He was in the process of winding it one morning when Logan walked into his office. Logan was fair-haired and fair-skinned, lightly freckled, tall and lean with a gym-rat’s physique and striking green eyes. But he wasn’t dressed like a billionaire’s son in stylish, expensive clothes; he preferred old jeans, old sneakers, torn t-shirts, military fatigue jackets. A 35-millimeter digital camera with a large optical zoom lens hung around his neck.
Seeing his father at the clock, he asked, “Are you still winding that damn thing every day? Why don’t you just burn it instead? Or give it to the home for the blind and deaf?”
P.T. turned to face him. “I’ve told you often enough, it’s useful. It throws people off.” He took a seat at his desk. “Besides, I like it. Our Bulvanian heritage—”
“You may come to regret ‘our Bulvanian heritage,’ and sooner than you think, dad.”
“Sit down. You want coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
P.T. hit a button on his intercom. “Marge, bring coffee for one.” Turning back to Logan he asked, “How’s the exhibition coming?”
“Shaping up beautifully. The opening’s in two weeks.”
“And is there any prospect of you making any real money off it?”
Logan shrugged, hesitated for a moment then said, “It’s not really about money.”
“Everything is about money, Logan. When are you going to figure that out?”
Logan shrugged an exaggerated shrug. “You’re coming to the opening, aren’t you?”
“To an exhibition of photos of the gay community? Including married couples? The administration wouldn’t like it. I have to keep them happy.”
“You may come to regret that, too.”
P.T. narrowed his eyes. “You’re being cryptic. I hate it when you act that way.”
“Mm-hmm.” Logan grinned.
“What brings you here today, anyway? The family business is usually the last place anybody would find you.”
“You asked me to catalog your art collection, remember? I thought I’d start with the stuff here, then get to the things we have at home.”
P.T. made a sour face. “Art. I had to let you major in art history instead of taking a proper, useful business degree.”
“You didn’t ‘let’ me. I majored in what I cared about.”
“You could at least let me get you a curator’s post at a good museum. Wasting your time on this photography stuff—”
“Don’t start again, dad. Where’s the key to these cabinets?”
“You wouldn’t let me buy that Thomas Kinkade painting I liked so much, either.”
“Why don’t you just invest in pop-up books? Or are even they too highbrow for you?”
P.T. scowled. He was in late middle age, short, a bit plump, with graying hair. Passing him on the street you’d never have guessed he was a powerful, politically connected CEO; a timid accountant would be more like it. But conservative in everything else, he was indulgent with his son. “You came here to do some work, remember? Not to take pock shots at me.”
“Sorry. Anyway, do you have that key?”
“I think Marge must have it.” He hit the intercom button again and asked her to find it and bring it in.
At that moment the cuckoo slid out of its clock and chirped 11 times. Logan reflexively looked at his watch to check if it was right. Then he grinned at his father again. “I guess you’re going to have to get used to hearing a lot of that.”
“What the devil do you mean? This is the only one I—”
“I hear they have a lot of those things where you’re going.”
P.T. finished winding the clock, put the key carefully on the top of it, turned and leaned on the edge of the desk. “What do you know—or think you know?”
Logan made a show of yawning. “I just had breakfast with Robert.”
“Your boyfriend in the Defense Department?”
“Ex-boyfriend. And he’s at State, not Defense.”
“Ex-boyfriend, then. If you didn’t have so many, I’d be able to keep track of them. When are you going to fall in love and settle down, so I won’t need a score sheet to keep track of all your shenanigans?”
Logan laughed at this. “Don’t start, Dad. Robert told me a little state secret.”
For the first time, P.T.’s attention was up. “What? What did he tell you?”
Logan took his time answering. He was enjoying the chance to keep his father in suspense. “Well… ”
“Stop beating around the bush. What do you know?”
“Well, dad… ”
“Come on, out with it!”
“It looks like you’re going to be tapped for an ambassadorship.” He added in a wry tone, “Your Excellency.”
P.T.’s face froze in an expression of mild surprise, but only for an instant. Then he broke out in a wide smile. “I knew it! All those campaign contributions had to pay off.”
“You’ve gotten three juicy government contracts plus a tin subsidy enacted into law. You’ve made millions. Isn’t that payoff enough?”
P.T. ignored this. “Just about every other big contributor has been posted overseas. It had to be my turn sooner or later.” He turned thoughtful. “They say van der Hoffel is going to be leaving as ambassador to England. He’s made too many false steps.” He struck a grand pose. “Can’t you just see me curtsying before the queen?”
Logan chuckled. “Van der Hoffel’s false steps would pale in comparison. Besides, it’s not England you’re in line for.”
“Then—?”
“How much do you like your cuckoo clock?”
“Damn it, Logan, will you get to the point?”
Logan grinned like a cat with cream on its whiskers. “They want to send you to Bulvania.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. They’ve tapped six other CEOs for the job, and they’ve all refused to go. None of them even knew where Bulvania is.”
“It isn’t anywhere, really. Just a speck on the shore of the Black Sea. But… but who’s getting England?”
