The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Don’t you have to work?” Delphine asked.

  He hesitated. “I’m on paid leave.”

  “How long for?”

  “Could be a while.” He paused again before continuing. “I’m waiting for a new assignment. I won’t be working with Secretary Dayton any more. I’ve been replaced as head of the team by your friend Mitch Webb.”

  “Mitchell has taken your job?”

  “He can give her what she wants …”

  “What exactly happened? Tell me.”

  This time there was a long pause. “Look, you have to understand how it is with Julia Dayton. You either belong to her body and soul or you’re nothing. There’s no middle road. I just wanted to do my job. I guess that wasn’t good enough. By the way, I picked this up for you in Jerusalem.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cardboard box. It contained a silver chain with a little green-blue stone pendant shaped as a heart. To her surprise, Delphine felt her eyes tear up. Perhaps this man was for real after all. She leaned forward for him to place it gently around her neck next to her mother’s crucifix.

  The red Toyota remained parked outside the apartment until after breakfast.

  Chapter 11

  St. Luke’s Bible Church in Arlington, Virginia was not what Delphine imagined. In St. Brisson sur Loire, her mother’s family worshipped at the lovely medieval chapel of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc. Its small whitewashed interior shaped like a cross never failed to produce a feeling of intimacy, quiet devotion and closeness to God. A statue of the saint, depicted as a simple village girl, modest and unassuming, supremely approachable, stood beneath the altar like a faithful friend. Delphine remembered this from her earliest childhood, a sweet recollection. Just a whiff of incense could bring back a vanished world, like Proust’s madeleines.

  This edifice located next to a strip mall could not have been more different. Stepping out of the rain into the brightly lit sanctuary with its stadium seating rising fifty rows or more felt more like entering a basketball arena than a house of God. Ushers stood at the entrances handing out glossy programs with a headshot of Don on the front and a touching picture of his family on the back.

  “This is a church?” Delphine gasped as they entered. The podium was dominated by a massive crucifix from which hung a frighteningly realistic figure of Jesus writhing in torment. On either side, massive stained glass windows made those in the great cathedral of Chartres seem small and puny. A couple of hundred people were already seated but the space still looked almost empty.

  “Not just any church, this is a mega-church,” Jason said. Such a quintessentially American concept, Delphine thought – a church supersized into obese dimensions like a hamburger.

  A string quartet was playing on the stage while photographs depicting Don Masters at various stages of his career flashed on the huge video screen up front. She could see why ABC News had hired him while he was still in his twenties. He’d been devastatingly attractive, lean and luscious, before his face had acquired its plump, middle-aged smugness. Looking around, Delphine recognized several colleagues as well as a large number of officials. Defense Secretary Woodward was there, surrounded by uniformed officers, chests adorned with medals. He caught her eye and winked.

  They sat down next to Ira Milstein who for once had closed the top button of his shirt and had pulled up his tie. Andrew Cushing took a seat on the other side.

  The director of ABC News walked to the podium and began speaking in that reverberant anchorman voice all American TV journalists seem to acquire.

  “You all knew Don Masters from his work as a brilliant reporter but he was much more than that,” he boomed, oozing so much sincerity he seemed insincere. “Don was a loving husband, a devoted father, a faithful friend. He was a devout member of this church for many years, where he was known not as a famous network newsman but a youth basketball coach and part-time Sunday school teacher. He was respected by all who came into contact with him and beloved by his many friends. The term ‘gentleman’ perhaps sounds old-fashioned these days but Don Masters was that rare and wonderful thing—a true gentleman.”

  “Do you think she’ll come?” Delphine whispered to Andrew.

  “She’ll be here. She likes to make an entrance.”

  A young man in the uniform of the U.S. Marines took the stage and began singing one of Don’s favorite hymns in a pure tenor.

  Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river;

  Gather with the saints at the river

  That flows by the throne of God.

  As he sang, images of Don continued to flash on the screen. They showed him, microphone in hand, interviewing world leaders—President Reagan, Nelson Mandela, Lech Walesa, Margaret Thatcher and others. There were also shots of him embracing his wife and playing with his kids. Now Delphine regretted she’d never gotten to know him properly. She’d judged him – actually misjudged him – solely by his hair.

  Next to speak was Stewart Wentworth who approached the podium looking even more gray and sober than usual. “You all talk about what a wonderful colleague Don was. You have no idea what it was like being his competitor,” he began. There was a ripple of laughter from the congregation which needed some relief from their pent-up emotions.

  “Some years ago, I was hired by NBC News specifically to compete with Don Masters on the diplomatic beat. It was like playing basketball one-on-one against Michael Jordan. How do you go head-to-head with a legend? I might have wound up hating him – God knows, part of me wanted to – but it was impossible to hate Don once you knew him. What actually happened was, we became best friends. Don was a straight-shooter. He liked to compete, liked to win, but he valued friendship more than winning. Don turned me, his greatest rival, into a better reporter than I could ever have been without him. And for that I will always be grateful. May he score more scoops in the great newsroom in the sky.”

