MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister replied. It was a diplomatic “Hah!” signifying that he disbelieved, rather intensely, the last remark.

  “ ‘Hah’? What do you mean, ‘Hah!’ ” Potter replied, sternly.

  “At this very moment, my dear Mr. Deputy Assistant Under Secretary,” the Foreign Minister said with infinite relish, his trap having slammed shut on his prey, “we have two more of your expatriate maniacs in one of our mental institutions. Don’t try to tell me that you aren’t shipping them out of the country in wholesale lots!”

  “I don’t believe it,” Potter said. “I refuse to believe it!” Potter said. “I cannot recall ever having seen such a shameless bluff! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister said. This, too, was a diplomatic “Hah!”; but it differed from the first “Hah!” in both tone of delivery and meaning. This had sort of a triumphal tone to it, and meant, “I’ll show you, wise guy!”

  The Foreign Minister picked up his red (urgent, official business) telephone and snapped, “Get me the Casablanca Funny Farm on the line. I want to speak to one, either one, of the crazy Americans.”

  He dropped the phone back into its cradle, and he and the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary glowered at each other silently for a full five minutes until the telephone rang again.

  “This is the Foreign Minister,” he said. “Which crazy American are you?”

  There was a pause, during which the rather attractive darkness drained almost completely from the Foreign Minister’s face. Then he said, “My dear Monsieur le President, I fear there has been a ghastly mistake.”

  Deputy Under Assistant Secretary Potter brightened visibly.

  “Hah!” he said.

  “I was expecting a call from a crazy American,” the Foreign Minister said. Then he chuckled warmly. “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Here and there, maybe, there may be one, or two who …” He suddenly remembered the nationality of the official guest in his office. “What I mean to say, Monsieur le President, is that I have something of a crisis on my hands in my office and, for that reason, I was unable to be at the airport in Marrakech to meet you and Madame le President.”

  Monsieur le President apparently responded to that, although Potter, straining mightily, could not make out what he had said.

  “I look forward to seeing you, Monsieur le President, at His Majesty’s party,” the Foreign Minister said, “and to paying my respects to your charming and delightful wife.” There was a pause. “No, Monsieur le President, as of this minute, no Americans have been invited, so far as I know.”

  “Hah!” Potter snapped again.

  “There may be some last-minute developments of which I am not aware, however,” the Foreign Minister went on. “It is His Royal Majesty’s personal party, you know, and I am but a lowly toiler in the diplomatic vineyard.”

  “Hah!” Potter, said, with still another diplomatic change of intonation.

  “Good-bye, Monsieur le President,” the Foreign Minister said. He put the phone back into its cradle. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he said to Potter.

  “Is what supposed to mean?”

  “Hah!”

  “I ‘Hah!’ed three times,” Potter said. “To which specific ‘Hah!’ do you make reference?”

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister said.

  “That one, huh? Well, you may be assured, Mr. Foreign Minister, that the Moroccan Ambassador to Washington will have moss growing on his patent-leather shoes before he gets invited to another of our parties now that I know how I rank vis-à-vis parties for some lousy European President.”

  “As a matter of protocol, of course,” the Foreign Minister said, “the American Ambassador has been invited to His Majesty’s party. But since the Ambassador is unfortunately unable to be with us …”

  “In the absence of the American Ambassador, I am the ranking American diplomat in Morocco,” Q. Elwood Potter said. “As a matter of fact, I’m the ranking diplomat in Morocco, period. A Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State is de facto and de jure far more important than an Ambassador. There are only eleven Deputy Assistant Under Secretaries of State. We don’t even know how many Ambassadors we have. What about that?”

  “In that case, Mr. Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State, the Government of Morocco hopes to have the pleasure of your company at His Majesty’s party.”

  “I should hope so,” Potter said.

  The red telephone rang again.

