Читать книгу Windmills of the Gods - Сидни Шелдон, Sidney Sheldon, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 11

‘I disagree, Professor Ashley.’

Barry Dylan, the brightest and youngest of the students in Mary Ashley’s political science seminar, looked around defiantly. ‘Alexandros Ionescu is worse than Ceausescu ever was.’

‘Can you give us some facts to back up that statement?’ Mary Ashley asked.

There were twelve graduate students in the seminar being held in Kansas State University’s Dykstra Hall. The students were seated in a semicircle facing Mary. The waiting lists to get into her classes were longer than any other professor’s at the University. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humour and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheek-bones of a model and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious, and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.

Barry was wondering if she was happy with her husband. He reluctantly brought his attention back to the problem at hand.

‘Well, when Ionescu took over Romania, he cracked down on all the pro-Groza elements and re-established a hardline, pro-Soviet position. Even Ceausescu wasn’t that bad.’

Another student spoke up. ‘Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?’

‘Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit.’

‘Remember,’ Mary said, ‘Nicolae Ceausescu also had a foot in both camps. What year did that start?’

Barry again. ‘In 1960 when Romania took sides in the dispute between Russia and China to show its independence in international affairs.’

‘What about Romania’s current relationship with the other Warsaw Pact countries, and Russia in particular?’ Mary asked.

‘I’d say it’s stronger now.’

Another voice. ‘I don’t agree. Romania criticized Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan, and they criticized the Russians’ arrangement with the EEC. Also, Professor Ashley –’

The bell sounded. The time was up.

Mary said, ‘Monday we’ll talk about the basic factors that affect the Soviet attitude towards Eastern Europe, and we’ll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison’s plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend.’

Mary watched the students rise and head for the door.

‘You, too, Professor.’

Mary Ashley loved the give and take of the seminars. History and geography came alive in the heated discussions among the bright young graduate students. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fifth year on the faculty of Kansas State University, and teaching still excited her. She taught five political science classes a year in addition to the graduate seminars, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud. I’ve never been to any of the countries I teach about, she thought. I’ve never been outside the United States.

Mary Ashley had been born in Junction City, as had her parents. The only member of her family who had known Europe was her grandfather, who had come from the small Romanian village of Voronet.

Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her Master’s Degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip had turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, 55 miles from Junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.

‘We really must travel next year,’ Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. ‘I’m dying to see Rome and Paris and Romania.’

‘So am I. It’s a date. Next summer.’

But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later, Tim was born. Mary had taken her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta and Denver, Mary had never been out of the State of Kansas.

One day, she promised herself. One day …

Mary gathered her notes together and glanced out of the window. Frost had painted the window a winter grey, and it was beginning to snow again. Mary put on her lined leather coat and a red, woollen scarf and headed towards the Vattier Street entrance, where she parked her car.

The campus was huge, 315 acres, dotted with 87 buildings, including laboratories, theatres and chapels, amid a rustic setting of trees and grass. From a distance, the brown limestone buildings of the University resembled ancient castles, with turrets at the top, ready to repel enemy hordes. As Mary passed Denison Hall, a stranger with a Nikon camera was walking towards her. He aimed the camera at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture. I should have got out of his way, she thought. I’ve spoiled his picture.

One hour later, the negative of the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.

Every town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community (population 20,381), 130 miles west of Kansas City, priding itself on being the geographical centre of the continental United States. It has a newspaper – the Daily Union – a radio station, and a television station. The downtown shopping area consists of a series of scattered stores and gas stations along 6th Street and on Washington. There is a Penney’s, the First National Bank, a Domino Pizza, Flower Jeweller’s, and a Woolworth’s. There are fast food chains, a bus station, a menswear shop, and a liquor store – the type of establishments that are xeroxed in hundreds of small towns across the United States. But the residents of Junction City loved it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, Junction City became the Rest and Recreation Centre for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.

Mary Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon’s Market on her way home and then headed north towards Old Milford Road, a lovely residential area overlooking a lake. Oak and elm trees lined the left side of the road, while on the right side were beautiful houses variously made of stone, brick or wood.

The Ashley house was a two-storey stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. The house had been bought by Dr Edward Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier. It consisted of a large living room, a dining room, library, breakfast room and kitchen downstairs and a master suite and two additional bedrooms upstairs.

