Windmills of the Gods (24 page)

He studied her. “Mary—you’re not thinking of leaving?”

“No,” Mary said. “I’m staying.”

He smiled. “Good.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “I am going away to the mountains for the weekend. I would like it very much if you came with me.”

“Yes.”

It was as simple as that.

She lay in the dark talking to Edward that night.
Darling, I’ll always, always love you, but I mustn’t need you anymore. It’s time I started a new life. You’ll always be a part of that life, but there has to be someone else too. Louis isn’t you, but he’s Louis. He’s strong, and he’s good, and he’s brave. That’s as close as I can come to having you. Please understand, Edward. Please…

She sat up in bed and turned on the bedside light. She stared at her wedding ring for a long time, then she slowly slipped it off her finger.

It was a circle that symbolized an ending, and a beginning.

Mary took the Schiffers on a whirlwind tour of Bucharest, and saw to it that their days were filled. The three days passed too quickly, and when the Schiffers left, Mary felt a sharp pang of loneliness, a sense of being totally isolated from her roots, adrift once again in an alien and dangerous land.

Mary was having her usual morning coffee with Mike Slade, discussing the day’s agenda.

When they finished, Mike said, “I’ve been hearing rumors.”

Mary had heard them too. “About Ionescu and his new mistress? He seems to—”

“About you.”

She felt herself stiffen. “Really? What kind of rumors?”

“It seems that you’re seeing a lot of Dr. Louis Desforges.”

Mary felt a flare of anger. “Who I see is no one’s business.”

“I beg to differ with you, Madam Ambassador. It’s the business of everyone in the embassy. We have a strict rule against getting involved with foreigners, and the doctor is a foreigner. He also happens to be an enemy agent.”

Mary was almost too stunned to speak. “That’s absurd!” she sputtered. “What
do you
know about Dr. Desforges?”

“Think about how you met him,” Mike Slade suggested.
“The damsel in distress and the knight in shining armor. That’s the oldest trick in the world. I’ve used it myself.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve done and what you haven’t done,” Mary retorted. “He’s worth a dozen of you. He fought against terrorists in Algeria, and they murdered his wife and children.”

Mike said mildly, “That’s interesting. I’ve been examining his dossier. Your doctor never had a wife or children.”

They stopped for lunch at Timi§oara, on their way up to the Carpathian Mountains. The inn was called Hunter’s Friday, and was decorated in the period atmosphere of a medieval wine cellar.

“The specialty of the house is game,” Louis told Mary. “I would suggest the venison.”

“Fine.” She had never eaten venison. It was delicious.

Louis ordered a bottle of Zghihara, the local white wine. There was an air of confidence about Louis, a quiet strength that gave Mary a feeling of security.

He had picked her up in town, away from the embassy. “It’s better not to let anyone know where you are going,” he said, “or it will be on the tongues of every diplomat in town.”

Too late,
Mary thought wryly.

Louis had borrowed the car from a friend at the French embassy. It had black-and-white oval CD license plates.

Mary knew that license plates were a tool for the police.
Foreigners were given license plates that started with the number twelve. Yellow plates were for officials.

After lunch they started out again. They passed farmers driving primitive homemade wagons cut from limbs of trees that were twisted together, and caravans of gypsies.

Louis was a skillful driver. Mary studied him as he drove, thinking of Mike Slade’s words:
“I’ve been examining his dossier. Your doctor never had a wife or children. He’s an enemy agent.”

She did not believe Mike Slade. Every instinct told her he was lying. It was not Louis who had sneaked into her office and scribbled those words on the walls. It was someone else who was threatening her. She trusted Louis.
No one could have faked the emotion I saw on his face when he was playing with the children. No one is that good an actor.

The air was getting noticeably thinner and cooler, and the vegetation and oak trees had given way to ash trees and spruce and fir.

“There’s wonderful hunting here,” Louis said. “You can find wild boar, roebuck, wolves, and black chamois.”

“I’ve never hunted.”

“Perhaps one day I can take you.”

The mountains ahead looked like pictures she had seen of the Swiss Alps, their peaks covered by mists and clouds. Along the roadside they passed forests and green meadows dappled with grazing cows. The icy clouds overhead were the color of steel, and Mary felt that if she reached up and touched them, they would stick to her fingers like cold metal.

It was late afternoon when they reached their destination, Sioplea, a lovely mountain resort that was built like a miniature chalet. Mary waited in the car while Louis registered for both of them.

An elderly bellman showed them to their suite. It had a good-sized, comfortable living room, simply furnished, a
bedroom, a bathroom, and a terrace with a breathtaking view of the mountains.

“For the first time in my life,” Louis sighed, “I wish I were a painter.”

