Ley Pastemak two months to follow the circuitous trail that led to Buenos Aires. SIS and half a dozen other security agencies around the world had helped identify Angel as the killer. Mossad had given him the name of Neusa Mufiez, Angel’s mistress. They all wanted to eliminate Angel. To Ley Pastemak, Angel had become an obsession. Because of Pastemak’s failure, Marin Groza had died, and Pastemak could never forgive himself for that. He could, however, make atonement.

He located the building where Neusa Muez lived and kept watch on it, waiting for Angel to appear. After five days, when there was no sign of him, Pastemak made his move. He waited until the woman left, and after fifteen minutes walked upstairs, picked the lock on her door, and entered the apartment. He searched it swiffly and thoroughly. There were no photographs, memos, or addresses that could lead him to Angel. Pastemak discovered the suits in the closet. He examined the Heffera labels, took one of the jackets off the hanger, and tucked it under his arm. A minute later he was gone.

The following morning Ley Pastemak walked into Heffera’s.

His hair was disheveled and his clothes were wrinkled, and he smelled of whiskey.

The manager of the men’s shop came up to him and said disapprovingly, “May I help you, senor?”

Ley Pastemak grinned sheepishly. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I got in a card game last night. We all got drunk.

Anyway, we ended up in my hotel room. One of the guys-I don’t remember his name-left his jacket there.” Ley held up the’ jacket. “It had your label in it, so I figured you could tell me where to return it to him.”

. The manager examined the jacket. “Yes, we tailored this.

Please wait.”

A few minutes later the man returned. “The name of the gentleman we made the jacket for is H. R. de Mendoza. He has a suite at the Aurora Hotel, suite four seventeen.”

AT FOUR a.m. Ley Pastemak was silently moving down the deserted fourth-floor corridor of the Aurora Hotel. When he reached 417, he looked around to make sure no one was in sight.

He reached down to the lock and inserted a wire. When he heard the door click open, he pulled out a .45-caliber SIG-Sauer pistol with a silencer.

He sensed a draft as the door across the hall opened, and before he could swing around, he felt something hard and cold pressing. against the back of his neck.

“I don’t like being followed,” Angel said.

Ley Pastemak heard the click of the trigger a second before his brain was torn apart.

THE telephone call had come, and it was time to move. First Angel had some shopping to do. There was a good lingerie shop on Pueyrred6n-expensive, but Neusa deserved the,best. The inside of the shop was cool and quiet.