Talat Gorsul, Turkish Chargé d'Affaires at the United Nations, a sleek, smooth, swarthy, heavy-lidded man with a nose like a coat hanger, emerged from his limousine and paused, his opaque eyes taking in the upright brick finger of Police Headquarters in Police Plaza. "Only a nation with no sense of history," he said, in his velvety uninflected voice, "would build a police headquarters that looks like the Bastille."

His aide, a stocky spy named Sanli, a man who perspired a lot and never shaved very well, snickered. It was a major part of his job at the UN to snicker at Talat Gorsul's asides.

"Ah, well," Gorsul said. "Wait," he told the driver, and, "Come," he told Sanli. He that he told to wait, waited, and he that he told to come, came. They crossed the brick forecourt to the brick building, went through the security check in the main lobby, and rode up in the elevator to a high floor, where they passed a second security check and at last entered a conference room packed with people, half of them in uniform.

At the last such meeting of these people in this room, Gorsul had sent Sanli. Now, he nodded noncommittally as Sanli introduced him to a man named Zachary, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who in turn introduced him to everybody else: police officials, government officials, even an assistant district attorney, though there was hardly anyone at this point to prosecute.

The introductions complete, Talat Gorsul sat for the next fifteen minutes at the foot of the conference table, smoothfaced, heavy-lidded, and unemotional, while he listened to several reams of platitude, jargon, and cant from one after the other of those present: the steps that were being taken, the plans for recovery of the Byzantine Fire, the increased security already laid on for after the Byzantine Fire had been found, on and on and on. At the end of it all, Zachary from the FBI rose to say, "Mister Gorsul, I hope and trust this display of our determinativeness has convinced you of our sincerability." To the room at large, Zachary explained (as though it were necessary), "Mister Gorsul has been consid-erating an address to the United Nations with the implicatory thrust that we might for some reason be in a foot-dragging posture on this investigatory situation."

Smoothly but promptly Gorsul was on his feet. "I do appreciate, Mister Zachary," he said, "your interpreting me for all these industrious professional persons, but if I may make the slightest correction to the general line of your statement, please permit me to assure all of you ladies and gentlemen that neither in my heart nor on my lips have I ever had the slightest doubt as to your professionalism, your dedication, or your loyalty to your own national government. The questions I intend to raise this afternoon at the United Nations are most certainly not intended to cast doubt upon any of you in this room. No, nor to cast doubt anywhere at all, come to that. I shall wonder, a bit later today at the United Nations, how such a security-conscious nation as this—I was, by the by, impressed with the two layers of security through which I passed on my way in here—how such a security-conscious nation as the United States, so large, so powerful, so experienced in these matters, could have permitted this admittedly minor bauble to slip through its all-powerful fingers in the first place. A small question, a matter of personal curiosity only, which I intend, somewhat later today, to share with my colleagues at the United Nations."

"Mister Gorsul."

Gorsul looked toward the voice, seeing a blue-uniformed stout man with a storm-tossed face. "Yes?"

"I'm Chief Inspector Francis X. Maloney," the stout man said, heaving himself to his feet. (Mologna, Gorsul remembered.)

"Ah, yes. We were introduced, Chief Inspector Mologna."

Plodding steadily around the conference table toward the door, his round belly leading the way, Mologna said, "I wonder if you and I could have a word or two in private, if all these other leaders of men would excuse us."

There was general surprise, some consternation, some murmuring. The FBI man, Zachary, seemed inclined to put his oar in, but Mologna fixed Gorsul with a meaningful stare (but with what meaning?) and said, "It's up to you, Mister Gorsul. I think it's to your own best interest."

"If it is to my nation's best interest," Gorsul responded, "of course I shall accede to your request."

"That's all right, then," Mologna said, opened the hall door, and stood to one side.

It wasn't often that Talat Gorsul faced the unexpected; it was in fact a part of his job never to place himself in a situation where he wasn't reasonably sure what would happen next. It was the piquancy of this development, then, as much as any profit that might ensue from a private conversation with Mologna, that led him to say to the table at large, "If you will all excuse me?" Getting to his feet, he walked to the door and preceded Mologna out to the hall.

Where Mologna smiled at the two uniformed city policemen on guard duty and genially told them, "That's okay, boys, take a walk down the corridor."

The boys took a walk down the corridor, and Mologna turned toward Gorsul. "Well, Mister Gorsul," he said, "so you live on Sutton Place."

This was really unexpected. "Yes, I do."

"The car in which you're normally chauffeured is license number DPL 767," Mologna went on, "and the car you drive for yourself when you go out of town on weekends, here and there, that's DPL 299."

"Both are Mission cars, not mine," Gorsul pointed out.

"That's right. Mister Gorsul, you're a diplomat. I'm not. You're an oily son of a bitch Turk, I'm a blunt Irishman. Don't make any speeches this afternoon."

Gorsul stared at him in utter astonishment. "Are you threatening me?"

"You're damn right I am," Mologna said, "and what are you goin to do about it? Over there at that Mission of yours you got a dozen chauffeurs and secretaries and cooks. I got fifteen thousand men, Mister Gorsul, and do you know what those fifteen thousand men think every time they see a car with diplomat plates parked by a fire hydrant or in a tow-away zone? Do you know what my boys think when they see those DPL plates?"

Gorsul glanced at the two police guards chatting together down at the end of the hall, hands on hips above their guns and gunbelts. He shook his head.

"They're pissed off, Mister Gorsul," Mologna said. "They can't ticket those cars, they can't tow those cars away, they can't even chew out the owners of those cars like a normal citizen. I wish I could get those sons of bitches, is what my boys think. You ever been burgled, Mister Gorsul, over there on Sutton Place?"

"No," Gorsul said.

"You're lucky. Lot of burglaries over there. Rich people need a lot of police protection, Mister Gorsul. They need a lot of police cooperation. Ever have a motor vehicle accident in the City of New York, Mister Gorsul?"

Gorsul licked thin lips. "No," he said.

"You're a lucky man," Mologna assured him. Then he leaned forward—Gorsul automatically recoiled, then cursed himself for having done so—and more quietly and confidentially he said, "Mister Gorsul, I put my nuts in the wringer on this one, a little earlier today. Normally, I wouldn't give a fuck what you say, what you do, you or anybody else. But just this minute, just today, I can't afford any more shit hittin the fan. You follow me?"

"I might," Gorsul said.

"Good man." Mologna thumped him on the shoulder. "They convinced you in there, right?"

"Yes."

"They did, not me. So no speech this afternoon."

Gorsul's heavy-lidded eyes hated, but his mouth said, "That's right."

Another shoulder thump from the detested Mologna's disgusting hand. "That's fine," the rotten Mologna said. "Let's go back in and give those assholes the good news."