by Alan Elsner
“Thank … thank you,” Delphine mumbled, just to fill the deafening silence.
“Let me ask you, do you believe it’s possible to achieve peace between Israel and the Palestinians?”
Delphine hesitated. “Of course it’s possible.”
“You don’t think, like Trautmann and all the other so-called experts and pinheads, that I’m wasting my time here.”
“Not at all.”
“Good. So let’s speak frankly about this so-called peace process and what it means – for the United States, for the world, for me.”
Delphine’s head was spinning from all Secretary Dayton’s sudden changes in direction.
“Have you ever asked yourself, my dear, how come these Arabs and Israelis get to push us around all the time; how year after year they make American presidents and secretaries of state dance on their string like puppets? We’re supposed to be the superpower yet they always seem to call the shots. If it were just a matter of them killing each other, that would be one thing—but it destabilizes the whole Middle East, heck it screws up the entire planet. I have very important issues on my plate – Iraqi nukes, Russian bullies, terrorism, arms smuggling, civil wars in Africa—you name it. The world needs my leadership. But wherever I go, people always throw the plight of the miserable Palestinians at me. It’s like a ball and chain around my leg. Until I fix it, I won’t be able to get anything else done. I’ll be another failed Secretary of State – and that is simply unacceptable.”
She’d resumed pacing, her voice growing louder. Suddenly, she turned on Delphine from across the room.
“They all think I’m deluded or naïve, all the pundits, the scholars, the analysts. I assure you I’m not. I have a plan. It starts with securing a ceasefire, which I expect to do within the next two weeks, and it goes from there, step by step, until they finally shake hands, give each other a big, wet kiss and make peace. And I’m inviting you, Delphine Roget, to come along for the ride.”
Crossing the room with broad strides, Secretary Dayton placed one large, heavy paw on the reporter’s shoulder and the other under her chin, lifting Delphine’s face to meet her glittering eyes.
“All you have to do is agree to one simple condition. I’ll take you into my confidence. You’ll be with me every step of the way, recording the ups and downs of the negotiations. You’ll be my private historian. And when it’s over, you’ll write it all down in a book which will instantly become an international bestseller. I even have the title: ‘Peacemaker: How Julia Dayton Ended War in the Middle East.’ How does that sound? Pretty sweet, no?”
It was too much for Delphine to absorb. Her head was spinning, her mouth dry. Her breath came short and shallow; perspiration gathered under her blouse. She felt like a schoolgirl, fidgeting in her seat, as Secretary Dayton invaded her space, pressing that giant amber ring into her shoulder.
“What’s the condition?” Delphine manage to ask.
Secretary Dayton removed her hand and retreated half a step. “I demand loyalty from those I decide to confide in. Total loyalty! In exchange, they receive the same from me. They become like a member of the family, bound by blood.”
“But I’m a reporter. What about my loyalty to my readers and to the truth?”
“How touching. And I can see you really mean it.”
“Otherwise why become a journalist?”
“You think that’s why all your colleagues went into journalism?”
“What other reason is there?”
“How about the chance to have your name appear in print or your face on TV every day? Then there’s the chance to travel the world and become rich and famous. And don’t forget the opportunity to rub shoulders with people like me, the doers who actually make history. Most of all, they get the wonderful pleasure of criticizing us, second-guessing us, correcting us, judging us without ever having to dirty their own hands.”
Delphine was silent.
Secretary Dayton sighed. “It’s OK. I’m not asking you to violate the truth. The opposite. This way, you’ll actually see the truth. To me, loyalty simply means trust. It means you promising not to print anything until I’m ready for it to be printed. Everything you see and hear will be off the record. In return you’ll get unprecedented access. You’ll learn things your colleagues wouldn’t even dream of knowing. I’ll personally brief you regularly. You’ll know my innermost thoughts, my private calculations. But you have to keep confidential until it’s time to publish. You said you’re committed to the truth. Here’s your chance.”
“What about my agency, the AFP? They pay my salary. How can I obey you and work for them in good faith at the same time?”
“Naturally, you must continue to do your job. You’ll come on all my trips, attend the press conferences and daily briefings and write your stories just as usual. From time to time, I’ll slip you extra information that I do want published, trial balloons and the like. We’ll keep your bosses very happy and your colleagues extremely jealous. So what do you say? Are you on board?”
Delphine felt both dazzled and intimidated. How could she say no? Here she was, the youngest reporter on the plane, an outsider trying to get a foothold, being offered an unbelievable shot at fame and fortune. Still, something held her back. Secretary Dayton reminded her of an Old Testament prophet—too intense and self-righteous, too sure of her infallibility. Delphine would be like a moth flying around a flame. She could so easily get burnt. On the other hand, if she refused, Dayton could freeze her out, deny her access to sources and information. She’d never score another scoop again, maybe even lose her seat on the plane. She’d be like Lisa Hemmings—neutered.
“Why choose me?” she asked, trying to buy time.
