The Foreign Service Journal, September 2011

park,” Vance explained, letting his voice take on a drawl, more of his own making than of any actual Southern state. He wasn’t sure why, but he thought that a Southern accent might be placating. Or perhaps he just hoped that disguising his voice would disguise his actions. “What are you saying, Mzungu? We are not in a park; we are on the road!” The hijacker’s features remained cold, but Vance thought he could see plead- ing in the man’s eyes. This hijacker had obviously never driven an automatic. “Here, let me show you,” Vance said, turning in his seat and sliding for- ward so that his elbow could push the button to open the glove compart- ment. With his other hand he grabbed the steering-wheel mounted shifter. He opened the glove compartment just as he engaged the shifter and moved it to park, using the noise to cover his movements. “See, that’s park,” he said, pointing at the ‘P’ marked with the red triangle on the dashboard. The hijacker’s eyes followed Vance’s fingers to the dash- board, and missed the glove compart- ment cover as it edged open. “Now it should start, just fine,” Vance said, hanging onto the ‘ahhh’ of the south- ern ‘fine’ as his fingers held the glove compartment door. The hijacker tried the key again, and the engine sparked and turned over with a loud roar. The man’s eyes lit up with glee and again missed Vance’s fingers as they retrieved the passport from the glove compartment. “It’s just an automatic transmission,” Vance said, smiling as his fingers gen- tly closed the glove compartment. The hijacker turned to look at Vance, still smiling, and Vance realized that he’d misjudged the scar. It actu- ally added to the smile, connecting the man’s eyes to his pearly whites. The smile retreated an instant later. “Get out, Mzungu,” the man shouted at him, and Vance obliged. The three hijackers sped off in a flurry of dust and gravel, and the Sub- urban was gone. But Vance had his passport. He turned to look at the elderly couple again, making sure they were not statues. “Hi,” he said, relief pushing his lips into a grin. The husband’s name was David. He was from England, retired from the Foreign Office, and vacationing through old stomping grounds. His wife was Dutch. David explained that he and his wife had seen the pick-up on the side of the road with its hood up, and had pulled over, just like Vance, only to meet the hijackers. Ap- parently people outside Colorado also had proper upbringings. The hijackers had just been pulling away from the scene when Vance had crested the hill. “They must have figured on liking your car better, I suppose,” David said. “Guess you were just a bit unlucky, mate.” “I guess so,” Vance said, shrugging. “What was that you were rooting around for in the glove compartment, then, eh?” Vance was taken aback, but he mus- tered passable nonchalance into his voice. “Oh, just my passport,” he said. David gave him a knowing look, one side of his lips curled ever-so-slightly upward into a smirk. 42 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 1 Watch for the October FSJ ’s annual roundup of books by current and former members of the Foreign Service and their families. 2011 A NNUAL FS A UTHORS R OUNDUP The hijacker’s eyes followed Vance’s fingers to the dashboard, and missed the glove compartment cover as it edged open.