“The Secretary-General will oblige,” Norway said.

  In quick succession, Kwazze, looking, like all of them, a little tired now from the long afternoon and evening, read off the names.

  Voting in the affirmative were Argentina, Belgium, Chile, Ecuador, France, Kuwait, Malawi, Norway, Pakistan, Romania, the Second Soviet Republic, Thailand, the United Kingdom—

  “The United States,” Kwazze said.

  “Mr. President,” the Secretary said, thinking: at least I can make them sweat a little, isn’t that what he told me to do? “The United States wishes to withhold its vote for the moment.”

  “The United States withholds its vote,” Kwazze echoed; and added dryly, “For the moment. Zimbabwe?”

  “Zimbabwe joins its thirteen colleagues in voting Aye,” Zimbabwe said, “and awaits with great interest the vote of the United States.”

  “Don’t wait,” the Times murmured.

  “Want to bet?” the Post inquired.

  “We’ll veto,” the Wall Street Journal guessed.

  “You wish,” the Post told him. “We abstain, is more like it.… You see?” he said triumphantly a moment later. “What did I tell you? He didn’t have the guts.”

  “Stanley would have vetoed if he’d had his druthers,” the Journal said. “Look at him. He looks as though he’s been eating sour pickles.”

  Which was a description of the Secretary more journalistic than accurate; but though he was determined to remain bland he did not, in fact, look overjoyed.

  “Mr. President,” he said matter-of-factly, “on this vote the United States abstains.”

  “Fourteen ayes, one abstention,” Norway said with a tired sigh. “The Soviet resolution is approved. If there is no further business—”

  “Mr. President,” the Secretary said, “I wish to call up the original resolution proposed by the United States, and I ask for a roll-call vote.”

  “What the hell—” somebody said loudly in the media gallery.

  “Mr. President,” Vladimir Novotny cried indignantly, “that is most improper procedure.”

  “Not at all,” Ray said sharply. “If the Soviet resolution had been offered as an amendment to our original resolution, and had been approved, the substitute would automatically have replaced the original, and that would be that. You chose not to proceed that way. Our original resolution is still on the table. I call it up and ask for a roll call vote.” His tone became emphatic. “If—you—please.”

  “This seems somewhat irregular,” Norway began hesitantly.

  Vladimir snorted. “This is the UN,” he said. “Call it up. Put it to a vote. It does not matter. We will veto.”

  “And we,” Li Peng Liu said with rigid disapproval.

  “Call the roll, Mr. Secretary-General,” Tony Marsden said with an exaggeratedly hearty yawn. “It is past my bedtime.”

  Which brought a murmur of amusement: it was almost midnight.

  Kwazze ran through the roll again in his most important voice.

  “The vote,” Norway announced, “is thirteen for, two of the permanent members, China and the Second Soviet Republic, against, and the United States resolution is not agreed to.”

  “Mr. President,” Ray Stanley said, “the United States is now prepared to vote on the Soviet resolution. The United States has reconsidered its abstention and now wishes to vote Aye on the substitute resolution.”

  “I told you!” the Post said triumphantly.

  “Roll call, Mr. President,” Li Peng Liu said, expressionless, and Kwazze once more went patiently through the list.

  “The United States,” Ray announced in a firm voice, “votes Aye.”

  “Zimbabwe,” Zimbabwe said cheerfully, “votes Aye—again!” And joined in the relieved laughter as the Secretary of State waved amicably at them all, picked up his papers, and prepared to lead his delegation out. Eulie looked pensive, Rufus Birdwell, eyebrows lifted until they almost joined his hair, glum. Big Bill Bullock openly scowled.

  * * *

  In the penthouse apartment in Washington, Mary turned to Bets and Joan Bourassa, who had spent the evening with her, watching the session. Boo and Samir were quietly absent.

  “How humiliating for Ray,” she said, close to tears. “How humiliating!” But not as humiliating as it swiftly became in the morning’s papers and news broadcasts.

