The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Probably to make a few hundreds of million more, like he needs it. Never mind that, read the article on the back page.”

  It was headlined, “Secretary’s Ceasefire Mission Dangerous for Israel” and had been written by someone called Mark Lazarus.

  “No time, I’ll read it later,” Delphine said, gulping down the rest of her coffee before rushing back to her room to complete her preparations.

  She boarded the bus 20 minutes later, just ahead of Erik whose skin looked as if he had shaved with a blunt razor. He too was carrying a copy of The Post.

  “Any comments?” Stewart asked him, obviously trying to get a rise out of the spokesman. Erik shook his head and sat down in an empty row. Why wasn’t he in the limo with the Secretary? He’d been kept out of the loop the previous evening—and now this. Was she trying to humiliate him, as she’d done to Richard Levin? What was going on?

  “Why is everyone so interested in that editorial? Who is this Mark Lazarus?” she asked Todd, who had taken the adjoining seat.

  He composed his rotund features into a serious look. “Nobody knows. It’s not his real name.”

  “You mean a nomme de plume?”

  He nodded. “Whoever Lazarus is, he’s well-informed. His columns are syndicated in dozens of mainly Jewish papers back home and around the world, including the Jerusalem Post here in Israel. And he doesn’t like Julia Dayton, not one little bit. This time, he’s gone for the jugular. This article will have an impact. That’s why Jens looks so bilious this morning.”

  Thoughtfully, Delphine started reading the article as the bus made its way across Jerusalem.

  “The U.S. Secretary of State has come to Israel bearing tidings of peace, but her honeyed words conceal deep dangers,” the columnist had written. “As everybody knows, Dayton is preparing for a presidential bid and is anxious to present herself as a successful peacemaker. Informed sources say she intends to sweeten the deal by offering Prime Minister Shoresh new weapons systems. At the same time, the United States will transfer tens of millions of dollars to President al-Bakr’s personal account using shell companies and offshore banks to ensure his temporary cooperation. All of which raises the question: how can we trust an agreement arrived at through devious means? If he is smart, Shoresh will send her home empty-handed. Washington is asking the Jewish state to halt its war against the terrorists—and in exchange for what? For a false promise of peace that will only give the terrorists time to rebuild their arsenals, recruit more suicide bombers and get ready for the next round of bloodshed, which, ceasefire or no ceasefire, is surely coming.”

  Delphine was impressed. Lazarus was very well-informed. He’d repeated practically verbatim words she had heard under strictest confidentiality only the previous evening. It was clear he’d spoken to someone in Dayton’s inner circle.

  She was still digesting this when the motorcade arrived at Yad Vashem. The memorial sits on a hillside on the western edge of the city; all official guests to Israel are expected to pay their respects there before beginning their diplomatic business.

  As Secretary Dayton stepped from her limousine and photographers started snapping, Delphine saw she’d decided to wear the cavalry officer’s jacket after all. Actually, it looked surprisingly effective, lending her the steely determined air of a woman used to meeting male warriors on their own turf and standing her ground.

  After being greeted by the Israeli Foreign Minister, the Secretary proceeded into the museum, the press trailing behind, kept at a distance by a phalanx of Israeli and American security men. Over the next hour, as they moved from one gallery to the next, Delphine found herself gradually losing her journalistic reserve. Secretary Dayton had said she was determined to bring peace to this tormented region. But what if this columnist Mark Lazarus was correct and her actions led only to more bloodshed? As they entered an underground cavern that served as a memorial to the million and a half Jewish children who died in the Holocaust, a lump formed in Delphine’s throat. Remembrance candles reflected and re-reflected themselves in an infinite loop, creating the illusion of millions of shining stars. Delphine wondered what Secretary Dayton was feeling. Her face betrayed nothing. She laid a wreath and mouthed some formulaic remarks on the general theme of ‘Never Again.’ Shortly after that, the visit was over.

