The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “D’accord.”

  “What?”

  “Agreed.”

  “You have a pen and paper handy? OK, write this: Madam Secretary will be launching a new peace mission to the Middle East next weekend. She’ll be traveling to Israel, the occupied territories, Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Saudi Arabia and the Gulf. The aim is to achieve a ceasefire between the Israelis and Palestinians and then move forward from there.”

  This was indeed exciting, the more so since all the experts led by Todd Trautmann had been writing that the peace process was as good as dead.

  “What makes her believe a such a mission might succeed now of all times? Isn’t she taking a huge political risk?”

  “In the last couple of days, we’ve been in touch with al-Bakr and Shoresh,” Erik said, referring to the Palestinian president and Israeli prime minister. “They both want to start talking about a ceasefire but they can’t do it without a mediator. Madam Secretary is convinced that with patience, goodwill and persistence, we can help them get there. Gosh Delphine, I must say, you do look fetching in that nightgown.”

  She glared. “Is this why you tell me this? Is this why you are here?”

  Jens reacted as if she’d slapped him in the face, his hands clasping each other defensively. “Of course not.”

  “Then why? After all, I represent a foreign news agency. Why tell me and not the New York Times or the Washington Post?”

  “Well Delphine, off the record, we thought it might teach some of the American know-it-alls a lesson, seeing a cute little French girl beating them at their own game. It’ll give all the so-called experts and pundits a good kick up the ass, demonstrate who actually controls the message. Peace process in the crapper indeed. Shows how much they know.” And with that, he left.

  As agreed, Delphine phoned in her story from Los Angeles Airport, the final refueling stop on the long journey home. The news hit the wire while they were airborne and all the senior officials traveling with Secretary Dayton were unreachable. Other news organizations were unable to confirm her story until they landed back at Andrews Air Force Base.

  It was quite a coup. For six hours, Delphine was alone with the news of the upcoming peace mission, while all the other media outlets tried vainly to match her scoop. CNN and Fox News were forced into the galling position of having to quote AFP, a foreign agency. Only after Secretary Dayton’s plane touched down did the State Department issue an official statement. By then, Delphine was safely in her car and on her way home, avoiding the necessity of seeing the faces of Todd Trautmann, Lisa Hemmings and all her other fellow reporters once they realized how completely they had been beaten.

  Delphine’s boss Jean-Luc Boulez did not hide his amazement. “Extraordinary. How on earth did you pull it off?”

  “I just did what you told me—tried to form relationships with the key senior officials,” Delphine said modestly.

  “In 20 years, nobody from our agency has ever managed to achieve half of what you achieved in four days. We must celebrate. There’s a lovely bed and breakfast in Virginia…”

  “No Jean-Luc,” she cut him short. “How many times must I say this? That kiss at the Christmas party meant nothing. There won’t be any weekends at your little hideaways, so please stop asking.”

  “You know, Delphine, your problem is that you don’t allow yourself to enjoy some of the great pleasures that life offers. I sometimes wonder if you’re really French.”

  “And your problem, Jean-Luc, is that you are a middle-aged lecher who does know the meaning of the word ‘fidélité’.”

  Delphine’s AFP colleagues, even those who may secretly have wished to supplant her, were forced to applaud her success. She accepted these plaudits with a smile, but in her heart she knew she hardly deserved them. Her scoop had nothing to do with her own merits. Secretary Dayton and Erik Jens had merely used her for their own purposes. But there wasn’t time to dwell on such thoughts. She had to start preparing for the upcoming Middle East trip which promised to be a much bigger challenge.

  Two days after her return, Delphine was invited to a meeting with the French ambassador. She took a taxi to the modernistic embassy building located just north of Georgetown and was ushered into the office of the honorable Simone de Courcy, France’s first female envoy to Washington. Delphine had met her before at briefings for the entire resident French press corps but this was their first one-on-one session.

