Сидни Шелдон – Windmills of the Gods (страница 3)

From the car radio came the President’s voice: ‘… are many in government as well as in private life who insist that America build more moats instead of bridges. My answer to that is that we can no longer afford to condemn ourselves or our children to a future threatened by global confrontations and nuclear war.’

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

Her grip tightened on the wheel as the snow became a blinding white whirlwind.

In St Croix, a tropical sun was shining in a cloudless, azure sky, but Harry Lantz had no intention of going outside. He was having too much fun indoors. He was in bed, naked, sandwiched between the Dolly sisters. Lantz had empirical evidence that they were not truly sisters. Annette was a tall, natural brunette, and Sally was a tall, natural blonde. Not that Harry Lantz gave a damn whether they were blood relatives. What was important was that they were both expert at what they did, and what they were doing made Lantz groan aloud with pleasure.

At the far end of the motel room, the image of the President flickered on the television set.

‘… 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 other Soviet Union satellite countries must come down.’

Sally stopped her activities long enough to ask, ‘Do you want me to turn that fuckin’ thing off, hon?’

‘Leave it alone. I wanna hear what he has to say.’

Annette raised her head. ‘Did you vote for him?’

Harry Lantz yelled, ‘Hey, you two! Get back to work …’

‘As you are aware, three years ago, upon the death of Romania’s President, Nicolae Ceausescu, Romania broke off diplomatic relations with the United States. I want to inform you now that we have approached the government of Romania and its President, Alexandros Ionescu, and he has agreed to re-establish diplomatic relations with our country.’

There was a cheer from the crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Harry Lantz sat upright so suddenly that Annette’s teeth sank into his penis. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Lantz screamed. ‘I’ve already been circumcised! What the fuck are you trying to do?’

‘What did you move for, hon?’

Lantz did not hear her. His eyes were glued to the television set.

‘One of our first official acts,’ the President was saying, ‘will be to send an Ambassador to Romania. And that is merely the beginning …’

In Bucharest, it was evening. The winter weather had turned unexpectedly mild and the streets of the late marketplaces were crowded with citizens lined up to shop in the unseasonably warm weather.

Romanian President Alexandros Ionescu sat in his office in Peles, the old palace, on Calea Victoriei, surrounded by half a dozen aides, listening to the broadcast on a short-wave radio.

‘… I have no intention of stopping there,’ the American President was saying. ‘Albania broke off all diplomatic relations with the United States in 1946. I intend to re-establish those ties. In addition, I intend to strengthen our diplomatic relations with Bulgaria, with Czechoslovakia, and with East Germany.’

Over the radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.

‘Sending our Ambassador to Romania 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.’

In a heavily guarded villa in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, the Romanian revolutionary leader, Marin Groza, was watching the President on Chaine 2 Television.

‘… I promise you now, that I will do my best, and that I will seek out the best in others …’

The applause lasted fully five minutes.

Marin Groza said thoughtfully, ‘I think our time has come, Lev. He really means it.’

Lev Pasternak, his security chief, replied, ‘Won’t this help Ionescu?’

Marin Groza shook his head. ‘Ionescu is a tyrant, so in the end, nothing will help him. But I must be very careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow Ceausescu. I must not fail again.’

Peter Connors was not drunk – not as drunk as he intended to get. He had finished almost a fifth of Scotch when Nancy, the secretary he lived with, said, ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Pete?’ He smiled and slapped her.

‘Our President’s talkin’. You gotta show some respect.’ He turned to look at the image on the television set. ‘You communist son-of-a-bitch,’ he yelled at the screen. ‘This is my country, and the CIA’s not gonna let you give it away. We’re gonna stop you, Charlie. You can bet your ass on it.’

Chapter Two

Paul Ellison said, ‘I’m going to need a lot of help from you, old friend.’

‘You’ll get it,’ Stanton Rogers replied quietly.

They were seated in the Oval Office, the President at his desk with the American flag behind him. It was their first meeting together in this office, and President Ellison was uncomfortable.

If Stanton hadn’t made that one mistake, Paul Ellison 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 as jealous as hell, Paul. It was my dream, and you were living it. But do you know something? I finally came to realize that if I couldn’t sit in that chair, there was no one else in the world I would want to sit there but you. That chair suits you.’

Paul Ellison smiled at his friend and said, ‘To tell you the truth, Stan, this room scares the hell out of me. I feel the ghosts of Washington and Lincoln and Jefferson.’

‘We’ve also had Presidents who –’

‘I know. But it’s the great ones we have to try to live up to.’

He pressed the button on his desk, and 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 Barbara 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.’

Stanton Rogers shrugged. ‘You know how they are. They love to build up heroes so they can knock them down.’

‘Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the papers say. I’m interested in what people are saying.’

‘Quite candidly, you’re putting the fear of God into a lot of people, Paul. The armed forces are against your plan, and some powerful movers and shakers would like to see it fail.’

‘It’s not going to fail.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you know the biggest problem with the world today? There are no more statesmen. Countries are being run by politicians. There was a time not too long ago when this earth was peopled with giants. Some were good, and some were evil – but, by God, they were giants. Roosevelt and Churchill, Hitler and Mussolini. Charles de Gaulle and Joseph Stalin. Why did they all live at that one particular time? Why aren’t there any statesmen today?’

‘It’s pretty hard to be a world giant on a twenty-one-inch screen.’

The door opened and the steward appeared, bearing a silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups, each imprinted with the Presidential seal. He skilfully poured 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 Romania.’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t have to tell you how important this is. I want you to move on it as quickly as possible.’

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

In the little suburb of Neuilly, it was 2 a.m. Marin Groza’s villa lay in ebon darkness, the moon nested in a thick layer of storm clouds. The streets were hushed at this hour, with only the sound of an occasional passer-by rippling the silence. A black-clad figure moved noiselessly through the trees towards the brick wall that surrounded the villa. Over one shoulder he carried a rope and a blanket, and in his arms was cradled an Uzi with a silencer and a dart gun. When he reached the wall, he stopped and listened. He waited, motionless, for five minutes. Finally, satisfied, he uncoiled the nylon rope and tossed up the scaling hook attached to the end of it until it caught on the far edge of the wall. Swiftly, the man began to climb. When he reached the top of the wall, he flung the blanket across it to protect himself against the poisoned-tip metal spikes embedded on top. He stopped again to listen. He reversed the hook, shifting the rope to the inside of the wall, and slid down into the grounds. He checked the balisong at his waist; the deadly Filipino folding knife that could be flicked open or closed with one hand.