The Siege By James F. O'Callaghan

The Siege

Hunkered down in their compound, they awaited the wily and greedy aggressors.
By James F. O'Callaghan

It was the fifth day of the third week. Pat Murphy, the Public Affairs officer at Embassy Loin, glanced cautiously out the window into the glare of the West African sun.

"Looks quiet," he said. "Not even a goat. But stay away from the windows. Could be a trick." As he turned, backlit by the window, his short paunchy figure cast a prophetic shadow and his gray-black hair lit up in a halo.

The five disconsolate Foreign Service nationals seated on his sofa and the floor nodded their assent. On Sept. 30 they had stocked their Cultural Center with supplies for two weeks, double-locked all the doors, and bedded down to await the new fiscal year, optimistic that all would soon be well. They awoke to angry and insulting phone calls and megaphone messages and even one attempt by the aggressors to climb over the center's outer wall. That attempt was repulsed without injury, but with time, uncertainty also wounds.

Now Murphy looked at these USIA veterans with a mixture of pride and pity: despite their fears they, as well as those posted in the audio-visual room, the parking lot, the library and the English language instruction offices had remained upbeat, cheering as Murphy joined the women employees in the courtyard to pound yams into fufu -- that staple of the West African diet -- with a heavy pestle. They even cheered when he gave up after two minutes, his arms in agony. But now they were not only coldly shaven and ill-washed but increasingly hungry, missing their families and worried about the rent and the children's tuition. (Murphy himself had no family to worry about: consecrated to worldwide cultural exchange, he had accepted the celibacy demanded by such a commitment.) How much longer could they hold out? He was certain only of the driver, Pierre, and of Admin Assistant Afi Kpomblekou, whose normally soft voice remained steely cold as she insisted, "I'll never trade BROMS for Excel!"

"Marie! When was the last time Pierre checked in?" Murphy asked suddenly.

"An hour ago." His secretary's voice had lost much of its precision and quickness.

"Right. Think I'll see how he's doing. They're sure to try for the vehicles again."

Pierre Kpornu sat on a bench beneath the bao-bao tree, his solid stocky frame claiming much of its shade. The rest fell on the PAO car, the USIA Toyota Carryall and the FSNs' personal cars.

"All quiet, Pierre?" Murphy asked.

"Ah, oui," Pierre answered. "Sarkon was outside the gate awhile ago, shouting that they needed to deliver folding chairs to the ambassador's but," he laughed softly, "I told him to use their own flatbed. It's been wrecked twice already so another time won't matter!"

Murphy rejoiced in Pierre's eternal stoicism. Two weeks earlier he had thrown Sarkon back over the wall with that same patient strength which made him the best driver in the mission, picking up safe driving awards annually for 22 years. Murphy grunted approval. "Let him into our Carryall," he said, "and it won't last a week."

The older man nodded vigorously and added, "Once we don't have our own car to deliver things, forget about sending invitations on time!"

"For sure." Truly, the center needed a vehicle. And Murphy silently hoped he wasn't just being selfish about the other car, his official sedan. He needed it; he would miss half his appointments if he turned it over to the GSO. Surely he didn't want it just for the convenience, and still less for the status. Really, he didn't. Not really.

His examination of conscience was interrupted by the voice of the RSO shouting over the heavy black and heavily barred parking lot gate.

"PAT! You in there? We have to talk!"

Murphy peered through the spyhole. Jerry Hale was alone. Or at least all Pat could see was the RSO's wide belly, his face out of sight atop his 6'3 inch frame.

"I'm here," Murphy said. "But there's nothing to talk about unless you guys call off this nonsense."

The RSO's heavy sigh penetrated the steel gate. "You know this wasn't our idea -- Congress ordered consolidation for Chrissake! We've been telling you that for months!"

"Yeah. Sure. Can't you guys come up with a new line?"

Another sigh. "Fine. I just came to tell you two things: first, the ambassador is about out of patience and she's ready to cut off salaries for all of you. After that we cut the water and electricity!"

