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any more than you’ve already told me, I take it?” the Secretary had said.
    â€œNo, I don’t see how I really can, Mr. Secretary, and still keep my word.”
    â€œOf course. I understand. Although their tour was unofficial we naturally are deeply disappointed that they canceled the balance of it. Did they give you any inkling as to why they decided to cancel?”
    â€œOnly that it was not a success. I believe I’m quoting exactly.”
    â€œI’ve always found this new crop of Libyans to be quite 𔄶 strange,” the Secretary had said.
    â€œQuite mad, really.”
    â€œYes. Well, I’ll see what I can arrange.”
    After the telephone conversation, Ambassador Dokubo summoned his principal aide, who came in and stood before the large carved desk on which rested the small Gucci box.
    â€œI don’t suppose you have any chewing gum.”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t.”
    â€œDo you think you might hunt up a stick or two?”
    â€œAny particular kind, sir?”
    â€œDo you have any idea about what kind this might be?” Dokubo said, indicating that the aide should examine the box.
    The aide picked it up and sniffed the chewing gum. “Dentyne, I’d say, sir. Or close to it.”
    â€œSee what you can do.”
    In a few minutes the aide had returned with a package of Dentyne gum that he had obtained from a youth in the Embassy mail room.
    â€œChew up a couple of sticks,” the Ambassador said.
    The aide peeled the wrapping off two sticks and popped them into his mouth. While he was chewing, the Ambassador carefully examined the Gucci box. He weighed it in the palm of one hand.
    â€œI don’t think it could be a bomb, do you?”
    â€œThere are such things as letter bombs,” the aide said.
    â€œWell, we shall soon see,” the Ambassador said. He peeled away the chewing gum that had been stuck to the box’s edges. Then he carefully untied the string. After that, he looked up at his aide and said, “You may leave the room, if you wish.”
    The aide swallowed. “No, sir, that won’t be necessary.”
    The Ambassador nodded and carefully lifted off the top of the small box.
    â€œGood God!” the aide said.
    Ambassador Dokubo’s 11:45 A.M. meeting with President McKay had been sandwiched in between a photo opportunity with a band of 4-H prize winners from Valley City, North Dakota, and a meeting between the President and the Director of the FBI, whose west coast special agents had been alerted to start a search for Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes after repeated calls to the Marriott Hotel in Anaheim had failed to locate them.
    There was always the chance, of course, that Bingo, a resolute bachelor, could have bedded himself down with a companion or two in the farther reaches of Hollywood or Malibu or the Marina del Rey. But if he had, he normally would have arranged for Eleanor Rhodes to cover for him. But when neither she nor Bingo could be located by the resourceful operators on the White House switchboard, the President, in view of the Libyans’ hasty departure, had once again silently goddamned his brother’s stubborn refusal to accept Secret Service protection.
    He grew even more concerned when the Secretary of State telephoned with the news of the Libyans’ strange early-morning meeting with the Nigerian Ambassador. “Have we done anything to piss them off—anything at all?” the President had asked.
    The Secretary was careful in his reply. “Nothing that I am aware of, Mr. President.”
    â€œThat leaves a whole lot of territory unexplored, doesn’t it?”
    â€œAn immense amount, sir.”
    â€œWell, check around and see what you can find out. And I suppose I’d better see Dokubo at—let’s make it eleven forty-five. Maybe he’ll have something I can pass on to the FBI.”
    â€œI’ll inform the Ambassador of the time.”
    â€œAnd