The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

  Utley knew all about Isis Franklin. She and Renee Freshwater had known each other for more than twenty years, since Freshwater was a junior official on the State Department’s Rwanda desk during the genocide, writing memos calling for intervention that nobody read. The two women had stayed in touch through the years, sometimes closely and at others not for months on end. Their common bond now was the United Nations. Isis Franklin worked at the US mission while Renee Freshwater had served as US ambassador to the UN. From there Freshwater had been appointed secretary of state, her stepping-stone to the presidency. Utley did not like the United Nations. He could not understand why the United States spent millions of dollars of taxpayers’ money funding a rolling hate-fest against America and the West in the heart of Manhattan and gave its members diplomatic immunity. Nor could he understand what Isis Franklin was doing on this airplane. She was not part of the official delegation for the summit.

  Isis stood her ground. Two small sprouts of silver hair poked out of each of Utley’s nostrils, she noticed. “Mr. Utley, I have been cleared by the Secret Service to travel on this airplane and I am doing so at the president’s personal request. So I would be grateful if you would step aside and let me through.”

  They both knew that Isis had the advantage. The White House, with its endless locked doors, security codes, biometric access, Secret Service agents, legions of flunkies and presidential gatekeepers, was Utley’s kingdom. But onboard Air Force One, at thirty-five thousand feet somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, there was nowhere else for Isis to go other than another part of the airplane. And she could wander back whenever she liked.

  Utley was about to refuse, just to make a point, when President Freshwater’s voice sounded from the conference room. “Aldrich, it’s fine. Let her in.”

  He reluctantly stood aside to let Isis walk into the conference room. A long table of polished wood ran down the middle, flanked on both sides by rows of beige leather executive chairs. Two bowls of fresh flowers stood in the center of the table, together with jugs of fresh orange juice, a flask of coffee, and bottles of mineral water. The area had been partitioned off from the rest of the airplane by artificial walls and soundproofed, the hum of the engines just a distant background noise. Television screens on the rear walls showed all the US domestic networks, CNN’s American and international channels, the BBC, and Al Jazeera’s United States channel.

  President Freshwater sat at the center of the table, her papers in front of her, next to a satellite telephone console and airplane intercom. The most powerful woman in the world was striking, in her early fifties, with a full mouth and strong chin. Her sharp cheekbones, sleek, shoulder-length black hair—now pulled back in a ponytail—and dark eyes were a gift from her Native American forbearers. She was dressed in jeans, loafers, and a white shirt. She wore no jewelry except for her wedding ring and two plain silver earrings.

  The president stood and walked over to Isis, and the two women greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek. She gestured for Isis to sit next to her and picked up the thick document on top of the pile of papers on the desk.

  “Look at this.” She rifled through the sheets. “In four days we are going to fix Syria, Egypt, Israel, and Palestine. I make that a day for each. Bilaterals, trilaterals, multilaterals, plenaries, backgrounds, statements of intent, position, plans, projections. The most ambitious diplomatic summit in the twenty-first century. In all of history, I would say,” she said, laughing. She reached for the next document, filled with lines of type. “And this is my schedule, just for tomorrow, before the conference even starts. I’m sorry, I’m so rude, Isis, unloading on you like this. Coffee or something stronger?”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad you could make some time for me. I’ll have whatever you are having. So why are you going if the summit is not going to work?” asked Isis.

  Freshwater leaned forward and pressed a button on her telephone console. “Henry, can you please bring us two of your gin and tonics. Tanqueray, but not too strong. With a slice of cucumber.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied a tinny voice. “Coming right up.”

  Freshwater put her schedule down on top of the papers. She looked at Isis. “To answer your question, I’m going because all the P5 presidents and prime ministers, plus everyone else that counts, will be there. Who knows what might come of it. It can’t be worse than being in DC. Diplomacy is like that. Nothing happens for months or years, then all of a sudden the pieces look like they are falling into place. We can thank the Islamic Caliphate of Greater Syria, I guess. That and the prospect of even more millions of Syrian refugees pouring out of what remains of the country. Suddenly it’s in everyone’s interest to sort out the Middle East. Frankly, I don’t think peace and stability will suddenly break out this weekend. But as Winston Churchill said, jaw-jaw is better than war-war. And if not, then at least I get to see Istanbul in the spring,” she said, smiling.

  A light cough interrupted her. The two women looked around. A thin man with red hair and pale skin stood at the entrance to the conference room, holding a silver tray with two glasses.

  President Freshwater nodded. “Thank you, Henry.” She turned to Isis. “Henry makes the best gin and tonic you have ever tasted.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. But there’s not much competition at thirty-five thousand feet,” said Henry, as he handed the two women their drinks.

  “Even if there was, you would still beat it,” said Freshwater.

  Henry smiled with pleasure. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said as he left.

  Freshwater raised her drink to Isis and the two women clinked glasses. Freshwater took a sip of her cocktail. “Eric used to make these for us.” She smiled wanly. “He was a hopeless barman. It was either too strong or too weak and never enough ice. What I wouldn’t give for one of his drinks now, though.”

  “You must miss him so much. How long has it been?”

