for you to make television interview. Come on in a-breakfast room, they got a-lights and action.” He leaned a bit closer and raised his eyebrows. Five neatly parallel corrugations sprang into life on his forehead. “You mention a-hotel, say is a-nice, I tear up bill.” Two quick, vertical tearing motions.
“Mrs. Bitter!”
“A-Mrs. a-Bitter!”
“Sybil, honey!”
“Hey, Mrs. Bitter!”
Half a dozen reporters came crowding up. Sybil recognized one of them from the Herald Tribune office. They hadn’t wasted any time getting over here. Tom and Ida squeezed against her legs, scared of getting stepped on. Sybil let the manager pull her into the breakfast room and seat her behind a table with the kids. Tom pointed at a TV camera. Ida stared, dazzled, into one of the lights.
An Italian news commentator was talking into a microphone.
“ Badada ladada borra borra Signora Sybil Bitter lo dadada famma donna di badda da dadda da Professore Alwin Bitter ba dadadadad la preterra dinidini buhduh fla ceticini Morte Verdi .” This went on for awhile. Finally he flashed a smile at Sybil and posed his question. “ Lo quando billo flant flant de budadda cargo cargo flidovi oggi quan deeda dee? Oscorbidulchos volivorco? ”
A slender lady in purple-tinted glasses leaned over Sybil’s shoulder and whispered the translation.
“He asks if you have received word from your husband’s terrorist organization. And did he warn you he was leaving?”
“My husband has been the unwilling victim of a double-kidnapping,” Sybil said. Her hands were shaking badly. “They want to force him to build an atomic bomb. This development is entirely the fault of the US Embassy. They have calculatedly used my husband as bait to draw out the terrorists who have the reactor fuel.” She paused and took a wobbly breath while the slender lady translated her answer.
The commentator posed his next question, one for the bambino .
“Tom, do you miss your father?”
It went on for another half hour. Sybil wondered numbly if Alwin might see them on TV. As the questions became more technical, she struggled to decide what answers would be best for him. Should the terrorists think that Alwin could build a bomb? Should they think he was in the CIA? If he was worthless they might kill him, but if he was valuable they might never let him go. Finally she started crying. This was, of course, what the cameramen had been waiting for.
When Sybil and the children got back up to their room, the phone was ringing. She had no intention of answering, but before she could stop him, Tom had picked it up.
“Hello?”
A faint voice talking volubly.
“Yes,” Tom said. “She’s here.” He handed Sybil the phone. “It’s Grandma.”
“Sybil!” Lotte Burton’s voice was vibrant with emotion. “You poor child. Your father and I just saw you on the news.”
“Oh, Mother,” wailed Sybil. “Isn’t it awful? They kidnapped Alwin twice, and the US Embassy is trying to frame him as a terrorist. I don’t know what to do!”
“We’re flying down, darling. Cortland has already made the plane and hotel reservations. You can move in right now and get ready for us.”
“Move where?”
“To the Savoy. Room 431. It’s a three-bedroom suite.”
“That’s bigger than our apartment in Heidelberg!” exclaimed Sybil. “Are you bringing Sorrel?”
“Of course. Now, move over there and make sure that there’s plenty of ice for your father, and three extra pillows for his back.” An excited voice shouted in the background. “And he says to get a case of Heineken sent up…for you, and for when Alwin gets back. Don’t forget the pillows, dear.”
“All right,” Sybil said. “Wonderful. When will you get in?”
“After midnight. Don’t wait up.” In the background Cortland hollered, urging haste. But Lotte had one more thing to add. “You know, Sybil, it doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
“What?”
“That Alwin would fall in with these people.