After running down an apparently bottomless flight of stairs, with Sir Desmond breathing hotly on her neck, Penelope found herself in the castle courtyard. Sir Desmond, leering wickedly at her, cornered her.
At that point (without a station break) the door of the castle was suddenly flung open, and a bare-chested man, wearing a flowing headdress and mounted atop an enormous white horse, came galloping in, waving a curved sword. One swipe, and Sir Desmond’s head went rolling across the castle floor.
Penelope looked up at her savior to thank him with a smile. He threw his headdress back, for the first time exposing his face. It was the tall, dark stranger whose shin she had kicked at the Crillon Hotel in Paris. He stroked his mustache, a gesture Penelope found strangely attractive; a faint smile crossed his face, exposing his pearl-white teeth; and then he gently spurred his large, white horse. The horse whinnied (Penelope, who, after all, had been raised on a quarter-horse ranch, recognized the significance of the whinny, which was odd, because there were no mares in her dream) and then advanced on her. It reared backward onto its hind legs and then came down again. Penelope felt herself snatched up by the tall, dark stranger. She realized that she was being carried out of the castle by the tall, dark stranger, who was laughing wickedly.
Her position was precarious. Having many times fallen off a horse, Penelope naturally did not want to fall off again. It was, therefore, logically necessary for her to swing into the saddle behind him and wrap her arms around his massive chest. No matter that he, too, was carrying her off somewhere to work his wicked way with her; it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
“Mademoiselle,” he said.
“Yes?” Penelope asked.
“Mademoiselle?” he asked again, as if he hadn’t heard her reply.
“Yes?” Penelope asked, more loudly this time.
“Mademoiselle,” he said a third time, and this time, strangely, his voice had lost its rather enchanting, masculine tone. He sounded, in fact, like a woman.
“Mademoiselle!” the female voice said again. “The British Consul General is downstairs with his Land-Rover.”
Penelope opened her eyes and was suddenly wide awake. It must have been something she ate, she decided, for she seldom slept with her arms wrapped around her pillow. She looked up at the consulate’s maid.
“Please inform Her Majesty’s Consul General,” Penelope said, formally, “that the Consul General of the United States of America will join him shortly.”
Penelope dressed quickly, brushed her hair and went downstairs.
Sir Desmond Farquaite, O.B.E., wearing a sun helmet, a khaki shirt and breeches, gleaming riding boots, and a silk foulard knotted around his neck, waited for her.
“Are you ready for the desert, my dear?” he asked.
“Just don’t get any ideas about getting me into your castle,” Penelope replied.
“I beg your pardon?” Sir Desmond said.
“Forget it,” Penelope said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
There are Land-Rovers and then there are Land-Rovers. Some of them are really not much different than a Jeep, which was the model Penelope expected. What she got was the large, deluxe model, which came equipped with: air-conditioning, a stereo tape player, on which Sir Desmond was playing Montovani; a refrigerator, filled with champagne and pâté de foie gras; and bunk beds complete with air mattresses, onto which Sir Desmond tried to entice Penelope (his ploy was the straight-faced announcement that rest and relaxation in the desert was as important as water) when they were no more than an hour out of Casablanca.
She managed to elude his clutches and escape from the Land-Rover. A firm believer in the principle that being burned once is enough, Penelope refused to re enter the Land-Rover, even though Sir Desmond promised on his word of honor as a gentleman, a member of the Order of the British Empire and a fellow member of the Diplomatic Corps that he wouldn’t try any further hanky-panky.
The result of this was that two hours later, a jeep patrol of the Royal Moroccan Desert Patrol, on their regular rounds, came upon a rather well-stacked blonde striding purposefully through the desert, trailed by a Land-Rover in low gear.
The corporal in charge raced up to her in his jeep.
“May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?” he asked, smiling.
“I am Miss Penelope Quattlebaum, Consul General of the United States of America,” Penelope announced. “I call upon you, under the established provisions of international law regarding diplomatic privilege, to carry me to the United States Consulate.”