Logan shrugged. “Not you, apparently. Anyway, you’re always crowing about your Bulvanian heritage, so they thought—”
“Bulvania! Jesus fucking Christ, Bulvania! It’s a goddamned hole in the wall. It’s so small you can’t find it on a map without a microscope. Their principal export is cuckoo clocks.”
The cuckoo slid out of its clock and cuckooed again. P.T. glared at it and barked “Shut up!” Turning back to Logan he asked, “What else do you know about this?”
“That’s pretty much it, I’m afraid. Robert said they’re having some kind of crisis in Bulvania, a constitutional shakeup or something, but it should be over by the time you arrive there. He didn’t mention any details. But the president’s mind is made up about this, he says.”
“What kind of crisis could a damn yokel country like that have?”
Logan shrugged. “Not enough peasants to shuck the corn? Too many dead moths stuck on light bulbs?”
“Don’t be funny.” His assistant Marge came in with a mug of coffee on a tray then handed the cabinet key to Logan. P.T. took his coffee, sipped and told her, “Get me Harrison over at the State Department.”
“Yes, sir.”
He glared at Logan. “I’ll get to the bottom of this right away. They could at least have given me Italy, couldn’t they?”
“I don’t know, dad. Do they make cuckoo clocks in Italy?”
“Shut up. And stop looking so damn smug. Go and list your goddamn pre-Columbian curios.”
The phone on his desk rang and he lunged to pick it up. “Pete Harrison? Listen, I just got wind of a rumor. Can I come over there and talk to you about it?” He was working at sounding calm and collected. “Yeah… yes… mm-hmm… 20 minutes? I’m not sure I can—Oh, all right then. See you in 20.”
He hung up and buzzed Marge on the intercom. “Order my car—fast!”
Logan had listened to the exchange and didn’t try to hide his amusement. “
They’re going to lean on you, dad. They mean for you to take this.”
“That’s what they think. There’s no way they can force me.”
“How about canceling your government contracts? You know the old saying, dad: Politics isn’t beanbag.”
“Be quiet. Go catalog some bric-a-brac or something.”
Logan laughed and got to his feet. “Is there a legal-size pad I can use?”
“Marge will get it for you.”
The cuckoo popped out and cuckooed again. P.T. glared at it. “Will you shut the hell up?”
Chapter Two
Two hours later P.T. was back.
Logan was sitting on the floor in front of one of the display cabinets, with a sheaf of papers scattered around him. Hearing his father, he looked up and grinned. “How did it go, Your Excellency?”
“Be quiet.” He flipped on the intercom. “Marge, get in touch with everyone on the board. Get them all here for a meeting. As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if they can all make it. And that damn fool head researcher, Tibbets. And get hold of that damn lobbyist McCune. Yes, right away.”
He switched it off and turned to Logan. “How much of this is your doing?”
Logan ignored the question. “There was supposed to be a statuette of the goddess Isis here. I remember buying it.”
“I asked you a question, Logan.”
“It was about four inches tall, made of beautiful blue faience.”
“I don’t even know what faience is. Will you talk to me? You’re the one who planted this goddamn idea at the State Department, aren’t you?”
Logan focused on the cabinet. “I was sure I put it on this shelf. She was holding an ankh.”
“Holding a what? What the hell is—?”
“You know—an ankh. That Egyptian cross with the loop on top. It was a symbol of life.” He switched gears. “You don’t really think the Secretary of State would listen to little me, do you?”
“No, but your boyfriend would.”
“Ex-boyfriend.” He got to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “He’s only a second assistant to the first assistant to the undersecretary in charge of pencils or something. You’ve had your lobbyists pushing for an ambassadorship for you since the day the president took office. I think you can file this one under ‘be careful what you wish for.”
“They’ve been pushing for a major ambassadorship. To a real country, a country that matters.”
“But our Bulvanian heritage—”
“Screw our Bulvanian heritage.”
As if on cue, the cuckoo cuckooed. P.T. glared at it. Logan grinned at him again. “So, what did Harrison have to say to you?”
“Not much that I didn’t already know. I’m way down on the list of people they tried. They need an ambassador and I gather they’re getting a bit desperate.”
“That must be a blow to the Bockwein ego.”
“The one bit of information he gave me is that they think there’s a major tin deposit in Bulvania, in the mountains just outside the capital.”
“Bulvania actually has a capital city and not just a post office box?”
“Our government wants tin. Harrison didn’t say so, but I got the impression they need a lot of the stuff for some new weapons system or some such. We’ll get the concession if I can negotiate a good enough deal with the Bulvanian foreign ministry.”
Logan was deadpan. “Tin weapons.”
P.T. shrugged. “Oh, and there is one other thing. If I actually become the ambassador, I get to choose my own staff.”
“Big deal.” Logan turned back to the display case. “Now where can Isis be?”
“My administrative assistant, my charge d’affaires…”
“Jobs for the boys, eh?” Logan started moving the figurines on the shelf, trying to see if the one he was looking for had gotten moved to the back.