‘It’s awfully large for just two people,’ Mary Ashley had protested.

Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. ‘Who said it’s going to be for only two people?’

When Mary arrived home from the University, Tim and Beth were waiting to greet her.

‘Guess what?’ Tim said. ‘We’re going to have our pictures in the paper!’

‘Help me put away the groceries,’ Mary said. ‘What paper?’

‘The man didn’t say, but he took our pictures and he said we’d hear from him.’

Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. ‘Did this man say why?’

‘No,’ Tim said, ‘but he sure had a nifty Nikon.’

On Sunday, Mary celebrated – although that was not the word that sprang to mind – her thirty-fifth birthday. Edward had arranged for a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbours, Florence and Douglas Schiffer, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had known about the party for the past two weeks. She adored Edward. And why not? Who wouldn’t? He was attractive and intelligent and caring. His grandfather and father had been doctors, and it had never occurred to Edward to be anything else. He was the best surgeon in Junction City, a good father, and a wonderful husband.

As Mary blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she looked across at Edward and thought: How lucky can a lady be?

Monday morning, Mary awoke with a hangover. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before, and she was not used to drinking alcohol. It took an effort to get out of bed. That champagne done me in. Never again, she promised herself.

She eased her way downstairs and gingerly set about preparing breakfast for the children, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.

‘Champagne,’ Mary groaned, ‘is France’s vengeance against us.’

Beth walked into the room carrying an armful of books. ‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’

‘Myself.’

‘That’s weird.’

‘When you’re right, you’re right.’ Mary put a box of cereal on the table. ‘I bought a new cereal for you. You’re going to like it.’

Beth sat down at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. ‘I can’t eat this. You’re trying to kill me.’

‘Don’t put any ideas in my head,’ her mother cautioned. ‘Would you please eat your breakfast?’

Tim, her ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, ‘I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Whatever happened to good morning?’ Mary asked.

‘Good morning. I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Please.’

‘Aw, come on, Mom. I’m going to be late for school.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned that. Mrs Reynolds called me. You’re failing maths. What do you say to that?’

‘It figures.’

‘Tim, is that supposed to be a joke?’

‘I personally don’t think it’s funny,’ Beth sniffed.

He made a face at his sister. ‘If you want funny, look in the mirror.’

‘That’s enough,’ Mary said. ‘Behave yourselves.’

Her headache was getting worse.

Tim asked, ‘Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?’

‘You’re already skating on thin ice. You’re to come right home and study. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who’s failing maths?’

‘It looks okay. You don’t teach maths.’

They talk about the terrible twos, Mary thought grimly. What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens and twelves?

Beth said, ‘Did Tim tell you he got a “D” in spelling?’

He glared at his sister. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Mark Twain?’

‘What does Mark Twain have to do with this?’ Mary asked.

‘Mark Twain said he has no respect for a man who can only spell a word one way.’

We can’t win, Mary thought. They’re smarter than we are.

She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, who was on some kind of crazy new diet.

‘Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today.’

‘If it has no artificial preservatives. I’m not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health.’

Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food? Mary wondered.

Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth’s notebooks. ‘Look at this!’ he yelled. ‘“Dear Beth, let’s sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and –”’

‘Give that back to me!’ Beth screamed. ‘That’s mine.’ She made a grab for Tim, and he jumped out of her reach.

He read the signature at the bottom of the note. ‘Hey! It’s signed Virgil. I thought you were in love with Arnold.’

Beth snatched the note away from him. ‘What would you know about love?’ Mary’s twelve-year-old daughter demanded. ‘You’re a child.’

The pounding in Mary’s head was becoming unbearable.

‘Kids – give me a break.’

She heard the horn of the school bus outside. Tim and Beth started towards the door.

‘Wait! You haven’t eaten your breakfasts,’ Mary said.

She followed them out into the hallway.

‘No time, Mother. Got to go.’

‘’Bye, Mom.’

‘It’s freezing outside. Put on your coats and scarves.’

‘I can’t. I lost my scarf,’ Tim said.

And they were gone. Mary felt drained. Motherhood is living in the eye of a hurricane.

She looked up as Edward came down the stairs, and she felt a glow. Even after all these years, Mary thought, he’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever known. It was his gentleness that had first caught Mary’s interest. His eyes were a soft grey, reflecting a warm intelligence, but they could turn into twin blazes when he became impassioned about something.