“I understand, sweetie,” the corporal said. “You’re having trouble with Lover-Boy, right? Hop in!”
Penelope got in and laughed bitterly as she remembered her dream. She had been rescued by a son of the desert, all right, a five-foot-five son of the desert, weighing 250 pounds and reeking of garlic.
An hour later, shortly before noon, the Royal Moroccan Desert Patrol jeep deposited Penelope back at the consulate. Her once neatly brushed hair was now in tangles; the crisp seersucker suit and white blouse in which she had intended to present her official credentials were no longer either crisp or white. Her shoes were full of sand from her trek across the desert, and the only cheerful thought she could come up with was a mental vision of how good it would feel to put her feet into the special foot-washing device in her private bath.
There was a man standing impatiently before the consulate door. Feminine curiosity as to his purpose was overridden by feminine pride. She could hardly reflect credit upon the Diplomatic Corps of the United States of America sweat-soaked, hair mussed, and with her shoes full of sand.
She strode purposefully past the man and started to push open the door. A thin, bony, if rather hairy, arm barred her way.
“Just a minute, baby,” the bald man in thick, horn rimmed spectacles said to her, “the line forms to the rear.”
“I beg your pardon?” Penelope said, icily.
“You heard me,” he said. His voice was somehow familiar. “You ain’t the only outraged citizen wanting to see the Consul.”
“Get out of my way!” Penelope said. “Who do you think you are, anyway?”
“I’m Don Rhotten,” he said, “internationally famed television journalist and sage, that’s who I am.”
“You are not,” Penelope Quattlebaum said, shocked to the quick. “I don’t know who you are, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that you have been imbibing, but you’re not Don Rhotten. Don Rhotten has the most darling head of curly, black hair and pearly white teeth, and he doesn’t wear thick glasses. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
A rage, which had nothing whatever to do with her reaction to a combination of handsome men and stimulants, swelled up in her. “Don Rhotten indeed!” she said, kicking him in the shin. “How dare you take the name of a great American in vain?”
Rhotten bent over to grasp his injured shin. He said a word that, had he said it over the airwaves, would have seen him paying a large fine to the Federal Communications Commission for offending public morals. It offended Miss Penelope Quattlebaum’s sense of private morals. She let him have it in the other shin.
While it is possible to hop up and down on one leg while clutching the other, in-pain leg, it is not possible to hop up and down clutching two in-pain legs at once. Mr. Rhotten solved this problem by sitting down on the consulate steps and howling in pain and rage as he tenderly massaged both shins.
“I don’t know who you are, you dumb broad,” he screamed, “but Don Rhotten will get you for this!”
Penelope pushed open the door and entered the embassy. Another man was waiting inside, wearing a half head of silvery locks and a wide, somewhat-vacant smile.
“I regret that the Consul of the United States is not here,” he said. “A situation, madame …”
“Miss,” Penelope corrected him, automatically.
“Miss,” he corrected himself, “which I assure you will be brought up at the highest levels of the State D
epartment, to the Secretary himself.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the Honorable-Edwards L. Jackson, member of Congress, as well as Sheikh pro tempore to the Sheikhdom of Abzug. I don’t suppose you’re from Arkansas, by any chance?”
“And what brings you to the consulate, sir?” Penelope said, suddenly remembering a course she’d had at the Foreign Service School which dealt with the “Overseas Kook Problem.”
The “Overseas Kook Problem” had been explained to Penelope as a by-product of the high cost of providing what is known as “domiciliary care” for those individuals who, while posing no threat to themselves or to others, are somewhat embarrassing to have around high-rise apartments and split-levels in the better suburbs, possessed as they are of the notion that they are Napoleon, Clark Gable, John F. Kennedy or, in a few cases, God Himself.
It is far less embarrassing and much cheaper to send Uncle Henry, who believes he is Gen. George Patton, off on “an extended European trip” than it is to have him bundled off to the Happy Valley Home for the Harmlessly Insane.
