From the window of the VIP lounge, American Ambassador Nick Fielding watched the Light of Pulukhistan, Supreme Leader Qabibullah himself, descend from the forward door of PulukhAir’s flagship Boeing 757.

The Leader of the Pulukhi Nation was dressed as usual in the collarless shirt and square-shouldered Western-cut suit he had decreed to be the working garb of all 'Servants of the People.' Before him and on either side were bodyguards, Uzis at the ready to repel any threat to the Leader’s well-being. Behind him on the ramp trailed two girls of eleven or twelve — one a light-skinned blonde and the other dark -- and the Leader’s principal wife, who was shrouded head-to-toe in a Pulukhi caftan. Next to Qabibullah, in animated conversation with the Leader, was Fielding’s wife, Jane.

Fielding scanned the crowd descending from the rear door of the airplane. It was the usual mix of businessmen, foreign aid staff, Pulukhi officials and tourists.

There was a touch at his elbow — it was Chamberlain Absiq, the high official who had summoned Fielding from the gate where he’d waited for the plane bearing Jane and Rodney, his grandson, from Dubai to Ba’ambadabad. “It seems that His Luminance has been charmed by your wife and grandaughter, Excellency,” murmured Absiq, stroking his elegant mustache. “He has sent ahead instructions that your request for a private meeting shall be granted. It will be arranged for the day after tomorrow. Please prepare appropriate expressions of gratitude.”

Startled, Fielding nodded, trying vainly to slow his pulse. Why hadn’t he brought Barney along to the airport, he thought. Barney Scrivener was the Embassy’s Political Counselor, the only one of his senior staff with more than a nodding acquaintance with Pulukhistan. Why any American would want to spend his time studying the political culture of this god-forsaken place was hard to fathom, but Barney was useful at times like this. He might have an idea where to find Rodney, or what it was that Qabibullah found so interesting about Jane.

At a barked command, the Palukhi brass jumped into formation. Caught off guard, Fielding was trying to decide whether he should position himself one step behind and to the left of the Chamberlain, or perhaps next to the Prime Minister instead, when the doors were thrown open. Hot desert air blasted in, and with it, Qabibullah himself. The Light of Palukhistan was in a good mood. Smiling, Qabib acknowledged the greetings of his Cabinet, and then addressed Fielding.

“Hello, Ambassador Fielding. It is good to see you. For the two last hours, I have the most interesting conversation with your lady, and my daughter Yazmin has been made friendly by your grandaughter.

“We shall talk next week, I think.” Qabibullah glanced at his Chamberlain for confirmation.

“It is so, Your Luminance,” Absiq replied.

“Excellent. And now I talk to my People. Excuse.” Nodding to Fielding, Qabibullah took the two children by the hand and stepped before the microphones of the Voice of Palukhistan. Jane closed ranks next to Fielding.

The Leader’s remarks were as usual emphatic and, as they were delivered entirely in Palukhtush, unintelligible to Fielding or his wife. At one point, he turned and smilingly indicated Fielding. As the television cameras closed in, the ambassador managed a weak grin in return.

“What the hell was that,” he muttered to his wife. “Where’s Rodney?”

Jane shrugged and mouthed “later!”

The Leader’s report to the People, presumably on his trip to the United Nations, ended in a mercifully brief forty-five minutes. Seconds later, as the Leader’s entourage sped off in a cloud of limosines and motorcycle policemen, Fielding, his wife and the girl that Qabibullah had called their granddaughter gained the safety of the Embassy’s armored limosine.

Jane regarded her husband fondly. “I guess this is a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? How are you, darling? Have you missed me?”

The child spoke. “Grandmommy, when can I take these clothes off?”

“Jane, what the hell is going on?”

She answered the child first. “Not now, Rodney dear. Be a good kid and let me explain a few things to Granddad.

“Nick, Rodney and I saved us $3000.”

“Grandmommy, you promised me I could take off Robyn’s clothes as soon as we got to Ba’ambadabad. And you said you’d give me $300 if I wore them on the plane.”

“Wait, Jane, does this mean . . . ? Oh, good grief! Great, howling grief! This is Rodney?” Nick Fielding regarded his only grandson incredulously. The child was dressed in a Powder Puff Girls tee, khaki skirt and sandals. Tugging at a barette, he squirmed embarrassedly.

“Rodney, leave your hair alone. Nick, listen to me! Round trip economy air fare from Washington to Ba’ambadabad is $6000. A kid under 12 flies for half that. When Robyn insisted on going to riding camp instead of spending the summer holiday with us, I figured out that here was a chance to economize. Why not turn in Rodney’s ticket instead of Robyn’s? If you look at their passport photos, they could be twins.

“I didn’t know we were going to get upgraded by PulukhAir when we changed planes in Dubai, or that President Qabibullah and his family were going to be on the plane. How could I have guessed that?

“Qabibullah’s granddaughter Yazmin likes ‘Robyn’ a lot. And Nick, I told Qabib you really, really wanted to talk with him privately, and hadn’t been able to get through the red tape — and he said he would meet you!”