‘Morning, darling.’ He gave her a kiss. They walked into the kitchen.

‘Sweetheart – would you do me a favour?’

‘Sure, beautiful. Anything.’

‘I want to sell the children.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Both of them.’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Who’d buy them?’

‘Strangers. They’ve reached the age where I can’t do anything right. Beth has become a health food freak, and your son is turning into a world-class dunce.’

Edward said thoughtfully, ‘Maybe they’re not our kids.’

‘I hope not. I’m making oatmeal for you.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, darling. No time. I’m due in surgery in half an hour. Hank Cates got tangled up in some machinery. He may lose a few fingers.’

‘Isn’t he too old to still be farming?’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’

Mary knew that Hank Cates had not paid her husband’s bills in three years. Like most of the farmers in the community, Hank Cates was suffering from the low farm prices and the Farm Credit Administration’s indifferent attitude towards the farmers. A lot of them were losing farms they had worked on all of their lives. Edward never pressed any of his patients for money, and many of them paid him with crops. The Ashleys had a cellar full of corn, potatoes and wheat. One farmer had offered to give Edward a cow in payment, but when Edward told Mary about it, she said, ‘For heaven’s sake, tell him the treatment is on the house.’

Mary looked at her husband now and thought again: How lucky I am.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I may decide to keep the kids. I like their father a lot.’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m rather fond of their mother.’ He took her in his arms and held her close. ‘Happy Birthday, plus one.’

‘Do you still love me now that I’m an older woman?’

‘I like older women.’

‘Thanks.’ Mary suddenly remembered something. ‘I’ve got to get home early today and prepare dinner. It’s our turn to have the Schiffers over.’

Bridge with their neighbours was a Monday night ritual. The fact that Douglas Schiffer was a doctor and worked with Edward at the hospital made them even closer.

Mary and Edward left the house together, bowing their heads against the relentless wind. Edward strapped himself into his Ford Granada, and watched Mary as she got behind the wheel of the station wagon.

‘The highway is probably icy,’ Edward called. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘You, too, darling.’

She blew him a kiss, and the two cars drove away from the house, Edward heading towards the hospital, and Mary driving towards the town of Manhattan, where the University was located, 16 miles away.

Two men in an automobile parked half a block from the Ashley house watched the cars leave. They waited until the vehicles were out of sight.

‘Let’s go.’

They drove up to the house next door to the Ashleys. Rex Olds, the driver, sat in the car while his companion walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an attractive brunette in her middle thirties.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘Mrs Douglas Schiffer?’

‘Yes …?’

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an identification card. ‘My name is Donald Zamlock. I’m with the Security Agency of the State Department.’

‘Good God! Don’t tell me Doug has robbed a bank!’

The agent smiled politely. ‘No, ma’am. Not that we know of. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbour, Mrs Ashley.’

She looked at him with sudden concern. ‘Mary? What about her?’

‘May I come in?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Florence Schiffer led him into the living room. ‘Sit down. Would you like some coffee?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

‘Why would you be asking about Mary?’

He smiled reassuringly. ‘This is just a routine check. She’s not suspected of any wrong-doing.’

‘I should hope not,’ Florence Schiffer said indignantly. ‘Mary Ashley is one of the nicest persons you’ll ever meet.’ She added, ‘Have you met her?’

‘No, ma’am. This visit is confidential, and I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. How long have you known Mrs Ashley?’

‘About thirteen years. Since the day she moved in next door.’

‘Would you say that you know Mrs Ashley well?’

‘Of course I would. Mary’s my closest friend. What –?’

‘Do she and her husband get along well?’

‘Next to Douglas and me, they’re the happiest couple I’ve ever known.’ She thought a moment. ‘I take that back. They are the happiest couple I’ve ever known.’

‘I understand Mrs Ashley has two children. A girl twelve and a boy ten?’

‘That’s right. Beth and Tim.’

‘Would you say she’s a good mother?’

‘She’s a great mother. What’s –?’

‘Mrs Schiffer, in your opinion, is Mrs Ashley an emotionally stable person?’

‘Of course she is.’

‘She has no emotional problems that you are aware of?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Does she drink?’

‘No. She doesn’t like alcohol.’

‘What about drugs?’

