Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [146]
People were screaming and running and I ran with them, blindly. My throat ached with rage and horror and grief. What sort of man would turn in his own son? I hoped it had been the old man who had cried out. I hoped he was suffering. Maybe he hadn’t expected they would fire without so much as a preliminary warning. But he ought to have known, he ought to have trusted his son, given him a chance to explain . . .
I threw myself in front of a taxi, pried myself off the front fender and wrenched the door open. ‘The American Embassy,’ I gasped. ‘Shari Latin America.’
I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but the sight of the flag had never affected me as it had that day. The farther you are from home the better that star-spangled banner looks. I marched up to the door with my chin held high and demanded entry.
It’s nice to be famous. As soon as I mentioned my name I was passed from flunky to flunky till I ended up in an office few tourists see. There was a flag there too, and behind the big mahogany desk hung a picture of the President. I had voted for him and I had always thought he had a nice friendly smile. It had never looked friendlier.
‘Dr Bliss? Dr Victoria Bliss! Thank God! You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.’ The man who hurried to meet me didn’t resemble my idea of an ambassador. He was too young and his hair wasn’t grey. He sure was glad to see me, though. He invited me to call him Tom, and took both my hands and shook them, and went on to tell me exactly how relieved he was.
‘The ambassador’s in the States, which left me holding the bag, as you might say. A hostage situation is a diplomat’s worst nightmare.’
‘Gee whiz, I’m really sorry to have upset you,’ I said.
He flushed, and I gave myself a mental kick. I was getting to be as bad as John, making smart-ass remarks when I should be trying to gain his support and attention. It was imperative that I remain calm. If I lost my temper or broke down he’d think I was just another hysterical female, and I’d never convince him in time that my wild, improbable story was true.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a smile so charming it must have been one of the qualifications for the job. ‘Our primary concern, of course, was for your safety. Sit down. No, I insist, I won’t ask you any more questions until you’ve had a chance to catch your breath.’ He went to the desk and started punching buttons. ‘Joanie, will you come in here, please? Joanie’s my assistant, she’ll take care of you.’
‘But I want you to ask me questions! There’s been a mistake. I was never – ’
Joanie must have been waiting for the summons. By that time everybody had heard of my arrival, and they were all wild with curiosity. She was older than her boss. Being female she would of course rise more slowly up the diplomatic ladder.
‘You have to listen to me!’
Joanie put her arms around me. ‘Sure we will, honey. Don’t worry about a thing. Come along with me, I’ll bet you’d like to freshen up some.’
If she hadn’t had grey hair and a lined, motherly face I might have resisted. There was shock on that pleasant face as well as sympathy. It gave me some idea of how awful I must look. I suddenly realized, as well, that I had to go to the bathroom. (I know, that’s not ‘romantic’ But it’s true.)
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll be right back, Tom. Don’t go away.’
Joanie was very kind. She even offered me some of her makeup, and after I’d seen the wild face glaring back at me from the mirror, I accepted. I wouldn’t have listened to anything that came out of a face like that.
She only asked me one question. ‘Did he hurt you, honey? He didn’t . . .’
It was the wrong question. I thought of Feisal, making jokes and worrying about his mother and falling, falling and screammg, trying to warn me with what might have been his last breath. I turned on her like a madwoman.
‘Hurt me! He was . .