Fielding was mulling this startling turn of events as the limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Ambassadorial Residence. He was relieved to see Barney Scrivener waiting on the steps.

“Saw you on TV, chief; thought I ought to come over. Hi, Jane, welcome back. Could you excuse us for five minutes?”

Barney was just being polite when he asked her permission. Jane had been a diplomatic wife long enough to know when a discreet absence was mandatory. She hustled Rodney inside while the two men stepped into an alcove.

“What in hell did he say, Barney?”

“He said that he was well-received during his working trip to Washington — we knew that, of course, but it’s nice to know he agrees — and that on the flight from New York, he’d been mulling what is best for Palukhistan. Then he announced that he’s decided to accept the American offer of economic assistance, and to consider our request to lease the old air base on the coast. The way he said it, there’s no question the two matters are linked in Qabib’s mind. Then he said he was calling in the American ambassador for discussions on Tuesday. That was when he pointed at you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” replied Nick Fielding. After all these months. . . .

Fielding needed time to think. “Barney, prep session tomorrow at 11. You, Martinez, Calvin Yeoh, Mac Douglas and Tim, of course” — he named the Embassy’s press officer, station chief, defense attache and his own number two, in addition to Scrivener.

Fielding had been an American diplomat for almost 30 years. Five overseas postings punctuated by staff time in Washington had brought him at last to an ambassadorship. Palukhistan was not the sort of place that would interest a big contributor to the President’s election campaign, it was a hellhole to be honest, but it had been intimated to Fielding that if he did well, he’d win a transfer to one of the smaller European countries.

“Doing well” meant persuading the Palukhis to let US Forces use the airbase at Ma’ambouz to stage for operations elsewhere in the region. For two years, however, Qabibullah had been evasive. Privately, Fielding couldn’t guess why Qabib would risk a move so manifestly unpopular in the bazaars of Ba’ambadabad or Ma’ambouz, or why Washington would think he could pull it off. He’d resigned himself to retirement in another year.

&

Rodney was in the pool, his wife finishing an gin and tonic on the shaded porch beside it, when Fielding rejoined his wife and grandson. A nod to the butler brought a second drink for Jane and another for him. Fielding watched the boy diving for pebbles he’d thrown into the pool. Rodney’s hair was tied back in a pony tail and he wore the bottom of a candy-striped bikini. Physically, he was still a child, Fielding saw; though Rodney was already 13, his nymphlike frame showed no sign of impending adolescence.

Fielding sat down beside Jane, drained half the glass and tried to look stern. “Jane,” he started, “this stunt of yours — turning Rodney into Robyn — why in hell . . . .”

She stopped him by putting her index finger to his lips, a wifely gesture that after all these years did not fail to stir Fielding. “While you were talking with Barney, Noor Aishah phoned. The Protocol lady, you remember her? Begum Jamillah has invited ‘Robyn’ to the Palace tomorrow to play with her favorite granddaughter. . . .”

“And?”

“And of course I accepted. Do you want that European embassy or not, Nick? I’m sure I do.”

“It’s too high a risk. If they find out that ‘Robyn’ is Rodney, they’ll cut the kid’s nuts off.”

“OK, kiss your so-called career goodbye. If we don’t produce Yazmin’s favorite new playmate, do you think Qabibullah will be in a good mood to talk about Ma’ambouz AFB? I watched them on the plane for three hours. She’s the apple of his eye, and she hit it off with ‘Robyn.’ After that, talking him into meeting you on Tuesday was like pushing on an open door.”

“What about Rodney? I’m amazed he played along with this farce on the plane. He’ll never agree to more of this. No boy would.”

“Have you considered, my sweet husband, that he and especially we don’t really have a choice? The Leader, his wife and his daughter know Rodney as ‘Robyn.’ He entered the country on Robyn’s passport. We know that the Palukhi secret police require every one of our local staff to report on us. If Robyn disappears and Rodney appears, even right here in our house, we have a scandal; I wouldn’t put it past Qabib to make it a public scandal. Instead of your winding up a hero in Washington, your career goes down in flames and we end up bored stiff in some retirement community in Arizona.”

“Um, so?”

“So, it’s up to you to convince Rodney to be Robyn for the next several weeks. Maybe you can appeal to his patriotism. . . .”

Fielding gave his wife his hard look, the one that turned the knees of second secretaries to jelly.

“Darling, I was just being facetious. I have a suspicion, though, that Rodney may not be so resistant to persuasion.

“He likes Yazmin, and if he really hated the idea of pretending to be Robyn, I’d never have gotten him into a dress in the first place.”

&

Morning comes early to Palukistan. American Ambassador Nick Fielding, up at half past five, had worked out, showered, and was shaving on the bedroom balcony, watching dawn infiltrate the well-watered shrubs below. He tried to plan his meeting with President Qabibullah, but the disconcerting image of his grandson Rodney kept infiltrating his ruminations. His grandson Rodney at the dinner table in a high-waisted, sleeveless dress; his hair styled and brushed; wearing sandals and a little necklace and, for all Nick knew, pink panties underneath the pink dress. Apparently not one bit bothered by the whole thing!!

