The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “That I didn’t have the photos any more. But he wouldn’t let go. Finally, I gave him Allstott’s number. What’s special about that particular shot anyway?”

  Delphine hesitated. “Better you don’t know.”

  She could hear him wheezing. “My photos the guy bought – they’re not going to end up in any archive are they?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He destroyed them all, didn’t he, this Allstott?”

  “Quite probably, unfortunately.”

  “I should never have sold them. At the time, $7,500 sounded like a lot of money but it doesn’t seem like much for a whole lifetime of work, does it?”

  She didn’t know how to comfort him.

  As she boarded the plane, Delphine was thinking hard, trying to figure out how Trautmann had gotten on the trail. A couple of minutes later, it hit her. Todd had loaned her his own username and password to access the Post archive. By signing on himself later, he’d have seen exactly which documents and images Delphine had searched. He must have noticed how she kept going back to that one photograph and had taken a look for himself. Whatever his fault, no-one ever accused Todd of being slow on the uptake. Now he had Allstott’s name. No doubt his next step would be to call up the security man and confront him.

  Delphine was worried. Trautmann had no idea what he was getting himself into. Should she warn him he might be in danger? She stewed about it all the way to Chicago where she had to change planes. As soon as she got on the ground, she made the call but Todd wasn’t there so she left a voicemail.

  “I know you’re on the track of this Tom Allstott guy but please be careful. If you arrange to meet him, do it in a public place with lots of people around. He’s already shown he can be violent.” Then feeling a little silly, she hung up.

  There was nothing enjoyable about the bumpy flight from Chicago to Duluth, nor the cheap motel Delphine checked into just outside the dripping city, nor yet the icy wind blowing off Lake Superior. The only places to eat within walking distance were fast food joints. After an execrable meal, she called Jason to ask if he’d found out anything about Tom Allstott.

  “I spoke to my friend, Schuyler’s head of security. He said Allstott wasn’t officially on the payroll but he does odd jobs for him occasionally. He’s been seen at the estate a few times.”

  “Interesting.”

  “My friend also offered me the chance to do some control room shifts there. He needs someone to fill in when other guys are sick or on vacation. It’s a backroom position. Dayton would never know I was there.”

  “Are you sure? It sounds well beneath your capabilities.”

  “I don’t have many choices. This has nothing to do with you. I’m washed up at State. What else can I do? If I decide to go the law school, I’ll have to pay for it which will mean taking out massive loans. Even if I don’t go, I still need money.”

  “In that case, do it.”

  Delphine went to bed early but was unable to sleep. After an hour squirming on the threadbare sheets, tormented by a rattling heating system and the constant drip of a leaky faucet, she gave up and started channel surfing. Mon Dieu, what a wealth of garbage American TV offers, she thought. All the unamusing comedies, tedious sporting contests, tacky shopping channels, fake courtroom dramas, banal game shows, unreal reality shows, hellfire preachers and boring pledge drives. And of course, worst of all, the news channels. Some still pretended to serve up facts but in fact mostly gave opinions. Others had abandoned even the pretense of covering the news and just offered myths, lies, libels, personal attacks and often also bigotry and racism.

  CNN, one of the better outlets, was reporting new tensions in the Middle East. The Israeli navy had intercepted a boat full of advanced weaponry apparently intended for Abdul Muqtadir’s Palestinian Martyrs Brigade in Gaza. Bridget Daly, appearing briefly, read a statement condemning this attempt to destabilize the region and undermine Secretary Dayton’s peace initiative. Then a familiar face came on.

  “There are still many mysteries about this incident,” he intoned in his newsman’s basso profundo. “Where did the arms come from, who paid for them, what flag was the interdicted vessel flying? So far, officials in Washington and Jerusalem remain tight-lipped. We’ll continue to investigate and bring you new developments as they happen…

  “For CNN, this is Stewart Wentworth at the State Department.”