  As he was winding up, there was a stir behind us and every head in the auditorium turned. Secretary Dayton, flanked by security men, strode down the steps and took her place in the front row. She was wearing a black suit and Edwardian-style mourning hat topped with a black ostrich feather that added several inches to her height. Once again, as intended she’d stolen the show.

  But even Julia Dayton couldn’t upstage the climax of the ceremony, a 10-minute video produced by Don’s network colleagues. Delphine had been to her share of memorials but never one in which the deceased was so palpably present. Seeing him on the giant screen, hearing his voice, she found herself weeping, perhaps not so much for the man himself as for the realization that life is so fragile and easily extinguished.

  As soon as the service was over, Secretary Dayton and the other VIPs hustled back to their limos anxious to resume the business of government. The other attendees were invited for light refreshments in the social hall. A long line of people waited to greet Don’s wife but Delphine eventually made it to the front and handed the camel over, explaining how Don had told her in their final conversation that he planned to buy it for his little son.

  “It was almost the last thing he said. I wanted you to know he was thinking about his children just before the heart attack.” she said.

  Don’s wife started crying again and hugged Delphine tremulously. After that, it was a relief to escape outside where Todd and Ira were debating where to go for lunch. Apparently, this part of Virginia was famous for its Vietnamese restaurants. Delphine was trying to think of a polite way of bowing out when a State Department security agent approached her.

  “Ms. Roget? Madam Secretary would like some time with you,” he said quietly. Delphine looked over at Jason. “Go. I’ll drive your car home,” he said.

  Detaching herself from the group, she followed the agent around a corner to an unmarked car. Delphine had assumed they’d meet at the State Department but the driver veered away from Washington, crossed the st
ate line into Maryland and headed north. “Where are we going?” she asked. “

  Mr. Schuyler’s home.”

  This was exciting. As far as she knew, no reporter had ever been invited inside the reclusive billionaire’s mansion. Half an hour later, they reached the estate. Two uniformed guards stood outside the electronic gate, one holding a German shepherd on a leash. They stopped for identification, then drove down a long gravel driveway flanked by weeping cedars and magnolias still several weeks from blooming. After circling a large lily pond ringed by faux Roman and Greek statues, they drew to a halt next to massive double front doors guarded by two more agents armed with submachine guns. One muttered into his walkie-talkie; then waved them inside.

  Delphine found herself in a security foyer equipped with a metal detector. After presenting her driver’s license and receiving a plastic visitor’s pass, she was directed into a spacious atrium and told to wait. It was a lovely, airy space under a lofty glass dome. A fountain surrounded by pots of blooming azaleas played gently in the middle of the room. Behind it stood a bronze nude of a boy with skinny arms, a concave chest and metallic hair hanging down to his shoulders holding a slingshot—the youthful King David.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Secretary Dayton, sweeping into the room. She’d changed into a silk kimono decorated with a design of black leaves and branches on a red background. A string of pearls around her neck completed the ensemble. As always, the different elements coexisted uneasily on her bony frame.

  “I detest memorials,” she said. “They always make out the deceased to be a saint and giant of his profession, no matter how two-faced and insignificant he was. Ugh.”

  Delphine didn’t know how to respond.

  “Would you like a tour before we sit down? But you must promise never to write about anything you see here. Elton hates publicity, absolutely abhors it. Do you agree?”

  She nodded.

  “This way,” Secretary Dayton said. They walked down a long corridor and into an ante-room decorated with Dutch landscapes. Delphine was no expert, although she knew her way around a gallery, but some of these paintings appeared to be extraordinary. She paused in front of one large canvas depicting a galleon battling a storm.

  Secretary Dayton was standing just behind her, so close that Delphine could feel her breath caressing her neck. She shivered involuntarily and turned, feeling like a cornered mouse confronting a large cat.

  “Elton’s a real connoisseur. He loves collecting things,” Dayton said, putting her hand on Delphine’s shoulder. “Come.” Opening another door, she led the way into a smaller room sparsely furnished with only a couple of antique armchairs. Delphine caught her breath. Every inch of wall was covered with paintings—and what paintings! There was a luminous Monet showing four women wearing Easter bonnets wandering through a field of poppies under white, pink and gray clouds. She could almost feel the light breeze whispering through the field. It was so evocative it made her nearly choke with homesickness. But the jewel in the crown was an incandescent Van Gogh showing a single gnarled branch of a blossoming chestnut tree against a wavy cobalt blue sky. There could be no doubt about authenticity. The colors were too radiant, the brushstrokes too wild and frenzied to be by anyone else.

  “Enough with the art. Come into Elton’s office,” the Secretary said, interrupting her reverie. They moved into an adjoining room. Secretary Dayton smiled, savoring Delphine’s astonishment.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asked.

  “Yes, it’s an almost exact replica, the way it was around 1972.”

  “Almost exact?” The navy blue carpet with its presidential seal surrounded by fifty stars; the orange drapes hanging from three French windows; the military banners hanging in front of the colonnaded marble fireplace – everything looked totally authentic.