  A van shuttled the press corps back to the hotel for a couple of hours until the talks began and Delphine returned to her room. By now, it was morning in Washington. She really should catch up with Jean-Luc Boulez. They hadn’t spoken for several days and it was important to keep her boss up to date.

  “Nice of you to remember me. What kind of a story was that you filed this morning?” he asked grouchily as soon as he came on the line.

  “It was just a routine curtainraiser.”

  “It was completely uninformative – no content, no analysis, no interest. In a word, it was merde.”

  “There was nothing to write. The negotiations haven’t even started yet,” Delphine protested.

  “There’s always something to write. Our readers need to know what to expect, what officials are saying in private , whether they’re confident of success or expecting failure. Kindly remember, I stuck my head out giving you this opportunity. You’ve done a great job so far but this is no time to get lazy and rest on your laurels.”

  “No-one is talking right now. There’s an information blackout.”

  “That never stopped you before. Is this the same Delphine who has scored that wonderful scoop on the last trip? Where’s your curiosity, where are your investigative instincts? You have advantages your colleagues don’t have – your language skills for example. Try harder.”

  This was so unfair. There was nothing wrong with Delphine’s investigative instincts. Hadn’t she been standing outside the garage the previous evening, sniffing out Secretary Dayton’s secret meeting? But she couldn’t tell him.

  “Very well, Jean-Luc,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I’ll try.”

  “Before you go, there’s an item in the papers today about your colleague Lisa Hemmings. Apparently, she was arrested in Damascus for shop-lifting. Dayton managed to get her released but I hear she’s quit Newsweek. I suppose they fired her.”

  So much for their well-intentioned attempt to keep Lisa’s predicament out of the media. It had barely lasted 24 hours. Of course, any number of people could have leaked this tidbit. Now poor Lisa’s career was wrecked and whatever it was she’d dug up about Secretary Dayton would presumably remain unpublished.

  “Did you know about this?” Jean-Luc pressed.

  “We were told she’d been arrested but it was off the record,” Delphine said, omitting that she’d been there when the incident happened. As the call ended, she reflected uncomfortably on the fact that she’d have to lie to her editor regularly if she accepted Secretary Dayton’s invitation.

  Stepping into the corridor, Delphine was about to head for the elevator when she heard heated voices from the next room. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop but couldn’t help herself, especially after her boss had just questioned her investigative instincts. She pressed her ear to the door and immediately recognized Ira Milstein’s Bronx twang.

  “Think what you like, it’s not true,” he was saying.

  “Come on. We’re friends,” a calmer voice replied. “How long do you think you can keep it secret? If I put two and two together, others will eventually figure it out as well.”

  “I tell you it’s not me.”

  “Like I haven’t known you for years. I’d recognize your writing style anywhere and this Lazarus writes just like you do.”

  By now Delphine had identified the second speaker. It was Andrew.

  “You have no proof,” Ira said heatedly.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to blow the whistle. I’m just telling you as a friend, that you’re making a big mistake. What you’re doing is sneaky and u
nethical. It could get you fired.”

  “Don’t lecture me on ethics. You know the truth, yet you don’t dare write it. None of you do. Dayton doesn’t care about peace. She’s after power. Be honest, surely you feel it too.”

  “Name one politician who wasn’t after power.”

  “She’ll marry Schuyler and be elected president before you know it. This Lazarus fellow, whoever he is, is just doing what we, the traveling press, ought to be doing instead of sucking up to her like pathetic lackeys.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Challenging her, questioning her motives, exposing her hypocrisy.”

  “Have it your own way. But when it blows up in your face, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Andrew said. Realizing the conversation was about to be over, Delphine scurried away before she could be discovered.

