Fortuna chuckled again, and in the sudden glare from an oncoming army truck, I could see his silhouette as he shrugged. There was a thin layer of condensation turning to ice on the inside of the windows now. My fingers were stiff with the cold and I could barely feel my toes in the absurd Bally dress shoes I had put on that morning. I scraped at some of the ice on my window as we entered the city proper.

“I know that you are all very important peoples from the West,” said Radu Fortuna, his breath creating a small fog that rose toward the roof of the bus like an escaping soul. “I know you are famous Western billionaire, Mr. Vernor Deacon Trent, who pay for this visit,” he said, nodding at me, “but I am afraid I forget some other names.”

Donna Wexler did the introductions. “Doctor Aimslea is with the World Health Organization . . . Father Michael O'Rourke is here representing both the Chicago Archdiocese and the Save the Children Foundation.”

“Ali, good to have priest here,” said Fortuna, and I heard something that may have been irony in his voice.

“Doctor Leonard Paxley, Professor Emeritus of Economics at Princeton University,” continued Wexler. “Winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize in Economics.”

Fortuna bowed toward the old academic. Paxley had not spoken at all during the flight from Frankfurt, and now he seemed lost in his oversized coat and folds of muffler: an old man in search of a park bench.

“We welcome you,” said Fortuna, “even though our country have no economy at present. moment.”

“Goddamn, is it always this cold here?” came the voice from deep in the folds of wool. The Nobel Prizewinning Professor Emeritus stamped his small feet. “This is cold enough to freeze the nuts off a bronze bulldog.”

“And Mr. Carl Berry, representing American Telegraph and Telephone,” continued Wexler quickly.