The Master's Promise
Three weeks later
The cool moisture of morning soaked slowly through the seat of Decker's jeans as he sat on the grass beside the grave of his family. Mindlessly he stared at the upturned soil, still numb from his loss. It would be spring before the surrounding grass would begin to encroach upon the settling mound of bare dirt.
Decker had put in an order for three grave stones but was told that it could take as long as a year and a half to get stones with names on them. Generic stones with 'Beloved Wife,' 'Beloved Father,' 'Beloved Daughter,' etc. and no date of birth could be had in half the time and at about one fourth the price of a personalized stone, delivery included. Someone else was offering four-week delivery on personalized grave makers made of reinforced plastic with a 'marble look.' Decker decided to wait for the real thing.
Still, some had it much worse. The dead who had no one to bury them had been laid by the thousands in mass graves, some with no markers at all. In the city of Washington the poor had tried to bury their dead on the Mall (the strip of park that runs from the Capital to the Lincoln Memorial), but were turned away by Park Police and National Guard. At length, some expressed their frustration and protest by leaving the dead on curbs with the garbage.
Among those who died were many celebrities of one sort or another: politicians, religious leaders, heads of state, a few actors and actresses. The U.S. lost twelve Senators, sixty-odd Congressmen, three Cabinet members, and the Vice President. It seemed that everyone had lost someone: wives, husbands, children, parents.
As the sun rose above the fence slats on Decker's right, the individual blades of grass released almost audible whispers as their moist coats of dew began to slowly evaporate into the morning air. Decker heard the sliding glass door open but did not raise his eyes from the ground to look.
Christopher Goodman approached Decker, stopping a few feet short. After a moment he realized that he would have to speak first. "Breakfast is ready," he said softly but brightly, adding that he had fixed Decker's favorite, waffles with plenty of bacon on the side.
Decker looked up after a second, smiled appreciatively, and extended his hand toward Christopher. "Give me a hand up," he said. Christopher never asked Decker about the hours he spent sitting by the grave in the backyard. He just seemed to understand and allowed Decker the privacy of his thoughts.
"What about your family?" Decker asked, opening the subject as if in mid-conversation.
Christopher didn't miss a beat but answered as though he knew and understood exactly what Decker had been thinking. "When they didn't come home and they didn't call, I decided to call the airline. They told me that Uncle Harry and Aunt Martha were listed on one of the planes that crashed when the Disaster struck. They said that they didn't have enough people to handle all of the calls, much less to clean up all of the crash sites and evacuate all the bodies and notify their next of kin." Christopher paused. "They did tell me where the plane went down," Christopher said, pausing again. "I tried to find it on my way here but it was a long way from any roads." Christopher seemed distraught by the memory of the agonizing decision he had made to leave his aunt's and uncle's bodies in the wilderness where their plane crashed.
Decker was touched by Christopher's obvious pain. For three weeks now Christopher had provided Decker with cheerful companionship, never once saying a word about his own loss.
Perhaps, Decker thought, it was time to start thinking of someone besides himself. Without thinking it through, Decker asked, "Would you like for me to go with you to find them? We could take them home to Los Angeles and bury them there, or we could bring them here and bury them in the backyard near Elizabeth, Hope and Louisa."
Christopher seemed to appreciate the offer but responded that he didn't think it was a good idea. "No, it's, uh… too far," he answered.
"That's all right. I can help you drive," Decker told the precocious fourteen-year-old, trying to make a joke and not catching the hint in Christopher's voice that he preferred not to talk about it.
"Mr. Hawthorne," Christopher said directly, "their bodies have been up on that mountain, exposed to the elements and animals for nearly a month. I don't think… "
Decker was shocked at his own stupidity. How could he have missed that? "I'm sorry, Christopher. I didn't think."
"It's okay, Mr Hawthorne," Christopher said, and from the understanding look on his face, Decker could tell that it really was. Christopher had apparently accepted the harsh truth with determined resolve to go on. "Come on," he said. "The waffles are getting cold."