  Delphine spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, asking herself why she’d come all this way to attend the funeral of man she hardly knew. But next morning, entering the Gloria Dei Church, it felt right for her to be there. She’d dressed carefully; black knitted turtleneck and gray, pleated woolen skirt three quarter length. She wore no jewelry except silver teardrop earrings, and just a touch of makeup.

  The brightly-lit sanctuary was empty when Delphine arrived; a sign directed mourners to an overheated ante-room where a small handful of people were gathered, talking quietly. A sound system piped in ecclesiastical elevator music – an endless loop of ‘Ave Maria,’ ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring’ and ‘Amazing Grace’ played an octave too high on an electric organ. At the far end of the room, a pale wooden casket with brass handles rested on a display stand, the top half open. Inside lay Erik, head perched on a white satin pillow, a beatific expression pasted on his rouged, pumped up face as if he were pleased to be there. He looked chubby and prosperous but very dead, both unnaturally pale and unnaturally flushed at the same time. A large wreath of chrysanthemums, yellow and white, rested behind his head; roses and lilies lay at his feet. They’d sprayed the room with freshener, saturating the feverish air with flowery chemicals.

  Delphine approached uncertainly, not knowing what was expected of her. She’d read about such occasions but never before attended one. It was such a quintessentially American ritual – this viewing of the deceased in an open casket. Here was death dolled up with makeup and injected with chemicals, a cheap illusion anyone could see through, the cheese whiz version of mortality. Thank God they never did that when Delphine’s parents died. But of course, their bodies were probably too damaged and mangled to be reassembled even into a vague likeness of human form.

  Erik’s remains were dressed impeccably in an expensive navy suit as if he were on his way to an awards ceremony or a close friend’s wedding. His white shirt was buttoned up high, concealing the wound that had killed him. He was tucked into lacy white sheets, a folded American flag behind his right shoulder. His hair had been brylcreemed into place and they’d trimmed his mustache. His plumped-up lips were the color of ripe tomatoes. They’d also ironed the worry lines away and powdered over his pock marks.

  “He looks well doesn’t he?”

  Delphine turned to see a woman in late middle-age dressed in black. Her bluish hair had been carefully coiffed and sprayed but her eyes were red and her sallow skin sagged. She exuded a faint smell of mothballs.

  “Very,” Delphine responded diplomatically.

  “And you are?”

  “Delphine Roget. I’m a reporter from Washington D.C. I traveled on the plane with Erik and the Secretary of State. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  “You’re not American are you?”

  Delphine smiled. “I’m French.”

  “I heard it in your accent. I thought there’d be more of Erik’s colleagues here but you’re the only one so far. Though Secretary Dayton did sent this lovely wreath,” she said indicating a modest, circular arrangement of pink posies. “She thought the world of my Erik. Once when we visited him in Washington, he introduced her to us. She said she loved him almost like a son. Chuck, come over here, meet this nice French lady, she was a friend of Erik’s.”

  Her husband, who was greeting another guest, didn’t bother looking around.

  “Not now honey. They’ll be closing up the casket pretty soon. It’s time to say goodbye.”

  “Tim
e to say goodbye,” Mrs. Jens muttered. “How do I do that?”

  For a second, Delphine thought the old lady was about to lose her composure. Her face crumpled; she clutched Delphine’s arm, pulling her close. “They’re not true, all the terrible things they’re saying. You knew Erik, you were his friend. Tell me they’re not true.”

  If Delphine had doubted it before, now she realized she’d been right to come – to have the chance to say these words: “No, it’s not true, none of it.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “Mrs. Jens, for your own peace of mind, you must believe me. I would not mislead you. I tell you in all sincerity, it is a lie, a terrible, wicked lie.”

  “Then why?”

  Delphine had no answer. Mrs. Jens sensed her confusion. She reached out a hand and gently placed it against Delphine’s cheek. “You’re very lovely. Tell me, were you and he …?”

  “No, nothing like that. Though he did once say I was fetching.”

