“To what extent?”
“It is a large aircraft,” the Deputy Foreign Minister said, “with first-class and tourist accommodations. Would Your Highness graciously permit some stranded Americans to go with you to Marrakech?”
“On my airplane?” the Sheikh asked, disbelieving what he had heard. “You are bereft of your senses!”
“Come on, Abdullah,” Boris said, “be a sport. They’ll be in tourist, and you won’t even know they’re there.”
“My friend has spoken,” the Sheikh said. “The stranded Americans may come with us, providing I don’t have to look at the infidel bastards.”
“Hey, Hassan,” Boris said, raising his voice, “I’m sorry, little buddy, but I swapped the broads to the Yugoslavs. Let go of the redhead’s hand and come on!” With the Deputy Foreign Minister trailing respectfully behind them, Boris and Abdullah marched over to the Air Maroc Caravelle. They reached the stairway just as Don Rhotten, for the third time, pressed his caps in place and faced the camera.
“This is Don Rhotten …” he said.
At that point, Boris dealt with him. He disliked granting interviews under any circumstances, and he despised suddenly finding himself before an uninvited television camera. He attempted to deal with Mr. Rhotten in the manner which, over the years, had proved most effective. He had formed the habit of holding would-be interviewers two feet off the ground by their hair while he informed them, sternly, that he granted interviews only by appointment. When he grabbed Mr. Rhotten’s locks now, however, they came off in his hand.
“I’ll be damned!” Boris said, in surprise, holding the wig in his fingers at arm’s length for a moment before dropping it.
Mr. Rhotten was so stunned by this outrageous violation of his person that it took him a moment to react. He was, however, on the verge of assaulting his assaulter when Boris dropped the rug. Remembering the difficulty he had had only hours before finding someone to reset his wig after that damned dog had mauled it, he naturally decided to put off the assault until a more appropriate time and save the rug now. He quickly dropped to his knees and scurried after it as a gust of wind picked it up and blew it under the airplane.
When he returned to the airplane, Boris and the Sheikh were already inside, and Hassan ad Kayam was about to board the stairs.
“Who was that big ape that just got on the plane?” Don Rhotten asked.
“I believe,” Hassan said, rather coldly, “that you refer to His Highness Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug.”
“The big guy with the beard,” Rhotten asked, forgetting momentarily that that description fit both Boris and the Sheikh, “is the Sheikh of Abzug?”
“That is correct,” Hassan said, and boarded the airplane.
The Deputy Foreign Minister came running up with the honorable Edwards L. “Smiling Jack” Jackson in tow. They followed Don Rhotten up the stairs, went up it themselves, and were, in turn, followed by the camera crew. The door closed, the engines were started, and the Air Maroc Caravelle moved to the end of the runway and took off.
Chapter Nineteen
Thirty minutes after Omar ben Ahmed had entered Annex Number Seven to the Bayou Perdu Council, K. of C., Lounge, Inspector Gregoire de la Mouton, accompanied by Hot Lips, entered. The Inspector seemed no worse for his close call on the burning desert, except for an apparently insatiable thirst, which he attempted to satisfy at the beer taps.
“Come over here, Hotshot Charlie,” Hot Lips ordered, beckoning him over to where they stood at the bar. “We have a problem, and you can help us with it.” Omar had a little trouble negotiating the twenty feet which separated them, something which he ascribed to the mysterious malady which seemed to be in possession of him. He could not force the tactile memory of the blonde from his mind, no matter what he did.
“Easy does it,” Hot Lips said, propping him up on a barstool. “Never knew a chopper jockey who could hold his sauce.”
“How may I be of assistance, madame?” Omar said, rather thickly. At Horsey-the-Oil-Sniffer’s insistence, he had taken eight drinks of the fermented corn.
“You’re a native, right?” Hot Lips asked. “Of this … wherever we are?”
“Abzug,” Omar said.
“O.K. Do you happen to know somebody called the Chef de Protocol?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Omar said.
“You get along with him all right?” Hot Lips pursued. “I think that adequately describes our relationship,” Omar said.
