The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  However this day, Erik was all affability as he handed out white folders printed with the title, ‘Trip of Secretary of State Julia Dayton to Sydney, February 5-11.’ As Delphine took her folder, Erik grabbed her hand and bent his head toward it, offering her the distasteful sight of a pink strip of skin running along his scalp where his hair was decisively parted.

  “Ah, you must be Delphine. Glad to have you aboard.”

  “Merci M’sieur,” she said, smiling prettily. Despite their avowed dislike of all things French, American males were often susceptible to such foibles and follies, she’d found. Jens returned her smile. She noticed his hair parting found an unfortunate echo in his bushy mustache, which divided down the middle like the waters of the Red Sea, leaving a furrow of exposed flesh from his upper lip to the bridge of his nose.

  “Hey Erik, will the Secretary be back to brief us?” asked Ira Milstein, the veteran UPI representative.

  “She’ll come back for a few minutes after the meal,” Jens replied. Delphine became aware of the pervasive odor of frying bacon from the galley at the back of the plane where two Air Force stewards were preparing some form of repast.

  As she waited for the meal, she went through the folder Jens had handed out which contained a trip schedule, background information and some of Secretary Dayton’s recent speeches. She noted the flight would stop three times for refueling—in Los Angeles, Honolulu and another airport she’d never heard of, before reaching Sydney.

  “What is this place, Pago Pago?” she asked Lisa, who was reading a ‘chick lit’ book with a pink cover and picture of women’s shoes.

  “It’s in American Samoa in the middle of the Pacific and it’s pronounced ‘Pango Pango’,” Lisa said severely.

  “Oh, but it must be delightful,” Delphine said, imagining Gaugin-like vistas.

  “You won’t have time to see it. I already told you, this isn’t a vacation. We’ll only be there 90 minutes while the plane is serviced. In this job, you get used to not seeing interesting places. I was in Cairo seven times before I saw the pyramids. But it was worth the wait when I finally did see them.”

  Recalling the experience, her expression softened, the skin around her eyes relaxed and she suddenly looked quite attractive.

  Just then, two trays were deposited before them containing bacon, sausages, fried eggs and something else Delphine could not identify of an oozing consistency and mustard yellow complexion.

  “Excuse me but what is this?” she asked the officer.

  “That’s French toast, Ma’am, with cheese whiz on top.”

  French toast? Nobody from her country would ever have perpetrated such a horror. As for the ‘cheese whiz,’ Delphine had no words. However, she made a brave attempt to disguise her emotions. “Perhaps you have an apple or some other piece of fruit.”

  “Sorry Ma’am, we don’t have any.”

  Despite Delphine’s efforts to maintain a poker face, Lisa must have discerned something in her expression.

  “Might as well get used to it,” she said. “The food on this plane is the finest America has to offer—mostly fat and always fried. If you somehow manage to get a regular seat, you’ll soon lose that twiggy French figure.”

  Despite her words, Delphine noted that Lisa herself had succeeded in remaining virtually skeletal.

  “But cannot the members of the press and even Madam Secretary herself, demand more healthy food?” she asked.

  Lisa laughed mirthlessly. “The U.S. Air Force couldn’t care two bags of crap about the press and as for Madam, she seems to like the food the way it is just fine. The rest of us just pop our indigestion pills and hope we survive.”

  Delphine shuddered and tried picking at the egg. Scarcely had she forced herself to take a bite when the officer came back and whisked the plate away. She took a sip of coffee and regretted it; it possessed no fragrance and no taste.

  Already, the cabin was being prepared for Secretary Dayton’s arrival. First, a technician appeared with what they called a “mult-box” into which each reporter plugged a cable leading directly to their tape recorders. Delphine had been told in advance to bring such a cable. These cords allowed the reporters to hear through their earphones everything that was spoken into the microphone above the aircraft noise. The security agents got up and left, moving temporarily into the front section of the plane, to make room for the press conference about to unfold. A moment later, Erik Jens ushered the Secretary of State into the cabin.