“Who else could I pick? That old, windbag Ira Milstein, self-appointed defender of the Hebrew people? He’s no friend of mine, that’s for sure. Or maybe I should have gone with the class nerd, Todd L. Trautmann,” she said, contemptuously emphasizing the middle initial. “Now there’s a man who loves the sound of his own voice and thinks he knows it all. In his wet dreams, he’s Secretary of State himself. Fat chance!”
She paused for breath.
“I might have chosen Lisa but she’s shown herself to be unworthy in ways that have hurt me more than I can say. As for Stewart Wentworth, Don Masters and the rest of them, I put up with their huge egos and incurable cynicism—but I wouldn’t trust any of them further than I could throw them. That’s what drew me to you. You don’t have a personal agenda. You’re young and fresh and unspoiled. I feel I could trust you, that we could become friends, perhaps even more than friends.”
Of course Delphine was flattered – who wouldn’t have been? But something still held her back.
“Well?” Secretary Dayton pressed. “What do you say, young lady?”
“How you plan to get a ceasefire by the end of next week when both sides are refusing to make concessions?” Delphine lobbed back, anything to buy time.
Secretary Dayton chuckled. “Always business; I like that.”
“I still have to work. You said so yourself.”
“So I did.”
“And you said I’d get stories.”
“You will. But not tonight. It’s too sensitive.”
“Not even off the record?
“You’re very persistent. Well, I guess we have to start somewhere. You asked how I’d get them to agree to a ceasefire. Again, we’re off the record.”
Delphine nodded her agreement.
“The first thing I’ll do is offer the Israeli generals some new weapons systems to play with – fancy radars, guided missiles, the latest attack helicopters or drones. That will give Shoresh political cover. As for al-Bakr, $50 or $60 million discreetly deposited in his Swiss bank account should do it. He’ll share a bit with his top guys and keep the rest for himself and his extended family. The ordinary people – the ones suffering fr
om poverty and unemployment – of course, they’ll get nothing. We also may have to ship some weapons to his rag-tag army—mainly small arms, nothing too sophisticated—so they can carry on killing the rival Palestinian militias. You look surprised? Don’t be. This is how the world works. The Israelis take money too. You can buy an Israeli cabinet minister for a few thousand dollars in cash stuffed in an envelope. Probably, before this is over, I’ll have bought several.”
“Isn’t it illegal to supply weapons to the Palestinians?”
“Strictly speaking perhaps. But in practical terms, it’s easy to find a friendly shipping line based in Panama or Liberia and run the transaction through a couple of shell companies and offshore banks.”
“But how can a ceasefire endure when it’s based on corruption?”
“That’s enough for now. You need to agree to my condition before I say any more. Are you with me or not?”
Delphine gulped. “I need a little time. It’s a big decision.”
Dayton’s expression hardened and Delphine saw a flash of anger in her eyes; a second later, it disappeared. “You have until Sunday evening. When you’ve decided, just slip the word to Jason or Mitch Webb.”
“Not Erik?”
She frowned. “He doesn’t need to know.”
Feeling shaky, Delphine stood up and tottered toward the exit. As she reached the door, she heard that voice once again, now soft and insinuating.
“Before you go, Delphine honey, what do you think of this outfit I was planning to wear tomorrow?”
She turned to see the Secretary of State standing by the wardrobe, holding up a navy blue jacket with heavy gold buttons and trim.
“Not good?” she said, reading Delphine’s expression.
Delphine was about to tell her tactfully that it seemed incongruous to start a peace mission looking like a general from the American Civil War, when she caught herself. Did she really want to become a fashion adviser?
“What about this one?” Secretary Dayton said, reaching into the wardrobe.
This was becoming ridiculous. “Excuse me, Madam Secretary, I don’t feel comfortable telling you what or what not to wear,” Delphine said as firmly as she dared.
“Aren’t you a feisty one? Well, I won’t force you to do something you so clearly feel is beneath you, even though everyone always remarks on how well put-together you are. Seems like it would be a small service to offer.” Again, there was that glimpse of anger in her voice, like a shark’s fin poking above the water.
“It’s not that it’s beneath me. It’s just not my job,” Delphine protested.
“People around me do lots of things that are not their job. Jason King and Mitch Webb are my bodyguards, yet they don’t mind offering a relaxing massage when I require it.” Recalling Jason’s face, it came to Delphine that he certainly did mind, very much indeed.
“Surely there are many people far more qualified to give fashion advice,” she said. “Perhaps you should hire a clothes adviser.”
“I’ve had one for years. She’s the one who buys all these interchangeable suits I wear. It doesn’t help. Whatever I put on, I still get savaged by the media. If I try to be businesslike, they call me masculine. If I aim for something softer, they make fun of my height, my shoes, my shape or my teeth. To them, I’m the incarnation of Lady Macbeth. They take liberties they would never dare take with a male in my position.”
“I see.” Now she had Delphine feeling sorry for her.
“You’re right of course, it isn’t your job. I was just looking for a friendly female opinion, especially from someone with such a natural sense of style. I mean, look at you. You throw a silk scarf around your neck et voilà. But never mind, forget it. Go now, it’s late. Think about what I said. Let me know your decision.”
