what's this about one of your people operating an underground railroad for his runaway wives? Gosh, why didn't I think of that? What better way to promote harmony between our two countries! Let 's give that girl of yours a promotion! Are you out of your fucking mind. Farfaletti?"
"I made it clear to the secretary in my cover letter that you hadn't signed off on it."
Duckett rubbed his f orehead. The lines were back. "I protected you. I went the extra mile. Now I'm beginning to think you're working for them."
"Them? Who are you talking about?"
"Them." Duckett did the Langley H ook.
"CIA? Charles, I work for the State Department. I work for you."
"No, no. This could only be an Agency operation. To destroy State—from within. It's happened before, you know. In Quito."
"Charl es, I'm on your side. I'm just t rving to think outside the box."
"What-box? Pandora's?"
"If we want to bring about change in the Middle East, this is the way t o do it. I'm convinced of it. It might be the only way."
"How do I explain? Where do I begin? It is not our job to bring about change in the Middle East"
"It's not?"
"No, it is not. O ur job is to manage reality."
His phone rang. The shadow of the angel of death passed over Charles Duckett's features as he answered. "Yes." he said grimly, swallowing. "Yes. Right away." He hung up. "Satisfied, Florence?"
"Let me go with you. Let me make the case. I can."
Duckett rose slow ly. His eyes had gone glassy. "I was up for the ambassado rship, you know. It was mine. It was all set. They told me."
He shuffled out of his office like a mental patient in slippers going off to get his noon meds.
George was wailing for her. "Where would you like me to ship your remains?"
THE NEXT MORNING Florence received by interoffice notification that her request for transfer to the visa section of the U.S. consulate in the Cape Verde islands bad been approved, effective immediately.
"You might have told me you'd applied," George said. "I thought we had a relationship."
Florence started glumly at the paper.
"Well, let's look on the bright side." he said. "Bracing sea air on all sides, steady climate, especially during hurricane season. And whale-watching second to none. A lot of the harpooners on the Nantucket whale ships were Cape Verde men."
"Shut up, George."
"I thought i t was a damn slick proposal. Oh, hell. I'll miss you." "I'm not going to Cape Verde. For God's sake."
"Yo u're not going to quit? Just go, put in a few months. Duckett's due for a rotation, he'l l be gone before you know it. Thi nk of it as a vacation. Couple of months on the beach in Cape Verde, nights hobnobbing with the local gratin. You'll be back before you know it, tanned, rested and ready. Come on, Firenze."
George was the only one outside her family who called her that . And he'd guessed it. It was the baptismal name her father, a native of Florence, had insisted on. The priest had initially refused, there being no Saint Firenze. but there are few theological issues that can't be resolved with a hundred-dollar bill. Florence Americanized the name in the fifth grade after she'd had enough abuse from classmates. But George much preferred Firenze to Florence, which he said sounded like the cleaning woman's name.
"I'm out of here." she said. She kissed George on the forehead and collected her things and left. What now? There were a dozen foundations in Washington whe re her knowledge of the Middle E ast would be better used than on an archipelago off the coast of Senegal. Where bet ter, she figured, to sink back into the earth than a foundation? But what a shame, what a waste.
it was a stunning, crisp fall day, and feeli ng liberated alter dropping off her letter of resignation. Florence zipped up her black leather jumpsuit— the sight of which caused cricks in many a male neck—tied her hair in a pony-tail, donned the red helmet, flipped down the visor, pressed the start button on her motorcycle and screamed out of the city
"I made it clear to the secretary in my cover letter that you hadn't signed off on it."
Duckett rubbed his f orehead. The lines were back. "I protected you. I went the extra mile. Now I'm beginning to think you're working for them."
"Them? Who are you talking about?"
"Them." Duckett did the Langley H ook.
"CIA? Charles, I work for the State Department. I work for you."
"No, no. This could only be an Agency operation. To destroy State—from within. It's happened before, you know. In Quito."
"Charl es, I'm on your side. I'm just t rving to think outside the box."
"What-box? Pandora's?"
"If we want to bring about change in the Middle East, this is the way t o do it. I'm convinced of it. It might be the only way."
"How do I explain? Where do I begin? It is not our job to bring about change in the Middle East"
"It's not?"
"No, it is not. O ur job is to manage reality."
His phone rang. The shadow of the angel of death passed over Charles Duckett's features as he answered. "Yes." he said grimly, swallowing. "Yes. Right away." He hung up. "Satisfied, Florence?"
"Let me go with you. Let me make the case. I can."
Duckett rose slow ly. His eyes had gone glassy. "I was up for the ambassado rship, you know. It was mine. It was all set. They told me."
He shuffled out of his office like a mental patient in slippers going off to get his noon meds.
George was wailing for her. "Where would you like me to ship your remains?"
THE NEXT MORNING Florence received by interoffice notification that her request for transfer to the visa section of the U.S. consulate in the Cape Verde islands bad been approved, effective immediately.
"You might have told me you'd applied," George said. "I thought we had a relationship."
Florence started glumly at the paper.
"Well, let's look on the bright side." he said. "Bracing sea air on all sides, steady climate, especially during hurricane season. And whale-watching second to none. A lot of the harpooners on the Nantucket whale ships were Cape Verde men."
"Shut up, George."
"I thought i t was a damn slick proposal. Oh, hell. I'll miss you." "I'm not going to Cape Verde. For God's sake."
"Yo u're not going to quit? Just go, put in a few months. Duckett's due for a rotation, he'l l be gone before you know it. Thi nk of it as a vacation. Couple of months on the beach in Cape Verde, nights hobnobbing with the local gratin. You'll be back before you know it, tanned, rested and ready. Come on, Firenze."
George was the only one outside her family who called her that . And he'd guessed it. It was the baptismal name her father, a native of Florence, had insisted on. The priest had initially refused, there being no Saint Firenze. but there are few theological issues that can't be resolved with a hundred-dollar bill. Florence Americanized the name in the fifth grade after she'd had enough abuse from classmates. But George much preferred Firenze to Florence, which he said sounded like the cleaning woman's name.
"I'm out of here." she said. She kissed George on the forehead and collected her things and left. What now? There were a dozen foundations in Washington whe re her knowledge of the Middle E ast would be better used than on an archipelago off the coast of Senegal. Where bet ter, she figured, to sink back into the earth than a foundation? But what a shame, what a waste.
it was a stunning, crisp fall day, and feeli ng liberated alter dropping off her letter of resignation. Florence zipped up her black leather jumpsuit— the sight of which caused cricks in many a male neck—tied her hair in a pony-tail, donned the red helmet, flipped down the visor, pressed the start button on her motorcycle and screamed out of the city
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