Windmills of the Gods

Chapter Three

Headquarters for the Central Intelligence Agency is located in Langley, Virginia, seven miles southwest of Washington, D.C. At the approach road to the Agency is a flashing red beacon on top of a gate. The gatehouse is guarded twenty-four hours a day, and authorized visitors are issued coloured badges giving them access only to the particular department with which they have business. Outside the grey seven-storey headquarters building, whimsically called the ‘Toy Factory’, is a large statue of Nathan Hale. Inside, on the ground floor, a glass corridor wall faces an inner courtyard with a landscaped garden dotted with magnolia trees. Above the reception desk a verse is carved in marble:

And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set ye free.

The public is never admitted inside the building, and there are no facilities for visitors. For those who wish to enter the compound ‘black’ – unseen – there is a tunnel that emerges onto a foyer facing a mahogany elevator door, watched around the clock by a squad of grey-flannelled sentries.

In the seventh-floor conference room, guarded by security aides armed with snub-nosed .38 revolvers under their business suits, the Monday morning executive staff meeting was under way. Seated around the large, oak table were Ned Tillingast, Director of the CIA; General Oliver Brooks, Army Chief of Staff; Secretary of State Floyd Baker; Pete Connors, Chief of Counterintelligence; and Stanton Rogers.

Ned Tillingast, the CIA Director, was in his sixties, a cold, taciturn man, burdened with maleficent secrets. There is a light branch and a dark branch of the CIA. The dark branch handles clandestine operations, and for the past seven years, Tillingast had been in charge of the 4500 employees working in that section.

General Oliver Brooks was a West Point soldier who conducted his personal and professional life by the book. He was a company man, and the company he worked for was the United States Army.

Floyd Baker, the Secretary of State, was an anachronism, a throw-back to an earlier era. He was of southern vintage, tall, silver-haired and distinguished-looking, with an old-fashioned gallantry. He was a man who wore mental spats. He owned a chain of influential newspapers around the country, and was reputed to be enormously wealthy. There was no one in Washington with a keener political sense, and Baker’s antennae were constantly tuned to the changing signals around the halls of Congress.

Pete Connors was black-Irish, a stubborn, bulldog of a man, hard-drinking and fearless. This was his last year with the CIA. He faced compulsory retirement in June. Connors was Chief of the Counterintelligence staff, the most secret, highly compartmentalized branch of the CIA. He had worked his way up through the various intelligence divisions, and had been around in the good old days when CIA agents were the golden boys. Pete Connors had been a golden boy himself. He had taken part in the coup that restored the Shah to the Peacock Throne in Iran, and he had been involved in Operation Mongoose, the attempt to topple Castro’s government, in 1961.

‘After the Bay of Pigs, everything changed,’ Pete mourned. The length of his diatribe usually depended upon how drunk he was. ‘The bleeding hearts attacked us on the front pages of every newspaper in the world. They called us a bunch of lying, sneaking clowns who couldn’t get out of our own way. Some anti-CIA bastard published the names of our agents, and Dick Welch, our Chief of Station in Athens, was murdered.’

Pete Connors had gone through three miserable marriages because of the pressures and secrecy of his work, but as far as he was concerned, no sacrifice was too great to make for his country.

Now, in the middle of the meeting, his face was red with anger. ‘If we let the President get away with his fucking people-to-people programme, he’s going to give the country away. It has to be stopped. We can’t allow –’

Floyd Baker interrupted. ‘The President has been in office less than a week. We’re all here to carry out his policies and –’

‘I’m not here to hand over my country to the damned commies, Mister. The President never even mentioned his plan before his speech. He sprang it on all of us. We didn’t have a chance to get together a rebuttal.’

‘Perhaps that’s what he had in mind,’ Baker suggested.

Pete Connors stared at him. ‘By God, you agree with it!’

‘He’s my President,’ Floyd Baker said firmly. ‘Just as he’s yours.’