Since few Americans speak any foreign language, Aunt Martha is far less liable to cause a stir, say in Ankara, Turkey, with her announcement in English that she is Marilyn Monroe waiting for a call from Cecil B. DeMille to star in the greatest Biblical epic of all time than she would cause making the same announcement in the lobby of the Grosse Pointe Hills Country Club.
Penelope had been warned to expect these people at embassy and consulate doors, firmly convinced that they were high-ranking politicians or celebrities, or divinities of one faith or another.
There was no question in her mind that she had two of them on her hands right now: one ugly, middle-aged, balding man with the pathetic notion that he was young-and-handsome Don Rhotten; and another whose sadly twisted mind made him believe he was not only a Congressman but a Congressman about to be slit down the middle by an Abzugian guillotine as Sheikh pro tempore.
The standard procedure for dealing with them was to treat them, insofar as possible, as gently and as understandingly as possible. When their dementia, however, was of such a magnitude that it appeared likely to get out of hand, it was official State Department policy that the host country be asked to lock them up for their own protection until arrangements could be made for them to be shipped home to the next of kin.
“Congressman,” Penelope Quattlebaum said, ‘if you will wait outside the door with Don Rhotten, I’ll have you taken care of in just a few minutes.”
She then went into her office, sat down at her official desk under the portrait of her Uncle Amos and called Inspector Gregoire de la Mouton of the Gendarmerie Nationale. Inspector de la Mouton was sympathy itself. He was quite familiar with what he called “Le Probleme des Americaines Bananes” and assured her that a squad of his police would leave immediately to place the poor unfortunates under protective custody.
He was as good as his word. Within five minutes of her telephone call, Penelope watched, a tear of sympathy running down her cheeks, as the middle-aged balding man who thought he was Don Rhotten and the “Congressman” were taken away, fighting every step of the way, by the gendarmes.
Just as soon as Inspector de la Mouton was able to determine their real identities, Penelope would send Teletype messages to the states arranging for their return home to their loved ones.
Chapter Fifteen
“Marrakech International, this is U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Sixteen, about thirty minutes from your field. Request landing instructions,” the pilot of the plane carrying Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State Q. Elwood Potter and Drs. Benjamin Franklin Pierce and John Francis Xavier McIntyre said.
Ali ben Khan (who was actually Maj. Pierre St. Fondue of the Deuxième Bureau), the Air-Traffic Controller at Marrakech International, paused thoughtfully before replying. His orders were to divert an American aircraft carrying a French traitor named De la Chevaux from Marrakech. The instructions had said it was a civilian aircraft, a Boeing 747; but Ali ben Khan had been around long enough to have learned, sometimes painfully, that the Americans were clever scoundrels, not above trying to fool people to get their way.
“U.S.A.F V.I.P. Sixteen,” he said, making up his mind, “this is Marrakech International. You are directed to divert to another airfield. This airfield is closed temporarily.”
“Marrakech International, this is U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Sixteen. We have aboard a high-ranking American diplomat, the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State.”
“U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Sixteen,” Ali ben Kahn repeated, sure now that he had cleverly seen through one more example of shameless American chicanery, “I repeat, this airfield is closed. Sorry about that.”
“U.S.A.F. V.I.P. Sixteen,” the pilot said, resignedly, “advises Marrakech International it is diverting to Rabat International.”
As the plane changed course, the co-pilot went to the passenger compartment to inform Deputy Assistant Under Secretary Potter of the change in destination. Mr. Potter ordered the pilot to get on the radio and arrange for a car to meet the plane on landing. Rabat was within driving distance of Marrakech, and no lasting harm had been done. Mr. Potter then went farther aft in the aircraft to break the news to his passengers.
“I’m glad you’re here, Potter,” Hawkeye Pierce said, raising his head to look at him. He was about to putt a golf ball down the aisle toward a paper cup lying on its side. “I want you to have a word with the driver. I find it very difficult to practice my putting back here when the green keeps tilting. Would you please ask him to stop slanting the airplane?”
“There has been a change in our plans, gentlemen,” he said. “We are about to land at Rabat. A car will meet us there and drive us to Marrakech.”