“And even my official photographer.” He said in it the most pointed tone.
For the first time something P.T. said actually caught Logan’s attention. “What?!”
“Yes, you get the idea. If I can’t get out of this appointment, you’re coming with me.”
“What?!?!”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“But—but I don’t want to go to Bulvania.”
“Who does? I’ll need an assistant; someone I can trust. And you can double as my official photographer.”
“But—but I don’t want to go to Bulvania.”
“Stop yammering. Do you think I do?”
“For Chrissakes, Dad, I’m a young gay man. I live in Washington, D.C., the gayest city in the world. Why would I trade that for a tin-pot country the size of a postcard?”
“If it’s sex you’re worried about, I hear they have a thriving community of goats. You’d fit right in.”
“Very funny. Dad, I—”
“You said it yourself, it’s a tin-pot little country. Emphasis on ‘tin.’”
“But—but I—”
The phone on the desk rang. It was his head scientific researcher, Tibbets. He picked up the receiver and had a low, muttered conversation. “Yeah?... yeah?... mm-hmm… yeah. Bulvania. Mm-hmm. See what you can find out.”
He turned back to Logan. “We’re looking into these reports. If they pan out, and if the board thinks it’s big enough and something we ought to pursue… ” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, as if to ask, What can I do? “There may be billions to be made off that tin-pot little country.”
“We already have billions.”
“Billions more, then.”
“Dad, you can’t be serious about this. I mean, I can see why you might want to go yourself, but dragging me into this—”
“It’s time you settled down and stop having flings with every cute young guy in the district. A year or two on a diplomatic mission will do you a world of good.”
“But—but I—”
“Relax, Logan. Nothing’s final yet.”
“I don’t even know anything about Bulvania. I wouldn’t even be aware it even exists if it wasn’t for you and that damn cuckoo clock.”
“I’ll have someone from our research library brief you. Brief both of us. I don’t know much more about the place than you do.”
Logan sat in glum silence for a long moment. “Bulvania: Siberia with cuckoo clocks.”
“Why don’t you get back to what you were doing and stop moping? I don’t have any intention of going to Bulvania, so you’re safe too.”
‘I hope so. I just met this really hot guy, and I—”
“Another one? Spare me, Logan.”
Logan turned unhappily back to the display cabinet. “I wish I could find that damn Isis. Boy, could I use a symbol of life right now.”
Chapter Three
That night Logan met his former boyfriend Robert Semnarek for dinner. They met at the Dupont Circle metro station. Robert wanted to go to his favorite Greek restaurant, but Logan held out for a steak-and-fries place. “I don’t want foreign food. I don’t even want to think about anything foreign.”
Rob was in his early thirties, tall and muscular; his clothes accentuated his splendid body. “Still picky. Are you still afraid of thunder, too? I’ve been craving Greek all day, Logan.”
“We’ll take care of that later.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. Salonika is just around the corner.”
Grumbling, pouting, Logan followed him. “I never get my way.”
“Stop talking like a spoiled rich kid, will you?”
“I can’t help it. It comes natural to me.”
When they were seated—the captain recognized them and gave them a corner booth—Logan started pressing Robert about the Bulvanian ambassadorship. “Rob, he means to make me go with him. I couldn’t stand it. You’ve got to help me.”
“What can I do to pressure your father?” He turned his attention to the menu. “They make a fantastic spanakopita here. And the saganaki is to die for.”
Logan checked his menu. �
�Saganaki—an appetizer of flaming sheep cheese. No thanks. I’ll be eating enough things like that soon enough. Rob, you have to be able to do something. Everybody says State is the gayest department in the government. There has to be a network there. There just has to be—”
The talk was making Robert uncomfortable. He cut him off and tried to change the subject. “When does your new exhibition open?”
“Next week. If I don’t slash my wrists first.”
“Stop being such a drama queen. Bulvania isn’t the end of the world.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Just once. There was a storm over the Black Sea and my flight was diverted to the capital, Flausenthurmopolis.”
“Floozywhat?”
“Flausenthurmopolis.”
Logan was deadpan. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“It’s a charming little city, Logan. Like something out of a Brothers Grimm story book.”
“But Little Bo Peep’s sheep have all been made into cheese.”
“Stop it. The place has seen better days, I suppose. Maybe the story book is a bit dingy. But it just drips with old world charm.”
“Do they have indoor plumbing?”
“Stop it, will you?”
The waiter came. Robert ordered his spanakopita; Logan made a fuss till the waiter finally agreed to have a hamburger made for him.
The conversation turned neutral; Rob had no intention of listening to Logan whine about Bulvania. But Logan persisted. “Is there really a lot of tin there?”
“I don’t know much about that. It’s not my department.”
“Bureaucrat. And cuckoo clocks. Cuckoo clocks can’t really be their major export, can they? What kind of economy—?”
“Why, don’t you like knowing what time it is?”
“They have to produce something besides that, Rob. Tell me they do.”
“They do. Happy now?”
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