“Mr. Ambassador,” she said hurriedly as Hansen and Decker entered through the lobby past the security desk, “Ambassador Fahd called. He said it was urgent that he speak with you. He left a number but said if you didn’t call soon you may not be able to reach him. I’ll place the call,” she said as she went quickly to her desk and Hansen went to his office.
“Decker, come on in and have a seat,” Hansen said, not pausing to look back.
Hansen’s office was large with sturdy antique furnishings and solid wood paneling. Decker sat in a comfortable leather chair facing Hansen’s desk while Hansen sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk in front of the phone.
“It’s ringing,” came the young woman’s heavily accented voice from the outer office.
Hansen picked up the receiver and waited as the phone rang for nearly a minute. “There’s no answer, Jackie,” he said to his assistant. “Try it again.”
Hansen waited anxiously as, this time, Jackie listened while the phone rang. Still there was no answer.
“Okay,” Hansen said. “Well, there’s nothing we can do then except wait until he calls back and hope nothing happens in the meantime.” Hansen turned his attention back to Decker.
“Ambassador Fahd?” Decker quizzed before Hansen could speak. “Isn’t he the ambassador from Saudi Arabia?”
“Yes, we’re old friends. School chums, actually. Oxford, class of ’72. We’ve worked together on a number of projects for the UN.”
“Like the Middle East project your committee is preparing a report on?”
“Well, yes. But tell me, how can I help you?”
“Well,” Decker began, unsure of why Hansen would interrupt the conversation on the Middle East project and in the next breath ask how he could help. That, after all, was what Decker understood this meeting to be about. Could Hansen have forgotten the purpose of the interview? “I’d like to ask you some questions about the committee’s report,” Decker finally responded.
“But, Decker, surely you know that that information is strictly confidential,” Hansen answered in surprise.
“Wait a second,” Decker said slowly, the confusion showing in his voice. “Didn’t you agree to talk with me about the report?”
“Of course not!” Hansen was taken aback at the whole idea, but there was no anger in his voice. He was simply surprised.
“What exactly did my editor tell you I wanted to talk with you about?”
“Well, Mr. Asher … your editor?” Hansen asked, seeking verification. Decker nodded painfully, embarrassed by the course this meeting was taking. “He said that you wanted to do some sort of profile piece on me for your magazine.”
Decker dropped his forehead into his open hand and expelled a deep breath in frustration and embarrassment. “Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “I’m afraid you and I have both been misled. Hank Asher told me that I was to interview you about your report—that you had refused to talk to other reporters about it but that you were willing to talk with me.”
“Well, now that wouldn’t be quite fair, would it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador,” Decker said as he felt his face redden. “I should have thought to question him when he told me you had agreed to talk with me. I guess I let him appeal to my vanity. I—stupidly, I realize now—thought you would … Oh, never mind.”
Ambassador Hansen’s response to this revelation was completely unexpected: He laughed. It was a friendly laugh.
“I don’t understand,” Decker said. “What’s so funny?”
“I’d like to meet this Mr. Asher of yours. He must be quite a good judge of a man’s character. I could use a few people like him on my staff.”
Decker’s expression showed he still didn’t understand.
“Oh, but don’t you see, Decker? He pulled the same trick on the both of us. I didn’t even think to question his motives when he said you wanted to write a profile story on me. I too was a victim of my own vanity.”
Decker forced a smile. He didn’t think it was very funny, but he didn’t want to deny the Ambassador his fun. And besides, it was much better to have him laughing than angry. “Well,” Decker said after a moment, “I don’t see any reason we shouldn’t go ahead and do that profile. Maybe we can still get the last laugh on Hank Asher. You’ll get the coverage. And he won’t be able to say I didn’t bring back the story.”
“I like the way you think, Mr. Hawthorne. You’d make a fine politician,” Hansen said in all sincerity.
Decker assumed it was a compliment.
