The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Wake up Don,” she said, bending down. With the first stirrings of concern, she lifted his head and was immediately struck by his rolled back eyes and unnatural pale complexion. There was a large dollop of mousse on his forehead but his hair was still weirdly perfect, every one in place. “Quick, quick, help,” she shouted.

  Chapter 8

  They left Jeddah next afternoon with their colleague still in the hospital suspended between life and death. Delphine hadn’t slept all night, haunted by the sight of those white, rolled back eyes. Secretary Dayton led a brief, impromptu prayer service on the plane, reading a selection from the Book of Psalms.

  “O Lord, do not rebuke me in Your anger

  Or discipline me in Your wrath.

  Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint;

  O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony.

  My soul is in anguish.

  How long, O Lord, how long?

  Turn, O Lord and deliver me;

  Save me because of Your unfailing love.”

  Delphine wept quiet tears at this recitation, and she was not alone, although the Secretary of State’s eyes remained dry. Thoughts swirled in Delphine’s mind but she couldn’t arrange them into a coherent pattern. She remembered the pictures of those two sweet children. “Cheer up. The Saudis have some of the most sophisticated hospitals in the world. They’re doing everything they can. I’m sure he’ll pull through,” said Andrew, who had taken the seat next to her. But Delphine was not comforted.

  Secretary Dayton had decided to pay a brief visit to Kuwait, a staunch ally in the Persian Gulf, before continuing to Jordan next day. By then, she hoped the Israeli and Palestinian leaders would have had enough time to respond to her ceasefire proposal.

  After landing, the delegation was whisked straight to the Emir’s Palace where Secretary Dayton was greeted by the ruler, a heavily-bearded man who appeared wearing a full-length, fur-lined robe trimmed with gold thread. After welcoming her in mellifluous literary Arabic, he presented her with a curved scimitar which he drew from its bejeweled scabbard in a smooth movement, expertly swishing the beautifully engraved blade through the air in elegant arcs.

  The U.S. security men stiffened like guard dogs as the weapon sliced dangerously close to the Secretary’s nose, but she did not flinch. Next, four young men appeared bearing a red satin cushion on which rested the largest jewel case Delphine had ever seen. Inside was a solid gold sash, studded with hundreds of rubies, emeralds, diamonds and other precious stones. An enamel medallion depicting the American flag formed the centerpiece. For once, Secretary Dayton seemed nonplussed as the Emir moved forward to place the cumbersome monstrosity over her shoulder. Then, as photographers snapped, she forced herself to smile. “This is what passes for class around here,” Todd Trautmann whispered in Delphine’s ear.

  “A little over-the-top.”

  “And it’s financed by American tax payers. Without the U.S. military to protect them, none of these tin-pot Gulf rulers would last five minutes.”

  As the private talks began, members of the press were offered a tour of the palace, a monument to garishness. The walls were hung with second-rate landscapes and battle scenes alongside gaudy paintings of bejeweled harem women in baggy pants and somber portraits of the ruling clan. Antique furniture lined the long hallways. They passed through room after room, each reflecting a different historical theme. The music room boasted a beautifully painted harpsichord, probably never played since the death of Johann Sebastian Bach. Enormous, overstuffed sofas rested on rare antique carpets. Louis XVI enameled clocks ticked softly; oriental ceramics brushed up against Limoges china and sundry other pieces of 17th century bric-a-brac. Behind the palace, visible through vast bay windows, two speedboats and a large yacht sat in a man-made harbor.

  At a brief press conference after the talks, the Emir delivered a bland statement demanding full rights for the Palestinians, blaming Israel for their plight and expressing lukewarm support for the U.S. peace mission. Secretary Dayton smiled sourly, thanked him for his hospitality and swore everlasting U.S. support for his dynasty and his desert domain.

