The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Come on in,” he said, wading into the surf ankle deep. “It’s pretty nice.”

  “Thank you but I do not wish it.”

  While Levin trod carefully over the rocks, Delphine took her camera out of her bag thinking to capture the scene. As she peered through the viewfinder and fiddled with the focus, a large wave broke behind the Undersecretary of State, who missed his balance, teetered for a second and fell into the water with a splash. Delphine snapped several pictures as he wallowed in the surf before he managed to struggle to his feet sputtering like an angry walrus.

  “Goddamned rocks,” he roared.

  “Are you hurt?” Delphine asked, replacing the camera in her pocketbook.

  “Just soaked,” he said, examining himself for bruises. “Never mind, I can change on the plane. Speaking of which, we’d better get back.”

  They climbed into the taxi which began the slow ascent back to the airfield.

  “Can you hurry it up mister?” Levin said, glancing anxiously at his watch.

  “Here is other girls’ school, best on the island,” said the driver waving a lazy arm out the window.

  “Never mind the goddamned girls’ school. Just get us back. Don’t you understand plain English? For Chrissakes, put your damned foot on it.”

  The driver seemed not to comprehend because he did not go faster. Moreover, Delphine did not recognize the scenery and realized they were not returning the same way as they had come.

  “Where are you taking us?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

  “You wanted tour of island.”

  “Not any more. Please just take us back to the airport by the shortest route,” she said as calmly as possible.

  “You not want tour of the island? Over there is very famous boys’ school,” the driver said, pointing once again.

  “No more schools, you understand. No more damned schools. Airport. Airport for Chrissakes,” Levin said through clenched teeth, looking at his watch and thumping his fist against the seat. “Oh God, what a fucking mess,” he muttered.

  Finally, the field came into view and Delphine spotted the familiar blue-painted fuselage standing on the tarmac. Levin, still damp from his unscheduled dip in the Pacific, jumped out of the cab, stuffed a few dollars into the driver’s hand, and took off with surprising speed for one so heavy. As he reached the chain link fence surrounding the facility, the plane began moving down the runway.

  “Stop, stop,” he yelled, shaking the fence with both arms. The plane only went faster. “Stop, for God’s sake,” he shouted – but of course nobody except Delphine could hear him. The aircraft took off, gained altitude, banked and disappeared into a cloud.

  Undersecretary Levin and Delphine Roget were stranded on Pago Pago.

  Chapter 2

  Watching the aircraft disappear, Delphine almost cried. For any journalist traveling with a politician, whether they be a President or Prime Minister or Secretary of State, the first and most important commandment is ‘Never miss the plane.’ How would she ever hold her head up among her colleagues again? She didn’t even want to imagine Jean-Luc’s reaction. Her career as a State Department correspondent seemed over before it had properly begun. Perhaps Lisa Hemmings was right, she thought, and she was a dilettante among professionals. But there were more immediate problems. As they walked slowly to the terminal, she was thinking they might be stuck on this island for days. How often did commercial flights arrive in such a remote spot? And she did not even have her passport, having handed it over to the State Department official organizing the trip who arranged all the necessary visas and entry stamps for the traveling press.

  Fortunately, this worry was short-lived. A man wearing shorts and a vivid Hawaiian shirt approached, smiling broadly. Clasping Levin’s hand, he said, “Not to worry sir. Defense Secretary Woodward Hayes will soon be here. We have radioed ahead and confirmed he can take both of you to Sydney on his plane. You will arrive there barely three hours after Secretary Dayton.”

  Delphine had forgotten that Defense Secretary Hayes would be taking part in the same talks as Secretary Dayton and was traveling to Australia independently. What a relief! However, she quickly saw that Levin did not share her happiness. As they waited in the terminal, he sat slumped in a corner, still dripping slightly, his head buried in his arms, muttering expletives and refusing offers of cold drinks and snacks from local officials.