“If you think,” Trapper John said, “that these in-flight bulletins are going to make the kidnappees forgive the kidnappers, forget it!”
“You are not a kidnappee, Doctor,” Q. Elwood Potter said. “Your situation is more analogous to that of a draftee.”
“That thought,” Hawkeye said, raising his putter over his head in what Mr. Potter recognized to be a threatening gesture, “has already occurred to me.”
“Gentlemen,” Potter said, “I give you my word. If there is any possibility at all for you to do so, I will make every effort to see that you have an opportunity to play golf—once the Chevaux situation has been stabilized.”
“Huh!” Hawkeye snorted. He waved the putter even more menacingly. Naturally wishing to avoid a nose-to-nose confrontation, Mr. Potter hurriedly left the compartment. Dr. Pierce glowered at the closed door a moment and then bent over the ball again. At the precise moment he swung the putter, the pilot lowered the nose of the aircraft to begin the descent to Rabat International Airfield.
The ball, following the laws of gravity, rolled downhill in the direction of the cup.
“No fair,” Trapper John said, snatching up the cup just as the ball reached it. “It doesn’t count unless you hit the ball first!”
“If at first you don’t succeed,” Hawkeye said, “quit!” He put the putter back into the golf bag and slumped into a seat. Trapper John joined him. They looked out the window as the aircraft approached the field. They saw the desert, the mountains, the ancient buildings and a strangely familiar-appearing, green area.
“Do you see what I see?” Trapper John asked.
“It must be a whatchamacallit, you know, a miracle,” Hawkeye said.
“Mirage, dummy,” Trapper John replied. “But I don’t think so. I see little numbered flags on poles. That’s a golf course!”
“That doesn’t mean we’ll get to play on it,” Hawkeye said, “or even get near it. You heard what he said about playing golf after the ‘Chevaux situation is stabilized.’ If we have to wait for that to happen, the game will take place immediately after the last roll is called up yonder.” He raised his eyes, semi-reverently, toward Heaven.
“Well, at least we know that Horsey’s still alive,” Trapper John said. “I saw him waving from th
e cockpit window as that 747 went by.”
“Unless, of course,” Hawkeye went on thoughtfully, ignoring him, “by some unfortunate happenstance, we should happen to become separated from dear Mr. Pot ter.”
“How are you going to work that? There is only one way off the airplane, and that Air Force Amazon is guarding it.”
“The trouble with you, Doctor,” Hawkeye said, “is that you don’t read enough.”
“What did I miss in Captain Marvel that could possibly be of help to us now?” Trapper John asked.
Instead of replying, Hawkeye made a pointing motion in front of Trapper John’s nose.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Trapper John asked. “The sign that says WELCOME TO RABAT?”
“No, dummy,” Hawkeye said. “What does that little sign say?”
“ ‘Caution,’ ” Trapper John dutifully read.
“What else?”
“ ‘This lever controls the emergency egress from the aircraft. When pulled, a canvas chute will be automatically released from the fuselage wall. Egress may be effected via the chute in times of emergency,’ ” Trapper John read. “I understand everything but ‘egress,’ ” he said. “I thought an egress was a white bird which hops around on one leg.”
“It was Phineas T. Barnum’s favorite feathered friend,” Hawkeye replied. “He used it to get the suckers out of his museum in New York. He put up a large sign reading THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, and thousands of people with your mental capacity pushed eagerly through the door and found themselves outside on the street.”
“I knew what it meant all the time,” Trapper John said. “I was just checking to see if you did. When do I pull the lever?”
“Right now seems like a good time,” Hawkeye said. “The airplane has stopped moving.”
As a purely routine precaution, the Rabat Airport Authority had dispatched a security guard in a jeep to the arriving U.S.A.F. aircraft. Purely by coincidence, he had stopped his jeep precisely at the spot where the emergency egress chute unfolded and, from which, moments afterward, two golf bags and two doctors emerged.
MASH Goes to Morocco Page 17