"I knew it! To hell with the Geneva Convention when it suits you!"

"And," the RSO continued, "you've got a visitor you've really got to see."

"Who this time? Ellen? I know she's lusting for our computers. Tell her to save her breath." Murphy shook his head. Why did they suppose he'd believe Admin after he'd withstood the best con jobs the ambassador and DCM had offered?

"Not Ellen," said Jerry. "Your old PAO from Quito, Cottrell Brown."

"Cottrell Brown!" Murphy whispered softly, remembering the lean sarcastic cynic who had told him his first day on the job, 10 years before, "Just make sure you've got lots of cameras and floodlights there for the ambassador's speeches." What's he doing here? Pat wondered. As if in answer the RSO went on:

"They flew him from the States to try to talk some sense into you. Better listen -- he's your last chance."

Murphy was speechless. How could Cottrell Brown join them? At every USIA staff meeting he had complained about the time it took those clowns to process a simple travel voucher or ridiculed POL's ignorance of any opinion expressed outside elite living rooms. No, Cottrell would never join the dark side. They had a ringer, or it was just a trick to get inside the center and throw open the gates. "How do I know it's him?" he asked.

"He said to tell you ‘Guayasamin knows marketing.'"

The phrase carried Murphy back to the fading hours of a dinner party in Quito, half a dozen staffers around the fireplace, huddled against the nighttime chill. Brown was shaking his head at the prices Guayasamin got for his paintings which were good, sure, but not that much better than those of a dozen other Ecuadorian artists. "Man knows marketing," Cottrell explained. "'Fore tourists ever get off the plane they think his are 'bout the only expressions of au-then-tic native culture, Indians playing the flute under surreal mountains or whatever. So they go on down to his studio and pay whatever he wants." Murphy turned back to the gate. "OK, tell him to stand in the middle of the street where we can see him, and then to come in the front door."

"You want him naked so he can't hide anything?"

Despite the sarcasm, Murphy prudently considered for a moment. But it was too hideous. "No," he said. "Five minutes, OK?"

"You got it. Catch you later."

Murphy glanced through the spyhole to be sure Jerry had left, then went back into the center where he was joined on the stairway by Afi Kpomblekou and Press Assistant Koffi Santos. They peered through a landing window into the dusty street separating the Cultural Center from the embassy. In a few minutes a lone figure appeared, eyes squinting against the sun. "Sure looks like Cottrell Brown," Murphy allowed. "Older, a bit fatter. Less hair. But I think it's him."

"What can he tell us the others didn't?" asked Koffi.

"I don't know. But you can trust him. Or at least, you could. And we don't have much to lose by listening." He slid open the thermal window and yelled down, "OK! Come in!"

Cottrell -- if it was Cottrell -- grinned amiably and put a battered baseball cap back on his head, one with the University of Mississippi logo. It looked like the hat from Quito.

Murphy quickly went downstairs to tell librarian Michel Toffou to open the door. "But make sure no one else is there to rush us."

Michel nodded wearily. He was a man of regular habits, was Michel, as dedicated to his work as to his family. Sleeping in the center and lacking library patrons these three weeks had been hard on him, and only the prospect of seeing his library seized by the Commercial Section had kept him resolute. Now he dutifully opened the door, letting a tall man in jeans and a guayabera shirt enter.

"Cottrell? It's really you! I thought you retired."

"Really is, my boy, and I damn near did!" The older man extended a hand. "Then my daughter decided she had to go to graduate school. Anyway, glad to see you're making a name for yourself. I always trained my JOTs good. You got something cold to drink? Hotter out there than the Delta in dog days."

"Sure." Murphy led the way up the narrow stairs to the PAO office, introduced Cottrell to the staff and to a chair, and poured a glass of mineral water before sitting behind his desk. "Afraid the beer's all gone, last week. Don't suppose you could get us some more, could you?"

