Mary felt her heart plummet. “When will you hear from him?”
“It’s difficult to say. He and the President have a very busy schedule. Perhaps someone in the State Department could help you.”
“No,” Mary said dully. “No one else can help me. Thank you.”
She sat in the room alone, staring at nothing, surrounded by the most sophisticated electronic equipment in the world, and none of it of any use to her. Mike Slade was trying to murder her. She had to let someone know. But who? Whom could she trust? The only one who knew what Slade was trying to do was Louis Desforges.
Mary tried the number at his residence again, but there still was no answer. She remembered what Stanton Rogers had told her: “If you want to send me any messages you don’t want anyone else to read, the code at the top of the cable is three x’s.”
Mary hurried back to her office and wrote out an urgent message addressed to Stanton Rogers. She placed three x’s at the top. She took out the black code book from a locked drawer in her desk and carefully encoded what she had written. At least if anything happened to her now, Stanton Rogers would know who was responsible.
Mary walked down the corridor to the communications room.
Eddie Maltz, the CIA agent, happened to be behind the cage.
“Good evening, Madam Ambassador. You’re working late tonight.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “There’s a message I’d like sent off. I want it to go out right away.”
“I’ll take care of it, personally.”
“Thank you.” She handed him the message and headed for the front door. She desperately wanted to be close to her children.
In the communications room, Eddie Maltz was decoding the message Mary had handed him. When he was finished, he read it through twice, frowning. He walked over to the shredder, threw the message in, and watched it turn into confetti.
Then he placed a call to Floyd Baker, the secretary of state, in Washington. Code name: Thor.
It took Lev Pasternak two months to follow the circuitous trail that led to Buenos Aires. SIS and half a dozen other security agencies around the world had helped identify Angel as the killer. Mossad had given him the name of Neusa Muñez, Angel’s mistress. They all wanted to eliminate Angel. To Lev Pasternak, Angel had become an obsession. Because of Pasternak’s failure, Marin Groza had died, and Pasternak could never forgive himself for that. He could, however, make atonement. And he intended to.
He did not get in touch with Neusa Muñez directly. He located the apartment building where she lived and kept watch on it, waiting for Angel to appear. After five days, when there was no sign of him, Pasternak made his move. He waited until the woman left, and after fifteen minutes walked upstairs, picked the lock on her door, and entered the apartment. He searched it swiftly and thoroughly. There were no photographs, memos, or addresses that could lead him to Angel. Pasternak discovered the suits in the closet. He examined the Herrera labels, took one of the jackets off the hanger, and tucked it under his arm. A minute later he was gone, as quietly as he had entered.
The following morning Lev Pasternak walked into Herrera’s. His hair was disheveled and his clothes were wrin-kled, and he smelled of whiskey.
The manager of the men’s shop came up to him and said, disapprovingly, “May I help you, señor?”
Lev Pasternak grinned sheepishly. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I got as drunk as a skunk last night. I got in a card game with some South American dudes in my hotel room. I think we all got a little drunk, pal. Anyway, one of the guys—I don’t remember his name—left his jacket in my room.” Lev held up the jacket, his hand unsteady. “It had your label in it, so I figured you could tell me where to return it to him.”
The manager examined the jacket. “Yes, we tailored this. I would have to look up our records. Where can I reach you?”
“You can’t,” Lev Pasternak mumbled. “I’m on my way to ‘nother poker game. Got a card? I’ll call you.”