Later that evening, Ben Cohn telephoned Ian Villiers.
“Hi, Ian.”
“Benjie, my boy—what can I do for you?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it, and you’ve got it.”
“I understand you’re in charge of press relations for our new ambassador to Romania.”
A cautious “Yes…?”
“Who’s behind her buildup, Ian? I’m interested in—”
“I’m sorry, Ben. That’s State Department business. I’m just a hired hand. You might drop a note to the secretary of state.”
Hanging up, Ben said, “Why didn’t he just tell me to go fuck myself?” He made a decision. “I think I’m going to have to go out of town for a few days.”
“Where are you going, baby?”
“Junction City, Kansas.”
As it turned out, Ben Cohn was in Junction City for only one day. He spent an hour talking to Sheriff Munster and one of his deputies, then drove a rental car to Fort Riley, where he visited the CID office. He caught a late afternoon plane to Manhattan, Kansas, and a connecting flight home.
As Ben Cohn’s plane took off, a person-to-person telephone call was placed from the fort to a number in Washington, D.C.
Mary Ashley was walking down the long corridor of the Foreign Service Institute on her way to report to James Stickley when she heard a deep male voice behind her say, “Now that’s what I call a perfect ten.”
Mary spun around. A tall stranger was leaning against a wall, openly staring at her, an insolent grin on his face. He was rugged-looking, dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and he looked scruffy and unshaven. There were laugh lines around his mouth, and his eyes were a bright mocking blue. There was an air of arrogance about him that was infuriating. Mary turned on her heel and angrily walked away, conscious of his eyes following her.
The conference with James Stickley lasted for more than an hour. When Mary returned to her office, the stranger was seated in her chair, his feet on her desk, looking through her papers. She could feel the blood rising to her face.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
The man gave her a long, lazy look and slowly got to his feet. “I’m Mike Slade. My friends call me Michael.”
She said icily, “What can I do for you, Mr. Slade?”
“Nothing, really,” he said easily. “We’re neighbors. I work here in the department, so I thought I’d come by and say hello.”
“You’ve said it. And if you really are in the department, I assume you have your own desk. So in the future you won’t have to sit at my desk and snoop.”
“God, it has a temper! I heard the Kansians, or whatever you people call yourselves, were supposed to be friendly folks.”
She gritted her teeth. “Mr. Slade, I’ll give you two seconds to get out of my office before I call a guard.”
“I must have heard wrong,” he mumbled to himself.
“And if you really work in this department, I’d suggest you go home and shave and put on some proper clothing.”
“I used to have a wife who talked like that,” Mike Slade sighed. “I don’t have her anymore.”
Mary felt her face getting redder. “Out.”
He waved his hand at her. “Bye, honey. I’ll be seeing you.”
Oh, no, Mary thought. No, you won’t.
The whole morning was a series of unpleasant experiences. James Stickley was openly antagonistic. By noon, Mary was too upset to eat. She decided to spend her lunch hour riding around Washington, getting the anger out of her system.
Her limousine was sitting at the curb in front of the Foreign Service Institute.
“Good morning, Madam Ambassador,” the chauffeur said. “Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere, Marvin. Let’s just drive around.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The car pulled smoothly away from the curb. “Would you like to see Embassy Row?”
“Fine.” Anything to get the taste of the morning out of her mouth.
He made a left turn at the corner and headed for Massachusetts Avenue.
“It begins here,” Marvin said as he turned onto the wide street. He slowed the car down and began to point out the various embassies.