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  “Think I’m crazy if you want. I’ll probably think I’m crazy myself after the sun gets a little higher in the sky. Burns away the nighttime fantasies. But I had to tell you about it.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “A thing like this drives everybody crazy,” Mrs. Brown said. “Makes us all do and think crazy things. I’ll never take one of those secondaries again. Never had such a real dream.”

  “I understand. Anything any one of us thinks—”

  “Now, what about the carpets?”

  “What carpets?”

  “I was supposed to get the carpets cleaned while you were gone. No cleaner will take ’em without a billion dollars of insurance.”

  “Forget about the carpets, Mrs. Brown.”

  “They do need cleaning. And we’ve got them up in a big pile in the foyer. Mr. Ambassador’s forever trippin’ over ’em—”

  “Forget about the carpets. I don’t give two hoots about the damned carpets. Let ’em rot.”

  “All right.”

  “Mrs. Brown…Mary. If you think anything else, have any other ideas, call me right away and let me know.”

  “I tell you what I think, Christina,” Mrs. Brown said. “Toby’s at Fantazyland.”

  Forty-One

  Over the intercom Sylvia Menninges’s voice said, “Mr. Ambassador? Assistant Secretary of State Skinner is here to see you. Says he’s just dropped by to say hello.”

  Ambassador Teodoro Rinaldi’s finger hesitated on the intercom button. He glanced at his watch and the typed schedule on his desk. It was twelve thirty-nine, Sunday noon hour. He was due at lunch with the Security Council at one o’clock. It was key he be there, and be there on time. Yesterday, and so far today, he had been keeping his schedule well, continuing, hour by hour, meeting by meeting, word by word, to develop delegate support for Resolution 1176R. He had even managed to meet or talk with most of the people he had missed Friday. He sincerely hoped he had carried it all off well, looking tired, he knew, under pressure, of course. He believed no one had discerned from his performance how distraught, sick at heart, he was.

  Now, Pat Skinner, who probably knew the Ambassador’s schedule better than the Ambassador himself did, suddenly was dropping in, from Washington, to “say hello”; in fact, to look into the eyes of someone he knew twenty-five years and assess for the diplomatic community Teddy’s true condition. Would the Ambassador’s appeal to the United Nations the following night be strong, stirring, convincing, successful? Or would it be delivered as one more diplomatic essay, an exaggerated position paper meant to cause nothing more real than slight and slighting reference in subsequent cocktail chatter? The Ambassador knew he could not conceal his true condition from Pat Skinner.

  Before he responded, Sylvia Menninges said, “Mr. Ambassador? Your tailor on 270.”

  “Your tailor”: code for His Majesty. On scrambler.

  Pat Skinner must be standing right next to her desk, listening.

  Teddy said, “Ask Mr. Skinner to wait a moment, please. And make sure the car is out front, will you, please?”

  “It’s waiting now, sir.”

  He pushed button 270—the green button. “Sir?”

  A long pause, then the funny voice of Donald Duck, the boss’s voice over the scrambler phone.

  “Teddy? I’m not hearing any good news.”

  “Neither am I. Sir.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “All right.”

  “Do you feel you can carry on?”

  “Yes.”

  “The terrible thing about this, Teddy, is that I don’t see any options. I don’t see we have any choice but for you to carry on. In kidnapping your son, they’ve hit you personally. But if you personally don’t get up there in front of the United Nations tomorrow night and submit Resolution 1176R, it has no chance of passing. Diplomacy is a personal business. There’s no one I can substitute for you.”

  “I know that.”

  “I can’t see any plan other than the plan we decided upon first: that we keep this matter as quiet as possible, and, that you proceed as normally as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean, to the end, Teddy. To the end.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a terrible thing to say.”

  Teddy waited.