  “Mr. Levin, is something the matter?” Delphine asked.

  “Something the matter? You bet your fucking life there is.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No you can’t ‘elp. Don’t you think you’ve ‘elped enough already?” he said, folding his arms defensively across his chest and tilting his head away from her.

  “But why are you so hostile? I have done nothing.”

  A pause. A deep sigh. “You’re right. I apologize. I did this to myself. She was just waiting for a chance to take me down and I was dumb enough to give her one. What a sap.” And he began beating his fist against his chest, saying, “Sap, sap, sap…”

  Delphine saw there was no reasoning with him – how quickly he had lost her respect – and left him to his devices.

  Soon, there was a stir in the terminal as another plane, identical to Secretary Dayton’s Boeing, landed. A minute later, the roly-poly figure of Defense Secretary Hayes, his pate as smooth as a billiard ball, descended the stairs. Levin pulled himself together and walked out on to the tarmac to greet him. The two shook hands, Secretary Hayes grinning broadly as if he had just heard a particularly hilarious joke.

  “There you are Dick,” he said jovially, slapping his colleague on the back. “They radioed ahead and told me you’d be waiting. You look a bit damp.”

  “Mr. Secretary.”

  “How the hell are you doing Dick?”

  “Had better days, Mr. Secretary.”

  “I’ll bet you have at that.” The two entered the terminal where Secretary Hayes was introduced to some of the local officials. After a while, he spotted Delphine sitting in a corner. She stood as he approached, noting he was about the same height as her, although there the similarity ended.

  “This is Delphine Roget, the French news agency correspondent traveling with us,” said Levin, his tone noticeably sour.

  “Enchanté mademoiselle,” Secretary Hayes said gallantly, lifting her hand and brushing it with plump, wet lips.

  “Est-ce-que vous parlez français?”

  “What?”

  “Do you speak French?”

  “Nah, never saw the point of foreign talk, except a few words of Spanish to the guys working in the back yard, make sure they don’t ruin the shrubbery. We’re the United States which makes us numero uno. Let all the others speak our language. But I love how you talk.”

  Not long after this, the plane was ready for departure. Unlike Secretary Dayton, Hayes was traveling without reporters and his aircraft was more than half empty. Delphine found a vacant row near the back and stretched out to sleep. Scarcely had she closed her eyes when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “The Secretary would like to speak to you up front.”

  She followed the officer past a bank of radio transmitters and receivers and was ushered into a private cabin, which was furnished with a desk, armchairs, a couch and coffee table.

  “Sit down, sit down won’t you. Would you like some fruit?” Hayes asked, pointing to a basket containing apples, oranges, a bunch of grapes, even a kiwi. He was wearing a seersucker suit, the jacket thrown casually over a chair, and not one of those dreadful sporting outfits favored by the Secretary of State and her entourage. Though much fatigued after almost 24 hours without sleep, Delphine felt completely alert, what Americans call wired. This was incomparably exciting, to be engaged in a tête-à-tête with this man who oversaw the destructive powers of the U.S. armed forces.

  “I’d lov
e some,” she answered, taking a place next to him on the sofa. “They don’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘fruit’ on Madam Secretary’s plane. There, everything is served with a condiment they call cheesy whiz.”

  He smiled. “You’re with the Pentagon now baby. We look after ourselves. An apple a day together with your steak keeps the geeks and gooks away.”

  Delphine took a pear and bit into it, dabbing the dripping juice with a serviette. “This is delicious. By the way, where is Undersecretary Levin? Perhaps he too would like some fruit.”

  Secretary Hayes winked. “He’s all tuckered out. I gave him my bed. He needs it more than I do.” He pointed inside another interior cabin. “Poor sucker. I don’t envy him once your story comes out. He’ll be the laughing stock of Washington D.C.”

  “What story?”

  “How the two of you came to be stranded on Pago Pago today. Secretary Dayton just called.” He pointed to the telephone on his desk. “She’s eager to see the story hit the wire and you’re the only one who can tell it properly.”