  “Madam Secretary will begin with a brief opening statement and then take a few questions,” he said, handing her the microphone.

  Of course, there was little need for Jens to further introduce this astonishing woman, who had already emerged as the dominant personality in the administration and a beacon of hope for the world. A lawyer, she’d first been elected Attorney General of her home state of Missouri and then Governor. Next she’d served a term in the U.S. Senate before becoming Secretary of State, a job which had made her internationally famous. She was photographed almost as often as Hollywood starlets and supermodels, while cartoonists delighted in depicting her elongated head, jutting jaw and prominent teeth.

  Delphine had never been in Dayton’s presence before; now she was only two rows away, so close she could almost have touched her. As the Secretary began speaking, Delphine found herself momentarily dazzled. She seemed so tall, so real. Secretary Dayton’s aura of power and authority even transcended her unfortunate lime green track suit. She wore no jewelry except an amber ring on the third finger of her left hand, its stone almost as large as a quail’s egg. Delphine noticed because it was with that hand she grasped the microphone.

  Delphine’s gaze wandered to a slim man with close-cropped blond hair standing just behind Secretary Dayton. This must be Jason King, head of security. Unlike the informally-dressed officials, he wore a gorgeous grey wool suit that looked like it had come straight out of the Ermenegildo Zegna catalog. His expressionless yet penetrating gray eyes flicked from one reporter to the next, resting on Delphine for a long moment. She knew she was being mentally photographed and filed away for future reference. It was almost as if he were probing inside her head and she felt a wave of giddiness accompanied by a strange premonition – of what she did not know. This bizarre sensation, which may have been caused by hunger or nervous tension, lasted only an instant; then, his eyes moved on and it passed.

  Secretary Dayton had begun to take questions; Delphine tried to recover her sang-froid, knowing this was no time to hang back. She raised her hand and after a moment Erik Jens noticed her and called on her to ask the next question.

  “Delphine Roget from Agence France Presse,” the young reporter began, and seeing Secretary Dayton’s horsey smile felt emboldened to continue.

  “Madam Secretary, do you intend to launch a peace shuttle mission in the Middle East any time soon?” It was a natural question, for Delphine’s expertise lay in covering Arab-Israeli issues.

  “First Ms. Roget, welcome aboard,” Secretary Dayton said. “It’s good to have a representative of the European press and very refreshing to have a member of your youthful generation flying with us wizened older folk. I’m sure your colleagues agree.”

  Delphine nodded to acknowledge these kind words.

  “With respect to your specific question, frankly I must say we are all terribly saddened by the violence that has broken out anew in the Middle East and we mourn the innocent victims on both sides. Of course we support Israel’s right to self-defense, but we’re also concerned by the plight of the Palestinians. I’ve been in touch with the Israeli prime minister and the Palestinian president to urge restraint. As you all know, nobody has worked harder than I have for peace in that region and I’ll continue to labor night and day, sparing no effort until we’ve reached that worthy goal. As we approach the end of the 20th century, it’s high time to bring this conflict to a just and peaceful end.
”

  The word ‘frankly,’ Delphine had learned from experience, usually preceded an untruth when uttered by politicians. And when Secretary Dayton smiled, the skin around the outside corners of her eyes did not crinkle.

  “But Madam Secretary…” she followed up.

  “That’s it folks, no more questions,” Erik Jens interjected.

  “Madam Secretary, to my specific inquiry, can you tell us, will you actually be going back to the Middle East any time soon?” Delphine persisted, amazed at her own temerity.

  “Didn’t you hear? I said no more questions,” sputtered Jens, his face turning the color of a ripe persimmon. Secretary Dayton’s smile faded. She looked at the young reporter reproachfully, shaking her head slowly in disapproval as if Delphine had gravely disappointed her. Then she handed Jens the microphone, lifted the curtain and disappeared back into her portion of the plane.