“How much did you give him, Horsey?” Hot Lips asked.
“Not even half a quart,” Horsey replied, disapprovingly.
Omar began to sing along with the jukebox, which was playing the Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov version of “It Ain’t God Who Makes Honky-Tonk Angels.”
“Knock that off,” Hot Lips said sharply. “We’ve got a problem on our hands with that sweet little Penelope.”
“And who,” Omar said, icily, “if I may be so bold to inquire, is Penelope?”
“The one,” Hot Lips said, rather nastily, “you copped a feel from, you lecherous good Samaritan.”
“I beg your pardon?” Omar asked, not quite comprehending.
“The beautiful little blonde,” Inspector de la Mouton said.
“She told me what you did to her,” Hot Lips said. “And it seems to me, the least you can do, Romeo, is try to make it up to her.”
“As soon as I regain my health, monsieur,” Inspector de la Mouton said, “I will deal with you myself. In the meantime, you would be well advised to stay out of my police jurisdiction!”
“How may I help the beautiful little blonde?” Omar asked.
“Penny,” Hot Lips said, “is a diplomat.”
“Madame,” Omar said, “you jest!”
“Mademoiselle Penelope,” De la Mouton said, in Arabic, “is the American Consul General, or was, in Casablanca.”
“Which?” Omar asked. “Is or was?”
“What are they talking about?” the Reverend Mother asked. “Sounds like the Holy Rollers talking in tongues.”
“She has just been declared Persona Non Grata by the Moroccan Government,” Inspector de la Mouton went on, this time in English. “She will be sent home in disgrace.”
“She will be sent home over my dead body!” Omar said furiously.
“How are you going to stop it?” Hot Lips asked.
“I’ll speak to Bernie personally,” Omar said.
“Who’s Bernie?”
“The King,” Omar said.
“You know the King?”
“Of course, I know the King,” Omar said.
“He’s crazy-drunk all right,” Horsey said, “on eight, lousy little drinks.”
“I am not drunk!” Omar said. “I don’t even drink!”
“Humor him,” Hot Lips whispered, “we’re desperate.”
“Putting aside for a moment your great first-name friendship with the King,” Inspector de la Mouton, who, after all, had extensive experience in dealing with drunks, said, “you say you know the Abzugian Chef de Protocol?”
“Of course, I know him. I grew up with him!”
“Can you arrange it so that Penny can present her credentials to him?”
“I thought you said she had been declared Persona Non Grata?”
“She doesn’t know that yet,” De la Mouton said. “I haven’t had the heart to tell her.”
“What was the reason, anyway?” Horsey asked.
“She made an unfortunate mistake in judgment,” De la Mouton said. “She had an American Congressman locked up as a crazy.”
“Which Congressman? We’ve got 400 and some, and a 50-50 chance she was right,” Horsey said.
“His name is Edwards L. Jackson,” De la Mouton said.
“We’re in luck,” Hot Lips said. “He’s one of the real crazies. You remember him, Horsey? The one the cops chained to the airport fence in London?”
“Sure,” Horsey said. “Smiling Jack. Hell, if having Smiling Jack put in a pad
ded cell is all she did, there’s no problem at all. I’ll get on the horn to Chubby in Washington and tell him she was just doing her duty.”
“Unfortunately, there was another one,” De la Mouton said. “A television news journalist named Don Rhotten.”
“They pronounce that Row-ten,” Hot Lips said. “She had him tossed in the funny farm too, huh? What did he do, get fresh like Romeo here?”
“Madame, I resent the insinuation that my conduct with regard to Mademoiselle Penelope has been anything but proper,” Omar said. “As a matter of fact, the first time I saw her, she kicked me in the shin.”
“She was probably reading your mind,” Hot Lips said. “I know how easy that is.
“What is it you wish me to do for Mademoiselle Penelope?” Omar asked, desperately.
“If we can fix it so that she can present her credentials to the Chef de Protocol,” Hot Lips said, “maybe we can get her off the hook. Can you really fix that?”
“You tell me when and where, Hot Lips,” Omar said, “and I will have the Chef de Protocol crawl into Mademoiselle Penelope’s presence on all fours.”