‘You’ve come to the wrong town, Mister. We don’t have a drug problem in Junction City.’

‘Mrs Ashley is married to a doctor?’

‘Yes.’

‘If she wanted to get drugs –’

‘You’re way off base. She doesn’t do drugs. She doesn’t snort, and she doesn’t shoot up.’

He studied her a moment. ‘You seem to know all the terminology.’

‘I watch Miami Vice, like everybody else.’ Florence Schiffer was getting angry. ‘Do you have any more questions?’

‘Mary Ashley’s grandfather was born in Romania. Have you ever heard her discuss Romania?’

‘Oh, once in a while she’ll tell stories her grandfather told her about the old country. Her grandfather was born in Romania but he came over here when he was in his teens.’

‘Have you ever heard Mrs Ashley express a negative opinion about the present Romanian government?’

‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘One last question. Have you ever heard Mrs Ashley or Dr Ashley say anything against the United States government?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Then in your estimation, they’re both loyal Americans?’

‘You bet they are. Would you mind telling me –?’

The man rose. ‘I want to thank you for your time, Mrs Schiffer. And I’d like to impress upon you again that this matter is highly confidential. I would appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with anyone – not even your husband.’

A moment later he was out of the door. Florence Schiffer stood there staring after him. ‘I don’t believe this whole conversation took place,’ she said aloud.

The two agents drove down Washington Street, heading north. They passed a billboard that read: ‘Enjoy yourself in the land of Ah’s.’

‘Cute,’ Rex Olds grunted.

They went by the Chamber of Commerce and the Royal Order of the Elks building, Irma’s Pet Grooming and a bar called ‘The Fat Chance’. The commercial buildings came to an abrupt end.

Donald Zamlock said, ‘Jesus, the main street is only two blocks long. This isn’t a town. It’s a pit stop.’

Rex Olds said, ‘To you it’s a pit stop, and to me it’s a pit stop, but to these people it’s a town.’

Zamlock shook his head. ‘It’s probably a nice place to live, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to visit here.’

The sedan pulled up in front of the State Bank and Rex Olds went inside.

He returned twenty minutes later. ‘Clean,’ he said, getting into the car. ‘The Ashleys have seven thousand dollars in the bank, a mortgage on their house, and they pay their bills on time. The president of the bank thinks the doctor is too soft-hearted to be a good businessman, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s a top credit risk.’

Zamlock looked at a clipboard at his side. ‘Let’s check out a few more names and get back to civilization before I begin to moo.’

Douglas Schiffer was normally a pleasant, easy-going man, but at the moment there was a grim expression on his face. The Schiffers and the Ashleys were in the middle of their weekly bridge game, and the Schiffers were 10,000 points behind. For the fourth time that evening, Florence Schiffer had reneged.

Douglas Schiffer slammed down his cards. ‘Florence!’ he exploded, ‘which side are you playing on? Do you know how much we’re down?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said nervously. ‘I – I just can’t seem to concentrate.’

‘Obviously,’ her husband snorted.

‘Is anything bothering you?’ Edward Ashley asked Florence.

‘I can’t tell you.’

They all looked at her in surprise. ‘What does that mean?’ her husband asked.

Florence Schiffer took a deep breath. ‘Mary – it’s about you.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?’

Mary stared at her. ‘Trouble? No. I – what makes you think that?’

‘I’m not supposed to tell. I promised.’

‘You promised who?’ Edward asked.

‘A federal agent from Washington. He was at the house this morning asking me all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy.’

‘What kind of questions?’ Edward demanded.

‘Oh, you know. Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and mother? Was she on drugs?’

‘Why the devil would they be asking you questions like that?’

‘Wait a minute,’ Mary said excitedly. ‘I think I know. It’s about my tenure.’

‘What?’ Florence asked.

‘I’m up for tenure at the University. The University does some sensitive government research on campus, so I suppose they have to check everyone pretty thoroughly.’

‘Well, thank God that’s all it is.’ Florence Schiffer breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I thought they were going to lock you up.’

‘I hope they do,’ Mary smiled. ‘At Kansas State.’

‘Well, now that that’s out of the way,’ Douglas Schiffer said, ‘can we get on with the game?’ He turned to his wife. ‘If you renege one more time, I’m going to put you over my knee.’

‘Promises, promises.’