  “But what makes this a news story? We unfortunately missed the plane and were delayed a couple of hours until you arrived. Who would be interested in that? All we did was to make a taxi ride around the island and Mr. Levin took a paddle in the ocean.”

  “Is that how he got wet?”

  “He slipped and fell over.”

  “Fell over?” Secretary Hayes guffawed. “Better and better.”

  “I have it on film I believe.”

  “You got pictures of him falling over?”

  “I won’t know for sure what came out until they’re developed.”

  “Whee hee, this is priceless,” Woodward said, slapping his knee. “Well, I’d say you’re sitting on a helluva story, a real humdinger. How do you like this for a headline? ‘Secretary of State Maroons Senior Aide on South Sea Island.’ Late night TV will love it. Every gossip columnist in the country’s going to pick this one up.”

  Delphine felt both excited and a little repelled. Something about this didn’t sit right. “Why do you dislike your colleague so much that you wish to humiliate him in such a way?” she asked.

  “Ah, shucks, it’s not personal. It’s just the way the game’s played, law of the jungle. Levin’s a nice enough guy, I guess, but he’s not a team player.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hayes stopped, perhaps aware he was being indiscreet. He leaned forward. “Before we go any further, I wanna make clear we’re off the record, have been all the time. You savvy?” “Naturally.”

  “So see here Delphine – I can call you that can’t I?” She nodded. He put his hand up for a moment and stroked the top of her head. Delphine tried not to flinch. Gross! But this was just the way things were for a young women in a man’s world.

  “Boy, your hair’s mighty pretty when the sun shines in the window and catches it all gleaming and liquidy. Is black your real color? No, don’t answer, it would spoil the fascination.”

  Delphine edged a few inches away. “Mr. Secretary, you were explaining…”

  “What?” He looked bemused, as if he’d lost track of his thoughts.

  “About the law of the jungle.”

  “Right. Well, you know how it is. If you’re an itty, bitty antelope, you don’t go down drinking at the waterhole when the she-lion is out there. And Levin, he may think he’s a great mind and an independent thinker and all, but in Washington power terms, he’s nothing but an itty bitty antelope who went down to the waterhole with a little French girl and got himself photographed falling in – all of which violates the first rule of politics.”

  “Which is?”

  “Basic rule I learned in my very first campaign – don’t do anything that’s gonna make you look stupid. Example: you’ve just made a speech to the local Rotary Club in some little dirtbag town in Kansas or Oklahoma or wherever the heck. When you’ve done speaking, a guy comes up on the stage, thanks you very much for coming and as a mark of appreciation presents you with a funny hat – a Lincoln stovepipe or a Green Bay Packers cheesehead or a huge cowboy hat. So what do you do? Do you put it on?”

  “How can you refuse such a kind gesture?”

  “You say, ‘Thanks pal, I’ll treasure it to the end of my days,’ but you never, never put it on your head because the next thing you know someone’s taken your picture and now that image of you looking like a dumbass in a stupid hat is going to be flashed on network TV every time they mention your name. You savvy?”

  “And Madam Dayton? Are you saying she’s the she-lion?”

  “You better believe it. Secretary of State’s just the start for her. There’re lots of people would like to see her run for president next year, me among them. She’s not the prettiest face but she’s got balls. She’s tough, she acts like a leader. She’s smart but she doesn’t come across too brainy.”

  “This is good?”

  “You better believe it. Americans don’t like intellectuals. That’s Levin’s problem. Uses too many long words. He’s like the nerd nobody would sit next to at high school. Remember, I just told you we’re off the record. I don’t want to read any of this in tomorrow’s New York Times or even in the Monde, or whatever you call it. Secretary Dayton’s a good person to have on your side. You write a story about Levin taking a dip in the ocean and you’ll be making a mighty important friend, one who could go all the way.”