“He exaggerates a lot,” Horsey said, “but I like his spirit!”
“There is a condition,” Omar said.
“Which is?” Hot Lips asked, suspiciously.
“That I be permitted to see Mademoiselle Penelope, so that I may both inquire after her state of health and offer what apologies are necessary for any misunderstanding that may have arisen between us.”
“What did he say?” Horsey asked.
“He wants to tell her he’s sorry,” Hot Lips said. “O.K., Hotshot, you fix it so that Penny can see this Chef de Protocol, and I’ll let you tell her yourself.”
“There is a radio in the chopper,” Omar said. “I’ll radio the palace immediately!”
They all marched out to the helicopter and Omar picked up the microphone. The sudden blast of heat plus the knowledge that the blonde was in trouble had sobered him up completely. He looked at Inspector Gregoire de la Mouton. “Believe me, my dear Inspector,” he said in Arabic, “I deeply appreciate your interest in Mademoiselle Penelope. I recall quite clearly your advice to me to stay out of your police jurisdiction.”
“You fix things for Mademoiselle Penelope, you dirty young man, and I’ll forget the whole thing,” De la Mouton said, “providing you keep your hands off her!”
“Do you know what the penalty is in Abzug’s police jurisdiction for raising your voice above a discreet whisper when addressing the nobility?” Omar asked.
“Certainly,” De la Mouton said. “Two slices with the guillotine—one vertical, one horizontal.”
“Correct,” Omar said. He pushed the microphone switch. “Abzug Palace, this is Omar ben Ahmed. Put the Chef de Protocol on the radio.”
“Immediately, Your Royal Highness,” the radio replied.
Inspector Gregoire de la Mouton collapsed where he stood, in a dead faint.
Horsey looked down at him. “Eight drinks,” he said, disdainfully, “and this one gets plastered out of his skull. A lousy six beers, and this one passes out.”
“Your Highness,” the radio said, “I must regretfully inform you that the Chef de Protocol is not in the palace.”
“Where is he?”
“In Marrakech, Your Highness.”
“Oh, yes,” Omar said, “I’d quite forgotten—the King’s party. What’s the word on my grandfather?”
“He is due in Marrakech momentarily, Your Highness.”
“Please get word to the Chef de Protocol,” Omar said, “that I am on my way to Marrakech and wish to see him immediately on my arrival.”
He replaced the microphone in its holder and took off the earphones. Hot Lips and Horsey were bent over Inspector de la Mouton. Hot Lips slapped his face, and one eye opened. It saw Omar standing over him, and promptly shut again.
“Inspector,” Omar said, still in Arabic, “I would consider it a personal service if you would not, just yet, let these people know who I am.”
“Whatever you say, Your Highness,” De la Mouton said.
“Hey, he’s coming around.”
“For the present, I don’t want you calling me ‘Your Highness,’ either,” Omar said.
“What should I call you, Your Highness?”
“Call me what Madame Hot Lips calls me,” Omar said. “Hotshot Charlie.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” De la Mouton said, “Hotshot Charlie it is.”
Horsey pulled De la Mouton to his feet.
“What now?” he asked.
“I will now go to pay my respects to Mademoiselle Penelope,” Omar said, “and then we are all going to see the Chef de Protocol.”
Omar marched off toward the Field Hospital and Explosives Warehouse. Hot Lips started after him. Horsey stopped her.
“Butt out, Hot Lips,” he said. “Let him go.”
“Why, Horsey,” Hot Lips said, “you’re a romantic!”
“I’m a pretty good judge of character, is all,” Horsey said. “Besides, if we’re going to the party, we’ll have to get washed up.”
“What are you talking about? What party?”
“Hotshot Charlie’s taking us to a party his friend Bernie is giving,” Horsey said. “I heard him say so on the radio.”
“But he was talking in Arabic.”
“You sink as many holes as I have in Arabian countries,” Horsey said, looking directly at Inspector de la Mouton, “you can’t help picking up some of the lingo.”
Omar ben Ahmed knocked politely at Penelope’s door.