Was that his influence, Nick wondered. He recalled the uncomfortable conversation he’d had with Rodney by the pool after Jane had deserted them. Setting the scene with observations that sometimes one was called on to do things one would rather not, then getting right to the point: his country, the USA, needed Rodney to be a girl, the best girl he could be, for the few weeks until he went back to LA, leaving Palukistan forever. (. . . and Jane and me not far behind, Nick prayed silently, before the shit breaks loose, Amen.)

In a few minutes, Fielding would go to work. He and his Embassy team would interpret the tea leaves from Washington and ponder the mood of the Palukhi bazaar. Washington’s guidance would be as usual maddeningly vague — nothing more was to be expected on a Monday — and his political counselor and his station chief would get into another argument about what the Palukhi man in the street was really thinking.

Meanwhile, an Embassy sedan would pick up ‘Robyn’ and convey the child half a kilometer until it and ‘she’ disappeared within the tall gates of the Leader’s Palace.

&

Once Nick and Robyn were away, Jane picked up the phone. The French ambassador’s wife was away on holiday, she learned, and Birgitte of Citibank had left for a month in the Bavarian Alps. On the third call, to Leslie whose husband headed the British Council, Jane struck paydirt. “Oh, yes,” she was told. Samantha’d left heaps of clothes behind when she went off to boarding school. None of them fit her anymore. Leslie understood perfectly, she said. They do grow so fast at this age, don't they? She wasn’t sure all Samantha's old things were presentable, but Jane could look through them and decide herself. She’d throw them into some boxes right now. Could Jane send over one of the Embassy cars to pick them up?

&

At 11:30, the senior staff of the American Embassy were crowded into the ‘bubble,’ a room within a room accessible only by the correct punching of combination locks and surrounded by whooshing machines and thick plastic sheeting. They all knew this was for the sake of allowing them to say what they believed, or what they believed the Ambassador wished to hear, untormented by the possibility that Qabibullah’s secret police might overhear.

As Nick Fielding expected, Barney Scrivener and Calvin Yeoh were wrangling. He listened carefully and then extracted the point that eluded both his experts. “So it’s not ‘whether’ Qabib is going down, it’s ‘when?’” he asked them. Both blinked. Barney was the first to answer. “Something serious is brewing, Chief. It could be as soon as Friday after prayers.”

Calvin’s turn. “My guys aren’t getting that. What’s odd is that we’re not getting anything at all, not even chatter, and that’s ominous in its own way.”

“Anyone disagree?” Nick asked.

Mac Douglas raised a pinky. “Our counterparts in the Palukhi Armed Forces are pleased as punch at the prospect of US military aid at last. They are slavering to go to America for training and can hardly wait to play with a pile of new toys. I guess they’re grateful to Qabibullah for biting the bullet at last.”

“How do you know that, Mac?”

“There was a big turnout at the ‘O’ Club last night, even General Nazrullah. He and his people were just dripping with good will for the USA. We all got sort of pissed together. . . .”

“Thank you, Mac. Guys, what’s our fallback plan? And what do I tell Qabib tomorrow, or Washington tonight for that matter?”

&

At half past one, Fielding was dictating a back-channel message to an Assistant Secretary of State who, he hoped, would arrange for the Undersecretary to consult the Deputy National Security Advisor and their mutual counterpart out at Langley. Out of that, he prayed, might emerge some really useful guidance on how to manage Qabibullah.

He’d played it straight. Qabib, he said, still had some stroke with the tribals but he was thoroughly unpopular with the city folks. The bazaaris and the mullahs didn’t like his disdain for tradition, and the middle class types were boiling over his edict prohibiting satellite dishes or access to the Internet. Both groups were sick of seeing the national wealth siphoned into the pockets of Qabib’s uncles and cousins, and neither was keen on Qabibullah’s declaring himself President for Life. Perhaps Qabib still believed what he saw reflected in the mirror and on Palukhi TV, but his turn toward a strategic alliance with the USA looked to the Embassy like a desperate act.

Fielding showed the text to Barney and Tim, his number two. They looked at each other and then Tim spoke. “So, Nick — are you going to tell them what to do?”

Fielding waited for the rest of the thought. Barney supplied it. “If they’ll just wait a few months, Qabib is history and Washington can cut a deal with the heroes who toppled him.”

“I think that’s implicit, Barney. Let’s send the message as is.”

&

At three pm, Jane had picked through Samantha’s clothes for items she thought appropriate for a girl of eleven and ordered that they be laundered and ironed. Jane was wondering if she ought to send the limo back to the Palace to pick ‘Robyn’ up when the phone rang. It was Noor Aishah inviting her to come there, right now, herself. The children had made up a show, the Chief of Protocol said.

At half-past, Jane was in the Hareem, the inner sanctum of the Palace. All the ladies were giggling and cooing in Pulukhtush, presided over by Begum Jamillah, Qabibullah’s mother, and Faleishah, his principal wife and Yazmin’s mother.