Ned Tillingast turned to Stanton Rogers. ‘Connors has a point. The President is actually planning to invite Romania, Albania, Bulgaria, and the other communist countries to send their spies here posing as cultural attachés and chauffeurs and secretaries and maids. We’re spending billions of dollars to guard the back door, and the President wants to throw open the front door.’

General Brooks nodded agreement. ‘I wasn’t consulted, either. In my opinion, the President’s plan could damn well destroy this country.’

Stanton Rogers said, ‘Gentlemen, some of us may disagree with the President, but let’s not forget that the people voted for Paul Ellison to run this country.’ His eyes flicked across the men seated around him. ‘We’re all part of the President’s team and we have to follow his lead and support him in every way we can.’ His words were followed by a reluctant silence. ‘All right, then. The President wants an immediate update on the current situation in Romania. Everything you have.’

‘Including our covert stuff?’ Pete Connors asked.

‘Everything. Give it to me straight. What’s the situation in Romania with Alexandros Ionescu?’

‘Ionescu’s riding high in the saddle,’ Ned Tillingast replied. ‘Once he got rid of the Ceausescu family, all of Ceausescu’s allies were assassinated, jailed, or exiled. Since he seized power, Ionescu’s been bleeding the country dry. The people hate his guts.’

‘What about the prospects for a revolution?’

Tillingast said, ‘Ah. That’s rather interesting. Remember a couple of years back when Marin Groza almost toppled the Ionescu government?’

‘Yes. Groza got out of the country by the skin of his butt.’

‘With our help. Our information is that there’s a popular groundswell to bring him back. Groza would be good for Romania and, if he got in, it would be good for us. We’re keeping a close watch on the situation.’

Stanton Rogers turned to the Secretary of State. ‘Do you have that list of candidates for the Romanian post?’

Floyd Baker opened a leather attaché case, took some papers from it, and handed a copy to Rogers. ‘These are our top prospects. They’re all qualified career diplomats. Each one of them has been cleared. No security problems, no financial problems, no embarrassing skeletons in the closet.’

As Stanton Rogers took the list, the Secretary of State added, ‘Naturally, the State Department favours a career diplomat, rather than a political appointee. Someone who’s been trained for this kind of job. In this situation, particularly. Romania is an extremely sensitive post. It has to be handled very carefully.’

‘I agree.’ Stanton Rogers rose to his feet. ‘I’ll discuss these names with the President and get back to you. He’s anxious to fill the appointment as quickly as possible.’

As the others got up to leave, Ned Tillingast said, ‘Stay here, Pete. I want to talk to you.’

When Tillingast and Connors were alone, Tillingast said, ‘You came on pretty strong, Pete.’

‘But I’m right,’ Pete Connors said stubbornly. ‘The President is trying to sell out the country. What are we supposed to do?’

‘Keep your mouth shut.’

‘Ned, we’re trained to find the enemy and kill him. What if the enemy is behind our lines – sitting in the Oval Office?’

‘Be careful. Be very careful.’

Tillingast had been around longer than Pete Connors. He had been a member of Wild Bill Donovan’s OSS before it became the CIA. He, too, hated what the bleeding hearts in Congress were doing to the organization he loved. In fact, there was a deep split within the ranks of the CIA between the hard-liners and those who believed the Russian bear could be tamed into a harmless pet. We have to fight for every single dollar, Tillingast thought. In Moscow, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti – the KGB – trains a thousand agents at a time.

Ned Tillingast had recruited Pete Connors out of college, and Connors had turned out to be one of the best. But in the last few years, Connors had become a cowboy – a little too independent, a little too quick on the trigger. Dangerous.

‘Pete – have you heard anything about an underground organization calling itself Patriots for Freedom?’ Tillingast asked.

Connors frowned. ‘No. Can’t say that I have. Who are they?’

‘So far they’re just a rumour. All I have is smoke. See if you can get a lead on them.’

‘Will do.’

An hour later, Pete Connors was making a phone call from a public booth at Hain’s Point.

‘I have a message for Odin.’

‘This is Odin,’ General Oliver Brooks said.

