The Ugly American by Eugene Burdick, William J. Lederer
Authors: Eugene Burdick, William J. Lederer
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confusing, more protective. MacWhite had a first suspicion that part of what Li had concluded might be right.
Then abruptly Li looked terribly tired. He seemed to shrink in size, to become more harmless. His voice became pleading. He seemed to wish the interrogation were over.
"Help us all out, Donald," Li said quietly. "Tell us where the whiskey and wristwatch are. That's all we want. Then you can go."
Donald straightened, seemed to grow in strength as Li weakened. MacWhite felt his confidence in Donald return. He felt a flash of admiration for the courage of the old man. Donald was even smiling slightly.
"I know nothing of the wristwatch or the whiskey," he said easily. "But I know that the typewriter and briefcase were not stolen. They are both in Ambassador MacWhite's study. I saw them there."
Li wheeled, as quick and sharp as a mongoose, as terrible as a tiger about to kill.
"Who said anything about a typewriter or briefcase, Donald?" he screamed. "Who? Where did you hear that?" Donald's face was stricken.
"You heard that because I mentioned it in English to Ambassador MacWhite," Li said, and now he was speaking in English. "You understand English. And for months you have been overhearing what the ambassador says as you serve martinis and pick up trays and clear cigarette butts away." He put his face close to Donald's and his intensity was so awful, his presence so menacing, that Donald went rigid.
"Yes, I lied," Donald said in English. It was not flawless English, but it was English, and his voice held both horror and humiliation. "I did it only because the Communists hold my children in Moukung. They will kill them if I do not supply them with information."
"And you have told the Communists of Ambassador MacWhite's plans to smash them in Sarkhan," Li said, and this time it was not a question.
Donald nodded dumbly.
"You may leave the room, but do not leave the house," Li said. "We will want to talk to you later."
Donald left, and MacWhite watched him go. MacWhite knew that all of his careful work, his spending of millions of dollars, his cunning strategy, were all wasted. He knew that he, the Honorable Gilbert MacWhite, had made a terrible mistake. Somewhere in his carefully trained mind, in his rigorous background, in his missionary zeal, there was a flaw. It hit him very hard. Beneath the humility he had always, consciously kept on the surface, and which he had always believed in, not only as a necessity in dealing with the world, not only as a requirement of the social human, not only as a prerequisite of the receptive mind, but also as a reality of himself—beneath that humility there had been a rigid core of ego which had permitted him to place a fatal amount of faith in his own, unsupported judgment. He did not know where it was or how it got there or even how to remove it. But he knew that it was there, and he hated Li for showing it to him. But he was too tough-minded and analytical to remain stunned.
He looked up slowly. Li was standing in front of the window looking out over the beautiful countryside of Sarkhan, up at the snow white clouds of the Sarkhanese sky. Li swung around and faced MacWhite.
"I am sorry, Gilbert," he said softly. "It is not an easy thing to be cruel to an old man. Nor is it an easy thing to put doubts into a man as skilled and dedicated as you. But it was necessary. But necessary things are not always nice. This was very, very bad."
They were both standing there quietly, looking out over the landscape, when Molly came down the stairs in a simple, light blue, expensive dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, and gaily called for a martini.
MacWhite had learned long ago that recriminations are a kind of luxury, and he never let himself afford such a pleasure. He knew he had made a mistake, and he knew that it was a mistake both of judgment and of information. For two days he sat quietly in his office, analyzing his errors of omission, the nature of his problem, and the
Then abruptly Li looked terribly tired. He seemed to shrink in size, to become more harmless. His voice became pleading. He seemed to wish the interrogation were over.
"Help us all out, Donald," Li said quietly. "Tell us where the whiskey and wristwatch are. That's all we want. Then you can go."
Donald straightened, seemed to grow in strength as Li weakened. MacWhite felt his confidence in Donald return. He felt a flash of admiration for the courage of the old man. Donald was even smiling slightly.
"I know nothing of the wristwatch or the whiskey," he said easily. "But I know that the typewriter and briefcase were not stolen. They are both in Ambassador MacWhite's study. I saw them there."
Li wheeled, as quick and sharp as a mongoose, as terrible as a tiger about to kill.
"Who said anything about a typewriter or briefcase, Donald?" he screamed. "Who? Where did you hear that?" Donald's face was stricken.
"You heard that because I mentioned it in English to Ambassador MacWhite," Li said, and now he was speaking in English. "You understand English. And for months you have been overhearing what the ambassador says as you serve martinis and pick up trays and clear cigarette butts away." He put his face close to Donald's and his intensity was so awful, his presence so menacing, that Donald went rigid.
"Yes, I lied," Donald said in English. It was not flawless English, but it was English, and his voice held both horror and humiliation. "I did it only because the Communists hold my children in Moukung. They will kill them if I do not supply them with information."
"And you have told the Communists of Ambassador MacWhite's plans to smash them in Sarkhan," Li said, and this time it was not a question.
Donald nodded dumbly.
"You may leave the room, but do not leave the house," Li said. "We will want to talk to you later."
Donald left, and MacWhite watched him go. MacWhite knew that all of his careful work, his spending of millions of dollars, his cunning strategy, were all wasted. He knew that he, the Honorable Gilbert MacWhite, had made a terrible mistake. Somewhere in his carefully trained mind, in his rigorous background, in his missionary zeal, there was a flaw. It hit him very hard. Beneath the humility he had always, consciously kept on the surface, and which he had always believed in, not only as a necessity in dealing with the world, not only as a requirement of the social human, not only as a prerequisite of the receptive mind, but also as a reality of himself—beneath that humility there had been a rigid core of ego which had permitted him to place a fatal amount of faith in his own, unsupported judgment. He did not know where it was or how it got there or even how to remove it. But he knew that it was there, and he hated Li for showing it to him. But he was too tough-minded and analytical to remain stunned.
He looked up slowly. Li was standing in front of the window looking out over the beautiful countryside of Sarkhan, up at the snow white clouds of the Sarkhanese sky. Li swung around and faced MacWhite.
"I am sorry, Gilbert," he said softly. "It is not an easy thing to be cruel to an old man. Nor is it an easy thing to put doubts into a man as skilled and dedicated as you. But it was necessary. But necessary things are not always nice. This was very, very bad."
They were both standing there quietly, looking out over the landscape, when Molly came down the stairs in a simple, light blue, expensive dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, and gaily called for a martini.
MacWhite had learned long ago that recriminations are a kind of luxury, and he never let himself afford such a pleasure. He knew he had made a mistake, and he knew that it was a mistake both of judgment and of information. For two days he sat quietly in his office, analyzing his errors of omission, the nature of his problem, and the
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