The play was childish but not stupid; that is to say it was amusing. ‘Robyn’ and Yazmin were the stars, producers and directors. They’d assigned bit roles to Yazmin’s younger sisters and brothers, and cast themselves, respectively, as Alexander the Great and the Emperor Salgexh II, the legendary ruler who fought Alexander to a draw and then made a friend of him.

“And so, my people,” Yazmin was declaiming, “we shall remain allies as long as we shall live, West and East, and each nation shall reap the benefits of this star-destined friendship. . .” when she was interrupted by thunderous handclaps from the back of the room. It was the Light of Pulukhistan, Qabibullah himself, delighted and inspired to give guidance on the spot, and in English for the benefit of Jane and ‘Robyn.’

“I wish that you shall make this play on Palukhi TV. It gives why exactly we shall make alliance with United States.

“Make TV tomorrow” the Leader added.

&

It was after seven when Nick Fielding returned home. He’d been on the secure phone for most of an hour when the workday began in Washington, trying to persuade the strategy people to rein in America’s embrace of the Qabibullah regime.

His last conversation had been with the Under Secretary. “Nick,” the other man had said, “I understand perfectly what you guys think, and I can’t say you are wrong. Ordinarily we’d give a lot of weight to the judgment of the people on the spot. Our people, including the Secretary, Nick, have made the same arguments I don’t know how times — you know that already. But now the decision’s been made that getting that airbase is mission-critical. Corky wants it, and the Secretary of Defense is so gung-ho it’s scary. They’ve persuaded themselves that being able to run supplies through Ma’ambouz is the key to solving our other headaches in the region.

“The bottom line is that they’ve convinced the President to overrule us ‘wimps’ at State. The Secretary gave it his last, best shot this morning in a private meeting. He couldn’t dissuade her, either. This afternoon she signed the National Security Finding. There’s nothing we can do but carry out our orders, Nick.”

Fielding knew he should say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Uh, Nick, . . . are you OK with this?”

Undersecretary Frank Finston was one of Fielding’s oldest friends in the Foreign Service. They’d served together at a couple of posts. If he said the die was cast, it was cast.

“I’ve got to be, haven’t I? Don’t worry about that. But it’s really high risk. Would you agree to pull out the dependents and non-essentials? I’ve got a couple hundred women and children here who ought to be sent home for an unscheduled vacation.”

“We’ve tried that, too, Nick. The judgment here is that a partial evacuation of the embassy staff would give the wrong signal. Qabib’s our boy. We’re sticking with the bastard.”

“I hear you, Frank. Let’s talk again after I’ve met Qabibullah tomorrow.”

“Phone me at six a.m., earlier if necessary. And Nick? Give my best to Jane, won’t you?”

&

Jane and Rodney greeted Fielding as he came in the door. Rodney was kitted out as a Young Torchbearer of the Revolution, yellow kerchief and green coveralls. His grandson was wearing a training bra, he saw. Even in the unisex uniform of the Torchies, Rodney looked unmistakably, dismayingly, girlishly cute.

“Nick,” Jane Fielding whispered as she gave him a hug, “we have to talk. All three of us. Over there.” Jane nodded her head toward an inner room.

Handing his briefcase to a waiting servant, taking the gin and tonic offered in return, Fielding followed Jane and his grandson into the ‘safe room.’

Though the room was ‘swept’ twice a week, it wasn’t really safe, of course. Like all the Embassy staff, the Fieldings assumed that anything they said at home would be overheard by Pulukhi State Security listening devices. If something just had to be communicated, they used ‘magic slates,’ the toys on which a message written with a stylus could be made to disappear in an instant.

How did it go? Jane wrote.

Bad. They won’t even let me send you home.

Rodney has something to tell you. Jane handed her slate to the boy.

Grand-dad, Yazmin is a boy too.

Fielding drew a big question mark on his slate, and then an exclamation mark, and waited as Rodney scratched in an explanation.

He was at school in England, and very homesick. His father wanted him to stay there — for safety. Fielding nodded, and the boy continued with a ‘cleaned’ slate. His name is really Yamshid. I guess there are people who want to kill him and his family?

Sad but true wrote Fielding in reply. The number one son would be a prime target.

He was so unhappy they decided he could come back to visit disguised as his sister Yazmin. Nobody’s supposed to know.

Fielding nodded again, and Rodney continued. But he told me. I promised him I would not tell anybody.

Both Fielding and Jane scratched furiously.

Jane: Rodney didn’t deliberately betray his promise. It slipped out, and I persuaded him that you had to know.

Nick: Does Yamshid know you are a boy, too?

Rodney shook his head. A pretty little head, Fielding was forced to concede. As Rodney scribbled, Fielding wondered if Jane was right — that ‘playing the girl’ was something that came naturally to his grandson.

I almost told him, but I stopped. I don’t have a good reason for pretending to be a girl. He wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore.

That’s right, Nick wrote. It would be dangerous if anybody at the Palace knew you are really a boy.