  After this, the U.S. party was conveyed to their hotel which almost matched the royal palace in glitzy ostentation. Every fixture in the huge lobby glistened with gold leaf; the floor was pink marble and massive chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. The dome in the atrium rose higher than St. Peter’s Basilica and Delphine’s room was half the size of a tennis court. By this time, she was physically and emotionally drained. After filing a brief story to Washington, she plunged into a bed the size of a small swimming pool. For a second night, the sight of Don Masters, his head slumped in his dessert, haunted her. And she hadn’t even liked him much.

  Next morning, they were back on the plane, which was beginning to seem like the nearest thing Delphine had to a home. After five different hotels in five countries, she felt comfortable sitting in her own seat with her own name on it. Once they were airborne and had tackled the usual calorie-loaded breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and toast, Erik came back to brief them.

  The news from the hospital, he said, was unchanged. At least Don was still alive and while there was life there was hope. As he left, the spokesman surreptitiously slipped a piece of paper folded into a small square into Delphine’s hand. She resisted the urge to read it immediately, preferring to wait until she was alone and unobserved.

  In Amman, Secretary Dayton went straight into a meeting with Jordan’s King Marwan while the reporters were taken to a downtown hotel where a press room had been set up. Delphine found a quiet corner and opened the note. It said, “Hotel lobby tomorrow morning, 5:30 am sharp; wear exercise gear.” It was written in dark blue ink in a firm hand and signed ‘J.D’ – Julia Dayton.

  Delphine didn’t have anything that could be called gear, which she regarded as a particularly loathsome category of clothing. Now she’d have to buy some. First, she needed to catch up on political developments and file yet another story. Local newspapers were reporting Shoresh and al-Bakr would likely agree to a ceasefire when Dayton returned to Jerusalem in the next few days. Everything was falling into place, just as the Secretary had predicted.

  Delphine wrote a few paragraphs announcing their arrival in Jordan and explaining what might be expected from the talks with King Marwan who could be reliably expected to support the peace initiative. By the time that was done, it was midday. Several colleagues announced they were going out to a restaurant that Todd swore made the best kebabs this side of the Dead Sea.

  “Come with us Delphine, you can’t just sit there and mope. That won’t help Don. He’s a fighter. You’ll see, he’ll get through this,” he said.

  Delphine shrugged, not believing him.

  “You’ve got to eat,” Andrew cajoled. “You can’t let yourself run down. You’re as pale as a corpse. This is no time to go anorexic.” Even Ira chimed in urging her to join them. Touched, she agreed.

  After lunch, Delphine jumped in a cab and asked the driver to take her to the nearest shopping center. It was surprisingly well stocked with stores selling all the ‘gear’ anyone could wish for. She managed to find a black microfiber track suit with only a small and relatively inconspicuous corporate logo and no fluorescent piping. In fact, with its ribbed waistband, cuffs and front slash pockets, it could even have been said to possess a touch of style. Delphine bought it and rushed back to the hotel in time to attend a background briefing with Erik.

  The talks with the Jordanian king had gone well, he told them. Secretary Dayton was also encouraged by positive messages she’d received from the Israelis and Palestinians. She’d decided to return to Jerusalem to close the deal. Delphine wrote yet another story and then it was time for bed. She wondered if Jason might come but didn’t have the energy to wait. When she closed her eyes, it was like falling into a bottomless pit.

  It was not yet dawn when Delphine stumbled i
nto the lobby next morning. The alarm clock had come as a rude and unwelcome surprise. By now, she was suffering from a sleep deficit so large it would take weeks to catch up. Mitchell Webb was waiting.

  “Hurry, Madam Sec. hates being delayed,” he said, pulling her through the revolving doors into the street.

  “Where are we going?” Before Mitchell could answer, the rear door of an enormous armored black limo swung open and Delphine found herself sinking into the back seat right next to the Secretary of State herself. Mitchell took a spot beside the driver and then they were speeding through the empty streets of the Jordanian capital.

