“There’s no way that—”
“A boy’s life is at stake. And the boy happens to be the son of the President of Romania.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize—”
“General, if that boy dies because some form hasn’t been filled out, I promise you that I’m going to call the biggest press conference you’ve ever seen. I’ll let you explain why you let Ionescu’s son die.”
“I can’t possibly authorize an operation like this without an approval from the White House. If—”
Mary snapped “Then get it. The serum will be waiting at the Atlanta airport. And, General—every single minute counts.”
She hung up and sat there, silently praying.
General Ralph Zukor’s aide said, “What was that all about, sir?”
General Zukor said, “The ambassador expects me to send up an SR-71 to fly some serum to Romania.”
The aide smiled. “I’m sure she has no idea of what’s involved, General.”
“Obviously. But we might as well cover ourselves. Get me Stanton Rogers.”
Five minutes later the general was speaking to the President’s foreign adviser. “I just wanted to go on record with you that the request was made, and I naturally refused. If—”
Stanton Rogers said, “General, how soon can you have an SR-71 airborne?”
“In ten minutes, but—”
“Do it.”
Nicu Ionescu’s nervous system had been affected. He lay in bed, disoriented, sweating and pale, attached to a respirator. There were three doctors at his bedside.
President Ionescu strode into his son’s bedroom. “What’s happening?”
“Your Excellency, we have communicated with our colleagues all over Eastern and Western Europe. There is no antiserum left.”
“What about the United States?”
The doctor shrugged. “By the time we could arrange for someone to fly the serum here—” he paused delicately, “I’m afraid it would be too late.”
Ionescu walked over to the bed and picked up his son’s hand. It was moist and clammy. “You’re not going to die,” Ionescu wept. “You’re not going to die.”
When the jet touched down at Atlanta International Airport, an air force limousine was waiting with the antibotulism serum, packed in ice. Three minutes later the jet was back in the air, on a northeast heading.
The SR-71—the air force’s fastest supersonic jet—flies at three times the speed of sound. It slowed down once to refuel over the mid-Atlantic. The plane made the five-thousand-mile flight to Bucharest in a little over two and a half hours.
Colonel McKinney was waiting at the airport. An army escort cleared the way to the presidential palace.
Mary had remained in her office all night, getting up-to-the-minute reports on developments. The last report came in at six A.M.
Colonel McKinney telephoned. “They gave the boy the serum. The doctors say he’s going to live.”
“Oh, thank God!”
Two days later, a diamond-and-emerald necklace was delivered to Mary’s office with a note:
I can never thank you enough.
Alexandros Ionescu
“My God!” Dorothy exclaimed when she saw the necklace. “It must have cost half a million dollars!”
“At least,” Mary said. “Return it.”
The following morning, President Ionescu sent for Mary.
An aide said, “The President is waiting for you in his office.”
“May I see Nicu first?”
“Yes, of course.” He led her upstairs.
Nicu was lying in bed, reading. He looked up as Mary entered. “Good morning, Madam Ambassador.”
“Good morning, Nicu.”
“My father told me what you did. I wish to thank you.”
Mary said, “I couldn’t let you die. I’m saving you for Beth one day.”
Nicu laughed. “Bring her over and we’ll talk about it.”
President Ionescu was waiting for Mary downstairs. He said without preamble, “You returned my gift.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
He indicated a chair. “Sit down.” He studied her a moment. “What do you want?”
Mary said, “I don’t make trades for children’s lives.”
“You saved my son’s life. I must give you something”
“You don’t owe me anything, Your Excellency.”
Ionescu pounded his fist on the desk. “I will not be indebted to you! Name your price.”
Mary said, “Your Excellency, there is no price. I have two children of my own. I know how you must feel.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you? Nicu is my only son. If anything had happened to him—” He stopped, unable to go on.