“Was that a threat?” he asked dryly. “If so, it was not stated in language that impressed me as a threat.” He reached in his vest pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, put on a pair of glasses, cocked his head back—all this very slowly and deliberately, while his children and his audience watched fascinated—and read in the same dry, sarcastic voice:

  “The Security Council ‘will, if terms of this resolution are not respected by those to whom it applies’—I wonder who that means, they do not say—‘consider most seriously what actions, possibly including sanctions, may be taken by the Council.’ They do not even say who it is supposed to apply to, Miss Holliwell. They do not actually promise sanctions. They only say the Council will ‘consider most seriously what actions, possibly including sanctions’—my emphasis—‘may’—my emphasis—‘be taken by the Council.’”

  “Anyway,” he said, tone scornful and dismissive, handing the paper to Iskander, who promptly began to crease it into an impromptu airplane, “I have withdrawn from the nuclear nonproliferation treaty, so what does this have to do with me? Iskander!” he added with mild disapproval as the boy sailed his plane into the audience, where a mad scramble ensued. Several people actually shoved and punched as the media vied for this souvenir of an historic occasion. The Frankfurter Zeitung finally emerged triumphant after a vicious elbowing of El Aram of Cairo and the lady correspondent of America’s National Public Radio.

  “I am sorry, Miss Holliwell,” Sidi said with a charming smile as Sally began to look uptight and openly annoyed. “Did I answer your question?”

  “You did, Mr. President,” she said tersely. “So you are going to deliberately defy both the UN and possible unilateral action by the United States. With an air force,” she could not resist adding, “about as effective as that.”

  This drew blood. The suave pose snapped. Sidi decided to come back with real anger.

  “I have other means,” he snapped. “Other means. And, unlike your timorous President, I have the will to use them.”

  “And invite the destruction of your country?” she demanded, as Hugo Mallerbie cautioned from the front row, too late, “No, no!”

  “So!” Sidi exclaimed, while the children looked alarmed at his tone. “You speak for your President on that, I take it. I was not aware he was prepared to go so far.”

  “I do not speak for him,” she said rather lamely, “but I think great risks for your country are apparent in the actions he has already taken.”

  “Which are what?” he demanded scornfully. “Words, words, and more words. It does not do to make threats and then be too timorous to back them up. We have come to expect that from Washington. He sounds like your other Presidents.”

  “Nonetheless,” she said, beginning to appear flustered but dogged, “it seems to me that you are risking great dangers if you defy the United Nations. You do not worry about those dangers?”

  “Again,” he said, still scornful, “words, words, and more words! Why should I worry? My conscience is clear.”

  “Is it clear about Creed Moncrief?” Able asked suddenly, in an obvious attempt to rescue Sally, who rarely floundered but obviously was this time.

  “A CIA agent,” Sidi said indifferently, air of calm command restored, “who unfortunately became involved with some unknown criminal element in Greater Lolómé. We do our best to control them, and compared with the record of the United States, we do quite well. A stoning in a public square carries a powerful message. But some few do evade us, unfortunately.”

  “You did not order his murder, then?” Able asked.

  Sidi’s composure remained unshaken.

  “Do you have proof of that?” he inquired blandly.

  “I do not, personally, no,” Able said. “Our government seems to think it does.”

  “‘Seems to think’ is correct,” Sidi replied. “Your government ‘seems to think’ a lot of things, all the time. What a thinking government! It baffles the rest of us.”

  “Mr. President—” Able began, and Sidi raised a hand with an exaggeratedly gratified smile. “I am glad you finally call me that. It is my title, after all.”

  “Are you planning to attack Lesser Lolómé, Mr. President? Perhaps we could get a straight answer on that.”

  Again Hugo looked a little alarmed, although not noted for diplomacy himself; but Sidi again seemed serenely unflustered.

  “I will not tell you what I plan to do or not do,” he said calmly. “What kind of strategy is that?”

