Escape from Kathmandu

VII

When we returned to the Sheraton it was late afternoon. Freds and I were on rented bikes, and Nathan and Sarah followed in a taxi. We made sure our cabbie understood that we wanted him to wait for us out front; then Freds and I went inside, gave the all-clear to Nathan and Sarah, and headed straight for the lobby phones. Nathan and Sarah went to the front desk and checked into a room; we needed them out of sight for a while.

I called all the rooms on the top floor of the hotel (the fourth), and sure enough half of them were occupied by Americans. I explained that I was J. Reeves Fitzgerald, assistant to the Carters, who were fellow guests in the hotel. They all knew about the Carters. I explained that the Carters were hosting a small reception for the Americans at the hotel, and we hoped that they would join us in the casino bar when it was convenient—the Carters would be down in an hour or so. They were all delighted at the invitation (except for one surly Republican that I had to cut off), and they promised to be down shortly.

The last call got Phil Adrakian, in room 355; I identified myself as Lionel Hodding. It went as well as the others; if anything Adrakian was even more enthusiastic. “We’ll be right down, thanks—we have a reciprocal invitation to make, actually.” I was prejudiced, but he did sound like a pain. Nathan’s epithet, theorist, didn’t really make it for me; I preferred something along the lines of, say, asshole.

“Fine. Look forward to seeing all your party, of course.”

Freds and I waited in the bar and watched the elevators. Americans in their safari best began to pile out and head for the casino; you wouldn’t have thought there was that much polyester in all Kathmandu, but I guess it travels well.

Two men and a plump woman came down the broad stairs beside the elevator. “Them?” Freds asked. I nodded; they fitted Sarah’s descriptions exactly. Phil Adrakian was shortish, slim, and good-looking in a California Golden Boy kind of way. Valerie Budge wore glasses and had a lot of curly hair pulled up; somehow she looked intellectual where Sarah only looked studious. The money man, J. Reeves Fitzgerald, was sixtyish and very fit-looking, though he did smoke a cigar. He wore a safari jacket with eight pockets on it. Adrakian was arguing a point with him as they crossed the foyer to the casino bar, and I heard him say, “better than a press conference.”

I had a final inspiration and returned to the phones. I asked the hotel operator for Jimmy Carter, and got connected; but the phone was answered by a flat Midwestern voice, very businesslike indeed. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this the Carters’ suite?”

“May I ask who’s speaking?”

“This is J. Reeves Fitzgerald. I’d like you to inform the Carters that the Americans in the Sheraton have organized a reception for them in the hotel’s casino bar, for this afternoon.”

“…I’m not sure their scheduling will allow them to attend.”

“I understand. But if you’d just let them know.”

“Of course.”

Back to Freds, where I downed a Star beer in two gulps. “Well,” I said, “something should happen. Let’s get up there.”