Jane, he’d better not go back there.

No can do, his wife wrote in reply, and continued aloud. “Qabib is all fired up to produce a TV drama starring Yazmin and Robyn.”

&

Though Fielding’s meeting with Qabib left a nasty taste in his mouth, the Embassy’s ‘front channel’ report was bland. “The Pulukhi President is prepared to conclude an agreement allowing US Forces use of Ma’ambouz airfield as soon as Congress annuls restrictions on bilateral trade and approves the $800,000,000 in deferred interest development loans proposed by the Administration.” In a back channel message to Finston and the Assistant Secretary, Fielding added the footnotes: “Qabib emphasized that he’s sticking his neck out for us. He wants sweetheart contracts at Ma’ambouz for his cronies and our President’s guarantee of immediate political asylum for him and his family in the event things come unstuck here.”

As soon as the messages were sent, Fielding returned to the Palace. Qabib had expressly requested that he be on hand for the taping of Lights of Destiny. Fielding felt himself on edge. Even the short ride was unsettling. There were few people on the streets; those he saw seemed sullen. A rock — thrown by who knows — had thunked against the limosine.

Inside, he found Jane. “Yesterday, it was a charming kids’ skit,” she whispered. “Today it’s become a goddamn epic.”

It was true. Several hundred Torchbearer Youth, bearing fake swords and spears and in costumes evoking the glory days of the Palukhtush Empire, were skirmishing before the cameras. On one side, Fielding spotted Rodney on what he took to be a war elephant. On the other side, Fielding supposed, the children darting back and forth on ponies were Yamshid and his knights.

Absiq, Qabib’s chamberlain, slithered up. “Thank you for joining us to see the videotaping, Excellency. Your granddaughter’s contribution is greatly appreciated, and testimony to our nations’ new friendship. Our people will understand, most certainly they will, when the film is broadcast.”

“When will that be?”

“Tomorrow night, Excellency. And several times on Thursday and Friday.”

&

As they rode back to the Residence in the limo, Rodney said, “I’m tired of going to the Palace. Can Yazmin come over to play with me tomorrow?”

“That’s up to his mother, I suppose,” Jane answered. “I’ll try inviting them both, OK?”

&

Wednesday dawned hot again. Thunderheads drifted across the sky, refusing to release their burden. As the humidity rose, the men idling in the bazaar sweltered and seethed.

Faleishah binti Nabooz and Jane Fielding watched indulgently as the children took turns cannon-balling off the diving board.

“They are so graceful, are they not?” said Qabibullah’s principal wife, the mother of ‘Yazmin.’ “They make me wish to be a little girl again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fielding, for contriving an opportunity for us to leave the Palace. It is an . . . unnatural environment there . . . the air is thick with intrigue and self-deception.”

Jane waited. Faleishah was choosing her words carefully, she realized.

“Would you invite Yazmin to spend the day, and the night, here on Friday? Perhaps I am too anxious, but. . . .”

Again Jane waited patiently. The younger woman tugged her shawl closely about her, as though feeling a sudden chill, and started again. “My father, Dr. Nabooz, I think he is in closer touch with reality, with the mood of the people. He sends word that, it seems, there will be an . . . upheaval, perhaps on Friday after prayers.

“I have only one son and one daughter, Mrs. Fielding. My place is with my husband, but . . . I must protect my children if I can.”

Jane grasped her guest’s hand and searched her eyes. Faleishah returned her gaze, her lip trembling slightly. “Of course your lovely daughter may come for another visit, my dear, and you too are always welcome here.”

&

An hour passed, and then two more. Masseuses were summoned. Jane felt some of her anxiety ebbing away as the fingers of a blind virtuoso kneaded her muscles, and hoped it was the same for Faleishah. Just before four, the children trooped downstairs. “Mrs. Fielding,” said ‘Yazmin,’ “our movie will be shown for the first time in a few minutes. May we watch your television?.”

The receiver was turned on and tuned to TV Palukhistan. With a great clashing of cymbals and beating of drums, the show began. Their arms around each others’ waists, the two children giggled uproariously whenever the camera swooped in for a closeup of either. Jane watched, appalled. It was not merely that the mock epic was in bad taste; it was an insult and a challenge, insofar as she could see, to Palukistan’s religious traditions. She stole a sidewards glance at Faleishah. Her guest’s lower lip was trembling violently now. Considerately, Jane looked away.

&

On Thursday, there was a birthday party for one of the Western children remaining in Ba’ambadabad during the summer months. Jane was relieved to have an excuse to refuse another invitation for ‘Robyn’ to come play at the Palace.

While waiting for Nick’s late return from the Embassy the night before, she’d had a probing chat with her erstwhile granddaughter. Rodney was adjusting to being Robyn with disconcerting ease. He wore Samantha’s outgrown dresses gracefully and without embarrassment, seeming to prefer the more girly ones. He submitted without protest to having his hair curled and his nails painted a pale pink. He sat close to Jane as though the innocent intimacy of a mother-daughter relationship was entirely natural to him.

