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and then down toward a wide mouth that was almost lipless, like a fish.
    â€œI must make this one point first,” Arifi said, his excellent English bearing heavy Italian overtones and his voice curiously deep for so slight a man. “The request I make of you comes not from me, but from Colonel Mourabet.”
    â€œThe Colonel is in excellent health, I trust.”
    â€œYes, his health is excellent, praise be to God.”
    â€œAnd his family, they, too, are well?” the Ambassador continued, even at four in the morning the total diplomat.
    â€œThey, too, through God’s beneficence, enjoy excellent health.”
    â€œI am delighted to hear so. Now, how may I be of service to the Colonel?”
    â€œHe would be forever in your debt if you were to deliver to President McKay a message and a small package. They must be delivered to the President only. Again, I must emphasize—to the President only.”
    â€œA small package, you say,” Ambassador Dokubo said, immediately suspecting a bomb. “How small?”
    Arifi pulled out a drawer from a built-in cabinet and removed a small Gucci box, approximately three inches square and one inch deep. It was tied with red string and sealed with pink chewing gum. He offered it to the Ambassador almost apologetically. “I regret we had no sealing wax.”
    Dokubo accepted the box gingerly. “A gift?” he said, knowing it wasn’t.
    â€œMore a token, I would think.”
    â€œIn appreciation of your tour.”
    â€œThe tour was not a success,” Arifi said stiffly. “We found it necessary to terminate it.”
    â€œI am sorry. I was hoping it would prove successful.”
    â€œPerhaps another time.”
    â€œYes, perhaps. But you also mentioned a message.”
    Arifi nodded and withdrew a stiff buff-colored envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it over. It also was sealed with a wad of pink chewing gum. The Ambassador sniffed and could smell cinnamon.
    â€œIt, too, of course, is confidential,” Arifi said, the tic near his left eye now throbbing erratically.
    â€œBut of vital importance to—uh—civilization?”
    â€œColonel Mourabet thinks so,” Arifi said in a cold voice. “If I were you, Your Excellency, I would not discount the importance of our request because of its melodramatic nature. Great events often seem melodramatic while happening, but tragic in retrospect.”
    He’s completely mad, the Ambassador thought, staring at Arifi’s tic, which now threatened to turn into an uncontrollable twitch.
    â€œI appreciate your confidence in my discretion,” the Ambassador murmured and heaved himself up out of the chair.
    Arifi rose, too, and laid a cautionary hand on the Ambassador’s arm. “One more thing, Your Excellency. We would be exceedingly grateful if you would wait until, say, ten o’clock before calling on the President.”
    That would give them nearly six hours, the Ambassador thought. At, say, 550 miles per hour, that would put them over—what? Morocco, or perhaps Algeria, if they go that way.
    â€œThe President is, as you know, a very busy man,” he said. “I am not at all sure when my appointment can be scheduled.”
    â€œAs long as it’s no sooner than ten o’clock.”
    â€œI shall do my best.”
    Arifi smiled. His tic throbbed wildly. “One cannot possibly ask for more.”
    It was not until 11:45 that morning that Ambassador Dokubo was ushered into the Oval Office. The appointment had been arranged through the urging of the Secretary of State, whom the Ambassador had telephoned at home at 7 A.M. Although Dokubo had been cautiously vague about his reasons for requesting the extraordinary meeting with the President, his reputation for sound common sense and his country’s enormous oil reserves had convinced the Secretary that the meeting should take place.
    â€œYou can’t tell me