  UN Rejects Tough US Stand on Sidi, Expresses Hope He Will OK Atomic Inspection

  Chinese Scoff US “Climbed Up Hill and Slid Down Again”

  And, almost predictably now, the latest from Greater Lolómé City:

  Sidi Withdraws from World Atomic Treaty, Blasts UN “Meddling,” Will Meet US Media on International TV

  “There are many things we can do under the resolution,” the President said cheerfully at ten AM in the Rose Garden in response to a challenging question from UPI. “There is, for instance, a new dialogue which we hope to open with President Sidi which could lead to substantial economic assistance by the United States and its allies and much closer trade and diplomatic ties with Greater Lolómé which would be of advantage to everyone.”

  “Will President Sidi consider that sufficient to meet his demands?” UPI inquired. “Has he shown any interest in closer ties with us?”

  “We can only hope,” the President said with a comfortable smile. “We can only hope—and try!”

  “Good luck,” she said with her characteristic little gurgle of laughter.

  He laughed too and responded at his most charming. “We’ll need it!”

  “You sure will, honey,” she murmured to Able Montague, who had caught up with her on the walk back to the pressroom.

  Able laughed.

  “I think we’d better find out what’s really going on, don’t you?” he suggested. “This guy is as slippery as six eels in olive oil. And that,” he added with a grin, “is really slippery!”

  But after Sidi’s appearance on world television Sunday night, in which, to his great surprise, Able found himself included, they were forced to agree that the President had met his match.

  2

  Six weeks later, on his way to a private meeting with the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee (at the chairman’s request—“a command performance, you might call it,” Willie Wilson had said with a chuckle that brooked no argument), the Secretary of State had to admit ruefully that Sidi had done his work well. His swarthy, smugly smiling face was displayed on a group of T-shirts where the Secretary’s limousine stopped for the light at Constitution and Fourth; as he approached the Senate side of the Capitol he saw a small scraggle of demonstrators, parading listlessly in the brutal heat and humidity of summer, with banners that read, in part:

  US STOP BULLYING!

  PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE!

  LAY OFF SMALL NATIONS!

  GOOD LUCK, SIDI AND GREATER LOLÓMÉ!

  Similar indications of public disapproval were appearing elsewhere, in too many places. By so much, Ray Stanley thought, was measured the current depth of knowledge about the foreign affairs of the United States of a sizable segment of the American public.

  And by so much, the effectiveness of a modern tyrant when he was shrewd enough to call to his assistance the media’s inexhaustible appetite for sensation, and use their global network of communications for his own purposes.

  The event had begun in the afternoon in Greater Lolómé City, after midnight in New York, when Sidi had finally turned off CNN’s coverage of the Security Council, which he had been watching for hours, and announced to his foreign minister:

  “I shall talk to the world.”

  The foreign minister, momentarily taken aback but fond enough of his own hide to conceal his misgivings, immediately responded, “But of course, Mr. President. Tell me how I can help with this auspicious event.”

  “It may be auspicious,” the President for Life of All the Peoples of Lolómé said with a grim little chuckle, “but it will also confound them in Washington, which is the important thing. What I will do is—”

  An hour later, first Able Montague, then James Van Rensselaer Burden, and lastly, as befitted a woman in Sidi’s scheme of things, Sally Holliwell, were awakened by insistent telephones.

  In the Eunuch’s piping voice they all heard the same words:

  “His Excellency the President of Greater Lolómé!”

  “Are you kidding?” Able demanded. “Who is this?”

  “Who is trying to be funny?” Jimmy Van inquired testily.

  “And I’m Eleanor Roosevelt,” Sally snapped. “Get off my line, jerk!”

  “I repeat,” the Eunuch said sternly, “His Excellency the President of Greater Lolómé! Be silent!”

  All three started to protest once more but were overridden by a terse, emphatic voice they recognized. Astounded but alert, they listened.

