house. The entry foyer was festively
lit and decorated. Flowers abounded, their commingled and sometimes
unpleasantly mixed scents overriding even the heavy perfume of some of the
arriving guests.
MacMurphy entered this olfactory
war zone and joined the guests passing through the reception line. Moments
later, he greeted Ambassador Zeki Gonen, a short, stocky man with an infectious
grin and shiny bald head, tonight even shinier due to a coating of sweat. Mac
wondered if this was an indication that Gonen didn’t enjoy these parties any
more than he did. Mrs. Gonen, at the ambassador’s side, was a robust woman four
inches taller than Zeki, decked out in gold lamé and sequins. The couple
embraced MacMurphy warmly—they were old acquaintances from dozens of like
functions—and Mac continued down the line to Gonen’s deputy, Nail Atalay.
Nail and Mac embraced solidly,
pounding each other’s back with a vigor that testified to their respective
physical strength. They had a lot in common. Both were in their mid-thirties,
friendly but tough competitors on the tennis courts, each in superb physical
shape. Other similarities included the fact that both were attractive bachelors
and rapidly turning prematurely gray. Two “silver foxes” on the diplomatic
circuit.
More than one female head had
turned at Mac’s entrance. Mac was flattered by the attention but took it in
stride. He was too level-headed a fellow to let his head get blown up by the
attentions of the ladies…even when those attentions went beyond merely being
obvious in admiration of his looks and charm.
“Mac, you made it! Thank you for
coming. Are we still on for Saturday?” Nail asked heartily.
“You bet. I’ve reserved an
embassy court for eleven-thirty. You won’t get a game off me this time,” Mac grinned,
warming to the prospect of winning on the courts. Mac liked winning in all aspects of his life. That’s why he never gambled – he hated to lose.
“We’ll see about that, my friend.
We’ll see about that... I’ll catch up with you later. Enjoy the food and
drink.”
Nail turned to greet the next
person in the receiving line, and Mac moved into the chattering mob of
elegantly dressed women and pin-striped men. He maneuvered his way past the
loaded buffet table surrounded by ravenous African and Middle Eastern
diplomats.
Mac would eat eventually, but he
had too much respect for his physical condition to over-indulge at these
affairs. That was one of the reasons he remained in such superb shape at an age
when many of his peers were starting to develop paunches and uncooperative
muscles. He did, however, snatch a Campari-soda from a silver tray carried by a
starched Ethiopian waiter.
Mac smiled and nodded at Mpana
Martin, First Secretary of the Embassy of Cameroon, who was busily stuffing
deviled eggs into his mouth while carrying on a rapid-fire conversation with
two other wildly gesticulating West Africans.
Drink in hand, he shouldered his
way through the packed dining room toward the living area of the house, nodding
and waving and occasionally exchanging brief greetings with familiar people. He
moved through the crowd confidently, easily, yet constantly aware of his
surroundings—not so much the furnishings or decorations, nor even the abundance
of food and drink, but the people. He made a mental note of who was there,
memorized any unfamiliar faces…and searched the crowd reluctantly for his
friend Huang.
The living room was less crowded,
and he stopped by the fireplace to exchange pleasantries with Deuk Po Kim and
Hoon Sohn of the South Korean embassy and Jinichi Yuki of the Japanese embassy.
They were discussing the potential contribution of the Olympics to world
harmony, debating the value—if any—that the world games offered to
international relations. Mac got pulled into the conversation, but he couldn’t
devote his full attention to the debate at hand; a part of his mind remained
occupied with last-minute revisions to
lit and decorated. Flowers abounded, their commingled and sometimes
unpleasantly mixed scents overriding even the heavy perfume of some of the
arriving guests.
MacMurphy entered this olfactory
war zone and joined the guests passing through the reception line. Moments
later, he greeted Ambassador Zeki Gonen, a short, stocky man with an infectious
grin and shiny bald head, tonight even shinier due to a coating of sweat. Mac
wondered if this was an indication that Gonen didn’t enjoy these parties any
more than he did. Mrs. Gonen, at the ambassador’s side, was a robust woman four
inches taller than Zeki, decked out in gold lamé and sequins. The couple
embraced MacMurphy warmly—they were old acquaintances from dozens of like
functions—and Mac continued down the line to Gonen’s deputy, Nail Atalay.
Nail and Mac embraced solidly,
pounding each other’s back with a vigor that testified to their respective
physical strength. They had a lot in common. Both were in their mid-thirties,
friendly but tough competitors on the tennis courts, each in superb physical
shape. Other similarities included the fact that both were attractive bachelors
and rapidly turning prematurely gray. Two “silver foxes” on the diplomatic
circuit.
More than one female head had
turned at Mac’s entrance. Mac was flattered by the attention but took it in
stride. He was too level-headed a fellow to let his head get blown up by the
attentions of the ladies…even when those attentions went beyond merely being
obvious in admiration of his looks and charm.
“Mac, you made it! Thank you for
coming. Are we still on for Saturday?” Nail asked heartily.
“You bet. I’ve reserved an
embassy court for eleven-thirty. You won’t get a game off me this time,” Mac grinned,
warming to the prospect of winning on the courts. Mac liked winning in all aspects of his life. That’s why he never gambled – he hated to lose.
“We’ll see about that, my friend.
We’ll see about that... I’ll catch up with you later. Enjoy the food and
drink.”
Nail turned to greet the next
person in the receiving line, and Mac moved into the chattering mob of
elegantly dressed women and pin-striped men. He maneuvered his way past the
loaded buffet table surrounded by ravenous African and Middle Eastern
diplomats.
Mac would eat eventually, but he
had too much respect for his physical condition to over-indulge at these
affairs. That was one of the reasons he remained in such superb shape at an age
when many of his peers were starting to develop paunches and uncooperative
muscles. He did, however, snatch a Campari-soda from a silver tray carried by a
starched Ethiopian waiter.
Mac smiled and nodded at Mpana
Martin, First Secretary of the Embassy of Cameroon, who was busily stuffing
deviled eggs into his mouth while carrying on a rapid-fire conversation with
two other wildly gesticulating West Africans.
Drink in hand, he shouldered his
way through the packed dining room toward the living area of the house, nodding
and waving and occasionally exchanging brief greetings with familiar people. He
moved through the crowd confidently, easily, yet constantly aware of his
surroundings—not so much the furnishings or decorations, nor even the abundance
of food and drink, but the people. He made a mental note of who was there,
memorized any unfamiliar faces…and searched the crowd reluctantly for his
friend Huang.
The living room was less crowded,
and he stopped by the fireplace to exchange pleasantries with Deuk Po Kim and
Hoon Sohn of the South Korean embassy and Jinichi Yuki of the Japanese embassy.
They were discussing the potential contribution of the Olympics to world
harmony, debating the value—if any—that the world games offered to
international relations. Mac got pulled into the conversation, but he couldn’t
devote his full attention to the debate at hand; a part of his mind remained
occupied with last-minute revisions to
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