  “Rise and shine,” Dayton said brightly, smiling her horsy smile. “You seemed a little anemic yesterday on the plane. You need to look after yourself on these trips. Fresh air, exercise and a good breakfast to start the day.”

  Delphine reflected that daily exercise hadn’t helped the super-fit Don Masters—but kept her mouth shut. The limo pulled up outside a deserted sports stadium and Secretary Dayton walked through the front gate and out on to the turf flanked by security men. Clutching a soccer goal post to steady herself, she immediately grabbed her left foot behind her back and began stretching her thigh in what seemed like a horribly painful manner. She was wearing her lime green tracksuit top, a pair of pink spandex tights that made her legs look unnaturally long and spindly and a professional-looking pair of athletic shoes. She repeated the process for her right foot. Delphine stood looking at the empty bleachers and the shadowy goal posts, hoping Secretary Dayton did not seriously expect her to run.

  “Let’s get going,” Dayton said, and set off around the track in a brisk stiff-legged walk, like a giraffe hurrying to reach a waterhole. The agents formed a protective pocket around her while Delphine trailed a few paces behind.

  “Guys, why don’t you all back off? I want to talk to Delphine,” Dayton said.

  The Secretary walked so fast Delphine had to struggle to keep up. She could smell the special fragrance of early morning before the heat built. The air that later would fill with noise and dust was still clean and dewy. It was almost worth waking up to enjoy it. Almost.

  “So Delphine, I take it you’re not a morning person,” Dayton said after they’d covered about three quarters of a circuit.

  “Not so much.”

  “I like that outfit you’re wearing.”

  “May I ask about the peace mission?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Is it true you expect to have a ceasefire agreement by the end of today?”

  “Not today, that’s for sure. I need to meet at least once more with Shoresh and al-Bakr separately before I can bring them together. But the signs are good. Two or three days should do it.”

  She started walking even faster so that Delphine had to break into a trot every few steps, like a little girl trying to keep up with her mother.

  “Off the record, we’ve started preparing for a signing ceremony later this week in Aqaba on the Red Sea coast which is a neutral venue. That’s one of the things I discussed with King Marwan. Of course, you can’t ever rule out last-minute glitches in this business.”

  “What does the agreement actually consist of?” Delphine panted.

  “The Palestinians will agree to stop attacking Israel and arrest known militants. They’ll also make their best efforts to cut down on illegal weapons and militias in the territories and try to reassert law and order.”

  “They’ll only try to cut down on illegal arms and militias?”

  “That’s one of Shoresh’s sticking points. He wants cast-iron guarantees. I told him there’s no such thing; he has to be realistic. Abu-Bakr can’t promise what he can’t deliver. Let’s see if we can jog a couple of laps, shall we?”

  The Secretary of State took off in a slow, lumbering fashion, arms pumping like the pistons of an antique steam train.

  “What about the Israelis?” Delphine gasped, trying to stay within speaking range. “What did they agree to?”

  “In exchange, the Israelis will … stop targeting Palestinians for … assassination, allow agricultural produce to be … exported from the … territories, free up … some frozen bank accounts and … release around 1,000 … political prisoners.” Delphine was glad to see that Secretary Dayton too was fighting for breath. Thankfully, when they completed the second circuit, she slowed down and returned to a reasonable walking pace.

  “Can I write any of this?” Delphine wheezed. Her lungs were on fire but she was damned if she’d be bested by a woman thirty years her senior.

  “I’d prefer that you wait with the … details. Premature publicity could destroy the deal. You can report in general terms that senior U.S. officials are … cautiously optimistic about the ceasefire negotiations.”

  “What about the Palestinian Martyrs Brigade? Will they be … parties to the ceasefire too?”

  “Not formally, but privately I have assurances … through the Syrians that Muqtadir’s on board.” Delphine knew Muqtadir received much of his financial backing as well as his weapons from Syria.

  “What’s he getting in exchange?”

  “Can’t talk about that right now.”

