The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  Lisa smiled without opening her mouth, her lips pale and bloodless. “Who says they can make peace in the Middle East?”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “Oh, why not? I could use some new earrings or maybe a gold bracelet. There are lovely things in the souk and you do have such impeccable taste, or so everybody keeps telling me. By the way, I love that Jewish star you’re wearing.”

  “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

  “But it might be a good idea to take it off when we reach Damascus. They aren’t exactly pro-Israeli there.”

  Delphine made a mental note to revert to the crucifix. This set her musing about the Jewish half of her family. How would her uncle and aunt have felt about her wandering around the Syrian capital, which they had always regarded as the heart of enemy territory? Soon after this, the steward arrived with a tray.

  “Horse dervs,” he announced, depositing a plate of fried chicken wings and two kinds of sauces in small plastic cups on the partition dividing their seats.

  “Excuse me?

  “Horse dervs, Ma’am.”

  “He means hors d’oeuvres,” said Lisa, picking up a wing between thumb and forefinger. “Although they may be made of horse for all I know. You want some? You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  “No thank you. I prefer my crudités,” Delphine said, extracting them from her bag.

  “You’re smart, bringing your own food. Why did I never think of that?”

  Delphine offered her some vegetables and Lisa accepted a carrot and a stick of celery. The main course, which followed was a steak the thickness of a doorstep with a large blob of butter melting on top and pommes frites from a frozen packet on the side. Dessert was canned peaches with two kinds of ice cream. A steward circulated with an aerosol can, offering whipped cream. Delphine wondered if this meal was a ploy by Secretary Dayton to dull the wits of overfed reporters before exposing herself to their questions. But when she finally did appear, dressed in a loose, shapeless yellow garment, the media representatives were in feisty mood.

  As usual, Jason King, her chief bodyguard, stood behind her, ramrod straight, subjecting the media to his scrutiny. When his steely eyes met Delphine’s, he gave an unexpected wink.

  “Before we begin, here are the ground rules,” Erik said. “This briefing is on background. You can attribute it to a senior official traveling with the Secretary but no names.”

  This formulation was invented in the early 1970s by Dr. Henry Kissinger during his Middle East peace shuttles. He used it as a way of speaking bluntly without being quoted by name. Everybody knew the ‘senior official’ was in fact the Secretary of State himself but he could always deny it if necessary. By reverting to such a thinly veiled form of anonymity, Secretary Dayton placed herself as latest in the long line of American statesmen and women who had labored like Sisyphus to bring peace to the Middle East. But there was one crucial difference which raised the stakes much higher. Unlike any of her predecessors, Secretary Dayton was a possible presidential candidate.

  Todd asked the first question: “Madam Secretary, how do you intend to persuade two bitter enemies like Israeli Prime Minister Yair Shoresh and Palestinian President Walid al-Bakr to trust each other long enough to agree to a ceasefire, given their long history of fighting each other and especially since militants on both sides are urging even more bloodshed?”

  Grasping the microphone, the Secretary of State bared her teeth in what could have been either a snarl or a smile. “Thank you Todd. I’ve been reading your articles with interest. You’re obviously not expecting this mission to succeed,” she said. Her smile persisted much too long to be genuine.

  A couple of reporters laughed uneasily.

  “With respect to your question, Todd, let me first say that I believe the vast majority of ordinary Israeli and Palestinian folk want an end to the cycle of violence. Both leaders have told me privately they wish for this as well. Frankly, neither of them benefits from a situation that could spiral out of control at any moment. They may not fully trust each other but they both realize they have to deal with one another. So, unlike you, I think there’s room for some optimism.”

  “A follow up,” said Todd. “What about Abdul Muqtadir and his Palestinian Martyrs Brigade? They control Gaza and they’re firing rockets at Israel but you don’t recognize them or talk to them. How are you going to bring them into a ceasefire? Isn’t it time to engage them?”

  “We don’t talk to them because they’re terrorists and U.S. law forbids us from talking to terrorists. But let’s not jump too far ahead. As I just told you, the leaders and the ordinary people – both Israelis and Palestinians – want, need and deserve peace. That’s a good starting point.”

  “Madam Secretary, what if there’s a terrorist attack during your visit?” asked CNN’s Stewart Wentworth in his broadcaster’s baritone. “Would you still continue the mission?”

  “Now, now Stewart,” replied Secretary Dayton as if chiding a wayward child. “You should know by now I don’t answer ‘what if’ questions. I’ll play the hand I’m dealt and tackle each new problem as it arises. There’s no point in even talking about things we all hope won’t happen.”

  Delphine decided not to ask a question. After Todd’s outburst complaining of favoritism, she wanted to keep a low profile. But Lisa had no such scruples, raising her hand time and again, only to be ignored. Delphine could sense her growing anger and wondered again what she’d done to incur the Secretary’s wrath.

  After about 25 minutes, Ira Milstein, who was well-known for his pro-Israeli slant as well as for asking impossibly long questions, grabbed the microphone.

