Wexler surveyed the crowd. It seemed that every nation on earth had at least a small contingent here, with many of them garbed in native costumes. The more junior diplomatic staff sometimes affected Western dress, but she had noted an increasing trend among the very senior diplomats and representatives to celebrate their individuality.
And that was a good thing, wasn’t it? Even though nationalism had raised its ugly head more than once in recent years, in general strong, cohesive cultures were more conducive to peace. She found it especially interesting that the preference for native dress was increasingly evident outside of the United Nations building itself. The trend had started there, of course, with some African nations making a statement by wearing traditional garb to the sessions. Later, the Middle East states followed suit. Now it seemed that Western business suits had been abandoned for social functions as well.
The crowd had already broken into clusters along traditional lines. Despite the best efforts of the hostess to keep everyone circulating, the normal divisions were clearly evident. The Middle Eastern states and their clients were clustered around the buffet table, which had been carefully planned so that no religious preferences were offended. There was even a section of it labeled “kosher.”
The Europeans, on the other hand, had taken up their normal position near the bar. Good wine flowed freely, and there were more than enough discriminating palates to appreciate the hostess’s choices. The Central and South American states were split almost equally between the two groups, although Peru had chosen a corner table with Russia and India.
She turned to T’ing, the ambassador from China. “We can’t even choose a table without making a political statement, can we?”
T’ing smiled. “Some would say you already have,” he murmured.
“How so?”
“You wear white,” T’ing said. “White, the color of mourning.”
“Of purity and virginity,” she offered. T’ing was gentleman enough not to take advantage of the straight line.
“In some places,” he answered instead.
She surveyed the crowd and said, “I was just remembering how dull everyone looked not so long ago. It’s refreshing, isn’t it, to see so many styles?”
“It is,” he said. “And I appreciate the opportunity to have a choice.” He had selected his own native dress for this evening, although she knew full well that he had a number of exquisitely tailored Western suits in his wardrobe.
“And are you making statement?” she asked.
“Perhaps. But only to those who would understand it.” He shot her cryptic look. “And your choice of white — was that a statement?”
“Yes. Of a bold and daring nature. How many women do you know who would willingly choose white with a buffet dinner served? The opportunities for disaster are infinite. Do you know how hard it is to get red wine out of silk?”
He smoothed the fabric of his tunic, a delicately patterned red and gold. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
T’ing led the way to the bar and ordered a glass of wine for each of them. “The usual,” he said, as he passed her the drink.
At a far corner of the room, a small chamber orchestra was quietly tuning up. She recognized a few bars of a violin as Mozart, and nodded appreciatively. Perhaps this evening would be more entertaining than she had thought.
The social obligations of her position were entirely more onerous than her official duties. So many parties and receptions, so many opportunities to inadvertently create an impression or send a message that she had never intended. Like the business of wearing white, for instance. Of course she had known that, but she had elected to wear the suit anyway.
She was just leading the way over to a small table where the British ambassador was chatting with a member of his delegation when she saw her aide, Brad, slip into the room. She tensed. While Brad occasionally attended these functions, this one had not been on his schedule. It was, if she recalled correctly, a reception to welcome the wife of the ambassador from Uruguay. On the scale of social events, it was one that required a brief appearance, a polite greeting, and perhaps one drink before she could plead other engagements. Her staff was not expected to appear at all.
Brad spotted her immediately and made his way across the room. She sighed and said, “Excuse me, will you?” to T’ing.
“How soon can you get loose?” Brad asked quietly. “There’s a problem.”
“I don’t suppose you can give me any hint?”
Just then, there was a small flurry of noise coming from the general vicinity of the Russian ambassador. She turned to look and saw that his aide was whispering urgently in his ear. His face was growing choleric and his eyes were scanning the room. He finally saw her. His thick eyebrows drew down and met, deepening into a scowl.
Brad noticed as well and shrugged. “So they’re not as careful on security as we are.”
“Meet me at the door,” she said.
Wexler circled the room, greeting acquaintances and friends. She thanked the hostess for a stunning party, welcomed the new diplomatic wife, and then, as gracefully as she could, headed back toward the entrance. She veered off for a moment to find T’ing and offer her apologies. He did not bother asking what had happened. Soon enough, he would find out from his own staff. And from the expression on the Russian ambassador’s face and Brad’s urgency, she suspected the whole world would know before long.
Outside, even in the evening, the air was thick and humid. Her car was already in front of the building, but the twenty steps between the house and the car were enough to leave her sweating.
Inside the dark unmarked Mercedes sedan, the air would be cool — chilly, even. And dry — yes, dry. She could already imagine it surrounding her, soaking the sweat off her skin, cooling the blood she felt pounding in her temples. Of all the marvels of the modern world, air-conditioning had to be at the top of the list.
Brad’s security people already had the back door open. The cool air was beckoning her along with the silence after the chatter of so many voices in so many languages. Sometimes it seemed like her time in the car was the most peaceful in her day. Even when she was forced to discuss business — and Brad’s security policies had put an end to most of that — nothing seemed quite as urgent.
“Madam!” The rough, deeply accented voice of the Russian ambassador made her pause. “Is there an explanation for this outrage?”
So close. Maybe he would get into her car and they could discuss it there. Not that there was anything to discuss yet, although he clearly had a better idea of what had happened than she did.
No. Russians were reflexively paranoid and he would suspect they were being monitored. Brad stepped between her and the Russian ambassador.
“It’s all right.” Brad stepped to the side but stayed close.
“I see you are leaving the party early,” she said pleasantly. “A nice evening, isn’t it?”
“As are you,” he said, ignoring the pleasantry. “Do not trifle with me, Madam.” Wexler noted that he had dropped the honorific. “I want to see your president at his very early convenience. Surely there is some explanation for this? There will be many in my country who will take it for deliberate provocation. I must warn you,” he said, wagging a thick finger at her, “that I’m not sure I can restrain them. Not this time.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her voice still neutral and polite. “Just what is it that has annoyed you?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” The ambassador swore, then stepped toward her, prompting Brad and his security people to move in closer. He saw them, and his scowl deepened. “Surely you don’t take me for a barbarian? Do you think you are in physical danger? That I would attack you, perhaps slap you around a bit to knock some sense into that pretty little head? Or maybe,” he said, ignoring Brad and stepping closer again, “that I would assault you?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said crisply. “Brad, please wait in the car. I’m fine.”
“But—” Brad started.
She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “I’m fine. Go on.”