Riding back to the office in his limousine, Stanton Rogers opened the envelope containing the names of the candidates for the ambassadorship and studied them. It was an excellent list. The Secretary of State had done his homework. The candidates had all served in Eastern and Western European countries, and a few of them had additional experience in the Far East or Africa. The President’s going to be pleased, Stanton thought.

‘They’re dinosaurs,’ Paul Ellison snapped. He threw the list down on his desk. ‘Every one of them.’

‘Paul,’ Stanton protested, ‘these people are all experienced career diplomats.’

‘And hide-bound by State Department tradition. You remember how we lost Romania three years ago? Our experienced career diplomat in Bucharest screwed up and we were out in the cold. The pinstriped boys worry me. They’re all out to cover their asses. When I talked about a people-to-people programme, I meant every word of it. We need to make a positive impression on a country that at this moment is very wary of us.’

‘But if you put an amateur in there – someone with no experience – you’re taking a big risk.’

‘Maybe we need someone with a different kind of experience. Romania is going to be a test case, Stan. A pilot run for my whole programme, if you will.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not kidding myself. My credibility is on the line. I know that there are a lot of powerful people who don’t want to see this work. If it fails, I’m going to get cut off at the knees. I’ll have to forget about Bulgaria, Albania, Czechoslovakia, and the rest of the Iron Curtain countries. And I don’t intend for that to happen.’

‘I can check out some of our political appointees who –’

President Ellison shook his head. ‘Same problem. I want someone with a completely fresh point of view. Someone who can thaw the ice. The opposite of the ugly American.’

Stanton Rogers was studying the President, puzzled. ‘Paul – I get the impression that you already have someone in mind. Do you?’

Paul Ellison took a cigar from the humidor on his desk and lit it. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I may have.’

‘Who is he?’

‘She. Did you happen to see the article in the current issue of Foreign Affairs called “Détente Now”?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘I thought it was interesting. The author believes that we’re in a position to try to seduce the communist countries into coming into our camp by offering them economic aid –’ He broke off. ‘It was a lot like your inaugural speech.’

‘Only it was written six months earlier. She’s published brilliant articles in Commentary and Public Affairs. Last year I read a book of hers on Eastern European politics, and I must admit it helped clarify some of my ideas.’

‘All right. So she agrees with your theories. That’s no reason to consider her for a post as impor –’

‘Stan – she went further than my theory. She outlined a detailed plan that’s fascinating. She wants to take the four major world economic pacts and combine them.’

‘How can we –?’

‘It would take time, but it could be done. Look, you know that in 1949, the Eastern bloc countries formed a pact for mutual economic assistance, called COMECON, and in 1958 the other European countries formed the EEC – the Common Market.’

‘Right.’

‘We have the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, which includes the United States, some Western bloc countries and Yugoslavia. And don’t forget that the third world countries have formed a non-aligned movement that excludes us.’ The President’s voice was charged with excitement. ‘Think of the possibilities. If we could combine all these plans and form one big marketplace – my God, it could be awesome! It would mean real world trade. And it could bring peace.’

Stanton Rogers said cautiously, ‘It’s an interesting idea, but it’s a long way off.’

‘You know the old Chinese saying, “A journey of a thousand miles starts with but a single step …”’

‘She’s an amateur, Paul.’

‘Some of our finest ambassadors have been amateurs. Anne Armstrong, the former Ambassador to Great Britain, was an educator with no political experience. Perle Mesta was appointed to Denmark, Clare Boothe Luce was Ambassador to Italy. John Gavin, an actor, was the Ambassador to Mexico. One-third of our current ambassadors are what you call “amateurs”.’

‘But you don’t know anything about this woman.’

‘Except that she’s damned bright, and that we’re on the same wavelength. I want you to find out everything you can about her.’ He picked up a copy of Foreign Affairs and glanced at the table of contents. ‘Her name is Mary Ashley.’

Two days later, President Ellison and Stanton Rogers breakfasted together.

