Free Windmills of the Gods by Sidney Sheldon Page A

full of water. “I fix a bath for you. When you’re finish’, I fix breakfast.”
    Lantz was impatient, but he knew he must not press too hard.
    “You like omelettes?”
    He had no appetite. “Yeah. Sounds great.”
    “I make good omelettes. Angel teach me.”
    Lantz watched as she started to take the huge, lumpy curlers out of her hair. He stepped into the bathtub.
    Neusa picked up a large electric dryer, plugged it in, and began drying her hair.
    Lantz lay back in the warm tub thinking: Maybe I should get a gun and take Angel myself. If I let the Israelis do it, there’ll probably be a fucking inquiry into who gets the reward. This way there won’t be any question. I’ll just tell them where to pick up his body.
    Neusa said something, but Harry Lantz could barely hear her over the roar of the hair dryer.
    “What did you say?” he called out.
    Neusa moved to the side of the tub. “I got a presen’ for you from Angel.”
    She dropped the electric hair dryer into the water and stood there watching as Lantz’s body twitched in a dance of death.

7
    President Paul Ellison put down the last security report on Mary Ashley and said, “Not a blemish, Stan.”
    “I know. I think she’s the perfect candidate. “Of course, State isn’t going to be happy.”
    “We’ll send them a crying towel. Now let’s hope the Senate will back us up.”
    Mary Ashley’s office in Kedzie Hall was a small, pleasant room lined with bookcases that were crammed with reference books on Middle European countries. The furniture was sparse, consisting of a battered desk with a swivel chair, a small table at the window piled with examination papers, a ladder-back chair, and a reading lamp. On the wall behind the desk was a map of the Balkans. An ancient photograph of Mary’s grandfather hung on the wall. It had been taken around the turn of the century, and the figure in the photograph was standing in a stiff, unnatural pose, dressed in theclothes of the period. The picture was one of Mary’s treasures. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about Romania. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie, and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the prince consort of England, and Alexander II, czar of Russia, and dozens of other thrilling characters.
    Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.
    She used to have dreams about it.
    Mary was in the middle of grading examination papers when the door opened and Dean Hunter walked in.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Ashley. Do you have a moment?” It was the first time the dean had ever visited her office.
    Mary felt a sudden sense of elation. There could be only one reason for the dean coming here himself: He was going to tell her that the university was giving her tenure.
    “Of course,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”
    He sat down on the ladder-back chair. “How are your classes going?”
    “Very well, I think.” She could not wait to relay the news to Edward. He would be so proud. It was seldom that someone her age received tenure from a university.
    Dean Hunter seemed ill at ease. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Mrs. Ashley?”
    The question caught her completely off guard. “Trouble? I—no. Why?”
    “Some men from Washington have been to see me, asking questions about you.”
    Mary Ashley heard the echo of Florence Schiffer’s words: Some federal agent from Washington… He was asking all kinds of questions about Mary. He made her sound like some kind of international spy… Was she a loyal American? Was she a good wife and a good mother? …
    So it had not been about her tenure, after all. She suddenlyfound it difficult to speak. “What—what did they want to know, Dean Hunter?”
    “They inquired about your reputation as a professor, and they asked questions about your personal life.”
    “I can’t explain it. I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m in no