  The press bus for the short drive to the Israeli Prime Minister’s office left the hotel at 2 pm and dropped the reporters 10 minutes later outside the squat, six-story building. Soon, the Secretary’s limo arrived. Jason swung the rear door open and she hurried inside, ignoring the cameras set up to record her arrival. Shortly after that, members of the press were escorted up to a second-floor conference room for the customary ‘photo op’ preceding the meeting. Delphine caught her first brief sight of Prime Minister Shoresh, always described in the media as “the burly ex-general.” He was indeed enormous, his bloated features sinking deep into the folds of skin surrounding his neck. He and Secretary Dayton sat side-by-side at the head of a long conference table with aides and underlings filling the seats on either side. The table was stacked high with sandwiches, nuts, raisins and little pastries and cookies. It looked like they were preparing for an eating contest rather than a negotiation. A couple of reporters called out questions which both Shoresh and Dayton ignored, staring ahead with identical fake smiles glued to their faces.

  “No questions,” called Erik, while his Israeli counterpart issued the same command in Hebrew. Without consciously intending to, Delphine found herself snatching a glance at Jason, who stood at Secretary Dayton’s shoulder, dressed in an elegant light gray suit over a pale blue shirt and yellow tie. He smiled and she looked away. A minute later, the reporters were hurried from the room, down the stairs and out of the building, congregating in the narrow courtyard with nothing to do but wait.

  “Shouldn’t be more than three or four hours if we’re lucky,” said Stewart. It was a mild, breezy day with small white clouds racing like sail boats across a deep blue sky. Delphine closed her eyes, enjoying the sun’s warmth. Unbidden, an image of Jason’s face invaded her mind, smiling in that all-knowing way of his. And then, in her imagination, she smelled gardenias and saw Secretary Dayton’s features superimpose themselves on his so that the two melted into one. With a slight shudder, she opened her eyes and was reassured to see Don Masters standing before her.

  “Are you OK young lady?” he asked in his mellifluous anchorman’s baritone. Before Delphine could reassure him, a puff of wind disturbed his immaculate, blown-dry hair which sat atop his head like a black helmet. He hurriedly patted it down.

  “Don’t worry Don, it’s perfect as always, even nicer than Delphine’s. In fact, it looks like you two have been swapping hair care tips,” said Todd.

  Don whipped a metal comb from his pocket and carefully slid it through, straightening a stray strand. “You may laugh, but for a TV newsman, the state of one’s hair is no laughing matter. When’s the last time you saw a bald guy reporting on TV? Lose my hair, lose my job. Every morning I wake up and thank God it’s still there.”

  “Thank God and Rogaine,” murmured Todd as colleagues tittered.

  “OK guys, how about a few rounds of Liar’s Poker?” asked Andrew, always the peacemaker. “Will you play this time, Delphine?”

  Needing some distraction, she said she would if somebody explained the rules. Todd promptly volunteered.

  “You see, every dollar bill has a serial number with eight digits,” he said, extracting one from his wallet. “We each take out a bill and bet according to the serial numbers. For instance, your bill may have three number fours. Let’s say there are five other people in the game. You reasonably guess there have to be at least six fours between all six players since you already have three, so you’d be safe to bid six fours. Now, let’s say the next guy to bid after you has four fives on his dollar bill. What would he do?”

  He was in his element, playing the part of all-knowing lecturer with Delphine as his tame and captive audience.

  “I have no idea,” she said, pretending to be befuddled.

  “Well, he might raise you by bidding six fives.”

  “Bien, then what?”

  “But remember, you don’t know what he actually has and he might be lying, since the only bill you can see is your own. Clear?”

  Did he think only men were capable of grasping such an infantile game?

  “So the bidding goes up and up until nobody wants to bid any more. Then, we all reveal our hands. Let’s say the last person bid seven eights, and it turns out there actually are seven eights. If that happens, he wins a dollar from everyone else. But if there are fewer than seven, he has to pay everyone else a dollar.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we play another round.”

  “Ah, but of course.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll soon catch on.”