‘I got the information you asked for.’ Stanton Rogers pulled a paper from his pocket. ‘Mary Elizabeth Ashley, Twenty-Seven Old Milford Road, Junction City, Kansas. Age, almost thirty-five, married to Dr Edward Ashley – two children, Beth twelve, and Tim ten. Chairman of the Junction City Chapter of the League of Women Voters. Assistant Professor, East European Political Science, Kansas State University. Grandfather born in Romania.’ He looked up. ‘The more I’ve thought about this, the more sense it makes. She probably knows more about Romania than most ambassadors know about the countries they’re going to serve in.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way, Stan. I’d like to have a full security check run on her.’

‘I’ll see that it’s done.’

Chapter Four

‘I disagree, Professor Ashley.’

Barry Dylan, the brightest and youngest of the students in Mary Ashley’s political science seminar, looked around defiantly. ‘Alexandros Ionescu is worse than Ceausescu ever was.’

‘Can you give us some facts to back up that statement?’ Mary Ashley asked.

There were twelve graduate students in the seminar being held in Kansas State University’s Dykstra Hall. The students were seated in a semicircle facing Mary. The waiting lists to get into her classes were longer than any other professor’s at the University. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humour and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheek-bones of a model and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious, and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.

Barry was wondering if she was happy with her husband. He reluctantly brought his attention back to the problem at hand.

‘Well, when Ionescu took over Romania, he cracked down on all the pro-Groza elements and re-established a hardline, pro-Soviet position. Even Ceausescu wasn’t that bad.’

Another student spoke up. ‘Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?’

‘Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit.’

‘Remember,’ Mary said, ‘Nicolae Ceausescu also had a foot in both camps. What year did that start?’

Barry again. ‘In 1960 when Romania took sides in the dispute between Russia and China to show its independence in international affairs.’

‘What about Romania’s current relationship with the other Warsaw Pact countries, and Russia in particular?’ Mary asked.

‘I’d say it’s stronger now.’

Another voice. ‘I don’t agree. Romania criticized Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan, and they criticized the Russians’ arrangement with the EEC. Also, Professor Ashley –’

The bell sounded. The time was up.

Mary said, ‘Monday we’ll talk about the basic factors that affect the Soviet attitude towards Eastern Europe, and we’ll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison’s plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend.’

Mary watched the students rise and head for the door.

‘You, too, Professor.’

Mary Ashley loved the give and take of the seminars. History and geography came alive in the heated discussions among the bright young graduate students. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fifth year on the faculty of Kansas State University, and teaching still excited her. She taught five political science classes a year in addition to the graduate seminars, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud. I’ve never been to any of the countries I teach about, she thought. I’ve never been outside the United States.

Mary Ashley had been born in Junction City, as had her parents. The only member of her family who had known Europe was her grandfather, who had come from the small Romanian village of Voronet.

Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her Master’s Degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip had turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, 55 miles from Junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.

‘We really must travel next year,’ Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. ‘I’m dying to see Rome and Paris and Romania.’

‘So am I. It’s a date. Next summer.’

But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later, Tim was born. Mary had taken her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta and Denver, Mary had never been out of the State of Kansas.

One day, she promised herself. One day …

Mary gathered her notes together and glanced out of the window. Frost had painted the window a winter grey, and it was beginning to snow again. Mary put on her lined leather coat and a red, woollen scarf and headed towards the Vattier Street entrance, where she parked her car.

The campus was huge, 315 acres, dotted with 87 buildings, including laboratories, theatres and chapels, amid a rustic setting of trees and grass. From a distance, the brown limestone buildings of the University resembled ancient castles, with turrets at the top, ready to repel enemy hordes. As Mary passed Denison Hall, a stranger with a Nikon camera was walking towards her. He aimed the camera at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture. I should have got out of his way, she thought. I’ve spoiled his picture.

One hour later, the negative of the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.

Every town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community (population 20,381), 130 miles west of Kansas City, priding itself on being the geographical centre of the continental United States. It has a newspaper – the Daily Union – a radio station, and a television station. The downtown shopping area consists of a series of scattered stores and gas stations along 6th Street and on Washington. There is a Penney’s, the First National Bank, a Domino Pizza, Flower Jeweller’s, and a Woolworth’s. There are fast food chains, a bus station, a menswear shop, and a liquor store – the type of establishments that are xeroxed in hundreds of small towns across the United States. But the residents of Junction City loved it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, Junction City became the Rest and Recreation Centre for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.