“Grandmommy? If I had my ears pierced, how soon would the holes close up?” She told him it would take weeks. He seemed disappointed. “Oh, not before I have to go home, huh?”

I might as well ask, thought Jane. “You’ve played this game before, haven’t you, uh, ‘Robyn’?”

The boy squirmed. “Mommy doesn’t like me to,” he whispered. “Robyn thinks it's funny. She says I’m a better sister than a brother.”

“Oh,” Jane had said. “Remember, it’s just a game.”

&

She was alone in the house except for the servants when Nick phoned. “Where’s the kid today, sweetheart,” he asked. She told him, and could tell he was relieved that the boy was not at the Palace.

“What’s going on,” she asked. “A bit of trouble in one of the provinces,” he replied. “Later,” he added — their code for too sensitive to explain now. “Better get our granddaughter home as soon as you decently can. Oh, and Preston will come by the house at three-thirty.”

Pete Preston was the Embassy’s Security Officer. Jane had just retrieved Rodney from a boisterous all-preteen girl party at the Swedish Aid Mission compound when Pete arrived. She was surprised to see the wiry Texan had two Marine Security Guards with him in the jeep.

“We’re putting Marine guards on your house, ma’am, front and back. This is Corporal Iversen and Lance Corporal Brown. Washington’s just sent us reinforcements, so we’ve got enough men now to handle the extra duty. The Ambassador thinks it’s prudent,” Preston added.

“Pete,” Jane answered. “C’mere for a moment.” She led him into the ‘safe room’ and scribbled what the heck’s going on?

An army garrison’s mutinied up north. Hung or shot all their officers. May take a few days for things to settle down again, he scribbled back.

That explains the MiGs buzzing the city, Jane thought as she scribbled OK. Please tell Nick I’m we’re fine and we’ll wait dinner till he gets home.

They waited and waited. Rodney turned on the TV; again he watched himself and Yamshid make war and then peace. When at last Lights of Destiny ended, Jane taught Robyn how to play Scrabble. She was pleased to see the child had inherited her gift for calculating the high-scoring combinations. Dusk fell, and then a moonless night. From beyond the walls of the Residence came the sound of truck engines and from time to time a siren. She fought the temptation to phone Nick. It was eight-thirty when he called her.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to have to stay at the office tonight. Things are really busy. I’m sending you a note with the change of guards.”

“OK, Nick,” Jane whispered. She’d be a good wife, but she was — she realized — terrified.

Her husband’s note arrived within half an hour. “Ma’am,” said the Marine sergeant who brought it, “I’ve got orders to relocate you and the little girl to the Embassy staff compound first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, there will be four of us here all night. Don’t you worry and, . . . ma’am? Please get some rest.”

The young Marine himself looked dog-tired. Jane patted his shoulder to show she understood, and scanned her husband’s note. The revolt was spreading. Qabib was trying to rally loyal troops. Nick sent his love.

“Come, Robyn. Bring the game if you like. We can play again after we pack some bags.”

Jane led the way into the bedroom suite and slammed home the bolt on the door. “Sweetheart, I doubt that Yazmin’s coming over to play tomorrow after all,” she said.

&

Jane slept badly. Her granddaughter — no, grandson, she reminded herself — shared her bed, sleeping sweetly in baby doll pajamas. Only toward morning did Jane slumber, until a banging on the door roused her. “Ma’am,” called one of the marines. “Are you up? We should be moving soon, ma’am.”

She unbolted the heavy door, and promised she and ‘Robyn’ would be ready to go in ten minutes. They came downstairs carrying small suitcases. Jane declined their waiting breakfast and sent the houseboy to fetch the remaining bags. The Marines she’d been introduced to the previous afternoon, Iverson and Brown, were waiting in a jeep. The limo was waiting, too. For an instant, Jane was tempted to take the wheel instead of Nick’s driver, Dollah. But no, she reasoned. This car’s too big and heavy for me, I’m not a trained defensive driver, and Dollah would be crushed if he thought I don’t trust him. She and Rodney climbed in, the door slammed shut, the gate opened and they sped down the narrow street, trailing the jeep.

No pedestrians and no traffic, Jane saw. Gates and storefronts were all shuttered and barred. The two vehicles slowed to make the turn for the Embassy housing compound. In that instant, a pickup truck darted from a side street, cutting the limo off from the jeep ahead and nearly forcing a crash. Another pickup pinned the limo from behind before Dollah could make an evasive turn.

Jane checked the door locks. They were down. She sat hyperventilating behind the bulletproof glass with Rodney’s soft hand gripping her own. She heard machine gun fire erupt from the truck that had blocked their way. Jane registered someone shouting at Dollah, Dollah’s helpless gestures, and then a sudden burst from an automatic weapon, Dollah crumpling at the wheel, the driver’s door being forced open, Rodney screaming.

Someone reached inside to the dash and flipped a switch. The door locks released with a stereo ‘click.’ The rear door by Jane opened. Blinded by the bright sunlight, Jane could not at first make out the face that smiled at her. “You and the girl will, if you please, come with me to the Palace, Ms Fielding,” it said. “His Luminance will guarantee your safety there.” She recognized the voice. It was Absiq, Qabibullah’s chamberlain.