  “Teddy, if this Resolution doesn’t pass, tanks are going to roll. They are going to roll across the sands of this nation, down the streets of our villages, into the cities. It will mean war, Teddy, within the year. The major powers will fight each other on this poor speck of sand. They will destroy this nation over our ability to ship oil through the Persian Gulf. There is no doubt about it. You know this to be true. Don’t you, Teddy?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “You might be wise to consider that we are at war now. Teddy, your son may be a casualty of that war.”

  Teddy looked across his office at a complicated tapestry on the far wall.

  Teddy said, “He’s only eight years old, sir.”

  “Given a war, Teddy, there will be many eight-year-old casualties.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m asking you to understand and accept something no one can reasonably ask a father of a child to understand and accept. You have to think of your son, no matter how little he is, as a soldier. Right now, they’ve got him. We cannot permit the utter destruction of this nation and most likely several other nations—if not the world—because of the loss of one soldier.”

  “I hear you. Sir.”

  “I think this is the most terrible thing I’ve ever had to say. No matter what happens, I trust, in time, you’ll forgive me. Understand….”

  The Donald Duck voice faded off. There was a snap on the line, then a high-pitched whirring noise.

  Teddy hung up.

  In a moment, the door to his office opened and Pat Skinner stepped around it, his eyes immediately on Teddy’s face.

  The Ambassador had not signaled Sylvia to permit him to enter. She had seen the yellow light on line 270 go out and knew he was on a tight schedule.

  Pat said, “Am I disturbing?”

  At first, Pat’s look was normally curious. As he came across the office, looking at Teddy, the expression on his face became one of shock and then alarm.

  “Ted, are you all right?”

  “Haven’t been getting all the sleep I should. Burning the candle at both ends.”

  “That’s true, but—” Pat Skinner sat down.

  “Figure I’ll start a vacation sometime this week. Maybe as early as Tuesday. See how things go Monday night. Maybe I’ll even join Christina and Toby out at Fantazyland.”

  “They’re at Fantazyland?”

  “Sure. Why not? Toby had a school break. He’s been pressing for a trip to Fantazyland for as long as anybody can remember. You know Toby. This seems as good a time as any.”

  Skinner was now looking as if Teddy had taken leave of his senses.

  “Once Toby sets his mind to something…” Teddy said.

  “I hear you dropped a few stitches Friday.”

  “‘Dropped a few stitches’?”

  “Yeah. Got around the community. Canceled appointments. Not available.”

  “Oh, that. Had a terrible sore throat. Couldn’t speak above a whisper.”

  “I spoke to you on the phone Friday.”

  “Right. Then you know what I mean.”

  “You didn’t sound—uh—right.”

  “Ready to sing Wagner now.”

  “How do you think things are going? I mean, for the passage of the Resolution? Got your ducks all lined up?”

  “It will go down like Kentucky bourbon, Pat. I have no doubt of it. The Resolution is vital not only to our national interests, but essential to the best interests of nearly every nation in the world.”

  “The Islamic groundswell—”

  “—is entirely understandable.” Teddy stood up. “I can’t be late for lunch, Pat. Not only is it diplomaticall
y essential, but, also, I’m hungry. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No. Uh, no. Thanks.”

  “Let’s get together, Pat. I mean, let’s get the families together. A weekend somewhere. Chew things over. Maybe after my vacation….”

  Forty-Two

  …7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…7np 4484…

  …7np 4484

  7np 4484!

  Dazed as she was, having read thousands of license plates in Fantazyland’s enormous parking lot, driving slowly up and down every row, watching out for children and parents cutting across the lot in front of her every minute (they looking to neither the right nor the left, having been guaranteed every safety while enjoying their stay at Fantazyland), having to argue with at least one parking-lot attendant at the end of every row who did not like her driving up and down the rows, insisted she park, ignored her statement that this was an emergency and she was looking for a car and could never walk all those miles, up and down, up and down, driving off on them, driving around them, evading them, ignoring their shouts, mile after mile.

  Finally, when she saw it, she stopped. She blinked. Registration number 7np 4484. A blue two-door car. She read the number again and again. She thought she so much wanted to see it she had created the illusion of seeing it.