Christopher Goodman stayed close to the guide as she took the UN tour group through two of the three council chambers—first the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC), and then the Security Council Chamber. From there, they went to the Hall of the General Assembly. As they were leaving the General Assembly, Christopher went to look over the balcony at the visitor’s lobby four floors below them. Midway between floors hung a replica of the Russian Sputnik, the first artificial satellite.
At that moment a group of men and women approached the rear entrance to the Hall of the General Assembly, led by a man in his early seventies. Each member of the group was politely but intently jockeying for position, staying far enough back to be respectful but close enough to hear what the man was saying and hoping to be the next to ask him a question. From their clothing it was obvious they represented many different cultures and nationalities.
“I consider,” the man was saying, “Secretary-General U Thant to have been not only my political mentor but my spiritual mentor as well. It was while I was serving him as assistant secretary-general that I first learned—” The man stopped suddenly and turned sharply to examine the profile of the boy he had noticed out of the corner of his eye.
“What is it, Mr. Assistant Secretary?” someone asked, but for the moment he seemed unable to respond as he stared at the boy.
Christopher turned and saw that his tour group had moved on and was preparing to board an elevator. In his rush to rejoin the group he didn’t even seem to notice the attention of the old man or the others in the entourage as he scrambled directly through their midst, coming within scant inches of the old man and then dashing away to reach his tour group before the elevator’s doors closed.
“That boy!” the man said finally, as Christopher began to weave his way through a group of Japanese businessmen that stood between him and the elevator. “It’s him. I know it is.” Trying to recover from the apparent shock while there was still a chance to act, he yelled, “Stop him! Someone stop that boy!” But no one moved except to look around to see what was happening. The former UN assistant secretary-general had no time to explain or to wait for the others to get their bearings. He pushed his attendants aside and ran after the boy himself. He made a remarkable effort for a man his age, but there was no real contest; his momentary hesitation had cost him his chance. Christopher was on the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
There had only been an instant of indecision, a moment’s hesitation, but it was enough to make all the difference. Christopher was gone. “No! It’s not fair,” the man said, without explanation. He took no notice as the others rejoined him. They stared at him and at each other in confusion, hoping to find some hint of meaning to the strange episode.
“No!” he said again. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s not fair! I didn’t even get to talk to him.” His voice was now barely audible. No one had any idea of the significance of what had just taken place or what the old man was saying, and he seemed to have no interest in letting them in on it. Then a thought occurred to him. “Alice,” he said. “I must find Alice.”
After the tour, Christopher looked for Decker but was met instead by a young aide sent by Ambassador Hansen to retrieve him. When they arrived at Hansen’s office, Decker was just preparing to leave. “Well, Christopher,” Jon Hansen asked, “how was your tour?”
Christopher was about to answer when a thin bald man with an auburn-red mustache and a deadly serious expression
rushed through the open door into Hansen’s office. Every eye in the outer office was on the man; every face took on a uniform look of dread. It seemed they all recognized him, and though no one tried to stop him, it was clear there was something to be feared about this man’s arrival.
“Jon, they’ve done it,” the man said in a thick German accent. “I just talked to Fahd, and he confirmed that Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and Libya have launched a united attack against Israel.”
“Blast!” said Hansen. “When did it happen?”
“Only moments before Fahd called. The Syrians have attacked from the north, along their mutual border with Israel and through Lebanon. Jordanian and Iraqi forces have launched a joint attack from the east. Syria, Libya, and Iraq have launched coordinated air strikes against Israeli airfields. There’s no word yet on damage or whether the Israelis were able to get their planes off the ground.”
“Blast!” Hansen said again.
Decker and Christopher had backed away to keep from interfering with what was going on, but both listened intently to the conversation, and apparently no one cared. It would all be on the news soon anyway.
As Hansen and the other man talked, they were interrupted by the tall blond woman. “Father,” she said, “Ambassador Rogers is on the phone and says he must speak with you immediately.” Her manner was calm and typical of her high upbringing, but Decker could sense the concern in her voice—that, plus the fact that she had called him Father rather than Mr. Ambassador.
