Windmills of the Gods. Sidney Sheldon

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      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.

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