  “I am sure that would involve the United States even more directly,” Able observed, and added pointedly, “as it did a year and a half ago.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sidi said airily. “Oil … What is it?” He turned abruptly to his daughter, who was tugging at his sleeve; bent down, smiled, nodded. “Surely, dear, of course you may.” Shareen got up and trotted offstage. He turned back to Able with a comfortable smile.

  “You know children,” he said. “She will be back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Able said. His tone became bland. “If you would like to, too, sir, feel free. We will wait.”

  A startled laugh came from the audience. For a moment Sidi stared at him as if he did not know how to reply; but a hearty chuckle indicated that he did.

  “No chance, Mr. Montague,” he said cheerfully. “All I have had since six AM is two sips of this cranberry juice.” (“Cran juice” noted 173 pens and pencils.) “I am quite content, thank you. And you?”

  “Super,” Able said. “Simply super. So how soon do you plan to attack Lesser Lolómé?”

  “What?” Sidi exclaimed. “No more intimate discussions? You are losing your famed aggressiveness, Mr. Montague. I repeat, I am not discussing strategy with you.”

  “But you do intend to invade,” Able said, and added with a touch of sarcasm, “Mr. President.”

  “Maybe,” Sidi said calmly. “Maybe not. Mr. Burden, you are noticeably silent. Are your colleagues to do all the work for you?”

  “They are not,” Jimmy Van said, flushing with annoyance. “I want to make sure they are satisfied.” His tone became sharp as an approving little murmur came from the audience. “Let me control the interview for a moment, Mr. President.” Without waiting he turned to Sally and Able as Shareen tripped daintily and captivatingly back into the room to complete the small distraction her father had planned. “Sally, have you finished your questions for His Excellency?”

  “For the moment,” she said coldly, which brought a smile and ironic little bow from Sidi.

  “And Able?”

  “I’ll work on a few for later,” Able said, giving Sidi a smile as cordial, and ironic, as his own.

  “Very well,” James Van Rensselaer Burden said, drawing himself up with a dignity to match his name, which he could do when the occasion warranted. “I would like to turn, if I may, Mr. President, to the more long-range, and perhaps more world-troubling, aspects of your policies.”

  “You are noted for your world view, Mr. Burden,” Sidi said with an admiration just this side of mockery. “Please proceed.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy Van said. “Do you think the United States is overreacting—”

  “The President of the United States is overreacting,” Sidi interrupted. “You and your countrymen have an odd habit of shouldering the blame by saying ‘the United States’ does this or that in foreign policy, whereas under your Constitution it is the President of the United States who does this or that. Thereby you remove the responsibility from his shoulders and, nobly but surprisingly to many of us, put it squarely on your own.” He looked thoughtful. “I wonder why this is, Mr. Burden. I wonder why this is.”

  “Well, Mr. President,” Jimmy said, “you are very clever, but you are not going to divert me. Perhaps it is because in the last analysis we all have to stick together. Anyway, whoever it is in Washington, DC, somebody is alarmed. That’s apparent—”

  “But not, perhaps,” Sidi interrupted again, with satisfaction, “in the entire United States. There seems to be quite a difference of opinion developing in the United States, in the whole country.”

  “I repeat, Mr. President,” Jimmy said firmly, “do you think person or persons unknown, within the geographical confines of what is known, politically, socially, and diplomatically, as ‘the United States of America’ is, or are, overreacting to the accretion of atomic weapons in the hands of someone who is widely regarded, by one or all or some of them, as an irrational, irresponsible, murderous, worthless, international thug?”

  There was a startled intake of breath followed by a storm of applause from the media. It was lent an extra thrill and satisfaction by the fact that they were doing it in Sidi’s capital, in Sidi’s palace, and literally in Sidi’s face.

  For a moment he looked genuinely angry, livid, and apoplectic, so disturbed that his children also became greatly disturbed and began to cry. Shareen seized his hand, Iskander plowed his face into the side of his coat. He lifted Iskander into his arms, hugged Shareen close, looked defiantly—and nobly—into the cameras.