  The ambassador, clad in a classic pinstriped suit, crisp cream silk blouse and pearls, stood to welcome Delphine and the two exchanged air kisses. “Allow me to congratulate you on your accomplishments,” she said, waving her visitor into a gorgeous giltwood Louis XVI armchair. “You will take coffee?”

  “Please,” Delphine replied. De Courcy poured two cups from an antique silver server beautifully embossed with foliate and floral designs. Delphine noticed that the spout had been fashioned into the shape of a duck’s head.

  “I must say, even though we have not previously had the opportunity to talk at length, that I feel a special kinship with you. Like myself, you are testing traditional barriers, and with wonderful success,” the ambassador said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I will not of course ask how you achieved your breakthrough or who were your sources. But I do feel we should speak from time to time, à deux, to exchange impressions. I’d be very interested in your insights into State Department thinking, while you may benefit from our own analysis.”

  The prospect of regular exclusive briefings from the French ambassador was another feather in Delphine’s cap. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, she proceeded from the embassy straight to her booth in the State Department press room. The department was a sprawling maze of a building, soulless and depressing, that spread over several blocks in the west of the city. Its windowless, corridors, each painted identically in a drab off white, fanned out from the ceremonial entrance. Each wing had a different colored stripe painted on its walls to allow the mole-like denizens of the building to know where they were as they circulated through the labyrinth. The department was organized in a strictly hierarchical manner. Lowly desk officers, usually career diplomats with strong language skills and deep expertise, sat in tiny cubbyholes on the third and fourth floor. The political appointees who oversaw them had larger quarters on the fifth and sixth floor. Secretary Dayton and her closest advisers were to be found on the seventh floor which was out of bounds to reporters unless specifically invited. Delphine had never been there. The top floor, the eighth, was reserved for state occasions – receptions, treaty signings and the like.

  The press room on the second story, below even the lowest of the low, had two relatively large offices at either end, one occupied by AP, the other by UPI, the two traditional American wire services. They at least had doors. The rest of the press corps worked in small cubicles with no privacy. Just around the corner was the briefing room with its map of the world, where Erik Jens held a televised news conference on global events each day at noon.

  The first thing Delphine did after removing her coat was to phone Richard Levin’s office. She was surprised when he himself answered rather than a secretary or assistant.

  “Oh it’s you,” he said sourly. “You must be calling to gloat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your timing is impeccable. I’m just cleaning out my desk.”

  “You’re resigning?”

  “Just did. They’ll be issuing a statement at the noon briefing thanking me for my valiant service to the nation. I suppose they couldn’t even wait that long to bury me since they’ve already leaked the news to you.”

  “Nobody leaked anything. It’s just a coincidence that I called now, even more that you picked up. I hope you don’t blame me for this.”

  He hesitated. “I guess you did what you had to do. Don’t worry, I’ll survive. Eventually people will forget about those pictur
es you took – I hope.”

  “But to resign—is this necessary?”

  “Nobody in the administration was listening to me anyway. I was just spinning my wheels. What happened on the island clarified things.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Back to my old job. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me. This will only raise my profile. The Sunday TV talk shows will be clamoring for me – they love an ex-insider ready to shit on the people he used to work for—and I’ll be writing lots of opinion pieces in the Times and the Post. I’m gonna be a constant thorn in Dayton’s side. But don’t print any of that, it was off-the-record. Got it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your precious Madam Secretary’s gonna learn that in Washington, what goes around, comes around. Call me after you get back from the Middle East; we’ll talk some more.”

  “Can I send a story about your resignation?”

  He hesitated. “I guess it makes no difference. It’ll be public within an hour anyway. Say I’m leaving for personal reasons. Just none of those quotes.”

  It was another success for Delphine. She sent a bulletin to the wire and it was 15 minutes before any of the other agencies could match it. From where she was sitting, she could see Ira Milstein in his office working the phones furiously, trying to find someone who would confirm the news. Once again, he’d been beaten by a “little French girl.”