  “Ten months.” President Freshwater looked down into her drink, swirling the ice cubes. “It’s been really tough on the kids. They put a brave face on, but they’re teenagers. A fourteen-year-old boy and a twelve-year-old girl need their dad.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. What’s up with the investigation? I read a story in the Times that they thought his ski bindings might have been tampered with.”

  Freshwater exhaled, sat back, and put her feet up on the conference table. “When you are president of the United States, you think you are the most powerful person in the free world, and certainly in the United States. You think that if you want something to happen it will. Especially when it’s an investigation into how your husband died. But it doesn’t happen. Or rather, it does, but it doesn’t get anywhere. It gets stuck in the quagmire between the Secret Service, the FBI, the cops in Aspen, the local coroner, the National Security Agency, the CIA looking for possible international connections, and at least one other organization I am not supposed to talk about. All of whom hate each other’s guts and are far more interested in fighting turf wars and empire building than finding out why my husband hit a tree at fifty miles an hour.” Freshwater took out the slice of cucumber from her drink and chewed it thoughtfully. “You know what they call me? At first it was just inside the Beltway. But it’s caught on quick.”

  Isis said, “It’s not true.”

  Freshwater turned to Isis, her face suddenly full of anguish. “A woman wrote to me after Congress sabotaged the Syria intervention plan, after Assad gassed all those people. She was eighty-eight years old. It was a short letter. I remember every word. ‘Dear Madam President, please don’t go to any more Holocaust memorial events and say “never again,” when you let it happen again. Yours sincerely, Sadie Greenberg. Auschwitz inmate 28765.’ Maybe I am dead in the water.” Freshwater turned her wedding wing, a plain white-gold band, around on her finger. “God, I miss him.”

  Isis looked at her. “You are the first female president of the United States. You will go down in history.”

  Freshwater sipped her drink. “Tha
nks. Speaking of which,” she said, her voice businesslike now, “I received your memo about the drone strike in Kandahar.”

  “And?”

  Freshwater shook her head. “Isis, I can’t bring criminal charges against the commander of that operation.”

  “Why not? A crime was committed.”

  “It was not a crime. It was a tragic accident. There was no intent to kill civilians.”

  Isis put her glass down. “That Hellfire missile didn’t hit the car by accident. It was guided every step of the way from a control room under the command of the US military, whose commander in chief you are. A child was killed. A two-year-old boy. There was nothing left for his family to bury.”

  “I know, Isis, and I am so sorry. But I have seen the internal report. The strike was based on faulty intelligence. This is a war. These things happen, unfortunately.”

  “Can I see that report?”

  Freshwater shook her head.

  “What about the Black File—the records of all the drone strikes?”

  “If—if—such a file existed, it would only be available to those with the highest level of security clearance.”

  Isis reached into her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Can I read you something?”

  Freshwater shrugged. “Sure.”

  “The United States has a clear moral duty to intervene in Rwanda. If our commitment to human rights means anything, we need to take action. Many thousands of people are being slaughtered every day, most of them by hand. Comparisons with the debacle in Somalia are inaccurate. The 101st Airborne Division could swiftly deal with the genocidaires, most of whom are armed with nothing more than machetes, in a few days if not a few hours….” Isis looked at Freshwater. “Shall I continue?”

  “No need. I remember what I wrote.”

  “A clear moral duty. Don’t we have a clear moral duty in Afghanistan? People died because of our negligence. They should be called to account.”

  Freshwater frowned. “Isis, why are you so excited about this case? It’s awful, horrible, but it was an accident. There is no way I can bring charges of criminal negligence. Everyone involved has to live with the consequences. That’s punishment enough.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Isis, a faraway look in her eyes.

  Freshwater smiled. “Hey, come on, cheer up. Now tell me all the gossip at the State Department and the UN mission. And what’s up with Fareed? Did you see the piece in the New York Times this morning about Srebrenica? That was pretty shocking, even by UN standards.”

  The two women talked for another few minutes, until Utley appeared at the entrance, a stern look on his face. Freshwater turned to Isis. “Duty calls,” she said apologetically. “But hold on a moment.” She pressed a button on the telephone console on her desk. “Henry?”

  “Yes, ma’am? Another round?”

  “No thanks, not tonight. Can you bring you-know-what for Isis?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Utley walked away and Henry appeared a few seconds later, holding a new black flying jacket on a wooden hanger. It was made of heavy nylon, with a padded lining. The Air Force One logo was emblazoned on the top left-hand corner. He handed the jacket to Isis.

  Her eyes opened wide with pleasure. “Thank you, Renee. Thanks so much.”

  “Try it on,” said Freshwater. “Everyone who flies on Air Force One gets one.”

  The jacket fit Isis perfectly. She turned around, trying to catch her reflection in the window of the cabin.

  Henry left and Utley reappeared. He glanced at Isis as if to say, Are you still here?

  “On my way out now, Mr. Utley,” said Isis. “Just one last thing.”

  She picked up her purse, took out her iPhone, and stood next to President Freshwater, behind the pile of papers on the conference table. Isis handed the telephone to Utley. “A photo please. It’s not every day that a girl gets to travel with the president on Air Force One. Just press the button on the screen.”