Decker was beginning to understand Harry Goodman's fear of disclosing Christopher's origin. Over the past few weeks, almost without knowing it, Decker had come to think of Christopher almost as his own son. Perhaps it was because of the loss of Elizabeth, Hope and Louisa. Much of the feeling, though, was due to Christopher's totally unselfish attitude: always giving of himself and never asking for anything more in return than room and board. Decker finally and firmly resolved that the story of Christopher's origin was one the world could do without.
Three days later Decker was spending the afternoon reading through recent copies of NewsWorld that Hank Asher had brought over to help bring him up to date on the world, restore his interest in life, and assist in his recovery. He was reading the special issue on the effects of the Disaster and how people were handling their pain and loss, when the phone rang.
"Mr. Hawthorne's residence," Christopher answered, sounding more like a domestic servant than a fourteen-year-old boy. "Yes, just a moment, I'll get him for you." Decker got up and headed for the phone as Christopher reported that it was Mr. Asher calling from NewsWorld.
"Hank, how are you?" Decker asked warmly.
"I'm fine. How are you?" Asher's voice made it clear he was willing to listen to a detailed response.
"Much better, actually. Really, I'm doing all right," Decker said resolutely.
Hank Asher understood the determination in Decker's voice. He was probably a long way from being 'all right' but he was determined to be all right and that, in itself, was a major step in the right direction. "Good," Asher said. "So when are you going to get back to work and start earning your keep, you bum?"
Decker knew that Asher was joking, but he sensed that there was a somewhat serious nature to the question. It was clear enough that Asher's real concern was getting Decker back into life; back into the work that was his life. Decker appreciated Hank's concern but was in no hurry to face the world just yet. "I don't know," he answered, "maybe after the first of the year."
Asher didn't respond.
Decker waited and then, feeling a little guilty about receiving a salary without doing anything to earn it, he moderated his answer. "Well, maybe in a few more weeks."
Asher still didn't answer.
Decker had compromised all that he cared to, so for a long moment there was total silence. Finally, Asher spoke. "I need you in New York on Monday."
"Monday!" Decker blurted. "If you've got a story in New York why not just have someone from the New York office cover it?"
"The New York office is understaffed since the Disaster, and really, it's just a small assignment. It'll be good for you. You'll be in and out in one day. I'd send someone else, but he's your friend. You could do the whole interview and still have plenty of time to see a show. You know what they say, Disaster or no, 'the show must go on.'"
Decker ignored Asher's darkhumor. "What do you mean, he's my friend? Who are you talking about?"
Hank Asher knew exactly how to get to Decker Hawthorne: just appeal to his curiosity. He had taken the bait; now to reel him in.
"Jon Hansen," Asher answered.
"The British Ambassador to the U.N.?" Decker asked, more out of surprise than for confirmation.
Asher didn't answer the obvious. "I've already set up the interview for Monday afternoon and bought your plane ticket."
"I don't know, Hank," Decker said reluctantly, but yielding a little ground. "What's this all about? What's the story?"
"It's about Hansen's report on the situation in the Middle East. The U.N. lost nearly 2000 men assigned to that area in the Disaster. They've tried to replace them with reinforcements but many of the countries that provide the U.N. with soldiers were hit just as badly. The U.S., Britain, Germany, Switzerland, all have major losses, as high as twenty percent. With the threat of war in the Middle East because of the Jews building a temple on the site of the Dome of the Rock, there's serious doubts that the U.N. forces can maintain the peace.
"We have a tip that Hansen is going to recommend that unless Israel agrees to halt construction of the Temple, the U.N. should withdraw its remaining 13,000 man force from around Israel's borders immediately. If the U.N. removes its troops, war is almost certain."
"How many people know about this?" Decker asked, as he felt his resistance slipping away.
"There are a lot of rumors and suspicions, but no one knows the facts. Hansen refuses to talk to the press, except for… " Asher paused.