  “Nice going,” commented Lisa sarcastically. “You managed to piss her off your first time out of the box. Don’t think she won’t forget. Once you get on her shit list, you stay on it. I should know.”

  For the next several hours, Delphine asked herself why she hadn’t just kept her mouth shut. During refueling in Los Angeles, she dictated a few quotes to her bureau in Washington.

  “That’s it?” asked Jean-Luc Boulez, the news editor.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Not very newsworthy.”

  “That’s all she said.”

  “I hope you come up with more interesting material during the rest of the trip. Take the opportunity to get to know some of the influential officials. Securing a seat aboard the Secretary’s plane was an important breakthrough for our agency. I took a big chance by sending you, the youngest member of the bureau. Screw up and it will reflect badly on me also.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Delphine told him. “You must understand, we are in one portion of the plane and the officials are in another. One cannot just wander freely about.”

  The second leg of the trip passed without incident. As Lisa had predicted, they were fed every three or four hours with patriotic fried dishes. While not picking at her food, Delphine read her book or gazed out of the window at the endless blue Pacific. At one point, when she went back to use the facilities, she passed her colleagues, row by row, mouths open, snoring or twitching gently. She herself could not sleep. It seemed as though they had been traveling forever, yet it was still light since they were always moving westward with the sun.

  The plane landed in Honolulu and refueled. Soon after takeoff for Pago Pago, Todd Trautmann unexpectedly approached.

  “I just wanted to introduce myself and welcome you aboard,” he said, leaning over Lisa’s slumbering body.

  “But of course I know very well who you are. Your fame goes before you,” Delphine replied. His loose yellow nylon pants sported a prominent stain, probably from a coffee spill, unfortunately located next to his crotch.

  “Well gee thanks,” he said with forced modesty, his plump face reddening in pleasure. “Say, Undersecretary Levin and I were thinking we might grab a taxi and take a quick tour of the island during the next refueling stop. Would you like to join us?”

  Delphine considered. On one hand, getting to know Levin was one of her chief aims for the trip; Jean-Luc had ordered her not to miss any opportunity of this kind. If she could win his confidence, he might become a valuable source. On the other hand was it not imprudent to stray from the plane during refueling?

  “Nah, it’s OK, we’d only be gone an hour and the plane is scheduled to be there for 90 minutes. It’s a small island. We’d be back at the airport in plenty of time. Besides, they’re not going to leave the Undersecretary of State behind are they?” Trautmann answered when she voiced this fear.

  Reassured, Delphine said she would join them and before landing took herself to the bathroom to freshen up, since she wanted to appear as sprightly as she could under the circumstances.

  As they stepped out into the tropical atmosphere of Polynesia, she caught her breath at the wondrous beauty of the scene. The landing strip was next to an azure ocean surrounded on three sides by darkly forested mountains, the tallest coming to a sharp, imposing peak. The air itself felt soft and gentle.

  Secretary Dayton was greeted by local dignitaries, none as tall as she. They escorted her into a small terminal building accompanied by Jason King and Erik Jens. Todd Trautmann also headed for the terminal.

  “Gimme five,” he said. “I’ve got to call my bureau before we leave.”

  As Delphine waited, Undersecretary Levin approached. “So you’re the lovely Mademoiselle Roget,” he said, extending a hand. The trip had not been kind to him; he looked even more haggard than before takeoff.

  “It’s my pleasure. But how do you know my name?”

  “The whole plane’s talking about you. It’s not often we get someone like you on our travels.” “What does this mean, someone like me?”

  Before Levin could answer, Todd emerged from the building, red-faced and self-important. “Sorry guys, can’t come. There’s been another suicide bombing in Jerusalem. My editor wants me to write an analysis since I know more about the Middle East than anyone else in the bureau.”

  “You are fluent in Hebrew or Arabic?” Delphine asked admiringly.

  “Nope, don’t know either one.”