  “Madam Secretary, we all know you’re going to be putting heavy pressure on Prime Minister Shoresh to give up Israel’s basic right to retaliate against Palestinian terrorist attacks because Secretaries of State always end up putting pressure on Israel. That’s what Kissinger did, it’s what Schultz did, what Baker did. But wouldn’t it be a terrible signal of weakness for Israel to give up its right to self-defense, as well as endangering the security of ordinary Israelis? Don’t you think the kind of deal you’re offering may buy some relative calm for a few months but could produce even worse violence later?”

  Secretary Dayton, hands on her hips, elbow stuck out sideways, looked at him coldly. “That’s quite a speech. We all surely love our Ira.”

  Milstein lifted his head, acknowledging this empty accolade. Secretary Dayton continued, “With respect to your basic assumption, Ira, I don’t accept it. I’m not Kissinger or Schultz or Baker, but I’m proud to follow in their footsteps. They all worked hard for peace and security for Israel. Frankly, Israel is our closest ally in the region and we’re not going to put pressure on them to do anything they don’t want to do. Of course, they have the right to self-defense. This isn’t about that. It’s about stopping the cycle of violence so that ordinary folk in both communities can live safely and securely.”

  Ira lifted his hand for a follow-up but she kept speaking. “Look, let me be frank, I know this is not going to be easy. I know that all the experts and commentators, including some of you sitting right here in front of me, expect me to fail. Some may even hope that I fail. But I’m still going to try because this is about peace. It’s worth taking a political risk to save lives. That’s what courageous leaders do. Thank you, enjoy the flight and I’ll see you all in Cairo.”

  Delphine spent the next two hours listening to the tape and setting down a transcript on her computer. Then, she wrote a 500-word story. By the time she was done, the plane was already making its descent to Shannon Airport in Ireland to refuel. Peering out the window, she saw a wet, green landscape.

  “Stopped here a thousand times,” Lisa said. “It’s always raining.”

  “Where do we file our stories?”

  “There’s a business center where you can hook your computer up.”

 
After transmitting her story, Delphine still had some time to kill before take-off. She wandered around the almost deserted terminal to stretch her legs and wound up in the Duty Free Shop.

  “I recommend the smoked salmon. Great value and really excellent. You should pick up a couple of packets when we stop here on the way home,” a voice sounded in her ear. Delphine turned to see Jason King, looking positively urbane in his perfectly-tailored gray business suit, showing no signs he had just endured a transatlantic flight.

  “Where’s Secretary Dayton? I thought you two were never parted,” she countered, seized with an unaccountable desire to puncture that smooth exterior.

  “There are some places even I cannot follow,” he replied, flashing her a quintessentially American smile full of brilliant white, perfectly even teeth.

  “She’s unprotected?”

  “I was just kidding. She’s in a secure room talking to POTUS on the phone. Four of my colleagues are on guard outside the door. So no need to worry.”

  POTUS was shorthand for ‘President of the United States.’

  “Anyway, I can’t stay here long so let me get to the point,” he continued. “Would you have breakfast with me tomorrow morning in Cairo? I’ll take you to a place I know and we can watch the sun rise over the pyramids.”

  Delphine found herself at a loss for words.

  “So it’s a yes,” he said, as if nobody ever denied him anything.

  “Strangely, this is my second such offer today, although the first only involved beer,” she said, playing for time.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of your colleagues, a man called Mitchell …”

  “Mitch Webb? I wouldn’t have thought he was your type exactly.”

  “He seemed amiable. Anyway, how would you know who is and who is not my type?”

  He laughed. “I know more about you than you might imagine.”

  “Tell me, Monsieur, are you married?” Jason King wasn’t wearing a ring but Delphine remembered Lisa’s warning, “Wheels up, rings off.”

  “It’s just breakfast.”

  “Are you?”

  “Are you?”

  “I thought you knew everything about me.”

  “Touché.”

  “I think with regret I shall decline your invitation. I’m here to cover the peace mission, not to indulge in sunrise breakfasts.”

  “We’ll leave the hotel at four thirty and I’ll have you back by seven. That’s three full hours before the Secretary’s meeting with President Fouad.”

  “Four thirty? In the morning?” Dieu, the idea seemed appalling.

  “You’ll probably be too jet-lagged to sleep anyway.” Delphine appraised Jason King’s blond hair and gray eyes. There was something sharp-edged and dangerous about him. She had to admit, against her will she was tempted.

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll pick you up in the hotel lobby.”

  On the final leg of the trip, Delphine finally managed to doze off, only to be awakened by loud groaning behind her. Turning, she was disturbed to see Ira Milstein clutching his chest. His face had turned ashen and for a moment she thought was having a heart attack.

  “Acid reflux,” his seat-mate, Todd Trautmann, said nonchalantly. “I told him not to eat those chicken wings—but did he listen?”

  Ira gasped again, his face a mask of agony.

  “He’ll be OK once the pills kick in,” Todd added.

  “Mr. Milstein, are you sure you’re OK?” Delphine asked.

  The veteran reporter just clenched his teeth. Delphine felt far from reassured and kept turning around to check on him. After half an hour, his features relaxed and he fell mercifully asleep.