  It was his intention, he told them, to submit himself to their questions in an hour-long global telecast which he had already arranged with CNN. They would be flown to Greater Lolómé City at his expense, accompanied by a representative of the State Department, selected by the Secretary, as earnest of Sidi’s good faith and guarantor of their safety. They would go on a scheduled airline due to leave Dulles International Airport for London in an hour and a half, and then on to Cairo. From Cairo they would be flown on LolóméAir to Greater Lolómé City, which would get them there in time for a reasonable rest before the program. All expenses would be paid, and if they wished he would stake them to a couple of days at the Dorchester in London on their way home. He had already spoken, at the Secretary’s suggestion, to Hugo Mallerbie, who had agreed to make the trip. What about Able, Jimmy, and Sally?

  “Are you kidding?” Able demanded again. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “What a great opportunity, Mr. President,” Jimmy Van said gravely. “I shall be glad to accept.”

  “Count me in,” Sally said, “but I warn you: I may have some questions you won’t like.”

  “And I may have some answers you and your President won’t like, madame,” Sidi said with a chuckle, and went off the line.

  Their immediate instinct was to call one another, but there wasn’t time. They had barely finished flinging clothes into suitcases when a limousine from the embassy of Greater Lolómé (whose staff, following the expulsion of Bill Bullock and colleagues, expected to be booted at any moment, in the customary tit-for-tat characteristic of current diplomacy) stopped first at Jimmy’s door, then Able’s, and so across the river to Sally’s, and on to Dulles. There in the softly suffocating darkness of the sleeping Virginia countryside, the great terminal as always blazing with light, they were transferred to a State Department car and whisked to their plane, where they joined Hugo Mallerbie, were escorted to first class, and made comfortable. For the first few minutes after they were airborne, they exchanged rather nervous jokes about their personal safety.

  “We’re counting on you, Hugo,” Able said with a laugh that was just a little uneasier than he had intended, “to get us in and out in one piece. I’m damned if I want to wind up like poor Creed Moncrief.”

  “I don’t think we need to worry,” Hugo Mallerbie said. “He may be a madman, but he wouldn’t dare do anything to you. Me, he might dispose of if I went alone, but the shoe is on the other foot now. He wouldn’t dare harm anyone under the media’s wing. That would destroy his whole strategy.”

  “Which is to fight it out on television,” Sally suggested with satisfaction.

  “And the columns and editorials,” Jimmy Van hastened to assert.

  She laughed and patted his knee.

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy,” she said. “I intend to have you and Able on my show next week for a postmortem.”

  “I thought I’d do that,” Able said quickly.

  Hugo Mallerbie snorted, lowered his seat back, and arranged a pillow behind his head. “I’ll hold the straws and you can draw for it,” he suggested; and added, “After we’re all safely home.”

  “Now, stop scaring us, Hugo,” Sally said, jesting but not entirely. “You just assured us—”

  “Who knows?” Hugo inquired of the air. “I’m going to catch a quick nap, thank you. We have a grueling flight ahead.”

  “Good idea,” Able said, and started to arrange himself for napping. But they were all too keyed up to sleep.

  “Hey, Sally,” he said, leaning forward to tap her on the shoulder. “What do you want to ask him?”

  They speculated, gossiped, and planned most of the way across the Atlantic and only fell groggily into fitful dozing when they left London for Cairo. It was already Sunday noon when they reached Greater Lolómé City. There they found some 173 correspondents already gathered from around the world to watch the event in the small auditorium of the Pink Palace. It was approximately eight hours to broadcast. They were taken to adjoining bedrooms and went thankfully to bed. At eight PM local time they were roused and given a few minutes to freshen up. Sally missed her usual studio hairdresser but emerged spic and span nonetheless. Able and Jimmy made do with quick shaves and a quick comb.

  “We look damned authentic,” Able murmured as they were taken backstage at the auditorium. “The quintessential media, grimy but game.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Sally said. “I feel great—may collapse any moment, but I feel great.”

  “I, too,” Jimmy said. “I’m not afraid of the big, bad wolf.”

  “We’ll blow his house down,” Able agreed cheerfully.

