Peter Bridges - Safirka: An American Envoy

It was May in Rome, a pleasant season. I sat in my office in the Palazzo Margherita, an oversized, high-ceilinged room that had once been a queen mothers bedroom. I wished that it were Sunday and that my wife and I were making our way toward the top of some mountain in the Apennines, Monte Semprevisa, perhaps, or Monte Gennaro. The intercom buzzed, and my secretarythat marvelous lady from Boston, Maria Lo Contesaid that I had a call from Robert Oakley in Washington. Bob Oakley was our ambassador to Somalia; he was in Washington, I knew, for a few days consultation. We had agreed by cable that on his way eastward back to Mogadishu he would stop in Rome for lunch with people from the Italian foreign ministry. We and the Italians both had major interests in Somalia. Our interest was largely strategic, a result of the Cold War. Theirs was in good part historical; much of Somalia had been an Italian colony. We were both major donors of aid to Somalia, and we often compared notes on aid and other questions. I had done so as a political officer in the Rome embassy in the late 1960s, and I did so now as the number-two in that embassy, together with Bob Oakley whenever he passed through Rome.

Oakley was calling to say that he was going to be a few days late leaving Washington. He wondered if I could put off for a week the date for our luncheonand of course I could. Oakley went on to say that he would soon be leaving his post. He was being transferred back to Washington, where he was to head the State Departments Office for Combating Terrorism. A big, hard job, I said; congratulations. Whos going to replace you in Somalia?

I dont think theyve given that any thought yet, he said. Why, would you be interested?

My question had come from simple curiosity, and I had not expected his question in return. I thought for a minute. Yes, I said, Id be interested.

Good, said Oakley. Let me just tell a couple of people here. See you soon.

He hung up, and after a bit Maria came in and found me staring out the window. Spring fever, Peter? she asked. Not quite. What had I put myself in for?

The year was 1984, and my wife and I had been in Romeour second time therefor two and a half years. I was the deputy chief of mission (DCM in Foreign Service lingo) in the big Rome embassy, with the diplomatic title of minister. It was the biggest overseas job, and the most interesting, that I had had in twenty-seven years as a Foreign Service officer. An American television network had recently made a film, called The Deputy, that was supposed to be about the DCM in Rome. I laughed when I saw it. It showed correctly that we had a magnificent embassybefore the United States bought it (for a bargain price), our office building had been the palace of Italys Queen Mother, Margherita. But the TV film did not begin to convey what the DCM did to earn his pay.