  “In the presence of my children,” he began—hesitated—caught his breath as if overcome—allowed his lips to tremble, his eyes to moisten. “In the presence of my children,” he repeated, voice quivering just enough, “and on their innocent bodies, I swear that I do not deserve these monstrous charges of yours, Mr. Burden. I am a simple man, yes; I lack the sophistication of clever people of the media from Washington, DC, yes. I must work only on my instincts as a decent and honorable son of the desert, raised to my present eminence, such as it may be, and maintained there, by the free will and great love of my peoples, who recognize that my sole aim in this world is to improve their lot and guide our beloved country successfully through these troubled times—these troubled times when we are beset on every side by enemies and adversaries, and when the President of the greatest power of all seems to be determined to destroy us with all his overwhelming force and ruthless greed for oil and world domination. Yes! These are the things I plead guilty to, not to your foul charges, Mr. Burden!”

  And defiantly yet tenderly, he held Shareen and Iskander even closer to his side, kissing their tousled heads, first Shareen’s and then her brother’s, as they looked up soulfully into his loving eyes.

  “My God!” Able said, making no attempt to keep his voice down. “East Lynne and then some!”

  “I am overcome,” Sally said with a harsh little laugh. “Whooo-eee, I am overcome!”

  “I am not,” James Van Rensselaer Burden said with the cold, precise contempt of the Hudson River Valley confronted by a slug in the garden. “Mr. President, I must press you further. Obviously you do feel that the President of the United States is overreacting to your possession of atomic bombs. How do you think he should react?”

  “I am glad you have decided to place the responsibility for overreaction, finally, where it belongs, on one man,” Sidi said, calm and bland again, disengaging himself gently from his children and urging them to resume their seats. “One hysterical man who does not, I am convinced, represent the great majority of his countrymen, who surely cannot regard with any pleasure their President swaggering around the world trying to bully the leader of a small, helpless power who is only trying to lead his people faithfully and honestly—”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Jimmy interrupted in the same cold, unimpressed tone. “You do not concede, then, that there is any merit in anyone being disturbed by your possession of atomic bombs—if indeed you have them—”

  “Oh, I have them,” Sidi said with equal coldness. “Do you wish a demonstration? What would you like me to destroy today, Tel Aviv or Cairo?” He chuckled suddenly. “Or maybe even Paris or London? I can manage them all very nicely.” He turned and surveyed the audience, expression and voice heavy with sarcasm and taunting. “Perhaps I should arrange for you all to stay on for a few hours. I am told by my atomic experts—who come from many nations, I will tell you, Mr. Burden—that it will take them perhaps twelve hours to prepare an effective strike. Shall I give the word? Will you stay and be my witnesses?”

  “Mr. President,” Jimmy Van said, still speaking in a quietly calm tone, refusing to be deflected, “can you grasp the reason why my President, and a great many in our country and throughout the world, are worried about your possession of atomic bombs? Do you have any appreciation at all for the concept that everyone is threatened by the increase in atomic weapons? That atomic bombs are so fearful that their appearance anywhere is a danger everywhere? That just as a principle of common sense and common safety, the world community should unite, if it can, to stop nuclear proliferation, wherever it can?”

  For a moment Sidi looked at him impassively. Then he shrugged.

  “In the hands of those who are truly irresponsible,” he said, “such as your great President who can deploy the enormous power of the United States with nothing but conscience to restrain him, then I agree with your thoughts. Especially when your President apparently does not possess any restraints of conscience when it comes to threatening small, helpless powers—”

  “Are you still small and helpless if you have the bombs, Mr. President?” Jimmy inquired. “Doesn’t the possession of the bombs give you equality?”

  “Equality of protection,” Sidi said quickly. “That is all I seek, equality of protection against bullying by the President of the United States and the destruction of my poor, threatened people.”

  Able raised his hand. Jimmy nodded.