  Utley took the photograph. He handed the telephone back to Isis. She checked the photograph and handed the telephone back to him.

  “Just one more, please. Then I promise I’m out of here.”

  Isis stood next to President Freshwater, ushering her closer to the table edge.

  Utley accepted the telephone and took three more shots. “That should do it,” he said as he gave the phone back to Isis. “And now, if you don’t mind…”

  Isis and President Freshwater kissed each other on the cheek. The president stood up as Isis left. “Enjoy your jacket—and Istanbul. I’ll see you somewhere soon.”

  “You got it,” said Isis as she left.

  23

  Yael followed Yusuf up a steep, narrow path of interlocking gray paving stones, happy to be out in the fresh air, feeling her limbs move and her muscles stretch. The breeze was fresh and cool, light with the smell of the sea. The sun blazed red against a purple sky and the tombs and headstones glowed in the soft light of dusk. The sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to Akşam, the evening prayer, flowed through the trees and over the graves. “Allāhu Akbar, God is great,” the muezzin intoned four times, his rich baritone seeming to echo not just across the streets and down the city’s hills, but through the centuries. “Ash-hadu an-lā ilāha illā alla, I bear witness that there is no god but God.”

  Yusuf took Yael’s arm as the path rose steadily through two rows of trees. The walkways were swept clean. No weeds sprouted in the cracks between the paving stones. The graves were raised, framed by walls of gray marble a foot or so above the ground, covered with a layer of earth from which plants, bushes, and flowers sprouted. Yael and Yusuf walked for another hundred yards, higher and higher, until they reached a small, raised plaza in a far reach of the cemetery. A rusty park bench stood at the edge, its green paint peeling. The flagstones were larger and older here, their edges chipped, and the gravestones weather beaten.

  Yael sat down gratefully, slightly out of breath. She had slept for another two hours, and drunk more water than ever before in her life, to flush the toxins out of her system. She felt almost back to normal, although her left shoulder throbbed, the right side of her neck ached, and she was still not completely steady on her feet.

  Yusuf passed her another carton of ayran and a banana.

  “Thanks. No pide today?” she asked, remembering the delicious, greasy Turkish version of pizza Yusuf had bought for her on the island of Büyükada. It was just a few weeks ago, but it already felt like a scene from another life.

  Yusuf shook his head. “Tomorrow. When your stomach is settled.”

  She drank half the ayran, relishing its sour tang. “Will I be here tomorrow?”

  “I think so. Unless you plan to escape.”

  Yael looked around, remembering Najwa’s report. She was wanted by Interpol and the Turkish authorities. She had been stripped of her immunity. Yusuf’s boss had tried to kidnap her. But she felt oddly calm. The cemetery was a profoundly peaceful place. The muezzin’s chant faded away, and the birds chirped merrily, happy to have no more competition. A canopy of trees reached overhead, their branches twisting into each other. She watched a squirrel scamper up a tree. No, she didn’t feel like running anywhere.

  A memory flashed into her mind, of the last time she sat on a park bench, in Dag Hammarskjöld plaza, waiting for Quentin Braithwaite. Was that really just four days ago—last Thursday? Yael began to sort through the events of the last few days, hoping that the chronology might bring some kind of clarity.

  She glanced at her watch. It was now almost eight o’clock on Monday evening. Exactly a week ago, she was sitting on the train from DC to New York after her confrontation with Clarence Clairborne. The next day she had made dinner for Sami and been exposed on Al Jazeera. On Wednesday she had met Caroline Masters, been demoted to the Trusteeship Council, and fought for her life on the Staten Island Ferry. She’d met Quentin Braithwaite on Dag Hammarskjöld on Thursday and on Friday night she had danced with Najwa, met Eli Harrari, and
stolen a DVD from Sami. She had flown to Turkey on Saturday, lost a day to the time difference, and been attacked and rescued this morning. A busy week, she thought, smiling to herself. But where was Braithwaite? The summit was due to start in three days and the P5 presidents were already on their way. More to the point, where was Joe-Don? She had called, sent text and e-mail messages, but no reply. This had never happened before and it made her very uneasy.

  Yael peeled her banana and took a bite. “Now please tell me where we are.”

  “In Üsküdar, on the Asian side. This is the Bülbüldere, the Nightingale cemetery.”

  Yael frowned. “Cemetery for who? There are pictures on the graves, so it’s not a Muslim one. There are no crosses so it’s not Christian. I can’t see any Stars of David, but you have a room full of books in Ladino.”

  Yusuf took out a brown paper bag of pistachio nuts from his jacket pocket. He offered the bag to Yael. She shook her head. “In 1666 a Jewish man was born in Salonika. He was a famous Kabbalist, an expert in Jewish mysticism,” he said as he cracked a shell and took out the nut. “This man said he was the Messiah.”

  Distant memories of school history lessons stirred in Yael’s mind. “And was he?”

  “His followers thought so,” replied Yusuf, his voice wry. “They still do.”

  “Shabbetai Zevi,” said Yael as the story came back to her.