The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

F O C U S O N F S F I C T I O N T HE D AY THE A MERICAN E MBASSY B URNED 28 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 dragged my feet through the lawn of beige carpet outside the boulder-like mahogany door that shut me out of my father’s world. The soft glow escaping under the door provided the only hint of life inside. I paused, letting my fingertips brush the wall. Would he be busy? Should I bother him? With an ear to the door, I listened. The slow drone of exhaled and inhaled breath was the only sound. I knocked. “Come in,” he growled. He sat slumped over the desk, bifocals perched halfway down his nose. Had I awakened him? He didn’t look up. The desk occupied half the room. A faint odor of alcohol wipes and a splash of Old Spice after-shave filled the musty library. The books lining the walls crowded in on me. I walked behind my father’s chair. “I … I was just won- dering. You know how they took those hostages at the em- bassy in Iran?” I waited and saw a slow nod of his head. “Well, could it happen here — in Pakistan?” He didn’t answer right away, so I studied the shelves, re- garding a picture of Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhut- to, now dead, with my fa- ther. Bhutto had run Pak- istan until he was arrested, and then executed by hang- ing seven months ago. The country was under the mar- tial law declared by Gen- eral Muhammad Zia ul- Haq. I knew Bhutto’s son, Shah Nawaz, had once gone to my school, the International School of Islamabad. What do you do when they kill your father? To whom do you turn to ask if you’re safe? My father didn’t utter a word; I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then he reached for the water glass. “For rea- sons you’re too young to understand, some students de- cided to hold those people hostage. They let 10 go today. It’ll be over soon.” I bravely probed a little farther. “I know Iran wants the shah back. But we were friends with Bhutto, too. Maybe they’re mad at us.” He inhaled deeply. “No, it’s a different situation. The U.S. has a different relationship with Zia’s government.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “We’re safe,” he said. H ER FATHER HAD SHOWN HER THE WORLD , BUT SHE NEVER REALLY SAW HIM . A ND NOW HE MIGHT BE GONE — FOREVER . B Y V ICTORIA M ONTES I Victoria Montes, the daughter of a Foreign Service officer, grew up in Nigeria, Morocco and Pakistan. She now lives in Tehachapi, Calif., where she teaches high school English. She is the author of three novels: A Diplomat’s Daughter, Camouflage Venom and Hive of Hornets. This story won third place in this year’s FS fiction contest.