Mary Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon’s Market on her way home and then headed north towards Old Milford Road, a lovely residential area overlooking a lake. Oak and elm trees lined the left side of the road, while on the right side were beautiful houses variously made of stone, brick or wood.

The Ashley house was a two-storey stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. The house had been bought by Dr Edward Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier. It consisted of a large living room, a dining room, library, breakfast room and kitchen downstairs and a master suite and two additional bedrooms upstairs.

‘It’s awfully large for just two people,’ Mary Ashley had protested.

Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. ‘Who said it’s going to be for only two people?’

When Mary arrived home from the University, Tim and Beth were waiting to greet her.

‘Guess what?’ Tim said. ‘We’re going to have our pictures in the paper!’

‘Help me put away the groceries,’ Mary said. ‘What paper?’

‘The man didn’t say, but he took our pictures and he said we’d hear from him.’

Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. ‘Did this man say why?’

‘No,’ Tim said, ‘but he sure had a nifty Nikon.’

On Sunday, Mary celebrated – although that was not the word that sprang to mind – her thirty-fifth birthday. Edward had arranged for a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbours, Florence and Douglas Schiffer, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had known about the party for the past two weeks. She adored Edward. And why not? Who wouldn’t? He was attractive and intelligent and caring. His grandfather and father had been doctors, and it had never occurred to Edward to be anything else. He was the best surgeon in Junction City, a good father, and a wonderful husband.

As Mary blew out the candles on her birthday cake, she looked across at Edward and thought: How lucky can a lady be?

Monday morning, Mary awoke with a hangover. There had been a lot of champagne toasts the night before, and she was not used to drinking alcohol. It took an effort to get out of bed. That champagne done me in. Never again, she promised herself.

She eased her way downstairs and gingerly set about preparing breakfast for the children, trying to ignore the pounding in her head.

‘Champagne,’ Mary groaned, ‘is France’s vengeance against us.’

Beth walked into the room carrying an armful of books. ‘Who are you talking to, Mother?’

‘Myself.’

‘That’s weird.’

‘When you’re right, you’re right.’ Mary put a box of cereal on the table. ‘I bought a new cereal for you. You’re going to like it.’

Beth sat down at the kitchen table and studied the label on the cereal box. ‘I can’t eat this. You’re trying to kill me.’

‘Don’t put any ideas in my head,’ her mother cautioned. ‘Would you please eat your breakfast?’

Tim, her ten-year-old, ran into the kitchen. He slid into a chair at the table and said, ‘I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Whatever happened to good morning?’ Mary asked.

‘Good morning. I’ll have bacon and eggs.’

‘Please.’

‘Aw, come on, Mom. I’m going to be late for school.’

‘I’m glad you mentioned that. Mrs Reynolds called me. You’re failing maths. What do you say to that?’

‘It figures.’

‘Tim, is that supposed to be a joke?’

‘I personally don’t think it’s funny,’ Beth sniffed.

He made a face at his sister. ‘If you want funny, look in the mirror.’

‘That’s enough,’ Mary said. ‘Behave yourselves.’

Her headache was getting worse.

Tim asked, ‘Can I go to the skating rink after school, Mom?’

‘You’re already skating on thin ice. You’re to come right home and study. How do you think it looks for a college professor to have a son who’s failing maths?’

‘It looks okay. You don’t teach maths.’

They talk about the terrible twos, Mary thought grimly. What about the terrible nines, tens, elevens and twelves?

Beth said, ‘Did Tim tell you he got a “D” in spelling?’

He glared at his sister. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Mark Twain?’

‘What does Mark Twain have to do with this?’ Mary asked.

‘Mark Twain said he has no respect for a man who can only spell a word one way.’

We can’t win, Mary thought. They’re smarter than we are.

She had packed a lunch for each of them, but she was concerned about Beth, who was on some kind of crazy new diet.