  “Fetching,” Mrs. Jens echoed, and the word hung in the perfumed air. Then she leaned forward and kissed Delphine with cold, dry lips. “Thank you dear; you’ve given me comfort.” And then in a firmer voice, “Be sure to come back to the house afterwards. We have a nice buffet—smoked trout, pumpernickel bread, potato salad. One of the neighbors made a lime tuna casserole.”

  As Delphine wondered what such a concoction might taste like without ever really wanting to know, Mrs. Jens turned back to her son. Delphine retreated to the sanctuary and took a seat in an empty seat near the back.

  Five minutes later, they wheeled in the coffin and the service began with a hymn, ‘To Be a Pilgrim’. There were only about twenty people in the cavernous space and the sound they made was exceedingly thin, drowned by a booming organ. Delphine would have joined in but was unfamiliar with the words. A priest in white vestments approached the altar and recited the 23rd psalm. Mrs. Jens started sobbing.

  “‘To Be a Pilgrim’ was Erik’s favorite hymn and he lived by its words,” the cleric intoned. “His was indeed a life of constancy, of service to government, to truth, to his beloved country.” Delphine’s mind wandered during this eulogy, which was little more than a compilation of clichés punctuated by whimpers of grief from the family. Still, it was strangely fitting. Erik, as spokesman, had been a master of diplomatic evasion, a purveyor of carefully-turned phrases that hid more than they revealed. There many ways to hide truths; language is just one, Delphine reflected.

  She became aware of someone sitting down behind her and turning, saw it was Ira Milstein, grizzled and jowly, his tie as always hanging an inch below his collar. She felt an unexpected wave of affection for the grumpy veteran.

  “How you doing Frenchy?” he growled softly.

  “Better, Monsieur Ira, now you are here.”

  After the service, they left together “What do you want to do now?” he asked. “I have a couple of hours before the plane.”

  “Back to the house for lime tuna jello casserole?”

  “Bah, enough of Jens and his clan. Let’s go get a beer.”

  They walked down the street a couple of hundred yards. “Here, this will do,” he said, indicating a barn-like structure with a large sign proclaiming “The Lodge – Duluth’s Finest Gentleman’s Club.”

  “Ira, this is a strip joint,” Delphine said.

  “In honor of our friend. Come on.”

  Delphine was braced for sleaziness but the dimly-lit space looked more like the interior of a National Park hotel, with bison and elk heads mounted on the walls. The only difference was the half-naked girl gyrating half-heartedly around a pole. She wore an absent look and gingerly fondled her surgically-enhanced breasts as if wondering whether they were really hers. Delphine was far from the only woman customer. Several mixed groups sat at nearby tables drinking beer and cocktails. One young woman giggled as a naked woman perched on her boyfriend’s lap, shimmying her breasts and humping her pelvis. The boyfriend continued his conversation as if nothing special were happening and even took a healthy draught of beer. What can you say about a country, Delphine thought, where death is not death and sex not sex?

  Ira led her to a booth and requested a menu.

  “Do you frequently patronize such establishments?” Delphine asked.

  “Not generally, although I like big tits much as the next guy. Looks like a pretty good menu. They’ve got burgers, hot dogs, chili con carne, surf n’ turf; oh look, they even have French onion soup. No frogs legs unfortunately.”

  Delphine ordered the soup and a club soda while Ira opted for fish and chips British style and a pint of beer which cost four times as much as in a normal bar.

  “Cheers,” he said when the drinks arrived. “Here’s to him. May he find a place behind the podium in the great briefing room of heaven.” The stuffed moose head on the wall behind them nodded mechanically in agreement. Then its mouth opened: “Howdy,” it said. “How about another beer?”

  A woman, half wrapped in a white cotton robe that displayed more than it concealed, wandered over to their table and politely inquired whether Ira wanted a lap dance.

  “Not me, but maybe my colleague. You want one, Frenchy? My treat.”

  The woman took one look at Delphine’s expression and tottered away on her preposterous heels. Ira guffawed, apparently delighted with his witticism.