  Arriving in Cairo, the reporters stepped straight from the plane into a van waiting on the tarmac and were driven to the city in a long motorcade led by police cars blaring sirens and flanked by motorcycle outriders. There were advantages to this kind of travel, Delphine reflected. No long lines to get through the metal detector; no queuing at passport control or getting fleeced by taxis. All around them, local traffic was paralyzed while they sped through the streets unimpeded.

  “Imagine all those poor suckers trying to get to work or wherever they have to go,” said Andrew Cushing, the Wall Street Journal man. “The traffic here is hell at the best of times, and then the Secretary of State comes and ties it up for another two hours. No wonder they don’t like Americans.”

  “They’re not the only ones wasting their time,” said Todd. “This trip is nothing but political theater to make Dayton look like a great peacemaker.”

  “So you don’t think she can advance peace?” Delphine asked.

  “Depends how you define peace. In the short-term, she’ll probably get her ceasefire. Middle Eastern leaders don’t like to send American Secretaries of State home empty handed. There’ll be a press conference and Shoresh and al-Bakr will shake hands and the cameras will be rolling. Everyone will hail her wonderful achievement—but of course it won’t last. Sooner or later and probably sooner, they’ll start killing each other again. They always do.”

  In the row ahead of them, Stewart Wentworth was reading his notes. Todd tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey Stewie, way to go with that question. Boy, she really squashed you like a bug.”

  “Bitch,” muttered Stewart, his distinguished news anchor’s face almost purple. “Fuck her, if you’ll excuse my French.”

  Delphine constantly heard this expression from Americans and found it extraordinarily offensive. Probably, none of them even knew French. In Europe, most journalists knew English and often a couple of other languages as well—but the rules were different for Americans where ignorance was prized.

  “What about the way Madam ignored Lisa?” Ira said. “What did you do to get in her black book?”

  “Wait till next Sunday,” Lisa responded enigmatically.

  “I smell scandal,” said Andrew Cushing. “What are you cooking up?”

  “Y’all will see soon enough.”

  The hotel was located on a bank of the Nile. Delphine had a view of the river from her room but was too tired to appreciate it. Having checked in with the local AFP bureau, she spent a few minutes deciding what to wear next morning, wondering how chilly the pre-dawn hours would be. She was aiming for something midway between business and leisure – an outfit that said neither ‘Come on’ nor ‘Keep off’ but which kept her options open. Finally, she laid out a pair of khaki three quarters length pants with a gauzy long-sleeved top and a beige blazer, colors particularly apropos for the desert. She also pulled out her Børn leather slip-ons in case the excursion involved walking over rough, unpaved ground. They were admittedly clunky but she guessed Jason wouldn’t be looking at her feet.

  The alarm at four woke Delphine out of deep slumber. She was about to turn over and go back to sleep when she had a sudden image of Jason bursting into the room, pistol at the ready. It jerked her awake and she crawled out of bed and into the bathroom, peering without pleasure at the tired version of herself she saw reflected in the mirror. A little dab of makeup and a couple of dozen passes through her hair with a brush repaired some of the damage—fortunately, her lips were of a color that did not require lipstick – and she went down to the lobby to find Jason already waiting.

  “Good morning, don’t you look nice?” he greeted her.

  “I feel like merde,” she responded grouchily. Jason himself, she had to admit, looked quite delicious like an off-duty cowboy in light blue denims and a faded green work shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him not wearing a one of his sleek designer suits. Acting on impulse and wishing to place him on the defensive for once, she leaned forward and kissed him on both of his stubbly, unshaven cheeks and in the cleft of his chin for good measure. He smelled as nice as he looked—a little lavender, a little sandalwood, subtle and understated.
/>
  “What was that about?” he asked, taken aback.

  Delphine smiled. “This is how we greet our friends in my country.”

  He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Delphine Roget. Well, let’s get going or we’ll miss the sunrise.” He led her out to the street where an Egyptian police jeep was waiting. Jason greeted the uniformed driver in decent Arabic and the two shook hands warmly.

  “Now you can be sure of getting back on time,” he said, enjoying her surprise. “If we get stuck in traffic, Mohammed will use his siren. Jump in.”

  “How did you arrange this?” Delphine asked as he sat beside her in back.

  “We work closely with local law enforcement and security agencies in all the places the Secretary visits, so I get to know them pretty well, especially in places like Cairo and Jerusalem that we visit several times a year. They’re always happy to do a fellow lawman a good turn.”

  “Where did you learn your Arabic? It’s quite impressive.”

  “I was in charge of security at our embassy in Damascus for three years before this job – that was when we had diplomatic relations with Syria. But my Arabic isn’t that great. It gets me around but it’s pretty basic.”

  “So you have lots of contacts still in Damascus?”

  “A few friends, sure.”

  The pyramids at sunrise are particularly alluring and Delphine took a few snaps with her pocket camera as they walked around the deserted site. Beautiful and mysterious though they were, Delphine found her attention straying as she wondered when Jason would attempt to kiss her. She had little doubt the moment was coming and had already decided to accept his advances if they were not too clumsy—but she was curious to see how he would approach the matter. He took his time, explaining at length about the various pyramids, who had been buried in each, when they were excavated and other interesting details.