‘Please, Beth, eat all of your lunch today.’

‘If it has no artificial preservatives. I’m not going to let the greed of the food industry ruin my health.’

Whatever happened to the good old days of junk food? Mary wondered.

Tim plucked a loose paper from one of Beth’s notebooks. ‘Look at this!’ he yelled. ‘“Dear Beth, let’s sit together during study period. I thought of you all day yesterday and –”’

‘Give that back to me!’ Beth screamed. ‘That’s mine.’ She made a grab for Tim, and he jumped out of her reach.

He read the signature at the bottom of the note. ‘Hey! It’s signed Virgil. I thought you were in love with Arnold.’

Beth snatched the note away from him. ‘What would you know about love?’ Mary’s twelve-year-old daughter demanded. ‘You’re a child.’

The pounding in Mary’s head was becoming unbearable.

‘Kids – give me a break.’

She heard the horn of the school bus outside. Tim and Beth started towards the door.

‘Wait! You haven’t eaten your breakfasts,’ Mary said.

She followed them out into the hallway.

‘No time, Mother. Got to go.’

‘’Bye, Mom.’

‘It’s freezing outside. Put on your coats and scarves.’

‘I can’t. I lost my scarf,’ Tim said.

And they were gone. Mary felt drained. Motherhood is living in the eye of a hurricane.

She looked up as Edward came down the stairs, and she felt a glow. Even after all these years, Mary thought, he’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever known. It was his gentleness that had first caught Mary’s interest. His eyes were a soft grey, reflecting a warm intelligence, but they could turn into twin blazes when he became impassioned about something.

‘Morning, darling.’ He gave her a kiss. They walked into the kitchen.

‘Sweetheart – would you do me a favour?’

‘Sure, beautiful. Anything.’

‘I want to sell the children.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Both of them.’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Who’d buy them?’

‘Strangers. They’ve reached the age where I can’t do anything right. Beth has become a health food freak, and your son is turning into a world-class dunce.’

Edward said thoughtfully, ‘Maybe they’re not our kids.’

‘I hope not. I’m making oatmeal for you.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, darling. No time. I’m due in surgery in half an hour. Hank Cates got tangled up in some machinery. He may lose a few fingers.’

‘Isn’t he too old to still be farming?’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’

Mary knew that Hank Cates had not paid her husband’s bills in three years. Like most of the farmers in the community, Hank Cates was suffering from the low farm prices and the Farm Credit Administration’s indifferent attitude towards the farmers. A lot of them were losing farms they had worked on all of their lives. Edward never pressed any of his patients for money, and many of them paid him with crops. The Ashleys had a cellar full of corn, potatoes and wheat. One farmer had offered to give Edward a cow in payment, but when Edward told Mary about it, she said, ‘For heaven’s sake, tell him the treatment is on the house.’

Mary looked at her husband now and thought again: How lucky I am.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I may decide to keep the kids. I like their father a lot.’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m rather fond of their mother.’ He took her in his arms and held her close. ‘Happy Birthday, plus one.’

‘Do you still love me now that I’m an older woman?’

‘I like older women.’

‘Thanks.’ Mary suddenly remembered something. ‘I’ve got to get home early today and prepare dinner. It’s our turn to have the Schiffers over.’

Bridge with their neighbours was a Monday night ritual. The fact that Douglas Schiffer was a doctor and worked with Edward at the hospital made them even closer.

Mary and Edward left the house together, bowing their heads against the relentless wind. Edward strapped himself into his Ford Granada, and watched Mary as she got behind the wheel of the station wagon.

‘The highway is probably icy,’ Edward called. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘You, too, darling.’

She blew him a kiss, and the two cars drove away from the house, Edward heading towards the hospital, and Mary driving towards the town of Manhattan, where the University was located, 16 miles away.

Two men in an automobile parked half a block from the Ashley house watched the cars leave. They waited until the vehicles were out of sight.

‘Let’s go.’

They drove up to the house next door to the Ashleys. Rex Olds, the driver, sat in the car while his companion walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an attractive brunette in her middle thirties.