"Except for me!" Decker said, completing Asher's sentence for him. "So that's it. And I thought you were just concerned about my well being."
"I am concerned about your well being, and I think this would be good therapy for you."
This time it was Decker's turn to respond with silence.
'Well… will you do it or not?" Asher finally asked.
"Yeah, I'll do it." Decker looked over at Christopher who had been listening quietly to Decker's end of the conversation. "But, I'll need two tickets instead of one." Christopher understood and nodded with great enthusiasm. "And can you set up a tour of the U.N. for Christopher?"
"That's a great idea," Asher said. "The kid must be going crazy with cabin fever by now. I'll even make reservations for you in the Delegates Dining Room for lunch. Your appointment with Hansen is set for 2:00 Monday afternoon."
New York
"Where to?" the cabby asked.
"The U.N. building," Decker answered. Christopher got in first. When Decker joined him he noticed a very strange look on the boy's face. Something was not quite right. It took only an instant for Decker to understand. Sealed in the cab, a strange but familiar smell made its way into their lungs. It was not overpowering, but it was definitely there and it wasn't pleasant. Decker thought about getting out and hailing another cab, but it was too late. The driver punched the gas pedal and pulled his cab across two lanes of traffic and was off.
Decker and Christopher looked at each other. Christopher silently mouthed, "May I roll down the window?"
Decker held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger spread apart, indicating that about three inches would be acceptable. It was pretty cold outside but that seemed a good compromise with the smell.
After a few minutes, Decker cracked his window as well. It was then that he noticed the driver looking at them in his rear view mirror. He seemed to be studying them. If he asks me to roll up my window, Decker thought, I'll make him stop and let us out. In a moment their eyes met in the mirror and the cabby realized that Decker had been watching him looking at them. He quickly reached up, as if he had been checking the adjustment on the mirror.
"So what ya goin' to the U.N. for?" he asked a moment later.
"Just a visit," Decker answered.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "Ain't been too many tourists around here lately."
Decker chose not to respond.
A moment later the driver added, "Well, ya wanna be careful over there."
"Why do you say that?" Decker asked.
"Call me paranoid but I wouldn't go in there widdout a gas mask on."
Decker found it almost impossible not to respond with a crack about needing one to ride in his cab. "I don't follow you," he answered instead.
"Well, the way I see it, it was probably some kinda Arab or Russian nerve gas or sumthin' that caused the Disaster, 'cause no way you're gonna tell me all those people just dropped dead for no reason. And, well, I don't know if you ever been to the U.N. before, but they got foreigners crawlin' all over the place over there. 'Course, I guess that's true everywhere in New York, only especially at the U.N."
"If the Russians are responsible for the Disaster," Decker responded, "why would they release it on their own people? I understand that there were nearly 40 million deaths in Russia, almost as many as died in the U.S."
"Yeah, that's what they say, but that don't prove nuthin'. Maybe they wuz just gettin' rid o' their undesirables. And that don't say nuthin' about the Arabs. I heard only about a hundred thousand of them died."
Decker realized that there was no sense in trying to reason with the driver so he settled back in his seat for the ride and kept silent. The cabby, however, didn't need an active partner to carry on a conversation.
'"Course, I don't mean to be cruel or nuthin'," the cabby said as he drove, "but if ya ask me, I'd tell ya we wuz better off widdout so many people in the world. 'Course, there ain't near as many fares on the streets nowadays. Not live ones, anyway. But an entrepreneur like me, well I figure there's a 'green linin' to every cloud. So I asked myself, how can a guy like me make some money when the fares're down. An' it didn't take no time 'til it comes to me. If there ain't as many live ones around: haul the dead ones. So I called up this guy I know who works at a landfill in Jersey. And next thing ya know, I'm in business."
If Decker needed any confirmation of what the smell was, he now had it.
