Sidney Sheldon - Windmills Of The Gods

“And proud of it. Every politician in the world comes out of the same cookie cutter. They’re all in it for what they can get out of it.”

The truth was that Ben Cohn was not as cynical as he sounded. He had covered Paul Ellison’s career from the beginning, and while it was true that he had not been impressed at first, as Ellison moved up the political ladder Ben Cohn began to change his opinion. This politician was nobody’s yes-man. He was an oak in a forest of willows.

Outside, the sky exploded into icy sheets of rain, Ben Cohn hoped the weather was not an omen of the four years that lay ahead. He turned his attention back to the television set and President E.Ilison’s speech.

“I speak today not only to our allies but to those countries in the Soviet cainp. I say to them now, as we prepare to move into the twenty-first century, that there is no longer any room for confrontation and that we must learn to make the phrase ‘one world’ become a reality. Vast chasms lie between us, but the first priority of this administration will be to build unshakable bridges across those chasms.”

His words rang out with a deep, heartfelt sincerity. He, means it, Ben Cohn thought. I hope no one assassinates the guy.

IN JUNeTiON City, Kansas, it was a potbellied stove kind of day, bleak and raw, and snowing hard. Mary Ashley cautiously steered her old station wagon toward the center of the highway, where the snowplows had been at work. The storm was going to make her late for the class she was teaching.

From the car radio came the Presiden’s voice: “Because I believe that there is no problem that cannot be solved by genuine goodwill on both sides, the concrete wall around East Berlin and the iron curtain that surrounds the Soviet satellite countries must come down.”

Mary Ashley thought, I’m glad I voted for him. Paul Ellison is going to make a great President.

IN BucH=ST, the capital of Remania, it was evening. President Alexandres lonescu sat in his office surrounded by half a dozen aides, listening to the broadcast on a shortwave radio.

“As you are aware,” the American President was saying, “three years ago, upon the death of Remania’s President, Nicolae CeauSSescu, ]Remania broke off diplomatic relations with the United States. I want to inform you now that we have approached the government of Remania and its President, Alexandres Ionescu, and he has agreed to reestablish diplomatic relations with our country.

“One of our first official acts will be to send an ambassador to Remania. And that is merely the beginning. I have no intention of stopping there. Albania broke off all diplomatic relations with the United States in 1946. I intend to reestablish those ties. In addition, I intend to strengthen our diplomatic relations with Bulgaria, with iczechoslovakia, and with East Germany.

“Sending our ambassador to Remania is the beginning of a worldwide people-to-people movement. Let us never forget that all mankind shares a common origin, common problems, and a common ultimate fate. Let us remember that the problems we share are greater than the problems that divide us, and that what divides us is of our own making.”

Over the shortwave radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.

IN A heavily guarded villa in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, the Remanian revolutionary leader, Marin Groza, was watching President Ellison on channel 2 television.

“I think our time has come, Ley. He really means it,” said Marin Groza thoughtfully.

Ley Pastemak, his security chief, replied, “Won’t this help Ionescu?”

Marin Groza shook his head. “lonescu is a tyrant, so in the end nothing will help him. But I must be careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow him before. I must not fail again.”

PETE Connors had downed almost a fifth of Scotch while watching the inaugural speech. He poured himself another glassful and turned back to the image on the television set. “You filthy Communist!” he yelled at the screen. “This is my country, and the CIAs not gonna let you give it away. We’re gonna stop you, Ellison. You can bet your bottom dollar on it”

Chapter Two

PAUL Ellison said, “I’m going to need your help, old friend.”

“You’ll get it,” Stanton Rogers replied quietly.

It was their first meeting together in the Oval Office, and President Ellison was uncomfortable. If Stanton hadn’t made that one mistake, he thought, he would be sitting at this desk instead of me.

As though reading his mind, Stanton Rogers said, “I have a confession to make. The day you were nominated for the presidency, I was bitterly jealous. It was my dream, and you were living it. But I came to realize that if I couldn’t sit in that chair, there was no one else I would want there but you.”

Paul Ellison smiled at his friend and pressed the button on his desk. Seconds later a white-jacketed steward came into the room.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

Paul Ellison turned to Rogers. “Coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

“Want anything with it?”

“No, thanks. Barbara wants me to watch my waistline.”

The President nodded to Henry, the steward, and he quietly left the room.

Barbara. She had surprised everyone. The gossip around Washington was that the marriage would not last out the first year. But it had been almost fifteen years now, and it was a success. Stanton Rogers had built up a prestigious law practice in-Washington, and Barbam had earned the reputation of being a gracious hostess.

Paul Ellison rose and began to pace. “My people-to-people speech seems to have caused quite an uproar. I suppose you’ve seen all the newspapers.”

“Yes,” said Stanton Rogers. “And quite candidly, Mr. President, you’re scaring the pants off a lot of people. The armed forces are against your plan, and some powerful movers and shakers would like to see it fail.”

Ellison sat down and faced his friend. “It’s not going to fail.”

The steward appeared with the coffee. “Can I get you something else, Mr. President?”

“No. That’s it, Henry. Thank you.”

The President waited until the steward had gone. “I want to talk to you about finding the right ambassador to send to Remania.”

“Right.”

“I don’t have to tell you how important this ‘is for us, Stan. I want you to get moving on it as quickly as you possibly can.”

Stanton Rogers took a sip of his coffee and rose to his feet. “I’ll get State on it right away.”

IN a little suburb of Neuilly it was two a.m. Marin Groza’s villa lay in ebon darkness, the moon nestled in a thick layer of -storm clouds. The streets were hushed at this hour, as a blackclad figure moved noiselessly through the trees toward the brick wall that surrounded the villa. Over one shoulder he carried a rope and a blanket, and in his arms he cradled a dart gun and an Uzi submachine gun with a silencer. When he reached the wall, he stopped and listened. He waited, motionless, for five minutes. Finally, satisfied, he uncoiled the nylon rope and tossed the scaling hook attached to the end of it upward. It caught on the far edge of the wall, and swiffly the man began to climb. When he reached the top of the wall, he flung the blanket across it to protect himself against the poison-tipped metal spikes embedded on top. He stopped again to listen. He reversed the hook, shifhng the rope to the inside of the wall, and slid down onto the ground. He checked the balisong at his waist, the deadly Filipino folding knife that could be flicked open or closed with one hand.

The attack dogs would be next. The intruder crouched there, waiting for them to pick up his scent. There were two Dobermans, trained to kill. But they were only the first obstacle. The grounds and the villa were filled with electronic devices and continuously monitored by television cameras. All mail and packages were received at the gatehouse and opened there by the guards. The doors of the villa were bombproof. The villa had its own water supply, and Marin Groza had a food taster. The villa was impregnable. Supposedly. The figure in black was here this night to prove that it was not.