  “Hello?” the Foreign Minister said. “Am I by chance speaking with one of the crazy Americans at the Casablanca Mental Sanitarium?” He listened to the reply; a smile crossed his face. “Well, Mr. Congressman, if you will just hold the line a moment, I will put one of your diplomats on the line.” He handed the phone to Potter. “This one thinks he is a Congressman,” he said “Hah!”

  “Hello,” Potter said, “this is Q. Elwood Potter, Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State. With whom am I speaking?” There was a pause. “Of the United States of America, of course,” he said. There was another pause. “You say you are Edwards L. Jackson, third-ranking member of the House Committee on Sewers, Subways and Sidewalks, but how do I know that?”

  While the Foreign Minister could not hear what was being said at the other end, he did pick up what sounded like a muted explosion.

  “Well, Mr. Congressman,” Q. Elwood Potter said, “how is it that you have been confined?” Another pause. “The American Consul had you locked up? You and Don Rhotten? That wouldn’t be the world-famous television journalist Don Rhotten by any chance? Oh, it would, eh? Well, Mr. Congressman, you just stay where you are, and I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He took the telephone from his ear and laid it back into the cradle.

  “Mr. Foreign Minister,” he said, sonorously, “it appears that a ghastly error has been made.”

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister said.

  “It appears that the Honorable Edwards L. Jackson, member of Congress, and the distinguished, world-famous television journalist, Don Rhotten, are being detained in your Casablanca funny farm.”

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister said.

  “And what is that ‘Hah!’ supposed to mean?”

  “And which American diplomat asked that they be locked up?” the Foreign Minister replied. “We just didn’t snatch them off the street, you know.”

  Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State Potter looked thoughtful for a moment. “Now look,” he said, “speaking as one career diplomat to another, Mustapha. I can call you Mustapha, can’t I?”

  “As one career diplomat to another, Elwood, you can call me Mustapha,” the Foreign Minister said.

  “The way I see it, we both have a little problem,” Q. Elwood Potter said. “On one hand, I would frankly be just a little embarrassed to have it get out that a fellow diplomat on our team had a U.S. Congressman and a famous TV guy tossed in the booby hatch.”

  “Hah!” the Foreign Minister said.

  “And, on the other hand, I don’t think you’d really want the word to get around that the way you greeted a United States Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State arriving in your capital on an official mission was by wrapping him up in a long-sleeved white coat and throwing him—that is, me—into the booby hatch here. Right?”

  “It might be misunderstood in some quarters,” Mustapha said. “What are you thinking, Elwood—just off the top of your head?”

  “Now, far be it from me to suggest that women aren’t just as smart as men,” Elwood said, “but, when you get down to the nitty-gritty, can you imagine a male diplomat doing something like this?”

  “Just between you and me, Elwood, I’m not too big on lady diplomats, period,” Mustapha agreed.

  “And you yourself heard her on the telephone making me describe the Secretary’s office, and then, violating every standard of executive secrecy, forcing me to tell her what the Secretary of State calls his private secretary in private.”

 
; “I was a little shocked at that,” Mustapha admitted. “What a man calls his secretary in private is nobody’s business but theirs.”

  “Exactly,” Elwood said. “Now I would call that conduct unbecoming a diplomat, wouldn’t you?”

  “There’s no other way to describe it,” Mustapha agreed. “But what’s the bottom line?”

  “Simplicity itself,” Elwood said. “We hang the whole thing on her.”

  “How?”

  “You declare her Persona Non Grata, for Conduct Unbecoming a Diplomat.”

  “There’s bound to be an investigation if I should do something like that. I mean, it’s not the usual sort of thing. She’s a woman, and unlikely to have been … shall we say ‘playing around’ … with another diplomat’s wife.”

  “There is always an investigation,” Potter said, “conducted by the senior diplomat in the area. Guess who is the senior diplomat in the area, Mustapha?”

  “I knew you were my kind of guy the minute I laid eyes on you, Elwood,” the Foreign Minister said.

  “It takes one to know one, as I always say,” Q. Elwood Potter said. He rose and bent over the Foreign Minister’s desk, hand extended. The Foreign Minister rose and shook Potter’s hand in both of his.