“Who is there?” Penelope called.
“Omar ben Ahmed.”
There was a long pause before he was given permission to enter; but finally, Penelope told him to come in, and he walked inside the small room.
Penelope was out of bed, dressed in her desert-crossing clothing: blue jeans, desert boots, and a sweat shirt reading SLIPPERY ROCK STATE TEACHER’S COLLEGE.
“I believe, mademoiselle, that I have had the great pleasure of making your acquaintance, briefly, in Paris,” Omar said formally.
“I seem to recall, vaguely,” Penelope said, flushing furiously, for some unknown reason.
“My name, mademoiselle, is Omar ben Ahmed.”
“So you said,” Penelope said. “I am Miss Penelope Quattlebaum, Consul General of the United States of America.”
“Charmed, mademoiselle,” Omar said, taking her hand, bowing, and kissing it.
Penelope thought she would faint.
“And, then, of course, we met just awhile ago, again, on the desert.”
“Yes, we did, and you should be ashamed of yourself!”
“My interest, mademoiselle, I assure you, was purely medical,” Omar said.
“Well, I like that!” Penelope said. “That’s what’s known as adding insult to injury!”
It was time, Omar realized, to change the subject.
“I gather that Mademoiselle is what is known as a career woman?”
“Yes, of course, I am.”
“And there is certainly no room in mademoiselle’s life for romance?”
“Absolutely none,” she said.
“Mademoiselle will then doubtless be pleased to hear that it has been arranged for her to present her credentials to the Abzugian Chef de Protocol.”
“I am, of course, pleased,” Penelope said.
“And I am, of course, pleased that Mademoiselle is pleased,” Omar said.
“If you can really arrange for me to present my credentials,” Penelope said, “I will accept your apologies for the …. incident… on the desert.”
“Mademoiselle is most gracious,” Omar said, bowing again and taking her hand and kissing it again. Her right foot, with a mind of its own, suddenly kicked Omar in the shin. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at her. The rage welled up again within her. She kicked him again.
“Mademoiselle would be well advised not to repeat that a third time,” Omar said.
She rose
to the challenge and kicked him in the other shin.
“Mademoiselle was warned,” Omar said. He reached out for her, pulled her off the floor and to him, and kissed her. He kissed her a long time, until her hands stopped beating at his face. Then he let her go, setting her, out of kicking distance, on the floor, and keeping her there with a hand planted firmly on each shoulder.
“There remains but one question, mademoiselle,” Omar said.
“And what is that, you filthy-rotten, male-chauvinist sexist-pig and cheap feel stealer?”
“How soon do you think we can be married?” Omar asked.
Penelope stared at him in utter disbelief. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“What makes you think I would marry you?” she asked. “That would mean giving up my diplomatic career, just when it’s finally taken a turn for the better.”
“The question, mademoiselle,” Omar said, “was not whether, but when?”
Omar pulled her to him and kissed her again. This time she did not beat on him.
“I wonder,” Penelope said, when he had turned her loose again, “if diplomatic immunity extends to waiving the usual three-day waiting period?”
There is a large pool in the garden of the Mamoumian Hotel in Marrakech, in which blissfully floated the United States Ambassador to the Kingdom of Morocco and his Chief of Mission, the former on an air mattress and the latter inside an inner tube.
“I have carefully considered the problem from both an ethical and a practical standpoint,” the Ambassador said.
“And what decision did you reach, Chief?”
“If the King of Morocco is throwing a party, it is clearly my duty to attend. Paddle over to the side, Homer; get on the telephone, and telephone to His Majesty’s Chef de Protocol that I am here in Marrakech.”
“Just you, Chief?”
“You, too, of course,” the Ambassador said. “Where would I be without you?”
By the time the Chief of Mission had paddled to the poolside telephone, it was in use. It was in use by a rather attractive French female, and it was only after a moment that the Chief of Mission became aware of what she was saying, rather than what she looked like.
“Now don’t give me that,” she said sharply. “I know he’s in the hotel. I know Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov when I see him! Now you connect me immediately!”
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