these servants or relatives, or whoever they are, have come to see that she has the best of care and of course they’re shocked to find a stranger bursting into the room without invitation.”
Of course.
So much for penitence.
The woman had lain in bed, very pale and fragile in her sleep: long braided gray hair, a slightly curved nose, a good jaw, eyes closed. Serafina had been sitting near her but half out of her chair at sight of Mrs. Pollifax. The two attendants apparently stayed in the farther room, and Hafez had been given the middle one. The grandmother, in the third room, had not even known of Mrs. Pollifax’s arrival—hadn’t even stirred—but the man in the wheelchair across the hall had known. It had never occurred to her that he might be a member of the party.
And Hafez … he had been astonished to see her, andthen alarmed, but he had made no move to stop her and as she had been carried out of the room she had glimpsed his face and he had looked pleased. Pleased by what, her coming to pay a call, or by her ejection?
She had expected—admit it—a querulous old woman, spoiled, vain, and doting on a grandson she needed but could neither entertain nor supervise. Instead she had found a still white face lying on a white pillow, and two angry attendants. She must ask Marcel; perhaps he could explain this.
She glanced at her watch and walked out to her balcony into a velvety stillness. Far below the lighted garden the lake was black and silent except for a lone steamer making its way to port; it trailed behind it ribbons of gold. It was peaceful here, it steadied her. The curving shores on either side twinkled with the lights of casinos and villas. On her left the adjacent hillside was no more than a brooding silhouette. She held her wrist to the light and checked the time.
At precisely ten o’clock she switched on her flashlight, counted to three, turned it off, then on, then off, and was startled and pleased to see that a pair of headlights sprang into life on the hillside. They illuminated the road like twin beams from a lighthouse so that she could see bushes, the trunk of a tree, the texture of the rough dirt road, and above all the angle at which the road dropped, and which the car now proceeded to follow down, dipping lower and lower until it vanished behind a stand of trees.
Whoever you are, she thought, it
is
nice to know you’re there.
In the garden below, one of the gardeners was turning off the spotlights hidden among the flower beds. One by one they died, and darkness joined with the stillness. The Clinic was being put to bed.
It was time for her to get to work, she realized, and time to forget her impulsive and abortive call on Hafez.
Five
In Langley, Virginia, it was half-past four in the afternoon and Carstairs was only finishing his morning’s work. He had begun the day with a tightly organized schedule but in midmorning the State Department had urgently requested a report on one of the smaller oil countries in the Middle East. It seemed the King of Zabya was celebrating his fortieth birthday on Tuesday, and a good many heads of state were attending the daylong festivities. Was the country stable enough for America to send the Vice-President, or should an expendable diplomat be dispatched in his place? Carstairs’s comments on this during the afternoon had become increasingly unprintable but the report had been completed and delivered: the Vice-President could be sent but he would have to expect boiled sheeps’ eyes on the menu.
Bishop wandered into the office smothering a yawn, “Schoenbeck’s outside,” he said.
“I thought you’d left.”
“I’m leaving now. Schoenbeck’s flying back to Geneva in two hours, he wants to wrap things up before he goes.”
“Right. I don’t suppose there’s coffee?”
Bishop brightened. “As a matter of fact it’s the only thing that’s kept me intelligent, charming, and alive these past hours. Shall I bring in
Of course.
So much for penitence.
The woman had lain in bed, very pale and fragile in her sleep: long braided gray hair, a slightly curved nose, a good jaw, eyes closed. Serafina had been sitting near her but half out of her chair at sight of Mrs. Pollifax. The two attendants apparently stayed in the farther room, and Hafez had been given the middle one. The grandmother, in the third room, had not even known of Mrs. Pollifax’s arrival—hadn’t even stirred—but the man in the wheelchair across the hall had known. It had never occurred to her that he might be a member of the party.
And Hafez … he had been astonished to see her, andthen alarmed, but he had made no move to stop her and as she had been carried out of the room she had glimpsed his face and he had looked pleased. Pleased by what, her coming to pay a call, or by her ejection?
She had expected—admit it—a querulous old woman, spoiled, vain, and doting on a grandson she needed but could neither entertain nor supervise. Instead she had found a still white face lying on a white pillow, and two angry attendants. She must ask Marcel; perhaps he could explain this.
She glanced at her watch and walked out to her balcony into a velvety stillness. Far below the lighted garden the lake was black and silent except for a lone steamer making its way to port; it trailed behind it ribbons of gold. It was peaceful here, it steadied her. The curving shores on either side twinkled with the lights of casinos and villas. On her left the adjacent hillside was no more than a brooding silhouette. She held her wrist to the light and checked the time.
At precisely ten o’clock she switched on her flashlight, counted to three, turned it off, then on, then off, and was startled and pleased to see that a pair of headlights sprang into life on the hillside. They illuminated the road like twin beams from a lighthouse so that she could see bushes, the trunk of a tree, the texture of the rough dirt road, and above all the angle at which the road dropped, and which the car now proceeded to follow down, dipping lower and lower until it vanished behind a stand of trees.
Whoever you are, she thought, it
is
nice to know you’re there.
In the garden below, one of the gardeners was turning off the spotlights hidden among the flower beds. One by one they died, and darkness joined with the stillness. The Clinic was being put to bed.
It was time for her to get to work, she realized, and time to forget her impulsive and abortive call on Hafez.
Five
In Langley, Virginia, it was half-past four in the afternoon and Carstairs was only finishing his morning’s work. He had begun the day with a tightly organized schedule but in midmorning the State Department had urgently requested a report on one of the smaller oil countries in the Middle East. It seemed the King of Zabya was celebrating his fortieth birthday on Tuesday, and a good many heads of state were attending the daylong festivities. Was the country stable enough for America to send the Vice-President, or should an expendable diplomat be dispatched in his place? Carstairs’s comments on this during the afternoon had become increasingly unprintable but the report had been completed and delivered: the Vice-President could be sent but he would have to expect boiled sheeps’ eyes on the menu.
Bishop wandered into the office smothering a yawn, “Schoenbeck’s outside,” he said.
“I thought you’d left.”
“I’m leaving now. Schoenbeck’s flying back to Geneva in two hours, he wants to wrap things up before he goes.”
“Right. I don’t suppose there’s coffee?”
Bishop brightened. “As a matter of fact it’s the only thing that’s kept me intelligent, charming, and alive these past hours. Shall I bring in
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