  Ah, the American way, tried and tested, Delphine thought. Make foreigners speak your language and ignore what they say to each other in their own. She herself knew both languages – skills that had helped her secure her present job.

  “But what analysis can you write from here, so far from the scene?”

  “No sweat,” Trautmann said, sweating profusely. “I’ll just write that the Arab-Israeli peace process is in the crapper and there’s no way Secretary Dayton will be launching a mission to the region after this.”

  “Then I suppose no tour of the island,” Delphine murmured regretfully.

  “No, you two go without me. I insist. Have fun,” Todd said.

  Delphine looked at Undersecretary Levin, who shrugged. “What the hell. Anything to get away from the she-dragon for half an hour. Let’s do it.”

  There were some ramshackle taxis standing on the road outside the airstrip and it was the work of a second to hire one.

  “Just take us on a quick tour. We’ve only got an hour. Do you understand? We must be back here in one hour,” Levin told the driver as they sat down in back.

  “Yes, OK, understand, understand,” the driver said. Delphine immediately began perspiring in the humidity, despite the breeze from the open window. As they moved off down a rutted road, she turned to Levin and repeated her question.

  “Mr. Undersecretary, what did you mean when said you do not often share you travels with someone like me?”

  For some seconds he offered no response. Looking at his craggy features, Delphine could not avoid noticing the way his eyebrows grew without restraint. Finally, he said, “You’re much younger than the other reporters.”

  “I’m no older than Bridget Daly who is Erik Jens’s assistant.”

  “I guess what I really meant was, we’re not used to having someone as … as French as you on these trips.”

  What a blunt instrument the English language is, Delphine thought, so perfect for calling a spade a spade but so inadequate for more complex nuances.

  “As French?”

  “That’s exactly right.” Unexpectedly grabbing her small hand with his large one, he lifted it to his beaky nose and sniffed it delicately, as one might the cork of a Chateau Lafitte or a rare and ancient Pétrus from a famous year.

  “Ah,” he breathed. “Delightful, yet intoxicating, like fresh oranges or lemons – simply French.”

  “That, Monsieur, is merely eau de parfum such as one can buy in any pharmacy for a small amount of dollars. There’s nothing French a
bout it,” Delphine said tartly.

  “Sir, Madam, on left you see girls’ grammar school,” said the driver, pointing at a roofed enclosure held up by poles but lacking walls. Delphine took the opportunity to remove her hand from Levin’s clammy grip. “And over there you see boys’ high school,” the driver said, gesturing at a similar structure.

  “Do you have a beach around here? Maybe you could take us to the ocean,” Levin said. Delphine wished he’d stop playing with his ear lobe.

  “Sure, OK, we got plenty beach, plenty ocean, no problem,” the driver said, wrenching the wheel around and heading off in another direction.

  The taxi began a slow, steep descent down a winding road with thick, jungle vegetation on either side.

  “Mr. Undersecretary, what changes do you foresee in the administration’s Middle East policy in coming months?” Delphine asked, wanting to set relations on a strictly business footing. “Is there really no chance for a ceasefire?”

  He shook his head wearily. “Not now Delphine. You have a lovely way of asking, with that cute accent of yours, but it’s too damned complicated and sensitive. Give me a call when we get back to D.C. and I promise you we’ll talk about the Middle East and anything else you’re interested in.”

  “Here is beach,” said the driver as they pulled up in front of an expanse of black, volcanic rock leading down to the shore where waves broke dramatically over half-concealed rocks just below the surface.

  “Not much of a beach; no sand. Got any sharks around here?” Levin asked, climbing stiffly out of the car.

  “Yes, OK, sharks, many good sharks,” nodded the driver, grinning enthusiastically.

  “Might as well go down there, get our feet wet,” Levin said.

  Delphine did not want to get her feet wet but it didn’t feel right to refuse so she walked gingerly over the rocks to the waterline where Levin surprised her again by bending down, removing his sneakers and socks and rolling up the pants of his maroon track suit, revealing a pair of bony, white, hairless legs.