“It
is
a beautiful view.”

He moved closer to her. “No. I mean I wish I could paint you.”

She found herself thinking:
I feel like a seventeen-year-old on a first date. I’m nervous.

He took her in his arms and held her tightly. She buried her head against his chest, and then Louis’s lips were on hers, and he was exploring her body, and he moved her hand down to his male hardness, and she forgot everything except what was happening to her.

There was a frantic need in her that went far beyond sex. It was a need for someone to hold her, to reassure her, to protect her, to let her know that she was no longer alone. She needed Louis to be inside her, to be inside him, to be one with him.

They were in the large double bed and she felt his tongue feather down her naked body, into the soft depth of her, and then he was inside her, and she screamed aloud with a feral, passionate cry before she exploded into a thousand glorious Marys. And again, and again, until the bliss became almost too much to bear.

Louis was an incredible lover, passionate and demanding, tender and caring. After a long, long time, they lay spent, contented. She nestled in his strong arms, and they talked.

“It’s so strange,” Louis said. “I feel whole again. Since Renee and the children were killed, I’ve been a ghost, wandering around lost.”

I too,
Mary thought.

“I missed her in all the important ways, and in ways I had never thought of. I felt helpless without her. Silly, trivial things. I did not know how to cook a meal, or do my laundry,
or even make my bed properly. We men take so much for granted.”

“Louis, I felt helpless too. Edward was my umbrella, and when it rained and he wasn’t there to protect me, I almost drowned.”

They slept.

They made love again, slowly and tenderly now, the fire banked, the flame slower, more exquisite.

It was almost perfect.
Almost.
Because there was a question Mary wanted to ask, and she knew she dared not:
Did you have a wife and children, Louis?

The moment she asked that question, she knew everything between them would be over forever. Louis would never forgive her for doubting him.
Damn Mike Slade,
she thought.
Damn him.

Louis was watching her. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing, darling.”

What were you doing in that dark side street when those men tried to kidnap me, Louis?

They dined that evening on the outdoor terrace, and Louis ordered Cemurata, the strawberry liqueur made in the nearby mountains.

Saturday they went on a tram to a mountain peak. When they returned, they swam in the indoor pool, made love in the private sauna, and played bridge with a geriatric German couple on their honeymoon.

In the evening they drove to Eintrul, a rustic restaurant in the mountains, where they had dinner in a large room that had an open fireplace with a roaring fire. There were wooden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and hunting trophies on the wall over the fireplace. The room was lit by candlelight, and through the windows they could look at the snow-covered hills outside. A perfect setting, with the perfect companion.

And finally, too soon, it was time to leave.

Time to go back to the real world,
Mary thought. And what was the real world? A place of threats and kidnapping and horrible graffiti written on her office walls.

The drive back was pleasant and easy. The sexual tension on the drive up had given way to an easy, relaxed feeling of togetherness. Louis was so comfortable to be with.

As they neared the outskirts of Bucharest, they drove by fields of sunflowers, their faces moving toward the sun.

That’s me,
Mary thought happily.
I’m finally moving into the sunlight.

Beth and Tim were eagerly awaiting their mother’s return.

“Are you going to marry Louis?” Beth asked.

Mary was taken aback. They had put into words what she had not dared allow herself to think.

“Well—are you?”

“I don’t know,” she said carefully. “Would you mind if I did?”

“He’s not Daddy,” Beth answered slowly, “but Tim and I took a vote. We like him.”

“So do I,” Mary replied happily. “So do I.”

There were a dozen red roses with a note: “Thank you for you.”

She read the card. And wondered if he had sent flowers to Renée. And wondered if there had been a Renée and two daughters. And hated herself for it.
Why would Mike Slade make up a terrible lie like that?
There was no way she could ever check it. And at that moment, Eddie Maltz, the political consular and CIA agent, walked into her office.

“You’re looking fit, Madam Ambassador. Have a good weekend?”

“Yes, thank you.”

They spent some time discussing a colonel who had approached Maltz about defecting.

“He’d be a valuable asset for us. He’ll be bringing some useful information with him. I’m sending a black cable out tonight, but I wanted you to be prepared to receive some heat from Ionescu.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maltz.”

He rose to leave.

On a sudden impulse, Mary said, “Wait. I—I wonder if I could ask you for a favor?”

“Certainly.”

She found it unexpectedly awkward to continue. “It’s—personal and confidential.”

“Sounds like our motto,” Maltz smiled.

“I need some information on a Dr. Louis Desforges. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s attached to the French embassy. What would you like to know about him?”

This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. It was a betrayal. “I—I’d like to know whether Dr. Desforges was once married and had two children. Do you think you could find out?”

