Delia and Carmen had already unpacked Mary’s suitcases. On the bed was the diplomatic pouch that Ambassador Viner had asked her to bring to Romania. I must take it to the embassy tomorrow morning, Mary thought. She walked over to pick it up, and took a closer look at it. The red seals had been broken and clumsily taped together again. When could it have happened? she wondered. At the airport? Here? And who did it?
Sabina came into the bedroom. “Is everything satisfactory, ma’am?”
“Yes. I’ve never had a social secretary,” Mary confessed. “I’m not sure exactly what it is you do.”
“It is my job to see that your life runs smoothly, Madam Ambassador. I keep track of your social engagements, dinners, luncheons, and so on. I also see that the house runs well. With so many servants, there are always problems.”
“Yes, of course,” Mary said, offhandedly.
“Is there anything I can do for you this afternoon?”
You can tell me about that broken seal, Mary thought. Aloud, she said, “No, thank you. I think I’ll rest awhile.” She suddenly felt drained.
She lay awake most of that first night, filled with a deep, cold loneliness mingled with a growing feeling of excitement about starting her new job.
It’s up to me now, my darling. I don’t have anyone to lean on. I wish you were here with me, telling me not to be afraid, telling me I won’t fail. I mustn’t fail.
When she finally drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of Mike Slade saying: “I hate amateurs. Why don’t you go home?”
The American embassy in Bucharest, at 21 Şoseaua Kiseleff, is a white semi-Gothic two-story building with an iron gate in front, patrolled by a uniformed officer with a gray coat and a red hat. A second guard sits inside a security booth at the side of the gate. There is a porte-cochere for cars to drive through, and rose marble steps leading up to the lobby.
Inside, the lobby is ornate. It has a marble floor, two closed circuit television sets at a desk guarded by a marine, and a fireplace with a firescreen on which is painted a dragon breathing smoke. The corridors are lined with portraits of Presidents. A winding staircase leads to the second floor, where a conference room and offices are located.
A marine guard was waiting for Mary. “Good morning, Madam Ambassador,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Hughes. They call me Gunny.”
“Good morning, Gunny.”
“They’re waiting for you in your office. I’ll escort you there.”
“Thank you.”
She followed him upstairs to a reception room where a middle-aged woman sat behind a desk.
She rose. “Good morning, Madam Ambassador. I’m Dorothy Stone, your secretary.”
“How do you do?”
Dorothy said, “I’m afraid you have quite a crowd in there.”
She opened the office door, and Mary walked into the room. There were nine people seated around a large conference table. They rose as Mary entered. They were all staring at her, and Mary felt a wave of animosity that was almost palpable. The first person she saw was Mike Slade. She thought of the dream she had had.
“I see you got here safely,” Mike said. “Let me introduce you to your department heads. This is Lucas Janklow, administrative consular; Eddie Maltz, political consular; Patricia Hatfield, your economic consular; David Wallace, head of administration; Ted Thompson, agriculture. You’ve already met Jerry Davis, your public affairs consular, David Victor, commerce consular, and you already know Colonel Bill McKinney.”
“Please be seated,” Mary said. She moved to the seat at the head of the table and surveyed the group. Hostility comes in all ages, sizes, and shapes, Mary thought.
Patricia Hatfield had a fat body and an attractive face. Lucas Janklow, the youngest member of the team, looked and dressed Ivy League. The other men were older, gray-haired, bald, thin, fat. It’s going to take time to sort them all out.
Mike Slade was saying, “All of us are serving at your discretion. You can replace any of us at any time.”
That’s a lie, Mary thought angrily. I tried to replace you.
The meeting lasted fifteen minutes. There was general inconsequential conversation.