the abrupt and broken cinder cone standing clear against the gossamer sunset sky. A small welcoming party, exclusively Americans, was waiting on the tarmac. They were attired informally, in bush greens and khaki.
Ron said in Morgan's ear, "Ambassador and Mrs. Chalmers Lyman. Chalmers' nickname is Buddy. He's thirty-eight, career FSO, M.A. in law and diplomacy from Tufts. He wrote his thesis on bicameralism in the modern Islamic state. They've been out here a year and a half. Her name is Wendy; the family's well fixed. She took a degree in sociology at Barnard, and she has Swahili down cold. The children are Sharan with an 'a' and Justin."
"Ron, you're unconscious," Morgan said, his most lavish compliment.
He went slowly down the shaky steps with Len. Introductions; protocol. In addition to his kids the ambassador had brought along his deputy chief of mission and some staffers. Buddy Lyman had a corrugated shock of blond hair that hung off one side of his head, a gangling, amiable, pop-eyed ugliness that was somehow endearing. Morgan took him aside.
'What's going on at Jumbe's?"
"I don't know, sir; he has about thirty houseguests."
"I thought he'd become reclusive. Are they all politicians?"
"Sort of a mixed bag, I'd say. From scientists to jetsetters."
"What do you know about the Russians who flew in?"
"Wendy and I were already here when the plane arrived, but Dr. Kumenyere kept us all waiting in the terminal while he went out to meet them. They drove off right away in three Mercedes sedans, with a military escort. I didn't get a good look at any of the Russians. By the way, security is very tight in the area, particularly over at Momela Lakes, in the park. Soldiers, roadblocks, checkpoints."
"What do you make of it?"
"My sources aren't doing me much good there, sir. Of course there's a war on, but it's at the other end of the country. There are rumors that because Jumbe has been rattling sabers, the Afrikaners will try to assassinate him."
"Another fly in their butter isn't enough to worry them."
"People seem to think an invasion is imminent. Jumbe has everyone on edge, wondering what comes next."
Morgan scanned the sky; the jet fighters had disappeared.
"How's the war going?"
"Zaire's been rumbling over a gunboat that was shot up on Lake Tanganyika last week; they've flown sorties across the border and threatened to give the Zambians, who have lost most of their fighters, some striking power. Personally I think a few good rains would cool everybody off."
"Who's Dr. Kumenyere?"
"He's head of the Kialamahindi Hospital in Dar, which is probably the best health care facility in East Africa. Kumenyere is Jumbe's personal physician, closest friend, and his only remaining advisor. No one in government speaks to Jumbe anymore unless Dr. Kumenyere okays it."
Buddy Lyman looked over Morgan's shoulder at an oncoming caravan of automobiles and military vehicles.
"Kumenyere's back."
Morgan glanced around. "What's he like?"
"In the U.S. he'd be landed gentry. His father is a planter in the Moshi area, wealthy even for a Chagga, and they're the most prosperous, ambitious people in the country. There's a strain of Masai in the family; Kumenyere has all the arrogance and emotional insularity of that tribe. One day he'll be impossible to deal with, the next he's warm and chatty and the best friend you'll ever have. I never know what's on his mind. He's well educated, polyglot, sophisticated. He gets around: New York, Monaco, Gstaad, depending on what's doing. He's wrung a fortune for his hospital out of some very rich people. Wendy says he also has quite a reputation as a lover. One of his mistresses was the actress, distinguished theatrical family, you know the one, that dingbat Marxist, there are rumors she's had a child by him."
The three cars slowed as they came nearer; the party of American diplomats closed ranks and Morgan turned to face his reception committee. A black chauffeur stopped the lead Mercedes with a
Ron said in Morgan's ear, "Ambassador and Mrs. Chalmers Lyman. Chalmers' nickname is Buddy. He's thirty-eight, career FSO, M.A. in law and diplomacy from Tufts. He wrote his thesis on bicameralism in the modern Islamic state. They've been out here a year and a half. Her name is Wendy; the family's well fixed. She took a degree in sociology at Barnard, and she has Swahili down cold. The children are Sharan with an 'a' and Justin."
"Ron, you're unconscious," Morgan said, his most lavish compliment.
He went slowly down the shaky steps with Len. Introductions; protocol. In addition to his kids the ambassador had brought along his deputy chief of mission and some staffers. Buddy Lyman had a corrugated shock of blond hair that hung off one side of his head, a gangling, amiable, pop-eyed ugliness that was somehow endearing. Morgan took him aside.
'What's going on at Jumbe's?"
"I don't know, sir; he has about thirty houseguests."
"I thought he'd become reclusive. Are they all politicians?"
"Sort of a mixed bag, I'd say. From scientists to jetsetters."
"What do you know about the Russians who flew in?"
"Wendy and I were already here when the plane arrived, but Dr. Kumenyere kept us all waiting in the terminal while he went out to meet them. They drove off right away in three Mercedes sedans, with a military escort. I didn't get a good look at any of the Russians. By the way, security is very tight in the area, particularly over at Momela Lakes, in the park. Soldiers, roadblocks, checkpoints."
"What do you make of it?"
"My sources aren't doing me much good there, sir. Of course there's a war on, but it's at the other end of the country. There are rumors that because Jumbe has been rattling sabers, the Afrikaners will try to assassinate him."
"Another fly in their butter isn't enough to worry them."
"People seem to think an invasion is imminent. Jumbe has everyone on edge, wondering what comes next."
Morgan scanned the sky; the jet fighters had disappeared.
"How's the war going?"
"Zaire's been rumbling over a gunboat that was shot up on Lake Tanganyika last week; they've flown sorties across the border and threatened to give the Zambians, who have lost most of their fighters, some striking power. Personally I think a few good rains would cool everybody off."
"Who's Dr. Kumenyere?"
"He's head of the Kialamahindi Hospital in Dar, which is probably the best health care facility in East Africa. Kumenyere is Jumbe's personal physician, closest friend, and his only remaining advisor. No one in government speaks to Jumbe anymore unless Dr. Kumenyere okays it."
Buddy Lyman looked over Morgan's shoulder at an oncoming caravan of automobiles and military vehicles.
"Kumenyere's back."
Morgan glanced around. "What's he like?"
"In the U.S. he'd be landed gentry. His father is a planter in the Moshi area, wealthy even for a Chagga, and they're the most prosperous, ambitious people in the country. There's a strain of Masai in the family; Kumenyere has all the arrogance and emotional insularity of that tribe. One day he'll be impossible to deal with, the next he's warm and chatty and the best friend you'll ever have. I never know what's on his mind. He's well educated, polyglot, sophisticated. He gets around: New York, Monaco, Gstaad, depending on what's doing. He's wrung a fortune for his hospital out of some very rich people. Wendy says he also has quite a reputation as a lover. One of his mistresses was the actress, distinguished theatrical family, you know the one, that dingbat Marxist, there are rumors she's had a child by him."
The three cars slowed as they came nearer; the party of American diplomats closed ranks and Morgan turned to face his reception committee. A black chauffeur stopped the lead Mercedes with a
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