  “Mr. President,” Able said, “would you be satisfied if the United States were to work out with you a program of substantial economic aid and development for your country and at the same time enter into a specific one-on-one security arrangement so that you would not feel threatened, as you claim, by US military power?”

  “Would that reunite the Lolómés?” Sidi inquired. “Would the word of the President of the United States actually be enough to make us rest easy? Why should we trust it?”

  “Then you do intend to attack Lesser Lolómé,” Sally said.

  He gave her a bland stare and shrugged.

  “Maybe so, maybe not. I have already said that.”

  “It is obviously a dream of yours.”

  “And a dream of Sheikh Mustafa’s,” he said with a cruel little smile. “Perhaps he will cooperate with me and there will be no need for—unpleasantness. Are you all finished?”

  “I am,” Jimmy said in a disgusted tone.

  “And I,” Sally said. “I think the situation is clear enough.”

  “Thank you for bringing us here and permitting us to question you on this global broadcast, Mr. President,” Able said. “I am sure the world understands you better now.”

  “I hope so,” Sidi said solemnly. “You have helped me make clear to the world that I am simply a dedicated leader of my own peoples, who wishes only the greater good and safety of Greater Lolómé—that I have no aggressive intentions and desire only its security from outside attack—that whatever modest stock of atomic weapons I have is in good and responsible hands—that I am not a threat to the United States or to anyone else who does not deserve to be threatened—and that any honorable power which wishes to live in honorable peace with Greater Lolómé is free to do so, and I welcome it gladly. I am only a humble man whom great good fortune has placed at the head of my country. But”—his jaw became set, his tone stern—“I do not intend to be swayed from my mission or the protection of my country by the designs of envious outside powers who apparently wish to challenge everyone who dares try to keep an independent, unaligned, peace-loving course in the world. Greater Lolómé is no man’s lackey! Sidi bin Sidi bin Sidi is no man’s lackey! Take that home to America, ladies and gentlemen!” And with abrupt transition, “Now children, go and say goodbye to Mr. Burden, Mr. Montgomery, and Miss Holliwell, these nice people from America. Off you go!”

  And dutifully little Shareen and little Iskander trotted across the stage, bowed and curtsied and pumped their annoyed elders’ hands while Sidi looked on with fond fatherliness, and the assembled media, for all their collegial sympathy, could not help but chuckle at the expressions on the faces of three of the Washington press corps’ finest.

  “God damn it,” Able muttered as he gave Iskander a push back toward his father which was not quite as gentle as the child expected—in fact, he let out a startled bleat of protest, which made his father glare at Able and hold out his arms protectively as Iskander ran into them. “God damn it, what a show! We’ve been had, friends.”

  “The only saving grace is that the whole world has now seen what a fraud and danger he is,” Sally said as she gave Shareen one of her most vinegary smiles and a pat on the head so heavy that it brought a vocal reaction similar to Iskander’s as the little girl turned in alarm and ran back to her father.

  “If the whole world will believe it,” Jimmy Van said grimly, having looked so forbidding that neither child had dared approach him, only waved and curtsied from a careful distance. “That’s what we’ve got to hope.”

  And now, six weeks after Sidi’s performance—“the telecast,” as it was still shown or referred to a dozen times a day, without other identification, in major news programs and publications—it was obvious that the hope had been ill founded.

  There was something that went deeper than T-shirts and scraggly demonstrators; it was an infection, similar to many others in recent years, that had swept the country while the President conducted his particular version of what Ray Stanley thought of as “The Great Smoke-and-Mirrors Dance of Modern Presidents Unsure and Uneasy with Their Power,” and Sidi went his way in smug defiance and security.

  It was to these two sharply contrasting modes of conduct that the Secretary knew he must address himself when he arrived at the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for his date with the chairman.

  His was the job of justifying the President’s increasingly erratic course in the face of Sidi’s increasingly defiant one.

  It was not an appetizing prospect. But he was, after all, Secretary of State.