"Yeah, I figured it was a great idea," the cabby said, continuing his discourse. "The wife says it makes the car stink. So, I just stopped at the 7-11 and bought this air freshener," the cabby pointed to a cardboard pine tree dangling from the rearview mirror, "and I ain't had no more problem with it. 'Course it was a little creepy at first, but I can make up ta two hundred dollars a head for haulin' off bodies, dependin' on how bad a shape they're in. 'Course, most of the stiffs from the Disaster have been hauled off by now. Still, I get a call maybe two or three times a day, mostly to haul off suicides, folks that lost everybody in the Disaster and decide ta join 'em. But for a while there, I was rakin' it in. One time I got twelve stiffs in here all at the same time."
The cabby paused just long enough for Decker to get his hopes up that he would remain silent. "And then there's another thing," he said, after catching his breath, "it's a helluva lot easier to get a apartment around here now. 'Course, most of the apartments that ya find still smell like dead folks, but hey, ya just let it air out a few hours an' it's jus' like home."
The cabby looked over and nodded toward a pawn shop as they passed. "I tell ya another guy that's makin' a buck on the dead besides the grave digger and me: the pawn broker. Ya see this ring," he said holding his right hand up for them to see. "Pretty nice, huh? I picked this up dirt cheap from a pawn shop last week. But I bet I paid four times what the pawn broker had ta give for it. An' the guy he got it from probably got it for free off some stiff. Some people don't like wearin' dead folk's stuff, but I figure, hell, they don't need it no more."
"Was there a lot of looting?" Christopher asked the driver, apparently unaware that Decker was hoping the driver would just be quiet and drive.
"Oh, yeah, plenty. Let me tell ya, the looters wuz breakin' windows an' rippin' off stores left and right. A bunch of 'em got shot by shop owners but then pretty soon the looters started shootin' back. But that only lasted a few days. Then Mizzoner, the mayor, declared open season on anyone on the streets after curfew. So far, I hear the cops have shot more than 300 of 'em."
"Well, here we are," the cabby said as he pulled up to the U.N. General Assembly building.
Decker paid quickly, not wanting to spend an extra moment in that car. The driver thanked him and warned them again to 'be careful.'
"I hope you know that that cabby didn't know his head from a hole in the ground," Decker told Christopher as the two walked toward the entrance of the U.N.
"You mean about the Russians and Arabs?" Christopher asked.
"Well, yes, that too. But not just that."
"Sure, Mr. Hawthorne, I know that. But still, it was an interesting experience."
Decker laughed to himself. "You'd make a good reporter," he said.
Decker and Christopher walked across the North Courtyard to the entrance to the U.N. General Assembly building. After going through the security check, they went to the information and security desk to get visitor's badges to go to the Delegates Dining Room. Both enjoyed the lunch buffet immensely. There was more variety than either had seen before at one meal and they liked almost everything they tried.
After their meal, as they were in the lobby returning their badges, someone called to Decker. They turned toward the voice and, through a group of colorfully clothed people, saw a tall blonde man who smiled at them and gave a nod of recognition. It was Jon Hansen.
Decker smiled back and made his way across the lobby toward him.
"Mr. Ambassador," Decker said as he approached and extended his hand. "It's good to see you again. But I really didn't expect you to come to greet me."
"No problem," Hansen answered with a friendly smile. "But to be honest, I had some business in the building. How have you been? You look much improved over our first meeting."
'Yeah, well, that's not necessarily saying very much," Decker joked. "But I have been eating a lot better. Christopher here is a pretty good cook."
Hansen looked curiously at Christopher, who was listening intently to their conversation.
"Ambassador Hansen, this is Christopher Goodman," Decker responded in answer to Hansen's glance. "He's been staying with me since the Disaster. His granduncle was Professor Harry Goodman of U.C.L.A., who, before his death, was scheduled to be awarded the Nobel prize in medicine."
"Well, it's very nice to meet you Christopher," Hansen said as he shook Christopher's hand. "I've read about your uncle's work in cancer research. He was a brilliant scientist. The world will miss him. Maybe someday you'll continue his work, Christopher."
