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been passed on by phone to the night duty man at the Nigerian Embassy on 16th Street Northwest. The night duty man was a twenty-three-year-old Ibo from Enugu and a student of economics at Georgetown University.
    The student had been reluctant to call the Ambassador, so he had roused the Ambassador’s principal aide instead and read him the message.
    â€œIt says, and I wrote it down exactly, ‘Imperative you be at Dulles to meet our plane. Estimated time of arrival 0400. Fate of civilization may hang in balance.’ It’s signed Ali Arifi.”
    There was a long pause and then the aide said, “Are you positive about that last part—that fate of civilization thing?”
    The student giggled, but quickly recovered himself and said gravely, “Yes, sir. I made them repeat it three times.”
    The aide grumpily thanked the student, hung up, and then sat on the edge of his bed staring at the message he had copied down. All Libyans are mad, he told himself. It was a conclusion he had come to after being heavily involved during the past several months in the conduct of their affairs in the United States, a chore the Nigerian Embassy reluctantly had taken on after the rupture in diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Libya.
    Still, the message had been signed by Ali Arifi, and garbled or not, it was apparent that something had gone seriously wrong with the Libyans’ junket, which the aide also had had a major hand in arranging. He sighed and picked up the phone again, first glancing at his watch. Two-thirty. The old man is going to be absolutely livid. Reluctantly, the aide began dialing.
    With the light, almost non-existent traffic, it had taken them only thirty-three minutes to reach the airport. By the time they arrived, there was another urgent message from the Libyan 727. It was a request for the Ambassador to arrange for refueling and customs and immigration clearance. Ambassador Dokubo had gone about this in his usual skilled, even suave manner, exuding his famous charm, which in the more than twenty-one years since independence, had carried him to near the very top in his country’s diplomatic service.
    After the refueling was almost completed, and the suspicious customs and immigration people mollified, Ambassador Dokubo was driven out to the 727 by an airport official who continued to complain about the irregularity of the Libyans’ proposed departure. Ambassador Dokubo smiled and nodded sympathetically, finally observing that, “Well, one must remember, Mr. Druxhall, that most Libyans are just a bit odd. All that desert, probably.” The airport official had nodded his gloomy approval of the Ambassador’s assessment.
    The ramp was already in place by the time they arrived at the plane. The airport official waited in the car while the Ambassador went up the ramp and into the 727. The lounge section was empty save for the Minister of Defense, Ali Arifi, who rose and nodded slightly, not quite bowing.
    â€œSo, Minister,” Ambassador Dokubo said, glancing around the empty compartment, “I hope you can enlighten me about what I should do to help save civilization at four o’clock in the morning.”
    â€œYou found my message melodramatic?”
    â€œA bit.”
    Arifi waved the Ambassador to one of the lounge chairs. The Ambassador was a large, heavy man of fifty, quite tall, with a globe of a head whose chocolate cheeks were serrated with Yoruba tribal scars. He had a famous white smile, which he now turned on as he sank down into the chair, not taking his eyes off Arifi. He’s nervous, the Ambassador thought. No, it’s more than nerves. It’s fear.
    Arifi had lowered his lean rump to the edge of the chair closest to the Ambassador. He leaned forward, his arms resting on bony knees, a slight tic twitching at the corner of his left eye. It was a dark hollowed-out face whose dominating feature was a heavily boned nose that poked itself out