  No. Right beside her, parked near the front of the Fantazyland parking lot, was a blue car, registration number 7np 4484.

  “Oh, my God. Toby is here!”

  Up the row, twenty cars away, was an empty slot. Christina sped her car into it, locked it and ran back to the blue two-door.

  The registration plate still read 7np 4484.

  She peered through the windows to see some evidence of Toby. On the front seat there was an Uncle Whimsy Comic Book. Probably ninety-nine percent of the cars in Fantazyland’s parking lot had Uncle Whimsy Comic Books in them. There were some gum wrappers on the floor. Nothing else. The car was as neutral as any other rented car.

  She looked around the lot. The men Turnbull had had following her were nowhere in sight. She hadn’t seen them all morning. After days of uselessly spooking her, they were not around when she could use them.

  Neither were there any parking-lot attendants in sight.

  In her purse she found a fingernail file. With this, she let the air out of three of the car’s tires. Working the release of each tire valve seemed to take forever. She wanted the tires absolutely flat.

  It took her as long to work the hood latch. Finally getting it into a position where it had some give to it, she yanked it up, breaking something.

  She studied the motor a long moment. She could see nothing obviously devastating to do. There were some black hoses, and she tugged those free. She tugged free every hose and wire she could find, ripping out altogether those that would come.

  Finally, she took off her shoe and beat the engine with her heel.

  When she was trying to close the hood, she noticed a parking-lot attendant had driven up in an electric cart. He had stopped and was looking at the flat tires, the wires on the ground.

  “Need help, lady?”

  “Somebody vandalized my car!” she said.

  “Gosh….”

  He stepped off his cart to examine the damage.

  Christina said, “I’ve got to call my husband,” and began running across the lot.

  “Hey, wait! Lady! I’ll give you a lift.”

  Running across one row, she was nearly hit by a station wagon full of Girl Scouts.

  “Stoooo-pid!” yelled all the girls.

  UNCLE WHIMSY WELCOMES YOU—ONE AND ALL—TO FANTAZYLAND.

  Right at the main gate, to the left of the box offices, was a row of public telephones.

  Christina slowed to a walk. She knew the park was enormous. Uncle Whimsy’s mountainous Hat was in the middle, and it looked a long way away.

  I found the car, I found the car….

  Forty-Three

  When Pat Skinner entered the Waldorf Astoria suite of the United States Ambassador to the United Nations, the Secretary of State was sitting on the divan, shoes off, wriggling his toes. For socks, the Secretary was known to wear only lisle, which, of course, gave rise to jokes about “our Secretary with cold feet.” (At the Pentagon, the Secretary of Defense had become referred to, therefore, as “ol’ Iron Socks.”)

  The Secretary of State was due downstairs in a few minutes to give an after-luncheon speech to The National Association of Christians and Jews. The Secretary had arranged to miss lunch. Experience had taught him he was better off sitting alone somewhere, resting, sipping a vodka martini, shoes off, wriggling his toes, than keeping up luncheon and dinner conversations.

  “Hallo, Pat!” said the Secretary of State.

  Skinner said, “Glad I caught you.”

  The Secretary jiggled his martini glass and laughed. “Caught me at what?”

  At the sideboard Skinner mixed himself a very weak scotch and soda.

  “How’s your friend Rinaldi? That thing going to work?”

  Skinner said, “No. Doubt it. He’s a mess.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Skinner sat down. “He looks in such bad shape I don’t see how he can make it through the day, let alone tomorrow and tomorrow night.”

  “Physically?”

  “Looks like he should be hospitalized. Mentally, he may have cracked. He had no very reasonable excuse for being incommunicado Friday. Pleaded sore throat, but he had forgotten I had spoken to him on the phone myself. Would you believe his wife and kid are at Fantazyland? You’d think His Majesty would have better use for his illegal secret intelligence in this country these days—I mean, in lining up ducks—than having them escort the Ambassador’s wife and child around an amusement park. Teddy is sitting there in his office, being late for lunch with the Security Council while chatting on the phone with his tailor. He’s almost incoherent. All he talked to me about was his vacation and that he’s ready to sing Wagner.”