"Yeah, think I could. Get you 'bout anything you want, if you go along with those boys." And in response to Murphy's disappointed expression, added, "You gonna run out of a whole lot more'n beer, you don't get with the program."

"Cottrell ... of all people, I never expected to hear this from you. How could they turn you around like that?"

"Took an act of Congress," Cottrell chuckled after draining a large glass of water and holding it out for a refill. "You did hear about that?"

"I know what they claim. But you're the one told me they'd been going back and forth on this for 40 years and it would probably never happen and if it did they'd change it back again sooner or later. Well, if it happened we're just encouraging them to fix it sooner rather than later. Someone's got to make a statement."

Brown finished his second glass of water and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "You sure did that all right. Real good job with your local press here. I guess. Don't read French but saw your picture on the front page of one of the papers here under a big headline about culture defending something, was it?"

"Cultural Workers Defend Their Dignity and Livelihood," Murphy translated from memory. "Koffi here gets the credit for arranging that."

"Good job, Koffi. But the New York Times quoted a Mr. Murphy in their story. You made the big leagues, boy!"

Pat modestly waved aside the praise. "Can't take much credit. They called me."

"Yeah, but you're the one who came up with, what was it? 'We must not prostitute American culture to the policy of the day'? There were even some sympathetic letters to the editor. Good stuff. Not that it'll do you any good."

Pat noticed the FSNs shifting uncomfortably, looking from him to Brown and back. "Sure it will," he insisted. "Get some public sympathy, Washington will react. If more posts had held out the damn thing would be repealed by now."

Brown shook his head impatiently. "They can't do nothin' in less than 15 years. You plan to sit here that long?"

"If we have to!" Murphy felt foolish as soon as he said it. "Damn it all, Cottrell, you know what's at stake? Take English programs: they say our part-time teachers have to be State employees but they don't say what kind: FSNs? PSCs? What? And if they are then we have to pay Social Security and medical and maybe a set number of hours so the costs go through the roof but they tell us the program still has to pay for itself which is impossible even if they figure out how to recycle money which they say they 'don't do.'"

"You got that right," Cottrell allowed. "But they'll work it out. Some day."

"And," cut in Afi bitterly, "Excel is a terrible program. I don't know if it could even recycle English language tuition or advising fees back into our budget."

"Or how about international visitors?" Murphy continued. "We can't wait until February -- their latest guess -- for a budget! We've got to get people on planes!"

"And they want to take our janitors," added Kwaku Amavi, the distribution head responsible for sending out thousands of newsletters and Wireless File texts each month. "But our janitors do more than clean; they help with stuffing envelopes or answering the phone when Victor's not here and all kinds of things!"

Cottrell nodded patiently, and added his own predictions: "And where you used to arrange to run your own petty cash, you'll have to go beggin' to B&F, and beggin' to GSO to fix things. Won't control no budget anymore. Have to get their OK. And you can bet they got their eyes on all these TVs and VCRs over here, too. And your library's gonna be pushing Fords instead of Faulkner. Oh, it's gonna be different, fer sure."

The FSNs, and Murphy, nodded in grim confirmation. "So how can you urge us to go along?"

"Listen here, son: You -- ain't -- got -- no -- choice! What you doin' now? You puttin' any international visitors on planes? You got anybody reading Faulkner in your library? You getting any money to track with any program at all? You having lunch with any journalists or academics?"

"Well I would. But they won't let anyone in, and if we go out they'll occupy the place."

"That's right. And you better believe it, they gonna cut you off: salaries, water, lights. It comes to that, you and your people gonna walk out of here with nothin'. I'm tellin' you, better give it up while you still got somethin'."

If pressure just made Murphy want to dig in his heels, the looks on the FSN faces told him Brown's arguments were having an effect. Even Afi was twisting her hands uncertainly. "You really believe that, Cottrell?" Murphy asked.