The door shut. Delphine stood in the hotel corridor, eyes closed, almost hyperventilating. If she could have erased the past hour, she’d have done so in an instant. But of course, she could not. Secretary Dayton had upped the ante and nothing would be the same again.
After a few seconds, she sensed a presence beside her. “Is everything OK Ma’am?” No need to open her eyes; she recognized the twang.
“Didn’t I warn you never to call me Ma’am again?”
“I’m sorry um, Delphane. Are you sick? You look awful pale. Can I bring you a glass of water or something?”
“It’s OK,” she said, opening her eyes and staring into his worried face. “Just walk me to the elevator, I’ll be fine.”
Mitchell grabbed her arm and she leaned gratefully against him. There was something comforting about this earnest young man, even if he was a bit oafish. As they reached the elevator, a hand reached out and plucked her from his grasp.
“I’ll take it from here,” said Jason, puffing his chest out like turkey doing a mating dance. For a second, Mitchell seemed about to accept the challenge, staring at his colleague with undisguised venom. Of the two, he was the bigger and probably the stronger, all bulging torso against Jason’s trim elegance. Delphine was stuck in the middle, a bone between two curs. Fortunately the elevator arrived before either of them could do anything really stupid.
As the doors opened, Delphine allowed Jason to pull her into the elevator. Later, she asked herself why she’d done so. She could have stayed with Mitchell. There was no logical explanation. It had just happened—or so she told herself.
Mitchell stepped back reluctantly. “If this asshole gives you any trouble, just let me know.”
“We’ll have that dinner another time,” Delphine said.
“I don’t think so,” Jason whispered in her ear, pressing a button.
As soon as the doors closed he grabbed both her arms, pressed himself against her and planted his lips on hers. Somewhat to her surprise, Delphine found herself responding to this crude advance. An instant later, something within her rebelled. She could still smell the perfumed hand cream he’d used on Secretary Dayton’s saggy, baggy neck – jasmine, rose water, vanilla.
She broke contact gasping, “Who do you think you are? I don’t want this,” although she was keenly aware part of her certainly did.
The elevator reached its destination and Jason released her. Delphine could feel his heart racing, or maybe it was her own.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that for the past two days,” he gasped, sticking a foot between the doors to stop them closing. “And I know you have too.”
“Not like that,” although a voice in her head told her she was lying.
“I didn’t like seeing you with that bozo. Don’t mess with him again.”
“Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”
“I’m your secret lover and your ardent admirer. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, it’s going to happen between us.”
“Only in your dreams.”
The door started chiming. Jason removed his foot. “In both of our dreams, Delphine. Call me when you’re ready to take this to the next level.”
Before she could respond, he’d pushed her gently into the corridor and the doors slid closed behind him. She was left to stumble back to her room, exhausted, confused, angry and perhaps also a little afraid.
Chapter 6
Delphine had been nervous that she would lie awake most of the night wrestling with her decision, but it was not so. Her physical and mental resources must have been so depleted that she slept like a baby and did not wake up until almost eight. Cursing for forgetting to set the alarm, she hurried into the bathroom to splash her head with water, avoiding eye contact with the mirror. Then, somewhat less bleary, she stumbled to her laptop to write the first story of the day setting the scene for the negotiations about to begin.
Immediately, Delphine found herself typing that senior U.S. officials expected the ceasefire mission to succeed within two weeks. She stopped short. That information had come from Secre
tary Dayton the previous evening and was, of course, off the record. She erased the offending paragraph and tried to think of something else to say. Her dilemma was already clear. She had not yet accepted Dayton’s terms but already it felt as if she was being controlled. Was this her future, to be a puppet, dancing to the Secretary of State’s tune?
It was already late. The press bus was due to leave within the hour and Delphine still needed to make herself presentable and grab some breakfast. It was going to be another exhausting day and she needed some fuel in her body. In the end, she tapped out a dozen tame, uninformative paragraphs just to get the job done and transmitted them.
Now, what to wear? Who was she going to be today? Remembering that Secretary Dayton’s first engagement was to lay a wreath at a Holocaust memorial, Delphine chose her dullest black skirt and a plain white blouse.
Downstairs in the dining room, feeling half naked without her usual dab of makeup, Delphine sat down next to Andrew Cushing and ordered coffee, an omelet and salad.
“You look harried,” Andrew commented, scrutinizing her damp hair through his thick lenses. “Overslept.”
“But still lovely.” She looked him in surprise. Delphine had always taken him for a stolid type, too obsessed by work to pay attention to anything else.
“What do you mean by that?”
He reddened. “Nothing, just a comment.” Escaping her stony glare, he buried his head in the Jerusalem Post. Food arrived and Delphine dug in, realizing she was ravenous after missing dinner the previous evening.
“This is interesting,” Andrew said.
“What?” she asked, still chewing.
“Read it.” He shoved the newspaper in her direction.
“This?” she asked, pointing to a business page story headlined, “Stafford Holdings Acquires Stake in Gulf Shipping Company.”
“Not that one. I meant the article on the back page.”
“You know Stafford is owned by Elton Schuyler, Dayton’s boyfriend. Why would he want to invest in an Arab shipping company?”