  Delphine could hardly believe she was, as they would say in American, dishing dirt with the Secretary of Defense of the entire United States. And now she had a chance to repair relations with Secretary Dayton after her earlier faux pas.

  Shortly after this, Delphine went back to the rear cabin and began composing her story on her laptop, using the very headline Secretary Hayes had suggested. It was ready by the time they landed.

  Jean-Luc was angry when Delphine called to explain how she’d been left behind on the island. But he relaxed once he read her story and was in raptures after he saw the photos, which came out surprisingly well considering Delphine’s lack of camera expertise. As Secretary Woodward had predicted, the late night comics back in America found the incident irresistible. Her photos of Undersecretary Levin wallowing in the waves were printed on the front pages of many American newspapers.

  The next few days in Australia passed slowly as the ministers held their talks. Mostly, members of the press corps spent the time waiting for someone to come out of the official meetings and brief them. Several American and even some international television networks called to request interviews with Delphine about her excursion to the seashore. She declined them all, not wanting to rub salt in poor Richard Levin’s wound.

  The Undersecretary himself was nowhere to be seen. Feeling sad for him and a little guilty, Delphine tried calling his room to restore good relations—but he’d checked out. She learned he’d taken a commercial flight back to Washington and gone to ground, waiting for the fuss to blow over.

  As for the talks with the Australians, there wasn’t much to write about since both sides agreed on practically everything. What the press corps really wanted to know was, what did the administration intend to do about the Middle East where violence continued to rage. Almost every day brought new reports of Palestinian attacks and Israeli reprisals. Gaza and the West Bank were under siege but Washington remained silent and none of the senior American officials traveling with Secretary Dayton would answer any questions.

  At around midnight the evening before their departure home, there was a knock on Delphine’s hotel room door. She’d just emerged from the shower and was wondering what to wear for the trip back. She’d been considering a cerulean blue split skirt with a black zip-up blouse, an ensemble that was both comfortable and a little sportive which she hoped might fit in better among the garish warm-up suits favored by the other travelers.

  “Yes, who is it?” she called.

 
; “Can I come in for a moment?” Looking through the peep hole, Delphine saw the blotchy, irritated face of the State Department spokesman Erik Jens.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We need to talk. It’s important.”

  Delphine hesitated.

  “For Chrissakes, let me in before someone sees me standing here.”

  “Just a second, let me put something on,” she said, taking from the closet her white, cotton nightgown with Belgian lace trim. With some unease, her hair still damp and disorderly, she opened the door.

  “I won’t stay but a minute,” said Jens, looking everywhere except at Delphine and finally sinking into a chair by the desk. “Madam Secretary wanted me to tell you we’ve been reading your stories carefully. She thinks you’re a positive addition to the press corps. She likes your style and hopes you’ll travel with us again. So do I. ” His hands waved excessively in front of him as if he had no control over them.

  “That’s nice,” Delphine answered cautiously. “But you’re the ones who decide who gets a seat on the plane and who does not.”

  “And she’s also decided to answer your question.”

  “Which question? I have asked many.” Delphine was perplexed by this conversation and wondered why Jens had found it necessary to come to her room instead of using the telephone. Even at this hour, he was wearing an ill-fitting business suit, his striped blue and green tie tight around his fleshy neck.

  “The question you asked on the plane on the way over. You asked whether Madam Secretary intended to launch a peace shuttle in the Middle East.”

  “So you’re telling me you’ve decided to deliver an answer now, at midnight, here in my room?”

  He cleared his throat, chewing the inside of his mouth. “That’s right. You can attribute what I’m about to tell you to a senior administration official. But no names. I was never here. We never spoke. This conversation we’re having never took place.”

  Delphine shrugged as eloquently as she could.

  “The second condition is you hold this information until we refuel at Los Angeles tomorrow. You can file it then and you’ll be all alone with the news for several hours. Agreed?”