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should not think of them as unusual. They are something with which to be . . . coped, is that right? Your president, I am told, has many Jewish friends, as well.”
    â€œNot so many.”
    â€œPerhaps they seem like many to us.” Boucher shrugged and placed the plate on the table. “You know, we enter the war. We talk to our allies, the British, on what will happen in Syria and Jordan when we win. We agree with our allies and write down the agreement. Then, we win. Wonderful, we think. We shall have peace on the terms already agreed. They are, after all, written down. But this group, this unusual group”—Boucher loosed a theatrical sigh—“they do not like those terms because they have agreed to other terms with England. Colonel Lawrence prefers those other terms. The newspapers have great love for Colonel Lawrence, and Mr. Lloyd George reads the newspapers very carefully. The newspapers make Colonel Lawrence very strong. Suddenly our agreement—poof!” He lifted a cloth napkin from the serving table and used it to dab his lips and brush crumbs from the front of his tunic. “Perhaps your Mr. Wilson can use the shame to persuade Mr. Lloyd George to honor our treaty?”
    Dulles snorted. “Shame the British? You can’t be serious.”
    â€œPerhaps not.”
    â€œReally, Colonel. Can the French be shamed?”
    Boucher smiled. “Quite impossible.”
    Â 
    Allen Dulles, uncharacteristically early for his evening date, noticed the Arab party in the dining room of the Hotel Majestic. Despite the influx of foreigners for the war and the peace conference, head scarves and robes still were conspicuous in a Parisian restaurant. The prince seemed to be something of a cut-up, entertaining his laughing companions. Evidently in the Arab world, as in the West, jests by the powerful are unfailingly funny.
    Rabbi Wise waved Dulles to their table and had another chair brought over. Dulles, with Lawrence translating, told the prince how fine his presentation had been that afternoon and what a strong impact it had on the delegates. Feisal waved off the compliment, which had been entirely insincere.
    Lawrence related that the prince was explaining that his family had no interest in being called kings. Because Feisal was a descendant of the prophet Mohammed and because his ancestors had been Sharifs of Mecca for 900 years, kings were far beneath his family. The prince smiled happily as Lawrence spoke, his composure before the Peace Council having slid into genial affability. He promptly directed a new story at Dulles.
    Again, Lawrence translated. “In the desert,” Lawrence said for Feisal. He seemed to know where the story was going. “Out in the desert, it is the custom to tie camels head to tail in a long row. That way they stay together in case of high wind, when the sand blows and it is possible to become lost. The camels are very strong but not so smart. No camel is fit to lead the other camels. He might simply lead them all in the wrong direction. So, it is the custom to put a little donkey at the head of the row, and the little donkey will lead. He is not strong, but he will go straight.”
    Feisal waited for Lawrence’s translation to catch up with him, then started again,
    Lawrence continued. “The Arabs did the same when they fought the Turk.”
    Feisal spoke again, speaking a short phrase that ended with Lawrence and extending a hand to the Englishman. Lawrence didn’t bother to translate, since the table was already guffawing at the explanation that he had been the Arabs’ little donkey.
    Dulles grinned, thinking the story managed to celebrate and belittle Lawrence.
    Lawrence, whose face showed no reaction, said softly, “A private word?”
    Dulles nodded.
    In Arabic, Lawrence excused them from the company. After Feisal’s response, Lawrence reported that the prince wished Dulles’ business card. Dulles presented it