Windmills of the Gods

“I would like to see a negligee, something very frilly,” Angel said.

The female clerk staied.

“The best you have.”

Fifteen minutes later Angel left the shop and hailed a taxi.

Angel gave the driver an address on Humberto, alighted a block away, and hailed another taxi.

“A d6nde, porfavor?”

“Aeropuerto.”

There would be a ticket for London waiting there. Tourist.

First class was too conspicuous.

Two hours later Angel watched the city of Buenos Aires disappear beneath the clouds, like some celestial magician’s trick, and concentrated on the assignment ahead, thinking about the instructions that had been given. Make sure the children die with her. Their deaths must be spectacular.

Angel smiled and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

THE PAsSpoRT R= “H. R. DE Mendoza.” The ticket at London’s Heathrow Airport was on TAROM Airlines, to Bucharest.

Angel sent a telegram . from the airport: ARRIVING WEDNESDAY. H. R. DE MENDOZA.

It was addressed to Eddie Maltz.

IN the morning Mary kept trying to phone Louis at home. No answer. She tried the French embassy. They had no idea where he was. “Please have him call me as soon as you hear from him.”

She replaced the receiver. There was nothing to do but wait.

A few minutes later Dorothy Stone, her secretary, came into Mary’s office. “There’s a call for you, but she refuses to give her name.

“I’ll take it.” Mary picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Ambassador Ashley.”

A soft female voice with a Remanian accent said, “This is Corina Socoli.” The ballerina’s name registered instantly.

“I need your help,” the girl said. “I have decided to defect.”

I can’t handle this today, Mary thought. Not now. She said, “I-I don’t know if I can help you.” Her mind was racing. She tried to remember what she had been told about defectors: “Many of them are Soviet plants. We don’t grant political asylum unless there’s a dam good reason.”

Corina Socoli was sobbing. “Please. I am not safe staying where I am. You must send someone to get me.”

“Where are you?” Mary asked.

There was a pause. Then, “I am at the Roscow Inn, in Moldavia. Will you come for me?”

“I can’t,” Mary said. “But I’ll send someone to get you. Don’t call on this phone again. just wait where you are. I-“

The door opened, and Mike Slade walked in. Mary looked up in shock. He was moving toward her.

The voice on the phone was saying, “Hello? Hello?”

“Who are you talking to?” Mike asked.

“To-to Dr. Desforges.” She replaced the receiver, terrified.

“He’s-he’s on his way over to see me.” Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You’re in the embassy. He wouldn’t dare do anything to you here.

There was a strange look in Mike’s eyes. “Are you sure you’re well enough to be back at work?”

The nerve. “Yes. I’m fine.” She was finding it hard to breathe.

Her intercom phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me . . -“Sure.” Mike Slade stood there staring at her, then turned and left.

Almost overcome with relief, Mary picked up the telephone.

“Hello?”

It was jerry Davis, the public affairs consul. “Madam Ambassador, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid I have some terrible news. Dr. Louis Desforges has been murdered.”

The room began to swim. “Are you-are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am. His wallet was found on his body.”

Sensory memories flooded through her, and a voice over the telephone was saying, “This is Sheriff Monster. Your husband has been killed in a car accident.” And all the old sorrows came rushing back, stabbing at her, tearing her apart.

“How did it happen?” Her voice was strangled.

“He was shot to death.”

“Do they-do they know who did it?”

“No, ma’am. The Securitate .4nd the French embassy are investigating.”

Mary dropped the receiver, her mind and body numb, and leaned back in her chair, studying the. ceiling. There was a crack in it. I must have that repaired, Mary thought. We mustn’t have cracks in our embassy. There’s another-crack. Cracks everywhere, and when there is a crack, evil things get in. Edward is dead.

Louis is dead. I can’t go through this pain again. Who would want to kill Louis?

The answer immediately followed the question. Mike Slade.

Louis had discovered that Slade was feeding Mary arsenic. Slade probably thought that with Louis dead, no one could prove anything against him. A sudden realization filled her with a new terror. Who are you talking to? But Mike must have known that Desforges was dead.

Mary stayed in her office all morning, planning her next move.

I’m not going to let Mike Slade drive me away, she decided. I’m not going to let him kill me. I have to stop him. She was filled with a rage such as she had never known before. She was going to protect herself and her children. And she was going to destroy Mike Slade.

“Madam Ambassador…” Dorothy Stone was holding an envelope out to her. “The guard at the gate asked me to give you this.”

The envelope was marked “Personal. For the amba , ssador’s eyes only.” Mary tore it open. The note was written in a neat copperplate handwriting. It read:

Dear Madam Ambassador:

Enjoy your last day on earth.

Angel

Another one of Mike’s scare tactics, Mary thought. It won’t work. I’ll keep well away from him.