"I'm sorry," said Thorn in a shaking voice. "Send me a bill for the damage."

Jennings picked up the broken camera and stood slowly, shrugging as he looked into Thorn's eyes.

"That's okay, Mr. Ambassador," he said. "Let's just say .. . you 'owe' me."

After an uneasy nod, Thorn turned on his heel and entered the Embassy, as a Marine ran up from the street, too late to survey the aftermath of the incident.

"He busted my camera," said Jennings to the Marine. "The Ambassador busted my camera."

They stood nonplussed, then disbursed, each going his separate way.

Thorn's office was in turmoil. The trip of Saudi Arabia was in jeopardy because Thorn was balking, saying, without further explanation, that he was unable to go. Planning the trip had occupied his staff for the better part of two weeks, and his two aides were up in arms, feeling cheated that their work had gone to waste.

"You can't cancel," entreated one. "After all this, you can't just call and say ..."

"It's not canceled," retorted Thorn, "it's postponed."

"They'll take it as an insult."

"So be it."

"But why?"

"I don't feel like traveling right now," replied Thorn. "It's not a good time."

"Do you realize what's at stake here?" asked his second aide.

"Diplomacy," answered Thorn.

"More than that."

"They've got the oil and they've got the power," said Thorn. "Nothing will change that."

"That's precisely why..."

"I'll send somebody else."

"The President's expecting you to go."

"I'll talk to him. I'll explain."

"My God, Jerry! This thing's been planned for weeks!"

"Then replan it!" Thorn shouted.

His sudden outburst created silence. An intercom buzzed, and Thorn reached for it.

"Yes?"

"There's a Father Tassone here to see you," replied a secretary's voice.

"Who?"

"Father Tassone from Rome. He says it's a matter of urgent personal business."

"I've never heard of him," replied Thorn.

"He says he just needs a minute," responded the voice. "Something about a hospital."

"Probably wants a donation," mumbled one of Thorn's aides.

"Or a dedication," added the other.

"All right," Thorn sighed. "Send him in."

"I didn't know you were such a soft touch," remarked one of the aides.

"Public relations," muttered Thorn.

"Don't make a decision on Saudi Arabia yet. Okay? You're down today. Just let it sit."

"The decision is made," said Thorn with fatigue. "Either someone else goes or we postpone it."

"Postpone it until when?"

"Until later," responded Thorn. "Until I feel better about leaving."

The doors swung open, and in the massive archway stood a diminutive man. He was a priest; his robes were disheveled, his manner tense, his sense of urgency felt by all in the room. The aides exchanged an uneasy glance, uncertain whether it was safe to leave the room.

"Would it... be all right..." asked the priest, in a thick Italian accent, "... to speak with you alone?"

"It's about a hospital?" asked Thorn.

"Sir . .