Caravans [antikvár]

On a bleak wintry morning some years ago I was summoned to the office of our naval attaché at the American embassy in Kabul. Captain Verbruggen looked at me with an air of frustration and growled, "Damn it all, Miller, two weeks ago the ambassador ordered you to settle this mess about the saddle shoes. Last night the Afghanistan government made another protest . . . this time official. I want you, by three o'clock this afternoon, to hand me . . ." I interrupted to report: "Sir, a much more serious matter has come up. Last night a dispatch arrived. I've assembled the data for you." I shoved before him a leather portfolio jammed with papers. Across the face of the portfolio was stamped the gold inscription, "For the Ambassador," and since our embassy owned only two such folders, what went into them was apt to be important. "Can't it wait till the ambassador gets back from Hong Kong?" Captain Verbruggen asked hopefully, for even though he was our acting ambassador he preferred to temporize. I disappointed him. "It's got to be handled now." (1)