“You are a very beautiful woman, do you know that?”
“Thank you. You’re a beautiful man.”
He led her to the couch and sat her down. She was feeling giddy. His lips pressed against hers, and she felt his hand sliding up her thigh.
“What’re you doing?”
“Just relax, darling. It’s going to feel lovely.”
It did feel lovely. His hands were very gentle, like Edward’s.
“He was a won’erful doctor,” Mary said.
“I’m sure he was.” He pressed his body against hers.
“Oh, yes. ‘Never anyone needed an operation, they always asked for Edward.”
She was lying on the couch on her back, and soft hands had pushed her dress up and were gently massaging her. Edward’s hands. Mary closed her eyes and felt his lips moving down her body—soft lips, and a gentle tongue. Edward had such a gentle tongue. It was blissful. And she wanted it never to stop.
“That’s so good, my darling,” she said. “Take me. Please take me.”
“I will. Now.” His voice was husky. Suddenly harsh. Not at all like Edward’s voice.
Mary opened her eyes, and she was staring into the face of a stranger. As she felt the man start to thrust inside her, she screamed, “No! Stop it!”
She rolled away from him and fell to the floor. She stumbled to her feet.
Olaf Peterson was staring at her. “But—”
“No!”
She looked around the apartment wildly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I made a mistake. I don’t want you to think I—”
She turned and ran toward the door.
“Wait! Let me at least take you home.”
She was gone.
She walked down the deserted streets, bracing herself against the icy wind, filled with a deep, bruising mortification. There was no explanation for what she had done. And there was no excuse. She had disgraced her position. And in what a stupid way! She had gotten drunk in front of half the diplomatic corps in Washington, had gone to a stranger’s apartment, and had almost let him seduce her. In the morning she was going to be the target for every gossip columnist in Washington.
Ben Cohn heard the story from three people who had attended the dinner at the Romanian embassy. He searched through the columns of the Washington and New York newspapers. There was not one word about the incident. Someone had killed the story. It had to be someone very important.
Cohn sat in the small cubicle that the newspaper called an office, thinking. He dialed Ian Villiers’s number. “Hello, is Mr. Villiers in?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Ben Cohn.”
“One moment, please.” She was back on the line one minute later. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Cohn. Mr. Villiers seems to have stepped out.”
“When can I reach him?”
“I’m afraid he’s fully booked up all day.”
“Right.” He replaced the receiver and dialed the number of a gossip columnist who worked on another newspaper. Nothing happened in Washington without her knowing it.
“Linda,” he said, “how goes the daily battle?”
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la mime chose.”
“Anything exciting happening around this gilded watering hole?”
“Not really, Ben. It’s deadly quiet.”
He said casually, “I understand the Romanian embassy had a big wingding last night.”
“Did they?” There was a sudden caution in her voice.
“Uh-huh. Did you happen to hear anything about our new ambassador to Romania?”
“No. I’ve got to go now, Ben. I have a long-distance call.”
The line went dead.
He dialed the number of a friend in the State Department. When the secretary put him through, he said, “Hello, Alfred.”
“Benjie! What’s cooking?”
“It’s been a long time. I thought we might get together for lunch.”
“Fine. What are you working on?”
“Why don’t I tell you about it when I see you?”
“Fair enough. My calendar is pretty light today. Do you want to meet me at the Watergate?”
Ben Cohn hesitated. “Why don’t we make it Mama Regina’s in Silver Spring?”
“That’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?”
Ben said, “Yes.”
There was a pause. “I see.”
“One o’clock?”
“Fine.”
Ben Cohn was seated at a table in the corner when his guest, Alfred Shuttleworth, arrived. The host, Tony Sergio, seated him.