"Professor Goodman and I were friends from my college days," Decker continued. "I lost… " Decker bit his lower lip to get a grip on his emotions. For a brief moment he thought that he would be able to just say it, but as the words approached his lips, they began to quiver and his cheeks began to ache. Releasing his bite, Decker tried again. "I lost my wife and two daughters," Decker paused briefly and took a breath, "so when Christopher showed up on my doorstep, I invited him to stay. The professor and Mrs. Goodman were his only family."
"I'm terribly sorry about your families," Hansen offered. Decker nodded appreciation.
"Mr. Ambassador," Christopher said politely, waiting for permission before continuing.
"Yes, Christopher," Hansen replied.
"I'm very interested in the work being done by the World Health Organization on the cause of the Disaster. Are they any closer to determining its cause?"
"Well, Christopher," Hansen began, pleased at the boy's interest, "they tell me they've been able to determine several hundred things that it was not. So, I guess that's progress. But they still don't know what it was. I have faith in them though. They'll figure it out soon, I'm sure. They do feel pretty certain that whatever it was, it's probably no longer a threat."
Christopher seemed satisfied with the answer.
"So," Hansen asked Christopher, "is this your first trip to the United Nations?"
"Yes, sir," Christopher answered. "Is your office in this building?"
"Oh, no. I think most people assume that the delegates' offices are here at the U.N., but actually each country has its own mission elsewhere in the city. The British Mission is about four blocks from here on Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, which is really the same as Second Street."
"Christopher is quite a big fan of the U.N., so I brought him along," Decker interjected. "He's scheduled for the 1:30 tour."
"Well, why don't we walk Christopher over to where the tour starts, and then we can go over to my office."
When Decker and Hansen reached the British Mission on the 28th floor of One Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, they were met at the door by an attractive blonde woman in her late twenties who stood at least six feet two inches tall, just two inches shorter than Hansen. Decker was struck not only by her height but also by her remarkable resemblance to the Ambassador. The features were softer, the skin smoother and younger, but there was no mistaking the kinship.
"Mr. Ambassador," she said hurriedly as Hansen and Decker entered through the lobby, past the security desk, "Ambassador Fahd called. He said that it was urgent that he speak with you. He left a number but said if you didn't call soon you may not be able to reach him. I'll place the call," she said as she went quickly to her desk and Hansen went to his office.
"Decker, come on in and have a seat," Hansen said, not pausing to look back.
Hansen's office was large with sturdy antique furnishings and solid wood paneling. Decker sat down in a comfortable leather chair facing Hansen's desk while Hansen sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk in front of the phone.
"It's ringing," came the young woman's heavily accented voice from the outer office.
Hansen picked up the receiver and waited as the phone rang for nearly a minute. "There's no answer, Jackie," he said to his assistant. "Try it again."
Hansen waited anxiously as, this time, Jackie listened while the phone rang. Still there was no answer.
"Okay," Hansen said. "Well, there's nothing we can do then except wait until he calls back and hope nothing happens in the meantime." Hansen turned his attention back to Decker.
"Ambassador Fahd?" Decker quizzed, before Hansen could speak. "Isn't he the Ambassador from Jordan?"
"Yes, we're old friends. School chums, actually. Oxford, class of '62. We've worked together on a number of projects for the U.N."
"Like the Middle East project that your committee is preparing a report on?"
"Well, yes. But tell me, how can I help you?"
"Well," Decker began, unsure of why Hansen would interrupt the conversation on the Middle East project and in the next breath ask how he could help. That, after all, was what Decker understood this meeting to be about. Could Hansen have forgotten the purpose of the interview? "I'd like to ask you some questions about the Committee's report," Decker finally responded.
"But, Decker, surely you know that that information is strictly confidential," Hansen answered in surprise.
