Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

The door dinged open to reveal three athletic men with bulging armpits; Nick recognized them immediately as Security, and they

fixed him with the usual evaulating stares. Though out of power, Lady Bent was still under Special Branch protection on account of what she'd done to the IRA after they blew up her bulldogs. They'd vowed to get her, someday.

Her bodyguards did not like the fact that Nick had arrived with some of his own armed guards — thank God they hadn't brought their sawed-off shotguns. A Mexican standoff developed, because Nick's Valkyries were under strict orders not to let him out of their sight, and Lady Bent's people weren't about to let them get near Lady Bent. A factotum arrived and made diplomacy between the two armed camps and asked Nick to follow him.

They went into a vast and endless suite. The factotum knocked softly on a door, which opened to reveal not Lady Bent but her private secretary, a man of viceregal air, tall, thin, exquisitely tailored. He had strange, transparent skin — you could almost see his skull underneath — and a nose so aquiline that Nick was tempted to offer it a fish to eat.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Naylor," he said, unsmilingly offering a hand. "I'm afraid we're running a bit over this morning so if you wouldn't mind having a seat I thought we could use the time to talk about what it is, exactly, you'd like to discuss with Lady Bent."

"Sorry?" Nick said dumbfoundedly.

The viceroy gave a brief show of pain, suggesting that he had not achieved a double first at Cambridge in order to waste his time repeating his beautifully crafted questions for the benefit of mentally defective post-colonials. He repeated himself word for word, slowly.

Clearing his throat, Nick asked, "I meant, what were you under the impression I was here to discuss with Lady Bent?"

"We were told, simply, by Mr. Boykin's people, that you desired to speak with the former prime minister in connection with her arrangements with Agglomerated Tobacco. The precise nature of the discussion was never in fact specified, despite our, I must say, repeated requests for clarification on the matter. So here, as it were, we are; though I certainly hope, not at odds."

Enough words there to choke a giraffe, but it was gradually dawning on Nick that the Captain, titan of industry and leader of men that he was, was completely cowed by this woman, despite the fact that he was paying her a small fortune and flying her around in his Gulfstream at $15,000 an hour. He couldn't quite bring himself to come right out and tell her: "Damnit, start saying nice things about my cigarettes!"

And from the looks of it, the viceroy wasn't even going to give him any face time with old Cement Knickers unless he was first satisfied that the topic was worthy of her precious time.

"Uh," Nick said, trying desperately to think of something to say. The viceroy stared. Nick whispered, "Is this room clean?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Has it been, you know, swept?"

"Swept? What do you mean? For bugs?"

Nick nodded.

"I. should think not, in all likelihood. But why on earth would you be concerned about that?"

Nick took out his notepad and wrote, "Is there a bathroom where we can talk?"

"A bathroom?" the viceroy said. "What are you talking about?"

Nick wrote: "Concerns L.B.'s personal safety."

The viceroy looked up, confused, and said impatiently, "Very well, then." Nick followed him into the bathroom and after making a show of examining it for listening devices, opened up all the faucets so that it sounded like Niagara Falls. He whispered, "As you may already know, I was the target of an attempt by a radical anti-smoking movement."

"Oh. Yes, I thought you looked a bit familiar. But what on earth has all this to do with Lady Bent?"

"We don't know how far this group might prosecute their agenda. If you see what I mean."

"But this has nothing to do with her. Her connection with your business is extremely remote. A few appearances at board meetings, the occasional dinner, that sort of thing."

"She is accepting money from the industry."

"Well, yes, but. "

"And traveling in Ag Tobacco's plane."

"Yes, but she's hardly. "

"All the same, we're very concerned for her."

"I think you're overreacting, frankly. I can't see how this affects the prime minister."

"If you're willing to take that risk on her behalf, fine. You're probably right. They probably wouldn't go after her. I'll just go back and make my report, in writing, that you didn't think it was a problem."

"Perhaps you should speak with her. But only very briefly, please. We are very pressed this afternoon."

He opened the bathroom door and there was Lady Bent, standing in the middle of the room. She was a handsome old girl with a great matronly bosom, mongoose eyes, and a helmet of hair that looked as if it could deflect incoming nuclear missiles.

"Ah," she said, "I've been looking all over for you. What on earth were you both doing in there?"

The viceroy blushed.

Lady Bent offered Nick a chair and said, "What may I do for you?" making it clear that she did not want to engage in small talk about the Pierre, New York, or her private secretary's penchant for luring younger men into toilets. Before Nick could answer, she looked at him curiously and said, "You're the cigarette man who was attacked, aren't you?"

"Yes ma'am," Nick said.

She instantly warmed. "You needn't call me ma'am. I'm not the queen. It must have been quite ghastly."

"Well, it wasn't fun," Nick said. "But nothing like what you've been through."

"We have something in common, then. We know that terrorism must never, ever, be countenanced."

"You bet," Nick said. "However, Lady Bent, our people are very concerned that this group — which is still very much at large — might target you, and we would obviously feel awful if anything happened. So I've come to ask that in all your public and even private statements, you absolutely refrain from mentioning tobacco. Or, God forbid, from saying anything positive about it."

She drew herself up like an aroused lioness and fixed him with a withering look. Nick thought, it sure must have been fun to be in her cabinet and face that look across the table.

"Mister Naylor," she said, like an arctic wind, "I have never been one to shrink from principle out of fear for my own personal safety."

"Of course not," Nick said. "And I certainly didn't meant to imply that you were. It's just that we feel—"

"If we let terrorists dictate what we do not say, then we are as good as letting them dictate what we do say. And when we do that, we are finished as a civilized people."

"Nicely put," Nick said. "Still, I must insist that you not mention tobacco. You don't want to get these people mad. I don't know about the IRA, I know they're bad news bears and all — and that was a terrible thing they did to your dogs — but things can get pretty nasty in America."

The color rose in Lady Bent. She stood, signaling that their interview was at an end, and proffered her hand. She said tersely and without smiling, "Good to see you," and with the viceroy following, walked out of the room, whose doors opened as if by magic.

Two days later, back in Washington, Nick was getting ready for his trip out to California when BR called him in.

"You see this?" he said, tossing him The Wall Street Journal.

Nick hadn't. He read:

After the dinner at the Pierre, Lady Bent spoke for an hour and twenty-five minutes, lengthy even by her standards. The theme of her speech was free enterprise in the post — Cold War era. It surprised no one at the dinner, consisting largely of business and international commerce officials, to hear the former British Prime Minister issue a ringing defense of open trade and a stinging attack on protectionism; she also included an unusually passionate endorsement of the right of American and British cigarette companies to compete in Asian markets.