The American party stopped at the embassy before heading to the palace. Like his father, Logan balked at wearing the full formal diplomatic costume of morning coat, striped pants and silk top hat. Unlike his father, he had put his foot down and flat-out refused. It was bad enough wearing a suit and tie. Since he wasn’t actually the ambassador but only an embassy employee, he got away with it.
Before they left the embassy Constantine came to his room to inspect him. Logan bristled. “What makes you think I need to be inspected?”
And Constantine fussed. “It is my duty to make certain proper protocol is observed in every detail. There should be a dimple in your necktie.” He reached up and started arranging Logan’s tie to his satisfaction.
Logan slapped him away. “Stop that. From what I’ve seen of the king, I don’t plan on getting close enough for him to notice whether my tie has a dimple or not.”
“Others will notice.”
“Let them.”
Constantine turned seductive or at least tried to. Softly he cooed, “Would it help if I offered to give you a blowjob?”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, Logan, I—”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
The official colors of Bulvania, for reasons no one could fathom, were orange and purple. The throne room was decked out with heaps of bunting in those colors, plus a generous number of Bulvanian flags—a two-headed nuthatch on a field of orange and purple stripes. It didn’t make for an attractive scene at all, and Logan was more than glad that he had been told not to bring his cameras to the formal reception ceremony.
Logan stood at the entrance to the throne room, appalled at the clashing colors that were on display in such abundance. He sneered at Constantine, “You were worried about the way I’m dressed—for this?!”
“Protocol and tradition demand—”
“Screw protocol. Screw tradition. Screw everything.”
“Please, Logan.”
P.T. was still in his ambassador’s costume, and still unhappy about it. He kept tugging at his collar, trying to loosen it. Constantine had to keep a wary eye on him to make certain he’d look all formal and proper when he was presented to his majesty. Marge had changed into a crisp, neatly-tailored gray business suit. She was the only one of the three Constantine approved of.
* * *
Tradition ruled in Bulvania even more firmly than the king did. And one of those traditions was the throne. It was carved from a solid block of black stone that had been carved sometime during the last Ice Age and used ever since. But the king liked it, and tradition was tradition.
When Raymond had first sat in it, several days earlier, Alex was sure he wouldn’t like it at all. But Raymond surprised him. “I believe in mortifying the flesh. Sitting on this is almost as good as wearing a hair shirt. Besides, it’s kind of comfortable.”
“Uh… if you say so, your majesty.”
So when time came for the formal ceremony of receiving the ambassadors, he was only too happy to sit on it; he assumed his position and sat there beaming at everyone in the hall. Alex took his place beside the throne and stood stiffly, formally at attention.
P.T. and his party were fourth in line, after the ambassadors from Russia, Italy and Germany; Bulvania had ancient ties to all three of them. He muttered to Logan, “It’s a miniature version of World War II.”
Constantine shushed him. “Please, Mr. Ambassador. We must try to be more diplomatic.”
“I won’t be surprised if someone tries to invade Poland.”
“Sir!”
“At least the French are behind us.”
Logan grinned. “I’ve always loved rear French.”
“Calm down, all three of you.” Marge was amused. “We’re here to do a job, remember?”
All three of them glared at her but were prevented from carrying on with their bickering by the Bulvanian military band, which struck up the Bulvanian national anthem. It sounded suspiciously like, “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” played with all due military pomp. The sound of it dispelled the tension in the air; they relaxed and took up their place in the ambassadorial procession.
The king sat on his throne, to all appearances quiet and confident, surveying his subjects and the various diplomats calmly. Alex Borodenko, in full dress uniform, but helmet-less, stood at his side, ready to prompt him with what he needed to know and say to appear like an in-charge monarch. Everyone knew that he was no such thing; but the art of diplomacy is the art of remaining tactfully silent about eve the most obvious things. Ten feet to one side, Queen Theodora sat on a smaller throne, looking icy and imperious. She was being ignored, for the most part, and she didn’t try to disguise how unhappy she was.
The ambassadors from the various nations began their march down the long center aisle to the throne. P.T. assumed what he hoped was a dignified attitude and stepped off. The assembled crowd watched them solemnly, soberly; this might have been the most important royal court in the world. Logan noticed out of the corner of his eye a small boy with a slingshot mischievously taking aim at the various dignitaries as they filed past his position. Oh, please, please, PLEASE let him shoot somebody! he thought. But the kid was content to keep aiming his toy and not firing it, and the Americans moved past him.