"Wait a second," Decker said slowly, the confusion showing in his voice. "Didn't you agree to talk with me about the report?"
"Of course not!" Hansen was taken aback at the whole idea, but there was no anger in his voice. He was simply surprised.
"What exactly did my editor tell you I wanted to talk with you about?"
"Well, Mr. Asher… your editor?" Hansen asked, seeking verification. Decker nodded painfully, embarrassed by the course this meeting was taking. "He said that you wanted to do some sort of profile piece on me for your magazine."
Decker dropped his forehead into his open hand and expelled a deep breath in frustration and embarrassment. "Mr. Ambassador," he said, "I'm afraid that you and I have both been misled. Hank Asher told me that I was to interview you about your report; that you had refused to talk to other reporters about it; but that you were willing to talk with me."
"Well, now that wouldn't be quite fair, would it?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ambassador," Decker said as he felt his face redden. "I should have thought to question him when he told me you had agreed to talk with me. I guess I let him appeal to my vanity. I – stupidly, I realize now – thought you would… Oh, never mind."
Ambassador Hansen's response to this revelation was completely unexpected: he just laughed. It was a friendly laugh.
"I don't understand," Decker said. "What's so funny?"
"I'd like to meet this Mr. Asher of yours. He must be quite a good judge of a man's character. I could use a few people like him on my staff."
Decker's expression showed that he still didn't understand.
"Oh, but don't you see, Decker? He pulled the same trick on the both of us. I didn't even think to question his motives when he said that you wanted to write a profile story on me. I, too, was a victim of my own vanity."
Decker forced a smile. He didn't think it was very funny but he didn't want to deny the Ambassador his fun. And, besides, it was much better to have him laughing than angry. "Well," Decker said after a moment, "I don't see any reason we shouldn't go ahead and do that profile. Maybe we can still get the last laugh on Hank Asher. You'll get the coverage. And he won't be able to say I didn't bring back the story."
"I like the way you think, Mr. Hawthorne. You'd make a fine politician," he said in all sincerity.
Decker wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not.
Christopher Goodman stayed close to the guide as she took the U.N. tour group through two of the three council chambers – first the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC), and then the Security Council Chamber. From there, they went to the Hall of the General Assembly. As they were leaving the General Assembly, Christopher went to look over the balcony at the visitor's lobby four floors below them. Midway between floors hung a replica of the Russian Sputnik, the first artificial satellite.
At that moment a group of men and women approached the rear entrance to the Hall of the General Assembly, led by a man in his early seventies. Each member of the group was politely but intently jockeying for position, staying far enough back to be respectful but close enough to hear what the man was saying and hoping to be the next to ask him a question. From their clothing it was obvious that they represented many different cultures and nationalities.
"I consider," the man was saying, "Secretary-General U Thant to have been not only my political mentor but my spiritual mentor as well. It was while I was serving him as Assistant Secretary-General that I first learned… " The man stopped suddenly in mid-sentence and turned sharply to examine the profile of the boy he had noticed out of the corner of his eye.
"What is it, Mr. Assistant Secretary?" someone asked, but for the moment he seemed unable to respond as he stared at the boy.
Christopher turned and saw that his tour group had moved on and was preparing to board an elevator. In his rush to rejoin the group he didn't even seem to notice the attention of the old man or the others in the entourage as he scrambled directly through their midst, coming within scant inches of the old man and then dashing away to reach his tour group before the elevator's doors closed.
"That boy!" the man said finally, as Christopher began to weave his way through a group of Japanese businessmen that stood between him and the elevator. "It's him. I know it is." Trying to recover from the apparent shock while there was still a chance to act, he yelled, "Stop him! Someone stop that boy!" But no one moved except to look around to see what was happening. The former U.N. Assistant Secretary-General had no time to explain or to wait for the others to get their bearings. He pushed his attendants aside and ran after the boy himself. He made a remarkable effort for a man his age but there was no real contest; his momentary hesitation had cost him his chance. Christopher was on the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
There had only been an instant of indecision, a moment's hesitation, but it was enough to make all the difference. Christopher was gone. "No! It's not fair," the man said, without explanation. He took no notice as the others rejoined him. They stared at him and at each other in confusion, hoping to find some hint of meaning to the strange episode.