Decker had no idea who Ambassador Rogers was, but it seemed both Hansen and the German were very anxious to talk with him. “Hello, Frank,” Hansen said. “This is Jon. Ambassador Reichman is here with me. I understand it’s hit the fan over there. What can you tell us about the situation?” Hansen paused to listen but the look on his face said that he wasn’t prepared for Rogers’ answer.
“Tel Aviv! In the city?” Hansen said into the receiver in dismay. “Are you sure it’s not just the military bases around there?”
Decker’s ears perked up and he listened with new interest.
Hansen paused again and then put his hand over the phone and spoke to Reichman. “They’re shelling civilian areas of Tel Aviv. Rogers says scores of bombs have already fallen.”
Up until now, Decker had been satisfied just to listen to the ambassadors’ conversation, but now he had a personal stake in what was happening. He too broke with formality and came right up to the two men. Hansen didn’t seem to even notice the breach of protocol, but continued to listen to Ambassador Rogers on the phone.
“Frank, are you all right?” Hansen asked with some concern. “Is the embassy in any danger?” Rogers’ answer seemed to reassure Hansen about the immediate safety of the embassy staff.
“Okay, Frank,” he said after another pause. “Hold on, I’ll do it right now. Jackie!” Hansen said, directing his eyes to his daughter. “Get the Syrian ambassador, the Russian ambassador, and the Iraqi ambassador on the phone right away, and in that order!”
The momentary break in the phone conversation allowed Hansen’s glance to pass to Decker, who took advantage of the opportunity. “Tom Donafin is still in the hospital over there!”
Hansen paused for a brief fraction of a second, his eyes intently fixed on Decker’s. The look on his face was of sincere concern but he did not answer. He had greater, more immediate, concerns and responsibilities. He spoke back into the phone. “Frank, I’ll apply every ounce of pressure I can on this end to get them to stop bombing civilian targets, but I don’t know what good it will do. It would help if you can give me a few specifics on what parts of the city are being hit and how much damage has been done.” He grabbed a pen and paper from his desk and began taking notes, every few seconds letting out an “Uh-huh.”
Decker realized the comparative triviality of his plea and stepped into the background.
“I have the Syrian ambassador’s office on the phone, Mr. Ambassador,” Hansen’s daughter said, this time remembering to use the proper title. “He’ll pick up as soon as you’re on the phone.”
Hansen was still writing and listening, while looking up at his daughter. “Frank, I’ve got Ambassador Murabi on the other phone. I’ll talk to him first and then make the other calls. If I don’t call you back within fifteen minutes, then you call me.”
Hansen was just about to hang up when he remembered something and put the phone back to his ear. “Frank,” he said loudly into the mouthpiece, hoping to catch Ambassador Rogers before he hung up. There was a brief anxious silence and then he continued. “Frank, one other thing. It’s a personal favor. You recall those two Yanks I brought back from Lebanon? Well, one of them is here with me in the office and he says that the other is still in the hospital there in Tel Aviv.” Hansen listened. Decker listened. “Yes, that’s right.” Ambassador Hansen looked at Decker, obviously needing details.
“The Tel-Hashomer Hospital in Tel Aviv,” Decker responded.
“Tel Hashomer,” Hansen repeated. “His name is Tom Donafin. How much longer is he supposed to be there?” he asked, looking over at Decker.
“He’s supposed to get out any day. They were just keeping him for observation after his final surgery last week,” Decker answered.
“Frank,” Hansen said back into the phone, “apparently he can leave anytime. If you could have someone check up on him, and if he’s fit to travel, get him on a plane out of there.”
Hansen hung up the phone and acknowledged Decker’s look of appreciation. “Rogers is a good man. He’ll do what he can.” Decker didn’t have a chance to reply before Hansen continued. “Right now though,” he said as he poised his finger above the blinking light on the phone, “I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” Decker began to move toward the door. “Leave your number with Jackie and we’ll call you if we hear anything about Tom.”