  “And I’ll tell you what else I’ll do,” Mustapha said, “to sweeten the pot. I’ll send someone to spring your people from the funny farm, and give them invitations to the King’s party.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mustapha,” Elwood said, “you’re my kind of guy, too.”

  “Elwood,” Mustapha said, “as you are doubtless aware, it is against the teachings of the Prophet for the faithful to partake of intoxicants. However, we realize that there are times and places when it is diplomatically necessary to offer intoxicants to diplomatic personnel, and that at such times, it may be necessary to put aside one’s religious principles in the name of hospitality.”

  “I understand your problem,” Elwood said.

  The Foreign Minister picked up his telephone. “Cherie,” he said to his secretary, “have somebody type up a Persona Non Grata notice for the American Consul General in Casablanca, to be delivered immediately. And while it’s being typed up, how ’bout mixing up a batch of martini-er-oonies—very dry and with a twist of lemon? And bring a glass for yourself, cherie. I want you to meet a pal of mine.”

  “And while all this is going on,” Potter mused, “I have every confidence that your gendarmerie will be so kind and keep my two crazies on ice.”

  “Put your mind at rest, Elwood,” Mustapha said. “They’ll never get out of Rabat.”

  Monsieur L’inspecteur Gregoire de la Mouton of the Casablanca Gendarmerie genuinely liked Mademoiselle Le Consul General Penelope Quattlebaum, and not only because she was a well-stacked, blue-eyed blonde. She kindled in his somewhat-slipped but still-massive chest a sense of gallantry he hadn’t felt in twenty years.

  Penelope was the sort of female for whom doors should be opened, whose hand should be kissed and who should receive floral tributes every hour on the hour. He had no idea why anyone with the charm and physical attributes of Penelope Quattlebaum should wish to spend her life as a diplomat; but since she obviously did, he automatically decided that he would do whatever he could to assist her.

  Even before the business about two crazies beating at her consulate door had come up, word had been passed from Gendarmerie Headquarters, for example, that any vendors attempting to sell hand-woven rugs and brass trays to the new American Consul General had better be selling rugs that were indeed woven by hand, and trays that were indeed brass. A word in the ear of the Deputy Inspector of the Gendarmerie for Traffic Affairs had insured that Penelope could park her automobile anywhere in Casablanca and return later to find all its tires, wheels and other accessories still bolted in place. He had personally called the president of the Beggars Union and told him that he would consider it a personal favor if the boys would ply their trade elsewhere than in front of the American Consulate. And the word went out all over to the effect that if anything happened having anything at all to do with regard to Mademoiselle Quattlebaum, he was to be the first to know.

  Inspector de la Mouton was, therefore, rather concerned when he learned from the attendants at the funny farm that the two American crazies he had locked up for Penelope were either the most advanced cases of schizophrenia ever to grace the Casablanca Mental Sanitarium or were indeed what they said they were: an American politician and an American television journalist.

  He said nothing then, but when he was informed that the Foreign Minister himself had telephoned to speak to one of the crazies, and that during the conversation, a senior American diplomat had come on the phone and apparently been convinced that the man who said he was Congressman Jackson was indeed Congressman Jackson, he decided that he had better let Penelope know of this latest development.

  He found Penelope sitting by the side of the consulate pool, looking at once ravishing and disconsolate. When she looked up at him and smiled, Monsieur de la Mouton’s heart melted. He would defend this delightful female against all enemies, foreign and domestic, so help him, Allah.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Penelope,” he said, bowing from the waist, “you look so forlorn and disconsolate. How may I be of assistance?”

  “It’s nothing,” Penelope said bravely, but even as she said it, a tear ran down her cheek. “Oh, Inspector de la Mouton!” she said. “I can’t seem to do anything right!”

  That, Inspector de la Mouton thought, seemed a rather accurate analysis of the situation.

  “What seems to be the major problem?” he asked.