  “Wagner?”

  “Wagner.”

  The Secretary of State said, “Nobody’s ever ready to sing Wagner.” He stared into the dark fireplace. “Some guys just can’t take the pressure. I’ll inform the President. I’m stopping to pick him up at Camp David at five o’clock. Want a ride in the chopper?”

  “I think I’d better stay here. What will the President say?”

  The Secretary shrugged. “‘Pull.’ He’ll say, ‘Pull.’” He drained his glass. “The old boy’s in no mood to back another dead horse. This administration has already bought so many we can supply a glue factory for a decade.”

  The Secretary put his glass down and leaned over to tie on his shoes. “Surprising. Thought Teddy had more stuff in him. We all react to pressure in this business, Skinner. Trick is to let no one see it.” Red-faced, the Secretary sat up. “Not even,” he said, “your alleged best friend.”

  Forty-Four

  “Sylvia? Quick! This is Christina Rinaldi. Get me the Ambassador!”

  Phone to one ear, fingers pressed against the other, Christina ran her eyes along the lines of people waiting for tickets at Fantazyland’s box offices.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rinaldi. The Ambassador is at a special luncheon meeting with the United Nations Security Council.”

  “Can you transfer me somehow?”

  “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “It’s terribly important.”

  “Mrs. Rinaldi, even the President of the United States isn’t allowed to interrupt a special meeting of the Security Council.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Christina, can’t I take a message?”

  “Yes. Get to Teddy as soon as you can.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell him I found the car. He’ll know what I mean. In the parking lot at Fantazyland.”

  “You found the car.”

  “The car we were looking for. Willins’-Doland’s-Jackson’s-Mullins’s car.”

&n
bsp; “Wait, I didn’t get all those names.”

  “Never mind. He’ll know which car I mean. Tell him I’m at Fantazyland now, and I need help. I need a lot of help. Tell him to tell Major Mustafa I need people here now.”

  “You need people at Fantazyland.”

  “And, Sylvia. Tell him not to trust Colonel Turnbull.”

  “Not to trust Colonel who?”

  “Turnbull. You don’t know him. Last night he stuck a needle in my arm. Gave me some kind of drug—a sedative. Do you have that?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Get to Teddy as fast as you can, tell him these two things and ask him to get people here as fast as he can.”

  “To Fantazyland?”

  “Yes. To Fantazyland.”

  Forty-Five

  “Look at them flowers!” Spike said. He and Toby were in the garden of Princess Daphne’s Flower Palace. “I never knew there was so many different kinds’a roses.”

  “What roses?” Toby said.

  “Those roses.”

  “Those are tulips,” Toby said.

  “Yeah, tha’s right, kid. They’re tulip roses.”

  “No,” Toby said. “Those are daffodils.”

  “Did I ast you? Punk kid. Whaddayou know? I said those are daffadil-kind of tulip roses.”

  Toby pointed. “Those are roses over there. On the trellis.”

  “Talkin’ fancy again, uh? Thought I knocked that outa you.”

  “What’s fancy in what I said?”

  “These flowers out here are nicer than them inside Princess Daphne’s pad,” Spike said. “These are real, you see, real flowers growing in the earth.”

  Toby said, “I think they’re fresh planted.”

  “Don’t be wise, punk. The ones inside were phonies. Dincha know that? They was glass and plastic and stuff like that.”

  A barefoot girl dressed entirely in flowers drifted by them. Flowers were twisted neatly in her hair. She carried a yellow sunflower.

  Watching her, Spike said, “I’d like to pluck her.”

  “Shh,” Toby said. “That’s Princess Daphne.”

  The girl looked at Spike. Her face reddened. Either she was blushing or angry.