Robert Milner, former assistant secretary-general of the United Nations, came through the door of the Lucius Trust with the energy of a man half his age. “I must speak to Alice,” he hurriedly told the receptionist. “Where is she?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved quickly around the young woman’s desk toward Alice Bernley’s office.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary, Ms. Bernley isn’t in,” the receptionist said, but Milner’s momentum carried him the rest of the way to Bernley’s office door.
“Where is she? I must speak with her immediately!” he said, as he moved crisply through a 180-degree turn back toward the receptionist.
“She didn’t say. But I expect her back any minute.”
Milner’s energy seemed to lose direction as he began aimlessly, anxiously to pace the floor of the Trust’s front office. The receptionist offered Milner a cup of herbal tea, which he accepted but didn’t drink.
Twenty minutes passed before Milner saw the red-haired Alice Bernley returning to her office from across the UN Plaza. She was walking quickly, excitedly, but not fast enough to satisfy Milner, who ran to meet her. As she saw him coming toward her, she quickened her pace. Almost in unison they called out the other’s first name.
“Alice!”
“Bob!”
Then in unison: “I’ve seen him!”
“Where? When?” she asked, hurriedly. She had been running and was trying to catch her breath.
“In the UN, not more than half an hour ago! He passed within inches of me. I could have reached out and touched him! But, quickly, where did you see him?”
“Only moments ago, on Second Street, in front of One Dag Hammarskjöld. He was with a man, getting into a cab. I tried to …” Alice Bernley dropped the rest of her sentence as she watched the smile on Milner’s face grow broad with the excitement of a promise fulfilled. Only then did she come to fully appreciate the significance of this moment. For a minute they just looked at each other.
“We’ve seen him,” she said, finally.
“We have seen him,” he confirmed. “Just as Master Djwlij Kajm promised!”
12
Why Hast Thou Forsaken M
e?
Tel Aviv, Israel
TOM DONAFIN SAT ON THE EDGE of his bed in Tel Aviv’s Tel-Hashomer Hospital, adjusting the strap on the new camera Hank Asher had sent him as a get-well present. Outside Tom’s window, a performance of major proportion in the night sky was made surreal by the glow of fires from the ground. The sparkle of anti-aircraft artillery painted narrow stripes across the sky as now and then the bright flash of an explosion added terrifying color to the canvas. Tom had captured it all, beginning only moments after the first shots were fired. He had even photographed a dog-fight between a squadron of Libyan MiG-25s and Israeli F-15 Eagles.
Tom walked back to the open window and scanned the horizon for action. Like most of the other lights in the city, those in the hospital had been extinguished to avoid drawing the attention of enemy pilots—a condition that, coincidentally, also allowed for better night photography. Behind him Tom heard a knock on his hospital room door and turned quickly, a little startled.
As Tom turned in the darkened room, the person at the open door suddenly found himself with a barrel pointed directly at him. Instinctively he ducked, but even as he did, he realized that the sinister barrel that seemed at first to be some type of small bazooka or shoulder-held anti-tank weapon was in fact, only the telephoto lens of the American’s camera.
“I’m terribly sorry!” Tom said, lowering the camera as he hurried to offer his hand to help his unexpected visitor up from the floor. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” the man muttered in a British accent through his embarrassment while brushing himself off. “Are you Donafin?”
“Yeah, I’m Tom Donafin,” Tom responded, offering his hand again, this time in greeting. “Who are you?”
“I’m Połucki from the British Embassy,” he said formally. “On behalf of Ambassadors Rogers and Hansen I’m here to offer you the assistance of His Majesty’s government in expediting your evacuation from the State of Israel. Please accept my apologies for not notifying you earlier. We attempted to alert you to the situation but the telephone lines are down. At the direction of Ambassador Rogers, I’ve taken the liberty of inquiring of your doctor regarding your fitness for travel. He entirely agrees that, under the present circumstances, your full recovery would be facilitated by your immediate departure from the area of present hostilities. Besides,” he added less formally, “they’ll be needing the bed for the wounded.”
In His Image Page 18