&

Nick Fielding stood on the roof of the US Embassy, surveying the Pulukh capital from an improvised sandbag bunker. He was glad the building was one of the newer Embassies, one built after the disasters in Beirut, Tehran and Nairobi, set back from the street and with blast-resistant walls. With a full platoon of Marines augmented by Embassy staff, they’d be safe.

Fielding watched jet aircraft flying low over the bazaar, and noted plumes of smoke out toward the university. Where the hell is Jane, he thought. Ba’ambadabad was a tinderbox ready to explode. From radio intercepts, Fielding knew the garrison in Ma’ambouz had gone over to the rebels; Qabib was desperately trying to rally loyal troops. The government TV station was showing Lights of Destiny over and over, interspersed with martial music.

Pete Preston joined him. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Sir. We’ve lost a Marine — Lance Corporal Brown. Corporal Iverson’s pinned down a couple of blocks from here, and Sir, . . . it looks like Mrs. Fielding and the little girl have been kidnapped.”

As Fielding struggled to absorb the meaning of the Embassy security officer’s words, there was a burst of static from the single sideband radio receiver on Pete’s hip, and a voice. “Allo? Allo? This is Qabibullah. I speak to Ambassador, please.”

With a glance at Fielding, Preston pressed the send button and answered. “I understand you, Excellency. Wait a moment while we find Ambassador Fielding.”

“Are you OK, Sir?”

“Let me talk to the bastard.”

Preston handed him the receiver. “Qabib, this is Fielding. Go ahead.”

“Allo, Mr. Fielding. I make calling to say Mrs. Ambassador had accident, now is safe at Palace. Little girl, too. She play with Yazmin. My men save them from ambush. Here is Mrs.”

Jane’s voice next, and distinctly quavery. “Nick, dear, Robyn and I are guests at the Palace. President Qabib says he absolutely guarantees our safety.”

He’s taken my wife and grandson hostage, Fielding thought, to keep me friendly. That’s the way the bastard thinks. Angrily, he pushed the ‘send’ button.

“Qabib, if one hair of my wife or grandso . . . granddaughter is hurt, you are in deep shit. You understand me?”

“We are friends, no?” came the reply. “Soon will all be over. General Nazrullah bringing Ranger troops. Tomorrow we laugh each other again.”

“Qabib! Qabib!” Fielding shouted. He jabbed the ‘receive’ button but there was only static.

&

A long half-hour passed. The call to prayer echoed from countless towers. A squad of Marines returned with Iverson, wounded, and carrying Brown’s lifeless body. Tim Carter, Fielding’s number two, joined him on the roof.

“TV Palukhistan’s just gone off the air, Nick.”

“Oh? Anything from Washington?”

“The Ops Center just says ‘hunker down.’ Bill Betts is in contact with the rebels.” Betts was the American Consul in Ma’ambouz.

“Does Washington know about Jane and Robyn?”

“Yeah. They didn’t have any useful guidance on that, either.”

&

In the Hareem of the Leader’s Palace, Noor Aishah was apologizing to a furious Jane Fielding. Jane could see that Qabib’s Chief of Protocol was sick with fear herself, but she felt no sympathy for the younger woman.

“Please, Mrs. Fielding, listen to me. Our Leader’s promise to keep you and your granddaughter safe was not made idly, but your help is vital to its success. Here is what we shall do if, God forbid, there is real danger.” Noor Aishah explained the plan.

&

At Preston’s urging, Nick Fielding went below to his office. The windows had been taped against shattering. The TV had come back to life. A small crowd was watching a guy in a turban reading an announcement.

“What’s he saying? Where’s Barney?” Fielding asked.

“Shh, please!” A young woman was listening intently, scribbling furiously in a steno notebook. Fielding recognized Sharon, one of Barney’s people, also a Pulukhi linguist.

Tim pulled him aside and whispered. “Barney’s down in the bazaar. I let him go out of here in a caftan and turban an hour ago. He has a radio.

Fielding’s number two continued. “The raghead on the tube says he’s speaking as representative of the ‘People’s Uprising Movement.’ First time anyone here’s ever heard of it.”

Sharon joined them. “Sir, he’s calling for a mass march on the Presidential Palace, demanding Qabib resign or else. I think I recognize the guy,” she added. “He was a Fulbright Scholar.”

There was a gasp from the crowd around the TV as the sound of a fusillade was followed by a slow pan over a dozen uniformed bodies. “My God,” said Mac Douglas. “That was Nabibullah and the rest of the Joint Staff. No one’s going to rescue Qabib.”

Fielding’s nod acknowledged the probable truth of his Defense Attache’s remark. “Tim, let me know the instant Barney radios in.”

&

Another twenty minutes dragged by. On the roof again, Fielding smoked a cigarette, and then another, a habit he’d thought he’d quit forever, vainly trying to calm his fears. Then Tim joined him, handing over a radio. “It’s Barney, Nick.”