“Will twenty-four hours be soon enough?” Maltz asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Please forgive me, Louis.

A short time later, Mike Slade walked into Mary’s office. “Morning.”

“Good morning.”

He put a cup of coffee on her desk. Something in his attitude seemed subtly changed. Mary was not sure what it was, but she had a feeling that Mike Slade knew all about her weekend. She wondered whether he had spies following her, reporting on her activities.

She took a sip of the coffee. Excellent, as usual.
That’s one thing Mike Slade does well,
Mary thought.

“We have some problems,” he said.

And for the rest of the morning they became involved in a discussion that included more Romanians who wanted to emigrate to America, the Romanian financial crisis, a marine who had got a Romanian girl pregnant, and a dozen other topics.

At the end of the meeting, Mary was more tired than usual.

Mike Slade said, “The ballet is opening tonight. Corina Socoli is dancing.”

Mary recognized the name. She was one of the leading ballerinas in the world.

“I have some tickets, if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks.” She thought of the last time Mike had given her tickets for the theater, and what had happened. Besides, she was going to be busy. She was invited to dinner at the Chinese embassy and was meeting Louis at the residence afterward. It would not do for them to be seen too much together in public. She knew that she was breaking the rules by having an affair with a member of another embassy.
But this is not a casual affair.

As Mary was dressing for dinner, she opened her closet to take out a dinner gown and found that the maid had washed it instead of having it cleaned. It was ruined.
I’m going to fire her,
Mary thought furiously.
Except that I can’t. Their damned rules.

She felt suddenly exhausted. She sank down on the bed.
I wish I didn’t have to go out tonight. It would be so nice to just lie here and go to sleep. But you have to, Madam Ambassador. Your country is depending on you.

She lay there, fantasizing. She would stay in bed instead of going to the dinner party. The Chinese ambassador would greet his other guests, anxiously waiting for her. Finally, dinner would be announced. The American ambassador had not arrived. It was a deliberate insult. China had lost face. The Chinese ambassador would send a black cable, and when
his prime minister read it, he would be furious. He would telephone the President of the United States to protest. “Neither you nor anyone else can force my ambassador to go to your dinners,” President Ellison would yell. The prime minister would scream, “No one can talk to me that way. We have our own nuclear bombs now, Mr. President.” The two leaders would press the nuclear buttons together, and destruction would rain on both countries.

Mary sat up and thought wearily,
I’d better go to the damned dinner.

The evening was a blur of the same familiar diplomatic corps faces. Mary had only a hazy recollection of the others at her table. She could not wait to get home.

As Florian was driving her back to the residence, Mary smiled dreamily:
I wonder if President Ellison realizes I prevented a nuclear war tonight?

The following morning when Mary went to the office, she was feeling worse. Her head ached, and she was nauseated. The only thing that made her feel better was the visit from Eddie Maltz.

The CIA agent said, “I have the information you requested. Dr. Louis Desforges was married for fourteen years. Wife’s name, Renée. Two daughters, ten and twelve, Phillipa and Genevieve. They were murdered in Algeria by terrorists, probably as an act of vengeance against the doctor, who was fighting in the underground. Do you need any further information?”

“No,” Mary said happily. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

Over morning coffee Mary and Mike Slade discussed a forthcoming visit from a college group.

“They’d like to meet President Ionescu.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mary said. Her voice was slurred.

“You okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

“What you need is another cup of coffee. It will perk you up. No pun intended.”

By late afternoon, Mary was feeling worse. She called Louis and made an excuse to cancel their dinner engagement. She felt too ill to see anybody. She wished that the American doctor were in Bucharest. Perhaps Louis would know what was wrong with her.
If I don’t get over this, I’ll call him.

Dorothy Stone had the nurse send up some Tylenol from the pharmacy. It did not help.

Mary’s secretary was concerned. “You really look awful. Madam Ambassador. You should be in bed.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mary mumbled.

The day had a thousand hours. Mary met with the students, some Romanian officials, an American banker, an official from the USIS—the United States Information Service—and sat through an endless dinner party at the Dutch embassy. When she finally arrived home, she fell into bed.

She was unable to sleep. She felt hot and feverish, and she was caught up in a series of nightmares. She was running down a maze of corridors, and every time she turned a corner, she ran into someone writing obscenities in blood. She could only see the back of the man’s head. Then Louis appeared, and a dozen men tried to pull him into a car. Mike Slade came running down the street yelling, “Kill him. He has no family.”

Mary woke up in a cold sweat. The room was unbearably hot. She threw off the covers and was suddenly chilled. Her teeth began to chatter.
My God,
she thought,
what’s wrong with me?