  “It was difficult to get all the details exactly right so I can’t swear it’s absolutely accurate,” Secretary Dayton said. “But it’s close enough. This room was completed last year. It’s Elton’s pride and joy. Very few people have seen it, only trusted confidants. You’re the first member of the media to enter these doors, which shows how much faith I have in you.”

  “I won’t betray you.”

  “I know.”

  “But why would he want…?” Delphine tailed off.

  “Why build a replica of the Oval Office? Partly because as a boy he dreamed of being President. Of course, Elton doesn’t have the temperament for politics, as he’d be the first to admit. He operates best in the background, making deals, taking over failing companies, whipping them into shape—and he’s been incredibly successful. At this point, he can pretty much do anything he wants. If he wants his own Oval Office, who are we to question him?”

  “So it’s like a hobby?”

  “More of a passion. When Elton wants something, he generally gets it.”

  “Including the White House?”

  Secretary Dayton emitted a mirthless tinkle.

  “Perhaps you’ll fulfill his ambition,” Delphine ventured.

  “You might think that but I couldn’t possibly comment,” Dayton said smiling archly. She sat down behind the presidential desk and gestured Delphine to take a seat in front of her. The reporter part of her was still trying to take it all in – the bust of Abraham Lincoln on the antique table behind the desk, the orange armchairs which matched the curtains; there was even a framed picture of the Nixon family next to the bust.

  “But why make it the way it was in 1972?”

  “Elton believes Richard Nixon was one of our great presidents. He got a rough deal because of some unfortunate misjudgments, blown out of proportion by the media. Too many Americans have forgotten his true strengths, especially in foreign policy. He was bold, inventive, pragmatic, tough when needed, conciliatory when that was required. We can learn a lot from him.”

  “And of course he had Kissinger beside him as Secretary of State.”

  “Kissinger was skillful and adept but he couldn’t have achieved anything without Nixon’s direct involvement every step of the way. You see, Delphine, there’s only so much a Secretary of State can do. Nobody knows better than me that real power always resides with the President. The Secretary of State merely carries out his policies and serves at his – or her – pleasure.”

  “And yet, you actively opposed the Vietnam War.”

  “I was very young then – young and silly.”

  Delphine couldn’t help herself. In my best approximation of an American accent, she blurted out, “There’s a cancer on the presidency and it’s growing every day.”

  Dayton frowned. “That kind of cheap shot is exactly why Elton doesn’t allow outsiders to see this. I expected more of you, Delphine.”

  Ouch!

  “I love coming here. It’s a wonderful escape. I do my best thinking in this room and of course Elton and I discuss everything here. He’s truly my most valued advisor. We can be totally frank without fear our words will be leaked or twisted. Drink? I’m going to have a stiff one.”

  A door opened and a small, wizened, frog-like man waddled in.

  “My dear, I had no idea you were occupied,” he wheezed.

  Elton Schuyler had the most amazing wrinkles Delphine had ever seen. Every inch of his face was connected by interlocking lines like an electrical circuit board.

  “Ah Elton,” Secretary Dayton said, springing out of the faux presidential chair with unaccustomed speed and agility. “I thought you were downtown.”

  He sat down in the presidential chair she had just vacated. In this house, it was obvious who was chief executive.

  “I got done early so I thought I’d come back and surprise you.” His voice was a hoarse whisper and yet still filled the room.

  “Darling, it’s a wonderful surprise,” she said, fluttering her eyelids. Delphine never knew that Secretary Dayton had this coquettish sid
e.

  “And who is our guest?” Schuyler asked, peering at Delphine through lenses as thick as the leaded shot glasses that sat on his desk.

  “This is the correspondent I told you about, Delphine Roget. We discussed her. We’re going to write a book together.”

  “She’s very young,” he said as if she wasn’t there.

  “She is but she’s also exceptionally bright. You’ll grow to like her as much as I do once you get to know her.”

  He frowned. “We’ll see.” Looking up, he addressed Delphine for the first time: “Young lady, you understand that everything you see or hear in this house is totally and absolutely off the record? More than anything, I value my privacy. Unwarranted publicity displeases me greatly. I don’t respond well to it.”

  “I comprehend,” Delphine said, her own voice suddenly croaky.

  “As long as you do, you are welcome,” he whispered. The three of them sat for a moment, none of them able to think of anything to say, until Schuyler broke the silence.

  “Well, it has been most pleasant to meet you but now you must excuse Madam Secretary and myself while we exchange some words. We have a ceremony to plan.”

  “Of course,” Delphine said, beating a hasty retreat.

  “Have you settled on a dress dear?” Delphine heard him say. Then, the door closed behind her and she found herself back in the art gallery. For a second, she considered trying to eavesdrop but quickly rejected the idea. There were surveillance cameras everywhere.

  She stood looking at the art for a few minutes until the door opened and Mitchell Webb came in. Delphine offered him a tentative half-smile but he did not return the welcome.

  “This way. She wants you to wait in the library,” he said curtly.

  He led the way down another corridor into a room lined with bookshelves and gestured to a seat. He seemed about to leave but suddenly wheeled around.

  “Delphane,” he said in his southern way, tasting her name like an exotic dish. There was something different about him; he seemed to stand a little taller. “I gotta ask you...”