"No!" he said again. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's not fair! I didn't even get to talk to him." His voice was now barely audible. No one had any idea of the significance of what had just taken place, or what the old man was saying, and he seemed to have no interest in letting them in on it. Then a thought occurred to him. "Alice," he said. "I must find Alice."
After the tour, Christopher looked for Decker but was met instead by a young aide sent by Ambassador Hansen to retrieve him. When they arrived at Hansen's office, Decker was just preparing to leave. "Well, Christopher," Jon Hansen asked, "how was your tour?"
Christopher was about to answer when a thin bald man with an auburn-red mustache and a deadly serious expression rushed through the open door into Hansen's office. Every eye in the outer office was on the man, their faces taking on a uniform look of dread. It seemed that they all recognized him, and though no one tried to stop him, it was clear there was something to be feared about this man's arrival.
"Jon, they've done it," the man said in a thick German accent. "I just talked to Fahd, and he confirmed that Syria, Jordan, Iraq, and Libya have launched a united attack against Israel."
"Damn!" said Hansen. "When did it happen?"
"Only moments before Fahd called. The Syrians have attacked from the north, along their mutual border with Israel and through Lebanon. Jordanian and Iraqi forces have launched a joint attack from the east. Syria, Libya, and Iraq have launched coordinated air strikes against Israeli airfields. There's no word yet on damage or whether the Israelis were able to get their planes off the ground."
"Damn!" Hansen said again.
Decker and Christopher had backed away to keep from interfering with what was going on, but both listened intently to the conversation, and apparently no one cared. It would all be on the news soon anyway.
As Hansen and the other man talked, they were interrupted by the tall blonde woman. "Father," she said, "Ambassador Rogers is on the phone and says he must speak with you immediately." Her manner was calm and typical of her high upbringing, but Decker could sense the concern in her voice… That, plus the fact that she had called him 'Father,' rather than 'Mr. Ambassador.'
Decker had no idea who Ambassador Rogers was, but it seemed both Hansen and the German were very anxious to talk with him. "Hello, Frank," Hansen said. "This is Jon. Ambassador Reichman is here with me. I understand that it's hit the fan over there. What can you tell us about the situation?" Hansen paused to listen but the look on his face said that he wasn't prepared for Rogers' answer.
"Tel Aviv! In the city?" Hansen said into the receiver in dismay. "Are you sure it's not just the military bases around there?"
Decker's ears perked up and he listened with new interest.
Hansen paused again and then put his hand over the phone and spoke to Reichman. "They're shelling civilian areas of Tel Aviv. Rogers says scores of bombs have already fallen."
Up until now, Decker had been satisfied just to listen to the Ambassadors' conversation, but now he had a personal stake in what was happening. He, too, broke with formality and came right up to the two men.
Hansen didn't seem to even notice the breach of protocol, but continued to listen to Ambassador Rogers on the phone. "Frank, are you all right?" he asked with some concern. Is the embassy in any danger?" Rogers' answer seemed to reassure Hansen about the immediate safety of the embassy staff.
"Okay, Frank," he said after another pause. "Hold on, I'll do it right now. Jackie!" Hansen said, directing his eyes to his daughter. "Get the Syrian Ambassador, the Russian Ambassador, and the Iraqi Ambassador on the phone right away, and in that order!"
The momentary break in the phone conversation allowed Hansen's glance to pass to Decker, who took advantage of the opportunity. "Tom Donafin is still in the hospital over there!"