  “I’m supposed to be the American representative to the Sheikhdom of Abzug,” she said, “and I can’t even find it!”

  A flood of rage against those cold, cruel and heartless officials who would appoint a defenseless female like this to deal with the Abzugians welled up within Inspector de la Mouton.

  “Many have sought,” he said, “and few have found.”

  “But I must find it,” she said. “Otherwise, my superiors are going to get the idea that I can’t do my job.”

  “Mademoiselle Penelope,” Mouton said, “I fear that I must be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  “What now?”

  “You know those two crazies, the ones you described as ‘overseas kooks’ whom I took off your hands?”

  “Oh, I feel so sorry for them,” Penelope said. “That funny little man with the flowing, silver locks who thinks he’s a Congressman, and that ugly, bald-headed man with the bad teeth who thinks he is young-and-handsome Don Rhotten. Compared with their problems, my problems don’t seem nearly as bad—disastrous, but not as bad.”

  “Mademoiselle Penelope,” he went on, as gently as he could, “I fear your problems are worse than theirs.”

  “How could they be?” she asked.

  “I have just learned that the little man with the long hair is indeed the Honorable “Smiling Jack” Jackson, member of Congress.”

  “Oh, no!” she said, horror in her voice.

  “And that the other one carries with him a small bag containing a wig, contact lenses, and caps for his teeth. When he puts these items on, he bears such a strong resemblance to an advertising poster he carries with him with a likeness of Mr. Rhotten on it that I am forced to conclude he is indeed Rhotten.”

  “That’s pronounced Row-ten, Inspector,” Penelope said, and then she broke down and began to weep. “That does it,” she said. “My diplomatic career is finished! I’m a ruined woman at twenty-three!”

  He stood it as long as he could, and then he wrapped his massive arms around her, paternally.

  “If it will help any,” he said, as he patted her back, paternally, “I will officially state that I saw them wandering around Casablanca acting crazy.”

  “That would be dishonest,” Penelope said, nobly. “No, I had them locked up and I will accept the responsibility.”

  “What can I do?” he asked, helplessly.


  “You can help me find Abzug, so that I can present my credentials,” she said, looking up at him with tear-filled blue eyes.

  “That will help?”

  “It’s the only thing,” she sobbed, “that could possibly help.”

  “Then I, my dear Mademoiselle Penelope, Gregoire de la Mouton, will personally take you to Abzug!” he said.

  What the hell, he thought, we all have to die sometime.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Omar ben Ahmed, in full costume (that is to say, a headdress with three golden ropes running around it, signifying royalty; and a white, ornately embroidered robe), examined himself in the mirror with satisfaction. With the cartridge belt around his shoulders, the pistol and two-foot-long dagger in his belt, and wearing what he thought was a really fine sneer, he looked enough, he was sure, like Rudolph Valentino to scare hell out of the only American the First Platoon of the Second Squadron Abzugian Cavalry had succeeded in placing under arrest in the Royal Abzugian Palace. The others were, he had learned, already drilling for oil.

  He regretted, as a gentleman, that the American he would momentarily scare hell out of happened to be a female, but that was the fortune of war. It was not yet time for Abzug to be dragged kicking and screaming into the Twentieth Century. He frankly doubted his ability to get his grandfather to change his mind about permitting oil exploitation. The Old Boy was rather set in his ways and, although he intended to give it the Old School (Marburg University, class of ’73) try at the party that night in Marrakech, it simply made sense to hedge his bet.

  Omar ben Ahmed was more than a little embarrassed about the behavior of “Omar ben Ahmed’s Own” Second Cavalry Squadron. The Third Cavalry Squadron was still running down some of the Second Squadron troopers, who had been quite literally scattered to the winds by the sound of a couple of air horns. And the cold truth of the matter was that the Second Squadron hadn’t actually “arrested” the one American now in the palace. She had come of her own free will, he had been told, because it had afforded her the opportunity to take a ride on a camel.