Two men were approaching. One of them was a slim, athletic, American-looking man, and the other was older and dressed in an ill-fitting foreign-looking suit.
The American introduced himself. “Welcome to Romania, Madam Ambassador. I’m Jerry Davis, your public affairs consular. This is Tudor Costache, the Romanian chief of protocol.”
“It is a pleasure to have you and your children with us,” Costache said. “Welcome to our country.”
In a way, Mary thought, it’s going to be my country too. “Mulţumesc, domnule,” Mary said.
“You speak Romanian!” Costache cried. “Cu plăcere!”
Mary hoped the man was not going to get carried away. “A few words,” she replied hastily,
Tim said, “Bunădimineaţa.”
And Mary was so proud she could have burst.
She introduced Tim and Beth.
Jerry Davis said, “Your limousine is waiting for you, Madam Ambassador. Colonel McKinney is outside.”
Colonel McKinney. Colonel McKinney and Mike Slade. She wondered whether Slade was here too, but she refused to ask.
There was a long line waiting to go through Customs, but Mary and the children were outside the building in a matter of minutes. There were reporters and photographers waiting again, but instead of the free-for-alls that Mary had encountered earlier, they were orderly and controlled. When they had finished, they thanked Mary and departed in a body.
Colonel McKinney, in army uniform, was waiting at the curb. He held out his hand. “Good morning, Madam Ambassador. Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Mike Slade wanted to be here, but there was some important business he had to take care of.”
Mary wondered whether it was a redhead or a blonde.
A long, black limousine with an American flag on the right front fender pulled up. A cheerful-looking man in a chauffeur’s uniform held the door open.
“This is Florian.”
The chauffeur grinned, baring beautiful white teeth. “Welcome, Madam Ambassador. Master Tim. Miss Beth. It will be my pleasure to serve all of you.”
“Thank you,” Mary said.
“Florian will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day. I thought we would go directly to the residence, so you can unpack and relax. Later, perhaps you would like to drive around the city a bit. In the morning, Florian will take you to the American embassy.”
“That sounds fine,” Mary said.
She wondered again where Mike Slade was.
The drive from the airport to the city was fascinating. They drove on a two-lane highway heavily traveled by trucks and automobiles, but every few miles the traffic would be held up by little gypsy carts plodding along the road. On both sides of the highway were modern factories next to ancient huts. The car passed farm after farm, with women working in the fields, colorful bandannas knotted around their heads.
They drove by Băneasa, Bucharest’s domestic airport. Just beyond it, off the main highway, was a low, blue and gray, two-story building with an ominous look about it.
“What is that?” Mary asked.
Florian grimaced. “The Ivan Stelian Prison. That is where they put anyone who disagrees with the Romanian government.”
During the drive, Colonel McKinney pointed to a red button near the door. “This is an emergency switch,” he explained. “If you’re ever in trouble—attacked by terrorists or whomever—just press this button. It activates a radio transmitter in the car that’s monitored at the embassy, and turns on a red light on the roof of the car. We’re able to triangulate your position within minutes.”
Mary said fervently, “I hope I’ll never have to use it.”
“I hope so too, Madam Ambassador.”
The center of Bucharest was beautiful. There were parks and monuments and fountains everywhere one looked. Mary remembered her grandfather saying, “Bucharest is a miniature Paris, Mary. They even have a replica of the Eiffel Tower.” And there it was. She was in the homeland of her forefathers.
The streets were crowded with people and buses and streetcars. The limousine honked its way through the traffic, the pedestrians scurrying out of the way, as the car turned into a small, tree-lined street.
“The residence is just ahead,” the colonel said. “The street is named after a Russian general. Ironic, eh?”
The ambassador’s residence was a large and beautiful old-fashioned three-story house surrounded by acres of lovely grounds.