"Silence," thundered Baraka. "I am not interested in the brilliant techniques you used to outsmart the entire French government to acquire a list of passengers aboard a plane. Did it ever occur to you to call Air France and tell them to read you the list?"
"But suppose they said no?"
"Will you get out of my sight?" yelled Baraka. "Go. Go."
The minister turned and headed for the door.
"Idiot, leave the list," Baraka snarled.
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir," said the minister, unable to understand how he had angered Baraka.
He returned quickly to Baraka's desk, put the list down, threw a snappy military salute, and backed toward the door, watching Baraka in case the colonel should decide to shoot him.
Baraka waited until the heavy door had completely closed, then reached his hand under the left front of the desk and pressed a small red button. A heavy bolt built into the door frame slid out slowly, into a groove cut in the door's side. Automatically, a red light went on over the door, signifying to Baraka's Lobynian secretary that the ruler was busy and must not, must not, absolutely must not, under pain of death, be disturbed.
Teaching the secretary this was a monument to Baraka's perseverance.
At first, Baraka had had only the do-not-disturb light installed. He pressed the button on the day of its installation so that he would not be disturbed, but three minutes later his secretary came in.
He told her gently that he was not to be disturbed when the red light was on; she responded that she had not seen it.
He told her to look for it from now on, before entering his office.
She barged through the red light twice more that day.
The second time, Baraka suggested that she would spend the rest of her life in a brothel servicing goats if she did not respect the red light.
That she regarded this as an idle threat was apparent the next morning when she barged past the red light and into Baraka's office.
Baraka responded by putting a bullet into the fleshy part of her left calf.
She was back at work in two weeks, her leg heavily bandaged.
Baraka had arrived at his office early that day. He heard the secretary arrive. He turned on the red light, then waited.
Five minutes later, she limped into his office, carrying a pile of papers.
Baraka sighed. A minute later he was on the phone to the palace electrician, ordering the bolt to be installed in the door.
The electrician promised it his personal undivided attention, and only six weeks later, the bolt was installed. It was a new Lobynian record, since the installation of just the red light had taken four months.
Now Baraka heard the bolt slide closed, locking the door. He waited while a side door to his office opened and the small Oriental, Nuihc, entered.
"I have the list," said Baraka politely to the man who still terrified him.
"I know that," said Nuihc, his voice low and unmenacing, matching the appearance of his body in black business suit, white shirt, and striped tie.
"I had the minister of transport obtain it," said Baraka.
"I do not care how you got it." Nuihc sat on a sofa on the far side of the room. "Bring it here, wog," he said."Fetch."
Baraka rose quickly and almost loped across the office, holding the list in front of him, as if offering it to an outraged god.
Wordlessly, Nuihc snatched it from his hand and looked quickly down the rows of names.
"Ah, yes," he said. He looked up smiling.
"You look for someone?"
"Yes. Two men. And here they are. Mr. Park and Remo Goldberg."
"Goldberg? What is a Goldberg doing coming to Lobynia?"
"Do not worry," said Nuihc. "His name is not really Goldberg. He will not contaminate the magnificently pure stock of the Lobynian people," he added contemptuously.
He looked again at the list.
"Who are all these other people?" he asked.
"One is Clogg. He is the president of Oxonoco. One of the oil companies. The others are delegates to the Third World International Youth Conference. Accursed fools."
"What will this Clogg want?" Nuihc asked.
"I do not know," said Baraka. "No doubt, he is supposed to be here to talk about the oil embargo. His real reason for being here may be to take advantage of the little boys in our city's brothels."
Nuihc looked disgusted.
"And the young people for the conference?"
"They are nothing," said Baraka. "A thing common to the United States. Rich, overfed, spoiled, and reeking of guilt because someone else has never tasted escargot. They will make noise. They will pass resolutions condemning Israel and the West. The really fortunate ones will be beaten up on our streets and this will guarantee them happiness because it will confirm to them that they are worthless creatures fit only for the world's scorn and abuse."
"Do you let them wander around your country?"
"By the beard, no," said Baraka. "I keep them under lock and key. The soldiers are instructed to be brutal with them. They enjoy it."
"Why?" asked Nuihc.
Baraka shrugged. "Their entire lives are spent trying to demonstrate their worthlessness. Our soldiers assist them. They are grateful. They smile for black eyes. They laugh aloud when cut bloody. I think they are sexually gratified with broken bones."
"You know, Baraka, you are not such a total fool as you sometimes seem."
"Thank you. Is there anything I should do about the two visitors you have been looking for?"
Nuihc answered quickly and firmly. "No. Just leave them alone. You do not have enough soldiers for that. When I decide the time is right, I will deal with them."
"Are they of the legend?"
"Yes. Leave them alone."
"As you will," said Baraka.
"Yes," Nuihc agreed. "Remember it. As I will."
When the Air France plane landed, armed guards were waiting at the bottom of the boarding ladder.
"Hey, look, real guns," said one of the delegates to the Third World Youth Conference. "Heavy. Real heavy."
The young man was the first one down the ramp of the plane. He grinned at one of the fourteen soldiers who formed a passageway and stuck his finger into the barrel of the man's rifle.
The soldier next to him stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into the young man's jaw, knocking him back onto the ground. Blood poured from the gash on his chin.
The soldier stepped back into line without a sound or a glance at the fallen youth.
A young Army captain approached the plane between the lines of soldiers. "I am the cultural liaison officer," he declaimed. "You will all follow me. Anyone who does not will be shot."
"Hey, did you see that?" asked a black youth of a pimply-faced girl with straight black hair, standing next to him on the top of the plane steps.
"Yes. Serves him right. He got what he deserved. I'm sure the great nation of Lobynia has reasons for what it does. We should just do what we're told, because we're totally unqualified to understand or question their society."
The young black nodded in agreement. After all, how could one argue with the girl who was, back at their New York City college, the chairman of the Free Speech Committee, the president of the antibrutality association, the vice chairman of the crusade to end fascism, and chairperson of the Stop Secrecy in Government Committee, ad hoc Presidential War Crimes division. That she had picketed the White House and the Capitol on fourteen different occasions, often sticking flowers into soldiers' guns, winning nothing more for that than surly glances, did not strike her as ironical. She had no time for irony. She was in Lobynia to help all Americans to see it as an example of what they too could become, if they really tried.