Through it all, Fay had resolved to press on, convinced that Scott was overreacting and would eventually come about and see it from her viewpoint. That, however, never happened. The situation simply continued to deteriorate. The final act was rung down the night Scott returned from the fire power demonstration for the American and Egyptian presidents. Since then, especially at night when she was alone in her apartment, Fay desperately wished she could go back in time and pull back that slap. That she had done such a thing was as much a shock to her as it had been to Scott. How badly she wanted to see Scott and talk to him, reason with him as they had in the old days, the days before Iran. She had convinced herself that they were at the lowest possible point, that their relationship and differences couldn't get any worse. Fay was sure of that. Given time and some reflection, Scott would see the folly of what had happened, as she had, and come back. But that wouldn't be possible until the temporary insanity that was consuming not only them but the entire country had passed. And with the Egyptians now committed to a war, that day was on an indefinite hold.
A young man of twenty-two ("a mere boy," according to Jan) came storming into Fay's office. "Mrs. Dixon, here's the latest from the Egyptian Ministry of Defense."
Without a second thought she took her eyes from the photo of her family and turned to the office boy. "Who did the translation?"
Panting, the young man tried to talk while catching his breath. "No translations necessary — the statement — was in English."
Fay looked at him with a blank expression. While it was wrong to call Johnny effeminate, his fair complexion, slight build, soft voice, and refined manner would not impress Scotty. "Johnny, do you seriously expect me to put together a story based solely on Egyptian propaganda? Who's recording the Egyptian broadcasts and emergency radio nets?"
Stung by Fay's response, Johnny straightened up and thought for a moment. "I don't know, Mrs. Dixon. I can go find out if you want."
Throwing her head back, Fay fought back the urge to yell at him. Regaining her composure, she stood and headed for the door. "Never mind, Johnny, I'll go myself." Stopping at the door, she turned to the young man with his wounded pride. "What I really need you to do right now is find out where in the devil Jan is. She needs to be here pronto. Now get a move on and find her."
Luck had yet to favor Jan that morning. Though she had been notified early, a series of delays had beaten her every effort to make it to the office. If anything, it appeared to her that she was moving backwards.
Out of bed in a flash, Jan had grabbed the first clothing she came across. Looking about and seeing no sign of Scott or his clothes, she wondered how he had been able to slip out without waking her. In a single bound she covered the distance from her bed to the closet. She pulled out a silk-and-lace blouse and dress slacks, the first articles of clothing that flew into her hands. As she slipped on the high-heeled pumps she had worn the night before, she felt a momentary anger at Scott for slipping out as he did. To her surprise, she was not mad that she had slept through one of the biggest news stories of her life. Instead, she was mad because he had not been there when she awoke. How much, she thought, she would have loved to be roused by him in the early-moming light.
But there was no time for such idle thoughts. A war had just started. No doubt Scott was at his place of duty, and it was well past the time when she, the bureau chief, should have been at hers. Though she was dressed in clothes designed for an evening out, she was ready: she maintained a proper set of clothing at the office for emergencies such as this. There would be time to dress and put on her makeup while her staff briefed her. All was in order and under control — at least in the beginning.
Buttoning her blouse with one hand, she dialed the number for her driver. Half concentrating on pushing the small cloth-covered button through a hole a tad too small, Jan talked to the driver's wife in English, then hung up without waiting for a response and turned her full attention to forcing the button through the hole. Finished dressing, she grabbed her shoulder bag and flew out of the apartment and down to the street to wait for the car. Twenty minutes passed and the car did not show. Jan ran back up to her apartment and called the driver's home a second time. Again she got his wife, this time she spoke in Arabic and waited for an answer. In broken English the driver's wife explained that her husband had been taken by the army last night. What had he done wrong? Jan asked, confused. The driver's wife explained that he had done nothing wrong — sometimes her husband was a soldier. It finally sunk in that the driver was a reservist who had been recalled to active duty.
Cursing her luck, Jan threw her shoulder bag across the room and tried to call the news office. She could have someone there pick her up. But her efforts yielded nothing but further frustrations. The phone system was controlled by the government. Most lines were taken out of general use and reserved for official use. Those lines that were available were overworked. It wasn't until her fourth attempt that Jan finally got a dial tone. Even that was for naught, for the office number she dialed was busy. Twenty minutes of effort and three busy numbers added to Jan's irritation and frustration.
Realizing that the phone system had defeated her, Jan grabbed her briefcase and rushed out the door, slamming it behind her as she ran down to the street, where she hoped to find a taxi. But the taxis that were normally queued up and waiting for customers were nowhere to be seen. For a second she wondered if all the drivers in Egypt were reservists who had been recalled.
With no salvation in sight, she reached down to grab her shoulder bag as she prepared to run to a main street where there was bound to be a taxi. It was only then that she realized that her bag was not slung over her shoulder. It — and her apartment keys and her money — sat on the floor of her apartment, right where she had thrown it not more than half an hour before. In a fit she looked about her, then paused and thought for a moment. Totally frustrated, she clenched her fists, cursed, and stomped her right foot with just enough force to break the heel.
Stunned by this last piece of bad luck, Jan stood motionless, trying hard to decide if she should cry or laugh. Here she was, the hottest reporter in the entire Middle East, in the middle of the hottest story of the year. She was almost in the right place at the right time — almost, but not quite. Instead of being at the helm of the WNN news office, reading the latest news from the front and putting together a story that would be featured on the next news broadcast in the States, she was standing on a side street with no makeup on, her hair still knotted from sleep, dressed in slacks and a silk blouse, and standing off-balance with a broken heel. She was still standing there when Johnny drove up in a WNN van and saved her from herself.
To Jan's relief, Fay had the situation well under control when she came storming into the news office, shoes in hand. Someone from a line of faceless office workers shoved a cup of coffee into Jan's hand as she disappeared into her office followed by Fay and Johnny. Fay slammed the door and began to fill Jan in on what information they had while Jan frantically rummaged through the closet in search of the appropriate outfit for her broadcast. Never missing a word Fay threw out, Jan began to strip off her wrinkled evening clothes. Johnny, standing in the comer and prepared to take notes, turned beet red when he realized what Jan was doing. Turning away, he monitored as Fay continued to spew out information like a machine gun.