  Richard Levin never did get to appear on those Sunday talk shows or write editorials. Two weeks after resigning, he swallowed an entire jar of painkillers. A housekeeper discovered his body next morning. Everyone assumed he was still in despair over his public humiliation. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave a note and had destroyed his personal files.

  Delphine was with Secretary Dayton in Jerusalem at the time. She felt awful, of course. But how could she have anticipated such extreme action? When she’d spoken to him, he’d sounded fine.

  Chapter 3

  Delphine spent the rest of the week getting over her jet-lag and taking care of personal business. The Secretary of State had no such luxury. The day after returning from Australia, she was at the United Nations in New York briefing the Secretary General and was photographed that evening attending the Metropolitan Opera on the arm of her “special friend,” Elton Schuyler.

  They made a strange couple. Schuyler, who had to be at least 75, looked like a wizened frog next to her, his eyes magnified by thick glasses. Despite his prominence in the business world, he seemed surprisingly ill-at-ease in public. As CEO of Stafford Holdings Inc., he controlled hundreds of companies, including at the well-known French construction company Bourbon et Orléan. But until becoming involved with Julia Dayton, he’d always shunned publicity, hunkering down in a Maryland mansion said to contain a fabulous art collection. Commentators noted that if they married, she’d have access to his vast personal fortune to help fund her presidential campaign.

  The days passed quickly and soon it was time to set out once again for Andrews Air Force Base for the Middle East peace mission. Arriving there a second time, Delphine felt better prepared, no longer the new girl on the block. She was wearing a black velour trouser suit that was both chic and sleek. She also carried in her bag a supply of fresh, sliced carrots, celery, red and green peppers and cucumber to avoid eating the U.S. Air Force’s disgusting fromage de whiz.

  The plane was more crowded this time and there was an air of excitement among officials and reporters. Delphine was thrilled to see CNN’s Stewart Wentworth and ABC’s Don Masters sitting two rows behind her. Both appeared older than on TV, though Don Masters boasted a perfect head of carefully coiffed, jet black hair. In contrast, Wentworth aimed more for the gray, elder statesman look. Other seats were taken by representatives from the Associated Press, The New York Times, NBC, CBS, The Los Angeles Times and USA Today. Again, she was by far the youngest reporter aboard and the only non-American.

  As she made her way to her seat, Delphine had to squeeze past a security guy. He grabbed her around the waist from behind as she went by.

  “Hey there pretty lady,” he drawled as a couple of his colleagues sniggered. “Careful what you press against. I’ve got a big pistol in there.”

  “Excuse me?” Delphine stood still, making no attempt to free herself, knowing it would only encourage him.

  “Like what you feel?”

  “Don’t be such a jackass. Let her go,” called out one of his colleagues, a hulking fellow with a buzz cut and no eyebrows.

  Her captor gave one last squeeze before releasing her.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Delphine told the second agent.

  “You’re entirely welcome, Ma’am.”

  “May I know your name?”

  “Mitchell A. Webb III, but you can call me Mitch. Maybe we can have a beer some time.”

  “I do not drink beer, but again I thank you Mitchell.”

  Delphine had been seated again next to Lisa, who had made more of an effort with her appearance this time, wearing a dress the color of cherry blossom constructed of artificial fiber that buttoned all the way up to her thin neck. Unfortunately, the garment was pear-shaped and the delicate shade merely accentuated her pallor. Delphine could have told her that women of her complexion should stick to strong, vivid hues but chose diplomatically to keep her mouth shut.

  “Here’s Madam Secretary’s newest pet reporter,” Lisa said as Delphine took her seat.

  “So we’re together again, Lisa,” Delphine replied, determined not to rise to her colleague’s bait. “What good fortune.”

