The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “You’re almost as good as a professional tour guide,” Delphine told him, while her heart whispered, ‘What are you waiting for? Do it already.’

  “I love coming here early, before the tourists arrive and the heat becomes unbearable. But I was never here with anyone as cute as you.”

  At last, when the sun had already broken the horizon, he made his move as they were standing in front of the Sphinx, swinging her gently around to face him, grasping the back of her head, bending his face down, giving her time to move away, knowing she would not.

  As bridged the gap between them, Delphine braced herself for that inevitable, awkward, fumbling moment when two strangers about to embrace for the first time try to arrange themselves—but it never came. Instead, they slotted together like pieces of a jigsaw, lips joining as if they had practiced this a thousand times. Neither was the kiss itself a disappointment.

  “Your hair, when the sun catches its waves, it’s almost blue,” Jason said stroking it gently. “And your eyes – like black olives.”

  Delphine leaned into his body, her head just about reaching his neck, feeling his warmth, sensing his heartbeat, smelling his smell.

  His eyes seen close-to were gray with a bluish sheen. Jason King, she reflected, was more than he seemed: passable Arabic speaker, amateur historian, and now revealed to possess a poetic soul.

  They stood for a while before he broke away. “Come, we just have time for breakfast before we have to get back.”

  Over marginally-acceptable coffee and croissants, the conversation reverted to generalities. Delphine wondered where things stood between them. Had she made a mistake? This wasn’t like her, allowing a man to kiss her so soon just because he had gorgeous eyes and smelled nice. Would he be creeping to her hotel room in the middle of the night? She was certainly not ready for that.

  “Hey, Earth to Delphine,” Jason said, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes. “What’s the matter? You look sad.”

  “I was just thinking that in future, whenever I see you standing on guard Secretary Dayton’s elbow, I will be reminded of this morning.”

  He said, a little too quickly, “Let’s just keep this morning our little secret. No need to share it with colleagues or anyone else.”

  Delphine didn’t bother responding since this was self-evident.

  “How are you getting along with them anyway?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Some were jealous of my success on the last trip but most are perfectly civil. I do not require more than that. Je suis le chat qui marche lui-même.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, just a phrase from a story my father used to read me when I was little. ‘I am the cat who walks by himself and all places are alike to me’.”

  “What about Lisa Hemmings? How are your relations with her?”

  Why was he asking about her?

  “She was not very amiable at first but things have improved,” Delphine said. We’re going shopping together for jewelry in the Damascus souk tomorrow if there’s time.”

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty of time. The Secretary’s meetings with President Bashir always last seven or eight hours at least.”

  Soon after this, they returned to the hotel. It was still early and the traffic was light. Mohammed did not need to deploy his siren.

  Chapter 4

  Secretary Dayton’s talks with Adnan Fouad, the long-serving President of Egypt, had been scheduled to last two hours but dragged on for almost five. The press waited in an inner courtyard of the presidential palace. Excited to be there, Delphine pulled out her camera and asked Todd to take a picture of her in front of the ornate arabesque pillars. In return, he demanded she take one of him.

  By early afternoon, the heat was oppressive and Delphine was hungry and thirsty. Foolishly, she’d forgotten to bring water. Several reporters had gathered in a group and began playing a game involving dollar bills.

  “What are you doing?” she asked Todd.

  “Liar’s Poker. We always play while we’re waiting for something to happen. As you can see, a huge part of this job consists of waiting,” he said, licking his plump lips. “We’ve played in the Kremlin, the Vatican – everywhere. Do you want to learn the rules? You’re not a true member of the State Department press corps until you’ve lost a few dollars at Liar’s Poker.” Delphine said maybe later.

  At around two, Erik appeared.

  “What’s happening? Why’s it dragging on so long?” asked Ira Milstein. With his frayed collar and hanging tie, he was a caricature of an old-time newshound.

  “I guess they have a lot to talk about.”

  “So how much longer?” Todd asked.

  “Couple of hours, maybe a bit less. After that, they’ll take a few questions and then you’ll have 40 minutes to file before we leave.”

  “Only 40?” said Ira.

  “That’s what I said,” Erik replied.

  Not fair,” said Todd. “Our organizations pay thousands of dollars for us to come on these trips. The least you can do is to give us enough time to do our jobs.”

  Erik shrugged. “Don’t blame me. I’m not the one who sets the timetable. The talks have overrun. Now we’re way behind schedule. I asked for more filing time for you guys but this is the best we can do.” He walked back into the palace.

  With time to kill, Delphine found a shady spot in the courtyard. Her head was spinning and she felt the beginning of what promised to be a crushing a headache. She was also worried about the tight deadline and the fact that she could hardly see her computer screen in the bright sunlight, which was going to make writing a story difficult. Occasionally, men in waiters’ uniforms issued from the palace offering small glasses of hot, sweet tea to the waiting reporters. Delphine accepted one but it only made her thirstier. Noticing Lisa drinking water from a large bottle, she wandered over.

  “Have a sip,” Lisa offered. “You look like a drooping flower, not at all your usual immaculate self. Take more, I have plenty.”