Logan’s gaze moved up the aisle to the throne. The thing looked horribly uncomfortable. How could anyone sit on that stone monstrosity for very long without growing hemorrhoids? The new king sat there, dressed in that same dirty brown monk’s robe, his hair long, wild and unkempt, his beard looking like a nightmare Brill-o pad. As they got closer, he thought, Well, at least he’s young. There may be hope for him yet—I guess.
He glanced at the queen on her throne, and she was glowering at everyone in the hall. The she noticed Logan, and she stared at him fixedly. There might have been no one but the two of them in the palace. There was no smile on her face; her expression was more like a spoiled royal who had found a plaything. It made him uncomfortable, and he looked away.
The Russians, the Germans and the Italians, each in turn, reached the throne, bowed and presented their credentials to the king.
Raymond was bored, and he felt out of his depth, though he did his best to keep up appearances. Formal ceremonies that didn’t involve candles, incense and prayer books were something new to him. The first three ambassadors to reach him spoke French, the language of international diplomacy. Since he didn’t know the language, he just sat, smiled and nodded. At one point he whispered to Alex, “You don’t really need me, do you? You could have a marionette here.”
Alex was wry. “What do you think kings are? And presidents too, for that matter.”
“That is not what I need to hear today, Alex,”
“Sorry, your majesty.”
Raymond let his gaze drift idly along the line of ambassadors approaching him. And almost at once he picked out Logan. That photographer he had seen at the parade, that incredibly attractive man, that man whose mere appearance had given him an erection—what could he possibly be doing here?
He leaned close to Alex. “That man—the strawberry blond in the line down there—who is he?”
“Please, Raymond. Protocol requires that you focus on the person directly in front of you. Here comes the German ambassador.”
Without quite meaning to, Raymond made his voice stern and commanding. He was already becoming kingly. “I asked you who he is.”
Alex scanned the line. “Oh—that is Logan Bockwein, the son of the American ambassador.”
“Logan Bockwein.” He seemed to find the name almost magical.
“He is the delegation’s official photographer. I’m not certain why they need one, but that’s what he is.”
Raymond’s mind was suddenly a thousand miles away. He and Logan were running hand in hand through a field of flowers, just like the lovers in a corny old movie. Then he snapped out of it. “Photographer. Yes, I saw him taking pictures during the parade. He took several of me.”
It struck Alex as unlikely, but he kept a tactful silence.
The line kept moving, and soon it was the turn of the American delegation to approach the throne. P.T. led. Constantine whispered urgently, “Remember, bow, don’t curtsy.”
P.T. bowed and handed his packet of credentials to the king, who handed it to Alex without even glancing at it.
“And may I present Constantine Boukaris,” P.T. said to the king, my charge d’affaires.” Constantine bowed, not curtsied, and P.T. went on. “This is my assistant, Margery Beckett. And this,” he said, beaming with pride, “is my son, Logan.”
Suddenly for Raymond there was no one in the room but him and the young American. Defying every possible rule of protocol, ignoring P.T. and the rest of the party, ignoring everyone else present, he extended a hand to Logan. “It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bockwein.” He started to stand up but remembered himself and sank back into the throne.
Logan was thrown off balance by it for an instant, but he quickly recovered himself. “Likewise, your majesty.” He shook the king’s hand.
It was surprisingly warm. And the king didn’t seem to want to let go of him. Their handclasp lasted an uncomfortably long time. Finally, Logan managed to pull loose of the king’s grip and backed away a step. It was clear enough what the kind had on his mind, and the experience was more than a bit unsettling. Logan hadn’t been out for years, and he hadn’t met all kinds of men, without learning what was what.
So King Raymond was a closet case. There was no doubt of it in Logan’s mind. And there was no mistaking what that lingering grip meant. This scruffy, bedraggled boy king wanted him. He knew it as surely as he knew anything. He looked around for an exit, trying not to be too obvious about it. The American party had finished their formal act for the king. They moved away. Logan found the nearest door and got the hell out.