Hansen paused for a brief fraction of a second, his eyes intently fixed on Decker's. The look on his face was of sincere concern but he did not answer. He had greater, more immediate concerns and responsibilities. He spoke back into the phone. "Frank, I'll apply every ounce of pressure that I can on this end to get them to stop bombing civilian targets, but I don't know what good it will do. It would help if you can give me a few specifics on what parts of the city are being hit and how much damage has been done." Hansen grabbed a pen and paper from his desk and began taking notes, every few seconds letting out an 'Uh huh.'
Decker realized the comparative triviality of his plea and stepped into the background.
"I have the Syrian Ambassador's office on the phone, Mr. Ambassador," Hansen's daughter said, this time remembering to use the proper title. "He'll pick up as soon as you're on the phone."
Hansen was still writing and listening, while looking up at his daughter. "Frank, I've got Ambassador Murabi on the other phone. I'll talk to him first and then make the other calls. If I don't call you back within fifteen minutes, then you call me."
Hansen was just about to hang up when he remembered something and put the phone back to his ear. "Frank," he said loudly into the mouthpiece, hoping to catch Ambassador Rogers before he hung up. There was a brief anxious silence and then he continued. "Frank, one other thing. It's a personal favor. You recall those two Yanks I brought back from Lebanon? Well, one of them is here with me in the office and he says that the other is still in the hospital there in Tel Aviv." Hansen listened. Decker listened. "Yes, that's right." Ambassador Hansen looked at Decker, his inquisitive glance requesting details.
"The Tel-Hashomer Hospital in Tel Aviv," Decker responded.
"Tel Hashomer," Hansen repeated. "His name is Tom Donafin. How much longer is he supposed to be there?" he asked, looking over at Decker.
"He's supposed to get out any day. They were just keeping him for observation after his final surgery last week," Decker answered.
"Frank," Hansen said back into the phone, "apparently he can leave anytime. If you could have someone check up on him, and if he's fit to travel, get him on a plane out of there."
Hansen hung up the phone and acknowledged Decker's look of appreciation. "Rogers is a good man. He'll do what he can." Decker didn't have a chance to reply before Hansen continued. "Right now though," he said as he poised his finger above the blinking light on the phone, "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave." Decker began to move toward the door. "Leave your number with Jackie and we'll call you if we hear anything about Tom."
Robert Milner, former Assistant Secretary-General of the United Nations, came through the door of the Lucius Trust with the energy of a man half his age. "I must speak to Alice," he hurriedly told the receptionist. "Where is she?" He didn't wait for an answer, but moved quickly around the young woman's desk toward Alice Bernley's office.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Secretary, Ms. Bernley isn't in," the receptionist said, but Milner's momentum carried him the rest of the way to Bernley's office door.
"Where is she? I must speak with her immediately!" he said, as he moved crisply through a 180 degree turn back towards the receptionist.
"She didn't say. But I expect her back any minute."
Milner's energy seemed to lose direction as he began aimlessly, anxiously to pace the floor of the Trust's front office. The receptionist offered Milner a cup of herbal tea, which he accepted but didn't drink.
Twenty minutes passed before Milner saw the red-haired Alice Bernley returning to her office from across the U.N. Plaza. She was walking quickly, excitedly, but not fast enough to satisfy Milner, who ran to meet her. As she saw him coming toward her, she quickened her pace. Almost in unison they called out the other's first name: "Alice!" he said.
"Bob!" she called.
Then in unison: "I've seen him!"
"Where? When?" she asked, hurriedly. She had been running and was trying to catch her breath.
"In the U.N., not more than half an hour ago! He passed within inches of me. I could have reached out and touched him! But, quickly, where did you see him?"
"Only moments ago, on Second Street, in front of One Dag Hammarskjold. He was with a man, getting into a cab. I tried to… " Alice Bernley dropped the rest of her sentence as she watched the smile on Milner's face grow broad with the excitement of a promise fulfilled. Only then did she come to fully appreciate the significance of this moment. For a moment they just looked at each other.
"We've seen him," she said, finally.
"We have seen him," he confirmed. "Just as Master Djwlij Kajm promised!"