  “Ira, may I ask you something?” Delphine said.

  “Ask.”

  “Why are you so hostile toward me?”

  “Can’t you take an innocent little joke?”

  “Is that what that was? Then allow me to ask something else. Why did you come here today? You and Erik never seemed especially close. The last time I heard you mention him, you were cursing quite crudely.”

  Milstein didn’t respond.

  “Do you perhaps feel a little guilty about what happened?” Delphine said.

  “Why should I feel guilty?”

  “Because Erik was such a valuable source for you.”

  “He was everyone’s source, not just mine. That was his job. He was the official link between Dayton and the media.”

  “But he went way beyond his official duties. He leaked highly sensitive and embarrassing details that Secretary Dayton didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Not to Ira Milstein perhaps, but certainly to Mark Lazarus.”

  Milstein was suddenly alert. “What does that man have to do with me?”

  “I think we both know.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No need to raise your voice. I can understand why you feel you must deny it. However, I’m almost certain that Secretary Dayton knows your secret. She’s biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike. When it comes, she will undoubtedly wreck your career and your reputation. She will be ruthless, you know this.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve outlasted 13 secretaries of state and I’ll see her gone as well. She can’t prove a damn thing. Nor can you.”

  “I don’t need to or want to – but Secretary Dayton’s another matter. I would take precautions if I were you. The axe may fall at any moment.”

  The soup arrived. Delphine had helped her aunt make onion soup a thousand times. The secret is to sauté the onions with garlic in good olive oil and butter for at least half an hour, allowing them to sweat, and at the right moment to add a little sugar so they caramelize properly. The beef stock should be natural, flavored with bay leaves and peppercorns. Some also add bacon, but of course her aunt never did that. Naturally, one must use also real French bread and genuine gruyere cheese and then grate a little parmesan on top. In this case, the stock came from a can, the onions had been deep fried for a couple of minutes without benefit of garlic and they’d sprinkled processed cheese on top of supermarket bread – the coup de grace.

  Ira p
icked up his fork with a trembling hand, then set it down again.

  “Someone’s been feeding you lies. Who is it?”

  “Howdy,” said the talking moose, obviously programmed to chime in every few minutes. “How about another beer?”

  “Au contraire, nobody fed me anything,” Delphine said. “I figured it out for myself. Erik was right there in the room when Secretary Dayton told me she’d met Muqtadir. It was just the three of us. Nobody else could have leaked it to Lazarus—because nobody else knew. It had to be him.”

  Ira’s eyes darted from side to side, his hands unconsciously stroking and clasping each other for comfort. It didn’t seem to help.

  “So you’re saying Dayton deliberately set him up?” he said. “That makes no sense. And another thing: you said you were there. Why didn’t you publish it? It would have been a huge scoop.”

  “She was off the record.”

  “And you’re so pure you’d sit on a story like that?”

  “For me, off the record means off the record.”

  “Well aren’t you Goody Two-Shoes?”

  “I do take the ethics of our profession seriously.”

  “And I don’t?”

  Delphine was silent.

  “The whole idea is ridiculous bullshit. Why would Erik leak stories to me?”

  “Perhaps he was secretly working on behalf of someone else who wished to embarrass Secretary Dayton– maybe even for the President himself who is anxious to avoid a challenge for the party nomination from her next year. We know Erik was bitter because he had suddenly lost Dayton’s favor. Perhaps this was his way of getting revenge.”

  “That’s total bullshit, Erik worshipped the ground Julia Dayton walked on. Your argument doesn’t hold water.”

  “I don’t want to argue. I’m trying to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Oh, but you do. Secretary Dayton has many admirable qualities but she also has her vengeful side, as you well know. Look at how she broke poor Richard Levin. Now she has you in her sights. Pretending to be Lazarus was a serious ethical lapse. There will be a price to pay—but perhaps you can still escape with your self-respect. You need to remove yourself as a target. Immediately.”