  She, like Delphine, was wearing a lanyard around her neck with several press passes attached. Before each trip, the journalists on the Secretary’s plane gave the State Department a batch of passport photographs which they used to obtain press credentials in each country they visited. By the end of the mission, the reporters would each have seven or eight unflattering images of themselves dangling in front of their chests.

  “I’m just tired,” Delphine said. “I got up at four to see the pyramids.”

  Lisa’s eyes turned dreamy. “I remember the time I saw the sun rise over the pyramids. Unforgettable!” Looking at her, Delphine just knew that Lisa had also gone there with Jason King.

  “Were you alone?” she asked, as if she didn’t care one way or the other.

  “I went with a couple of colleagues,” Lisa said.

  Liar! Did Jason kiss her too? Of course he did. The thought had already ruined the memory of her enchanted morning, turning it into something grubby and tawdry. Serve her right for allowing herself to be enchanted so easily. Change the subject, she told herself.

  She said, “This job is different than I expected. It seems to be mostly standing around waiting.”

  “In some ways, it’s too easy,” Lisa replied. “The State Department looks after us like little children. Bridget slides the next day’s schedule under our doors every night; someone picks up our luggage in the morning and delivers it that evening to our rooms in the next city; we ride in the motorcade; they take us everywhere we need to go. But we’re always in their bubble. We rarely meet regular people. And I don’t even want to think about how many hours I’ve spent waiting around, like now, for meetings to end and press conferences to begin. I could have read the complete works of Tolstoy or learned Japanese. And then, more often than not when the wait finally ends, nobody says anything interesting and we have to manufacture some fake drama.”<
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  “What about tomorrow? I hear the Secretary’s meetings in Damascus often go even longer than this one.”

  “President Bashir always insists on delivering a lengthy rant on the past two thousand years of Middle Eastern history, with special emphasis on the Crusades. Secretary Dayton will just have to sit there and suck it up if she wants his cooperation. At least it will give us plenty of time for shopping.”

  “I’ve often wondered how politicians have the energy to put in the hours they do. Secretary Dayton seems to work virtually around the clock. I’ve been exhausted since we left Washington. How does she manage?” Delphine asked.

  “She’s on a powerful drug.”

  “A drug?”

  “It’s called power. Nothing boosts your energy like the feeling of wielding political or military power. It’s also the world’s greatest aphrodisiac.”

  Soon after this, the meeting ended and President Fouad and Secretary Dayton emerged for the press conference. Their words were precisely as expected. President Fouad, sleek, oily, well-fed, self-satisfied, gave his formal blessing to the peace mission and promised to help any way he could. Secretary Dayton thanked him and issued yet another call to the Israelis and Palestinians to avoid violence. She was wearing a bottle green blazer with a brooch the shape of the United States (not including Hawaii or Alaska) emblazoned with stars and stripes, a clunky if patriotic choice.

  Delphine’s attention kept straying to the figure of Jason King, standing to one side in a light-brown made-to-measure suit. He was the epitome of cool, his unlined face betraying no signs of tiredness or strain. His eyes met hers for an instant and passed on, expressionless – but her lips remembered. Against her will, she felt something stirring inside.

  After completing their statements, the two leaders answered a few questions and then withdrew, leaving the reporters to manage the best they could to meet the 40-minute filing deadline. Delphine envied the TV correspondents. All they had to do was stand up in front of a camera and talk. Acutely aware of time ticking away, she felt uncharacteristically flustered, as if she were back at the lycée sitting for the baccalaureate examination. Finding a shady spot where she could just about see the screen, she started writing. At first she seemed to produce nothing but typos. She started worrying her battery would run down before she’d completed a single coherent sentence. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, she managed to block out the hubbub. Finally, her mind slipped into gear and the words began to flow.

  Delphine had already decided which quotes to use and inserted them into the story. After half an hour, with around 600 words on the screen, she read through her story, made some corrections and transmitted it to the bureau in Washington with five minutes to spare. Now, she was feeling exhilarated, headache and fatigue forgotten. This was her first big test working in the field under intense deadline pressure – and she had passed.

  Next to her, Ira Milstein was having problems. He too had completed his story but his computer kept failing to connect with Washington.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Andrew Cushing.

  “Can’t get this damned thing to work,” Ira replied through clenched teeth.

  “OK, time’s up,” announced Erik. “Everyone in the van, we’re leaving.”

  “Have you checked the parameters?” Andrew asked, peering at Ira’s screen through thick spectacles.

  “How the hell do I know? I wouldn’t know a parameter if it bit me in the ass.” Like many older reporters, Ira was intimidated by these new-fangled computers. Only a few years ago, he’d still have been writing his stories on a typewriter and phoning his office to dictate them to a colleague.

  “Here, let me try something,” Andrew offered, sitting down in Ira’s seat.

  “Everyone in the van,” repeated Erik. “Come on or you’ll be left behind, you too, Delphine.” “Give us two minutes,” said Andrew, typing furiously.

  “We can’t hold up the entire motorcade just for you. The plane’s waiting on the tarmac, engines running,” Erik snapped.