Nick pushed ‘receive.’ “Chief?” came the political officer’s voice.

“Yeah, Barney. You in a safe place?”

“I’m with friends, Chief. The Friday prayers are done. It seems there was a concerted call for a march on the Palace to wrest it from the ‘Son of Satan’ — they mean Qabib, of course. Thousands of men are heading toward the Palace with clubs and swords. It’s an ugly crowd, Chief.”

“Barney, tell me. You’re our expert. What will happen if the mob overruns the Palace?”

There was a slight pause. “Barney?”

“Traditionally, Chief, they slaughter all the men they find inside, whether they surrender or not.”

“My God, Barney! My wife and granddaughter are inside the Palace!”

“We’re in luck, Chief. The Palukhis have a strict taboo against harming captured women and children. No killing, no rapes. They’ll give everyone who surrenders a pecker check, and let all the females go.”

Fielding heard no more. His ears pounded, the horizon swayed. He handed the receiver to Tim and, for the first time in his life, Nick Fielding fainted dead away.

&

Paluhkhi Television continued its minute-by-minute coverage of the revolution. Army units phoned in their conversion to the rebel side. Professors and businessmen appeared on air to pledge support. There were frequent cuts to the surging, chanting, banner-bearing crowd in the square in front of the Palace..

Fielding watched numbly as the crowd parted to make way for tanks. Five lined up, muzzles trained on the Palace doors. Someone stood on the lead tank with an electric bullhorn, evidently demanding surrender.

The crowd hushed as shots were heard from within the Palace walls. A moment later, a white sheet was draped over a balcony. A door cracked open, and the now-cheering mob surged into the massive building.

“Try drinking this, Nick.” It was Tim, offering him a glass and some pills.

“No, goddamit! I don’t need a sedative. I need my wife!

“And my grandchild,” he added.

“Jane’s no dummy, boss. She’ll find her way out. Remember what Barney said. They leave the women and girls alone.”

&

At that moment, thirty refugees were wading silently upstream through knee-deep water, following guides with flashlights. They traced the course of the underground aqueduct that since ancient times had brought water from the mountains to the city. Jane held tight to Rodney while their free hands held the hems of their caftans above the surging current.

At last the group halted. A guide climbed a ladder, pressed upward on a metal grate and looked around before signalling to Jane. They had reached the place, she realized, where she was to play the part for which, Jane perceived, she and Rodney had been kidnapped.

She was helped up the ladder, and out into an enclosed courtyard. Qabib followed and, in the shadow of a wall, handed her the radio.

“Hello, Embassy? This is Jane Fielding. Can you hear me? Hello?” Qabib pointed to the ‘receive’ button. She depressed it.

“Mrs. Fielding! Thank God! Here’s the Ambassador.” She recognized Pete Preston’s voice, and then her husband’s. “Darling! Are you safe?”

“Not yet, Nick. Please listen carefully. Robyn and I are with Qabib and his family. We are about 50 yards from the Embassy, outside the north wall, in a house with yellow walls. There are two trees in the courtyard.

“Nick? Oh God, darling! Get us out of here!’

&

“We’re going across, Pete.” Fielding was steely calm now. It was time for action. He knew what to do.

“Asylum for the son of a bitch, Nick?” It was Tim who posed the question.

“Screw Qabib. We’ll honor Palukhi custom. Women and children only.”

&

Though the sally from the Embassy’s north gate did not go unnoticed, the lightly-armed Palukhi police were not inclined to challenge the Marines while they blew a hole in the wall of the yellow house. In minutes, the Marines were herding the refugees across the street and into the Embassy just ahead of several approaching truckloads of Palukhi soldiers.

Fielding embraced his weeping wife and grandson as the Marines frisked the exhausted Palukhis. “Hang on sweetheart,” he whispered. “You too, Ro . . . Robyn. We’ll be on our way home soon. . . . Now, excuse me a moment.”

He turned and straightened to face the former Lodestar of Pulukhistan, struggling mightily to contain an adrenalin surge — his natural reaction, Fielding realized, to confronting a beast that menaced his mate and cub.

“Qabib,” he said, “the United States will not give you political asylum. We will not risk the friendship of your successor nor the safety of my staff and their families. We will respect Palukhi tradition. The women stay. The men go out the gate. Now!”

Qabib gasped. A strangled cry escaped his lips. Then he spat at Fielding’s feet and turned on his heel. His mother and wives screamed as Qabib, Absiq and several other men were prodded out the gate and promptly wrestled into trucks by the waiting Pulukhi soldiers.

I’ll catch hell from the papers for this, thought Nick. And I don’t give a shit and I didn’t throw ‘Yasmin’ out onto the street with Qabib, so I’m not a total bastard.

The American Ambassador turned and walked into the Embassy building to the arms of his waiting wife and — for all any observer could tell — his granddaughter Robyn, who was sitting with her/his arm around Yasmin, gently wiping away her/his tears.

(c) 2008 by Daphne Laprov.