Robin Royce, a raw youth of 21, who has just passed his orals to become a high-grade tax specialist for Her Majesty's Government, finds himself plucked from Taxes and suddenly transferred to the Diplomatic Corps--as Private Secretary to the Ambassador in Rome. Robin is a virginal, charming boob: he has to be told not to wear brown shoes with a dark suit or a pen in his breast pocket. Quickly, he learns that his very likable ambassador is a nut about Britain's new vertical-takeoff jet, a secret plane called the Falcon that could make any poor country a superpower in two years. No wonder, then, that the CIA is trying to rid the earth of all blueprints and working models. Meanwhile, Robin has blissfully bedded down with the French Consul's daughter--just in time to bring her along when he finds himself awash in blood, horror, and death, fleeing with those Falcon jet blueprints. . . . Robin's brimming innocence adds to the already pungent glamor of the Roman diplomatic corps, making this implausible but vacuous good fun.