George arrived, four generations later, the family fortune had dwindled to Phish House, a once handsome redbrick federal in Georgetown, now in dire need of maintenance. George's mother. Philippa Phish Tibbitts, had never gotten over the disappointment of not being richer, or the departure of her husband. Jameson "Bucky" Phish, for an Argentine polo player named E steban, a close friend of the Kennedys , which only made it worse. She had been nursing these grievances for many years with increasing dosages of vodka (now mixed with buttermilk). One particularly gruesome Thanksgiving dinner, she announced in front of all the guests that George, seated at the table and as usual staring glumly into his mushroom soup—trying not to lunge across the table and concuss his mother with the silver tureen (a gift from the newly installed governor of Panama, and the last item of any real value remaining in Phish House)—that her son would never have "the gumption" to join the Foreign Service: moreover, that he would probably end up "arranging flowers for a living." George signed up for the foreign Service exam the following Monday. Here he was, sixteen years later. It remained unclear who had won.
"George," Florence said, "you're one of the most brilliant men I know. You're wasted behind that desk. Look at this chance we've been handed. It'll never come this way again."
"You don't kn ow the first thing about this U ncle Sam."
"Now you sound like my mother. It's a chance to make history. Never mind actually helping eight hundred million Muslim women."
"A lot of those women are perfectly content, you know. I'll bet half of them like wearing the veil and being put on a pedestal." "Some pedestal. I low would you like it?"
"Living in a society that considered me a second-class citizen and restricted my rights? Let me get back to you on that."
" 'All that is required for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.' Edmund Burke."
" 'If you run away, you live to run away another day.' Mel Brooks."
"1 can't do this without you. George. It's going to be fun."
"No. It's going to be a nightmare. And I'm going to be in it."
HANDS ON HER HI PS. Florence studied her dinner table. Uncle Sam had proposed the Alexandria safe house for the first group meeting, but she'd decided instead to cook them a good Italian meal at her little house in Foggy Bottom. She wasn't sure what the chemistry would be among them, but she did know there are few occasions in life that can't be improved by a delicious dinner of bresaola, risotto—crawfish and fava beans, her o wn recipe— chocolate-raspberry t iramisu. espresso and bottle after bottle of Barolo. She wore a black cashmere turtleneck. pearl stud earrings, toreador pants, heels and a flouncy apron that made her look even sexier, in a 1950s way.
The first one to arrive was Bo bby Thibodeaux. the CIA guv. H e rang the bell live minutes before eight. CIA people always show up early. They like to be in control of the situation. George arrived punctually at eight. Rick Renard arrived twenty minutes late, complaining of having been made so by a congressman "who wouldn't shut up."
Florence served flutes of iced Prosecco. The three men faced one another awkwardly. She found herself watching Bobby Thibodeaux's face as he took in his two new colleagues.
Bobby was in his late thirties, powerfully built, with short blond hair and hooded eves that gave him a skeptical expression just shy of cool hostility. He moved economically, as if conserving his energy. His first word to her was "ma'am." She greeted him in Arabic and suppressed a smile when he returned her "Salaam" with an Alabama a ccent. I le caught her look. H e was not the sort of person on whom anything was lost. Florence found herself blushing.
"Well." she said, holding out her glass of Prosecco and clinking it against theirs in turn. "To Aqaba."
"Aqaba?" Renard said.
George and Bobby looked at him. Bobby said. "You'd be the PR guy?" "Strategic
"George," Florence said, "you're one of the most brilliant men I know. You're wasted behind that desk. Look at this chance we've been handed. It'll never come this way again."
"You don't kn ow the first thing about this U ncle Sam."
"Now you sound like my mother. It's a chance to make history. Never mind actually helping eight hundred million Muslim women."
"A lot of those women are perfectly content, you know. I'll bet half of them like wearing the veil and being put on a pedestal." "Some pedestal. I low would you like it?"
"Living in a society that considered me a second-class citizen and restricted my rights? Let me get back to you on that."
" 'All that is required for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.' Edmund Burke."
" 'If you run away, you live to run away another day.' Mel Brooks."
"1 can't do this without you. George. It's going to be fun."
"No. It's going to be a nightmare. And I'm going to be in it."
HANDS ON HER HI PS. Florence studied her dinner table. Uncle Sam had proposed the Alexandria safe house for the first group meeting, but she'd decided instead to cook them a good Italian meal at her little house in Foggy Bottom. She wasn't sure what the chemistry would be among them, but she did know there are few occasions in life that can't be improved by a delicious dinner of bresaola, risotto—crawfish and fava beans, her o wn recipe— chocolate-raspberry t iramisu. espresso and bottle after bottle of Barolo. She wore a black cashmere turtleneck. pearl stud earrings, toreador pants, heels and a flouncy apron that made her look even sexier, in a 1950s way.
The first one to arrive was Bo bby Thibodeaux. the CIA guv. H e rang the bell live minutes before eight. CIA people always show up early. They like to be in control of the situation. George arrived punctually at eight. Rick Renard arrived twenty minutes late, complaining of having been made so by a congressman "who wouldn't shut up."
Florence served flutes of iced Prosecco. The three men faced one another awkwardly. She found herself watching Bobby Thibodeaux's face as he took in his two new colleagues.
Bobby was in his late thirties, powerfully built, with short blond hair and hooded eves that gave him a skeptical expression just shy of cool hostility. He moved economically, as if conserving his energy. His first word to her was "ma'am." She greeted him in Arabic and suppressed a smile when he returned her "Salaam" with an Alabama a ccent. I le caught her look. H e was not the sort of person on whom anything was lost. Florence found herself blushing.
"Well." she said, holding out her glass of Prosecco and clinking it against theirs in turn. "To Aqaba."
"Aqaba?" Renard said.
George and Bobby looked at him. Bobby said. "You'd be the PR guy?" "Strategic
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