  “I haven’t filed yet,” moaned Ira. It was mortifying to see this man, already well into his sixties, on the verge of tears.

  “File when we reach Damascus. It’s only two hours away,” insisted Erik.

  “Sorry,” muttered Andrew. “I tried.” He stood up and walked toward the van. Delphine followed. Ashen-faced, Ira shut down the laptop and placed it in his bag. Erik tried to put his arm around his shoulder but Ira shook it off and climbed in the vehicle, moving stiffly, refusing to look anyone in the eye. The motorcade lurched into motion. Delphine wished she could have comforted him but there was nothing to say. Whatever happens, come hell or high water, a wire service reporter must file the story. Not doing so was the ultimate failure, deeply humiliating. Ira slumped forward, his hands covering his head, trembling.

  “Bastards,” muttered Andrew. “Another two or three minutes and I could have made it work.” He was almost as upset as Ira. They all were. The reporters on the plane competed fiercely over news but at moments like this they stuck together.

  Once they were airborne, Erik appeared in the press compartment, flanked by his faithful shadow Bridget Daly.

  “Listen up, Madam Secretary will be coming back in a few minutes to chat with you all off-the-record, get you all up to speed on the talks,” Erik said.

  “I wouldn’t bother right now,” said Stewart Wentworth. “I don’t think anyone is in the mood after what happened back there.”

  The spokesman’s face turned white; he started gnawing his mustache. It was unheard of for reporters to turn down a chance to rub shoulders with the Secretary of State, an unforgivable snub.

  “You know what happened wasn’t my fault,” he said. “I tried to get you more time but I don’t decide these things.”

  “It’s the principle. We need adequate filing time—otherwise why the heck are we here?” said Stewart, suddenly the spokesman of a full-scale press uprising.

  “Is Stewart speaking for all of you?” Erik asked grimly. Delphine didn’t envy him going back to inform Secretary Dayton that the reporters on her plane didn’t want to listen to her. “Absolutely,” said Don Masters.

  “Right,” said Erik. “Your choice, I’ll let her know. I just want you all to know that she’s going to remember this.”

  The unpleasantness was not yet concluded. “Lisa, a word please,” Erik said, as he made his way out of the compartment. They walked to the other side of the curtain. Delphine couldn’t hear but she could see Erik through a gap in the drape gesticulating furiously.

  “What was that about?” she asked, when Lisa returned to her seat.

  “They want me to delay my story, the one that’s running this weekend. The editor sent over an advance copy to the State Department’s public affairs office a couple of days ago to give Dayton the opportunity to respond. Now, Erik says they need more time, which is total bullshit.”

  “It must be quite a story.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. The whole world will see. People are going to look at her differently. Let me tell you a little secret, but please keep this to yourself. This is my last trip on this plane. I’m going to be Chicago bureau chief. It can’t happen soon enough. I’m sick of this job, sick of Erik Jens and really, really sick of Madam fucking Secretary.”

  Soon after this, the plane began its descent to Damascus where the delegation proceeded straight to the Sheraton Hotel. Delphine was exhausted but before going to bed she sent a message to Jean-Luc, warning him that the next edition of Newsweek would likely include an explosive story about Dayton.

  Next morning, the talks between the Secretary and Syrian President Bashir began with a “photo op.” Usually, reporters accompanied the cameramen and photographers to observe the leaders, giving them an opportunity to ask a couple of questions and maybe get a snippet of news or a decent sound-bite. This time, no reporters were in
cluded – payback for the previous evening’s insult.

  Delphine could have used a fresh quote for her first story of the day. She had no information to impart except that the bald fact that the talks had begun. But she still had to send a story. Even when there was nothing to say, the newswire was a carnivorous beast, always demanding fresh meat. She and the other wire service reporters had to file stories every few hours whether they had something concrete to report or not.

  Once that was done, she went down to meet Lisa in the lobby.

  “Let’s grab a cup of something and a bite,” Lisa suggested. “It’s too early to hit the market; none of the shops will be open yet.”

  Delphine agreed. They emerged into the street and flagged down a taxi.

  “Have you seen the Great Mosque yet, the Umayyad?” Lisa asked.

  “Not yet. I never imagined I’d have the chance to visit Damascus.”

  “We’ll save it for your next visit. You’ll probably be here plenty if there’s a peace shuttle. I’ve stayed at that Sheraton so often you could bring me down to the restaurant, take me to the buffet, blindfold me, spin me around, and I’d still be able to find the chocolate mousse.”

  They got out of the taxi and Lisa led the way to an outdoor café. Delphine noticed several tables where women wearing headscarves sat eating treats. There were no mixed tables. All the men had extravagant bushy mustaches of the type popularized by Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi dictator.

  “So Delphine, you sit there so quiet and demure, hiding behind those fancy clothes and that sexy French accent, which you turn on and off when it suits you. Tell me about yourself,” Lisa said as they sat down. Lisa was wearing a safari-style jacket with enormous pockets and baggy white pants that hung awkwardly from her angular frame.

  “What do you wish to know?” Delphine responded cautiously. She didn’t like speaking about herself and had become an expert in avoidance.