  They completed the next two laps without speaking before Dayton said she’d had enough and headed for the exit. Outside, Mitchell waited by the limo holding the door open. As the Secretary bent to step inside, her left hand, the one with the massive amber ring, gently brushed his cheek.

  Back in her room, the message light on Delphine’s phone was blinking, It was Jean-Luc Boulez asking her to call, no matter what the hour. It was already after midnight in Washington but he picked up immediately.

  “Where were you?” he snapped.

  “I went for jogging with Dayton, just the two of us, believe it or not. I got a good story from her. She expects a ceasefire deal very soon.”

  “Never mind that. Something more important has come up. This mysterious columnist, Mark Lazarus, has another article running tomorrow. His syndication agency faxed us an advance copy under embargo. It’s explosive.”

  “How so?”

  He claims your Secretary Dayton held a secret meeting last week in Gaza with Abdul Muqtadir, head of the Palestinian Martyrs Brigade.”

  “Merde!”

  “As soon as this becomes public, all hell will break loose. The Israelis…”

  “I know what the Israelis will say. Let me check this out and get back to you. Meantime, send me the column.”

  “Already did. Be quick, time is of the essence.”

  For a second Delphine sat, stunned. Jean-Luc was right, this was huge. It would certainly blow up the ceasefire agreement – and possibly derail Secretary Dayton’s career. Congress would be up in arms; supporters of Israel would be enraged, the President embarrassed. It was possible that he’d have no choice but to fire her. How the hell did Lazarus find out? Who was the mole?

  Delphine logged on to her computer to download the article.

  “The United States professes uncompromising opposition to terrorism,” the columnist had written. “But this apparently only extends to those who threaten America itself. When it comes to terrorists who wish to destroy Israel, all bets are off. According to an informed source, Secretary of State Julia Dayton held a secret meeting last week with Abdul Muqtadir, whose Palestinian Martyrs Brigade has the blood of hundreds of Israeli civilians on its hands. The meeting took place in Gaza and was so secret it was kept even from top State Department officials.”

  The phone rang, making Delphine jump. “Yes?”

  “Bridget Daly here. I’m calling to tell you that Madam Secretary will have a press conference in the lobby in exactly 20 minutes.”

  “About Mark Lazarus?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  They were obviously trying to get ahead of the scandal before the tsunami broke. But what could Dayton say? Lying would o
nly make things worse while telling the truth seemed equally unthinkable, since it would be an admission of illegal behavior.

  Delphine returned to the article: “What did Dayton promise the murderer? Obviously, she would like the suicide attacks on Israeli civilians to stop long enough for her to score a diplomatic coup by consummating her so-called ‘ceasefire agreement.’ No doubt, that would advance her presidential prospects. But like the British appeaser Sir Neville Chamberlain, who returned from Hitler clutching a scrap of paper declaring ‘peace in our time,’ Julia Dayton too will eventually find that one cannot make deals with psychopaths. Such agreements are not worth the paper they are written on. The question is, how many more innocent people must die to prove the point?”

  When Delphine arrived downstairs, the press was already assembling. Several local and international TV crews were setting up; a dozen photographers crouched on the floor in front of a lectern. The air was electric – that special frisson when reporters smell blood.

  She saw Andrew Cushing, his tie hanging around his neck like a noose, and Ira in his usual place in the front row. This was a great moment for him. Few reporters can claim to have changed history by singlehandedly destroying a major political career. Ira was about to join that elite group. Delphine hated him for it. She’d convinced herself that Secretary Dayton was the best hope for peace in the Middle East, not to mention her own professional advancement.

  The room fell silent as the elevator door opened and the Secretary of State emerged, Mitchell Webb leading the way, aides trailing behind. Normally Erik would have introduced Secretary Dayton but he wasn’t to be seen. Evidently, she’d decided to handle the whole thing alone. It was easy to read her mood. Her lips were bloodless with barely suppressed rage as she strode to the lectern. But there was no fear in her eyes.