“I don’t like the odds,” Mary said flatly. “We’ll take the train.”
“You can’t. They’re expecting you in Washington this afternoon.”
“Alive. I’m not going to be any good to them dead.”
It took the Schiffers fifteen minutes to persuade Mary to board the plane. Half an hour later, she and the children were strapped aboard Air Midwest flight number 826. As the motors revved up and the plane began racing down the runway, Mary closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her seat. Seconds later, they were airborne.
“Mama—”
“Sh! Don’t talk!”
She sat rigid, refusing to look out the window, concentrating on keeping the plane in the air. The children were pointing out the sights below, having a wonderful time.
Children, Mary thought bitterly. What do they know!
At the Kansas City airport they changed to a DC-10 and took off for Washington, D.C. Beth and Tim were seated together and Mary was across the aisle from them. An elderly lady sat next to Mary.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little nervous,” Mary’s seatmate confessed. “I’ve never flown before.”
Mary patted her hand and smiled. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The odds are a million to one against anything happening.”
BOOK TWO
13
When their plane landed at Washington’s Dulles Airport, Mary and the children were met by a young man from the State Department.
“Welcome to Washington, Mrs. Ashley. My name is John Burns. Mr. Rogers asked me to meet you and see that you get to your hotel safely. I’ve checked you in at the Riverdale Towers. I think you’ll all be comfortable there.”
“Thank you.”
Mary introduced Beth and Tim.
“If you’ll give me your baggage-claim checks, Mrs. Ashley, I’ll see that everything is taken care of.”
Twenty minutes later they were all seated in a chauffeurdriven limousine, heading toward the center of Washington.
Tim was staring out the car window, awed. “Look!” he exclaimed, “there’s the Lincoln Memorial!”
Beth was looking out the other window. “There’s the Washington Monument!”
Mary looked at John Burns in embarrassment. “I’m afraid the children aren’t very sophisticated,” she apologized. “You see, they’ve never been away from—” She glanced out the window and her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “Look! It’s the White House!”
The limousine moved up Pennsylvania Avenue, surrounded by some of the most stirring landmarks in the world. Mary thought excitedly: This is the city that rules the world. This is where the power is. And in a small way I’m going to be a part of it.
As the limousine approached the hotel, Mary asked, “When will I see Mr. Rogers?”
“He’ll be in touch with you in the morning.”
Pete Connors, head of KUDESK, the counterintelligence section of the CIA, was working late, and his day was far from over. Every morning at three A.M. a team reported to prepare the President’s daily intelligence checklist, collected from overnight cables. The report, code-named “Pickles,” had to be ready by six A.M. so that it could be on the President’s desk at the start of his day. An armed courier carried the list to the White House, entering at the west gate. Pete Connors had a renewed interest in the intercepted-cable traffic coming from behind the iron curtain, because much of it concerned the appointment of Mary Ashley as the American ambassador to Romania.
The Soviet Union was worried that President Ellison’s plan was a ploy to penetrate their satellite countries, to spy on them or seduce them.
The Commies aren’t as worried as I am, Pete Connors thought grimly. If the President’s idea works, this whole country is going to be open house for their fucking spies.
Pete Connors had been informed the moment Mary Ashley landed in Washington. He had seen photographs of her and the children. She’s going to be perfect, Connors thought happily.
The Riverdale Towers, one block away from the Watergate complex, is a small family hotel with comfortable, nicely decorated suites.
A bellman brought up the luggage, and as Mary started unpacking, the telephone rang. Mary picked it up. “Hello.”
A masculine voice said, “Mrs. Ashley?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Ben Cohn. I’m a reporter with The Washington Post. I wonder if we could talk for a few minutes.”