  At first, Delphine was cautious, bidding low and dropping out early while she gauged the other five players. Todd, she discovered, was an incorrigible liar; almost nothing he bid was true but he did not seem to be upset at losing as long as he was the center of attention. Andrew was scrupulously honest, never bidding more than he held, never taking a risk. Ira played wildly and was a sore loser. The best players, she concluded, were the most unpredictable. After telling the truth through the first five rounds, Delphine decided it was time to try a bluff.

  “Six nines,” she stated uncertainly.

  “So cute the way she says ‘seex’,” Todd said.

  “She’s got to have at least four because Delphine would never fib. She hasn’t been around us long enough,” Stewart said in his sonorous rumble. “I’ll bid seven nines.”

  Nobody else was bidding; it was just the two of them.

  “Eight nines,” Delphine said, prompting patronizing smiles.

  “I’ll raise you. Nine nines,” Stewart said. At that point, Delphine dropped out and everyone revealed their bills.

  Andrew laughed. “Not a single nine; she really fooled you.”

  After that, they started treating her with more respect.

  Two hours later, by which time Delphine had accumulated $30, there was a stir among the security men and the Secretary of State’s limo pulled up, a sign the meeting was about to end. Motorcycle outriders moved into place while cameramen and still photographers rushed to their pre-set positions. After a couple of minutes, Dayton strode briskly from the building, surrounded by bodyguards, ignoring the lectern that had been set up for her. She turned for an instant, waved to the cameras, then stepped in the car and sped away.

  A few minutes later, Erik Jens and his Israeli counterpart approached the lectern which bristled with reporters’ microphones.

  “We have a brief joint statement. We won’t take any questions,” said the Israeli spokesman. “Prime Minister Shoresh and Secretary Dayton held a constructive dialogue today. The meeting with staff lasted for just over two hours and they also met privately for around half an hour. They exchanged frank ideas about ways to achieve a stable and lasting ceasefire. Both sides have decided to keep these consultations confidential. Secretary Dayton will meet tomorrow with President al-Bakr and we look forward to a continuation of the talks. That’s all for now.”

  “Did she bring any specific ideas?” an Israeli reporter called out.

  “Sorry, nothing to add,” the spokesman said.
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  “Did she offer the Israelis any new weapons systems as reported in today’s Jerusalem Post?” Stewart shouted.

  Erik’s eyes narrowed. He looked like a man plagued by bad dreams. “You should know better than to ask that,” he snapped. “We won’t respond to allegations from a columnist who hides under a fake name.”

  As the questions ended, several reporters cornered Erik, demanding to know where and when he would brief them. Usually in such circumstances, the spokesman would meet privately with the traveling press. It was one of the perks that came with being on the Secretary’s plane. But he shook his head. “You heard. No more details.”

  “You know the Israelis will be briefing their reporters,” said Andrew.

  “I warned you there’d be consequences for refusing to listen to Secretary Dayton on the plane the other day.”

  “So what are we supposed to tell our viewers?” Stewart asked.

  Erik smiled as if he’d just drunk a glass of vinegar. “Not my problem.”

  Nobody spoke much on the bus back to the hotel. Ira sat alone in the row ahead of Delphine, his mottled hands trembling slightly. He was wearing the same shirt and tie as the previous day. She could smell the accumulation of dried sweat under his arms. When they arrived, she hurried upstairs to write yet another story containing no information. Had she accepted Secretary Dayton’s offer, Delphine reflected, she might at that very moment have been learning confidential details of the meeting. But something still made her hesitate – a nagging fear that Dayton wanted too much from her, more than she could give.

  Delphine finished the article, transmitted it and fled the room, not wanting to be on the receiving end of another dressing down when Jean-Luc read it.

  Downstairs, she found several colleagues enjoying the hotel buffet which included fake shrimp and ersatz lobster made out of some kind of fish to conform with Jewish dietary laws.

  “Join us, Delphine,” called Andrew, waving across the room. She noticed Ira, a white napkin stained with gravy tucked into his collar under his sagging neck, chewing and slurping his way through an enormous pile of food.