  “Congratulations on your scoop. You must have worked real hard on it,” Lisa sneered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh come on, don’t play the innocent with me.” Lisa lowered her voice. “You may have told your editors it was all the result of your hard work and journalistic enterprise – that’s what I always told mine – but just between us girls I know exactly how you got it.” And seeing Delphine’s blank look, Lisa added, “Who do you think her favorite reporter was before you came along? Soon she’ll be telling you you’re almost like the daughter she never had.”

  As the plane sped down the runway, Delphine turned away. Was Lisa suggesting that all the wonderful stories that had built her reputation had been spoon fed to her by Secretary Dayton and Erik Jens? Had he also paid late night visits to her hotel room? Did he find her fetching?

  Lisa leaned toward her once again. “A friendly word of advice,” she said, sounding anything but friendly. “Be careful. What Madam Secretary gives, Madam Secretary also takes away. She’ll love you as long as you write what she wants. You rub her back, she’ll rub yours. But the minute you stray off the reservation, all bets are off.”

  “What does this mean, stray off the reservation?”

  “It means investigating something they don’t want investigated; digging beneath the surface to discover things they don’t want discovered.”

  Erik entered the compartment and was immediately surrounded by reporters.

  “So when can we expect the Secretary to come back and talk to us?” asked Ira Milstein. With his hanging jowls, sad eyes and belly overflowing his pants, he looked like an overweight basset hound.

  “She’ll be back to brief after the meal.”

  “And will there be one press conference for everyone, or will you be holding a private briefing for the girls where you give out the real news?” asked Todd Trautmann, directing a poisonous glance at Lisa and Delphine.

  “Now, now Todd, just because you’ve been beaten to the draw by these two fine reporters a couple of times, there’s no need to get snippy. No one likes a sore loser,” said Jens, obviously taking delight in the two-time Pulitzer prizewinner’s displeasure.

  “I don’t mind getting beaten when the game’s fair and square,” Trautmann persisted. “What I can’t take is a stacked deck.”

  �
��What are you insinuating?” asked Jens, not smiling any more. “If you’re accusing Secretary Dayton or me of underhand behavior, then say it out loud. Just be sure you can back it up.”

  Todd looked around but none of his colleagues jumped in to support him.

  “Asshole” Lisa whispered, so only Delphine could hear.

  “I’m not insinuating,” said Todd, fat-faced and self-righteous. “I’m just giving you some friendly advice – don’t play favorites. It won’t help you in the long run.”

  “We don’t,” said Jens, his flat, Midwestern voice as cold as February. “Everyone is treated equally on this plane. Madam Secretary will be back to talk to you in a couple of hours. Enjoy your meal.” He retreated, his sidekick Bridget trailing behind.

  Delphine turned to Lisa and inquired softly, “Why do you think he’s an asshole? We both know Todd has a point.”

  “He does. It’s awful the way she plays us off against each other. One day, I’m her pet reporter; the next day it’s you; tomorrow it will be someone else. It’s just that I can’t stand these old male dinosaurs. What they’d really like to do is take us back to the good old days not too long ago when this plane was a cozy all-male club. What’s his beef? Presidents and Secretaries of State have always had their favorite reporters and columnists; they’ve always leaked stories selectively when it suited them; they’ve always tried to manipulate the press. When all the press corps was an all-male club, nobody said a word about it. Now that the Secretary of State’s a woman and there are a couple of women reporters on board, suddenly he’s crying about how unfair it all is. Gimme a break!”

  Lisa returned to her book but Delphine felt a new warmth toward her. She was also curious. What could Lisa have she done to lose Secretary Dayton’s favor? How could she have ‘strayed from the reservation?’

  “Lisa, would you like to go shopping with me if there’s time?” Delphine asked impulsively. “I hear they have wonderful jewelry in the market in Damascus.” Lisa looked suspicious as Delphine continued, “You may not like me but I haven’t done anything to hurt you. I admire you a lot. I honestly want to be friends. If they can make peace in the Middle East, surely we can too. As you yourself said, it’s just the two of us among all these men.”