  They emerged smiling from behind the curtains, were greeted by a burst of genuine applause and fellow feeling from their colleagues, and were ushered to a small table at the left turned slightly toward the audience, Jimmy at the near end, Able at the far, Sally between. Opposite approximately fifteen feet, on a small dais raised two feet from the floor, stood a comfortable overstuffed armchair and two much smaller, straight-backed chairs which caused puzzlement and speculation. In front of them on a small table stood an elaborately scrolled silver decanter and three obviously fine crystal glasses, one large, two small.

  Silence fell and tension grew.

  Finally, after ten minutes or so when the assorted coughings and rustlings and settlings had completely subsided, a youthful general in the full uniform and decorations of the Peoples Army of Greater Lolómé (financed, equipped, and trained, through one commercial or diplomatic stratagem or another, by China, France, Great Britain, the United States, Iran, the Second Soviet Republic, North Korea, Libya, Japan, and God-or-Allah knew who else) appeared from behind the curtains.

  * * *

  He walked quickly to the small table, poured a red liquid of some kind (“Chk juice,” scribbled 173 pens and pencils onto 173 notepads), and came down center stage to peer out with an arrogant blankness at the fascinated throng below.

  (“Isn’t that Young Sidi?” whispered someone in the media. “By God, it is!” whispered someone else. Tension immediately rose. “Hit it!” ordered someone else. Lights flared and cameras rolled.)

  “To the peoples of the world!” Young Sidi said with great portentousness. “It has pleased my father, the President of Greater Lolómé, to speak to you today concerning the crisis confronting the nation of Greater Lolómé as a result of the insufferable actions of the President of the United States of America taken to threaten this small, poor, innocent nation.

  “My father has been pleased to invite three distinguished American journalists to participate in the question-and-answer formula”—his expression and voice became sarcastic—“so popular with American journalists. Their names and affiliations are”—and he gave them, Jimmy first, Able second, Sally third.

  “If you will please be silent, ladies and gentlemen, for the President of Greater Lolómé!”

  And with a terse little bow he turned smartly and strode offstage.

  Silence again settled, tension again rose.

  Without further warning, a dark, chunky, medium-sized, bearded figure in a sober dark blue Western business suit, completely devoid of decoration, set off only by a subdued red tie, stepped forward from behind the curtains and made his way purposefully to the armchair on the dais. Holding him by the hands, staring wide-eyed at the audience, were a beautiful little girl, perhaps eight, and a handsome little boy, perhaps six.

  Automatically the assembled media rose. Jimmy, Able, and Sally rose too, exchanging a quick glance as they did so. They could not help but feel a rush of excitement and adrenaline, but also a great annoyance as they realized they were about to be cleverly upstaged by two child stars.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Sidi said with a friendly smile. “You will forgive me if I do not come unaccompanied. You have just seen, and honored by your respectful attention, Sidi bin Sidi bin Sidi bin Sidi, the son of my first wife. These are the children of my third wife. This is my daughter Shareen—bow to the ladies and gentlemen, Sharry—and my son Iskander—a salute, Isky if you please … Good. Now we will all sit down and have a nice talk with the nice gentlemen and nice lady at the other table.”

  Abruptly the lights were cut, the brightness of the two single spotlights trained on the tables turned up. The banks of cameras at the sides and back of the auditorium stirred and whirred, the air was filled with the frantic clickings of the photographers sitting or squatting just below the platform’s edge.

  The children shifted a little, uneasily, but Sidi shushed them gently and waited patiently for the flurry to die down. When reasonable silence had been secured, he suggested, “Say hello to Mr. Burden, Mr. Montague, and Miss Holliwell, children.”

  Obediently they did so, Shareen rising to give a little curtsy, Iskander a little salute.

  “Miss Holliwell?” Sidi inquired blandly.

  She was momentarily thrown off balance by his abrupt reversal of order, but recovered instantly as she thought: I will be God damned if I am going to play his cheap, obvious little game with the kids.

  “Thank you, children,” she said dismissively and turned quickly to him. “Mr. President, what is your reaction to the action of the United Nations Security Council on Friday, threatening sanctions if you do not comply with inspection of your atomic facilities by the International Atomic Energy Agency?”