"I wouldn't have come 10,000 miles if I didn't! Besides, it ain't all bad. Take me. I'm still in my same office in the old USIA building but since ever'thing has to go through five layers of clearance now, I get a whole lot more reading done waiting for ABC an' XYZ to sign off. Finally got through Plutarch's Lives, even. Good stuff."

Murphy shifted uneasily. He sensed he was losing the FSNs. "That's all right for you, Cottrell, but we're here." "And it ain't all bad here, boy! Didn't they promise your FSNs grade retention? Ain't nobody gonna lose no salary or seniority. Mosta your people gonna keep doin' just what they been doing and you'll have less paperwork yourself. Well, maybe. And maybe you can even keep your car 'till the end of your tour -- if you ain't got the ambassador too mad already."

"You're sure about grade retention?" asked Marie Zekpa. "Even if the PAO is downgraded, the secretary stays the same?" "You stay the same, even if the position changes," Cottrell assured her. "Well, if that's really true --" Before she could finish Murphy broke in.

"How about FSN parking, hah? Koffi -- didn't you say the State FSNs were already gloating that you wouldn't be able to park inside the USIA parking lot anymore because there wouldn't be one and you'd have to park outside like they do?"

"Yes," Koffi agreed. "But maybe ... I mean, if we get fired we don't have to worry about parking anyway. Are you sure we can't win, Mr. Brown?"

"Dead sure. Sorry. So what you gonna do, Pat? Got to think of your people."

Murphy stared dismally at the floor and walls as if looking for a secret exit. His eyes fell on his computer and he idly clicked the mouse, calling up Free Cell. "No games on State computers," he observed.

"Nope."

"Well, Cottrell, like you used to say, look's like I've about played out my hand. You're right, I can't ask my people to keep on risking everything if there's no hope. But I just can't do it, myself. Guess when I walk out of here I'll head right on out to the airport and the private sector. You suppose they'll let me in that Job Search thing?

"Boy, don't be stupid. You know the government's paying you more'n you're worth."

"I know that. But still ... Aside from that, give me just one good reason I should hang around if we give up?" Brown reached over, put a firm hand on Murphy's shoulder, looked the younger man in the eye and said in a strong, even voice: "You'll never have to sit on an I-CASS Council again."

Pat stared back in distrustful joy. "Are you sure?"

"Sure am. No separate agency, no representation. You would only ever go on as a State rep, and the ambassador herself promised me she would never make you do that. An' I believe her. She's a real nice lady."

"Then no more cost centers," the PAO breathed. "Whatever they are. That would be great ... if it's true. Can I trust them?" "Pat, have I ever lied to you? From your first day as a JOT, didn't I tell you exactly like it was?"

"Yes, Cottrell. You did."

"All right then. Do what you gotta do."

Phone calls were made and terms agreed. Murphy and the entire USIA staff marched out of the Cultural Center at 5 p.m. exactly, crosswalking through the dust and past the foraging goats to the embassy's wide and wide-open vehicle gates, where the ambassador and most of her staff waited. A short, dignified woman, her habitual graciousness was only slightly compromised by signs of impatience or disgust. Murphy held his head high as he approached but made a formal correct bow as he surrendered to her his Country Plan and the keys to the PAO vehicle. She accepted both, looked at them for a moment, and then graciously handed back the plan. "You'll be needing this," she smiled, "to complete your portion of the MPP. I know you'll do your best." And handing him the keys, she said, "Consider yourself grandfathered. You owe Mr. Brown."

"Thank you, ambassador," Murphy choked. "That's very kind of you."

"I'm just sorry it took so long," she said with an ambiguous, puzzling smile. Murphy would have understood if he could have seen, as she could, Sarkon clambering into the carryall, and the commercial assistant heading toward the library with his arms full of the Thomas Commercial Register, and Ellen Olsen emerging with a Pentium III computer so new and clean that you could hardly tell where she'd torn off the USIA barcode. James O'Callaghan's last post was as public affairs officer in Lomé. He is no longer in the Foreign Service.