Prince Harry Boy to Man

Part 24: The Nanny Gets Her Way with the Ambassador

Frances had managed to borrow some clothes from some of the other aid workers when she arrived.  She had on a pair of clean dungarees, a blouse she'd pressed with an iron she found in the nun's cupboard, and a white silk scarf, long and wide enough to wrap around her head and cover her hair if required.  She had no wish to offend Afghan sensibilities about modest dress for women, but she hadn't a skirt to wear. She was alarmed by what she'd heard on the phone and she felt it was urgent to let the authorities know.  She'd telephoned and been put through to the ambassador again, but this time he'd refused to give her any information about the whereabouts of Colonel Arbuthnot.  He told her he was wrong to have let her be put through to him in the first place.  Then he said "Goodbye" curtly, and disengaged the line.

            She was not intimidated.  She'd have to go to the embassy.  She knew something was terribly wrong.  She managed a ride to the embassy compound in the car of the director of the interfaith charity.  The director of the charity managed to get her through the outer guard post and past the policeman at the door of the embassy, where he had left her.  She could not get past the desk of the ambassador's personal assistant.

            "I'm afraid, madam, it will be impossible for you to see him," she said and signaled an end to the conversation by returning to her keyboard and consulting her computer screen.

            "But he's an old chum."  A harmless fib, Frances reflected.  "I spoke to him just this morning."  That was true.

            "Without an appointment, there's nothing I can do."

            "I promise not to stay longer than five minutes."

            "His diary is booked solidly for the whole day."

            It was this moment that the ambassador chose to peek out of his room in order to see if the coast were clear.  He wanted to dash out to the loo in the corridor.  He did find that the cuisine of the embassy's Pathan chef led to these kind of unexpected emergencies.

            "Ambassador!"  Frances was not sure he was the ambassador, but she guessed that the door behind the assistant led to his office.

            "I'm sorry.  Have we met? My memory for names and faces is terrible.  I'm sure I'm in the wrong business."  He smiled, despite the urgency of his other mission.

            "This is Mrs. de Mornay.  She doesn't have an appointment," said the assistant.

            "Ah, Mrs. de Mornay, of course.  We've spoken on the telephone." 

            "How kind you've been to me.  How much kinder than you should have been!" said Frances coming around the desk, taking his arm, and leading him back into his office.  She shut the door firmly behind them.

            Inside there was a long mahogany table with turned legs.  There was a worn Persian rug on the floor.  There was a portrait of the queen on the wall.  There were two chintz-covered sofas.  It looked more like a sitting room on the Surrey-Sussex border than a command post in a war zone.  The ambassador crossed his legs while still standing, and leaned on the table with his hand.  He knitted together his eyebrows.  "Now, Mrs. de Mornay ..." he began.

            "I'm worried about Andrew Arbuthnot.  It's so unlike him to break off a call in that way."

            "As I said earlier, it's not in my power ..."

            "There is something I didn't tell you earlier."

            "Oh?" He was only mildly curious.  If he didn't get away soon, something appalling would happen.