The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” Secretary Dayton said coldly. “As most of you are no doubt aware by now, an article by a columnist who calls himself Mark Lazarus will appear in newspapers around the world tomorrow alleging that I held a secret meeting with the head of the Palestinian Martyrs Brigade during my trip to Israel last week.” She paused to take a deep breath, speaking extremely slowly. Her knuckles grasping the edge of the lectern were white. Her amber ring protruded like a giant tumor.

  “Let me be very clear: there was no such meeting,” Secretary Dayton said, waving a long bony finger in the air. Cameras flashed, motor drives whirred like electronic cicadas and there was a collective outtake of breath through the room.

  “I have never met with Abdul Muqtadir, nor with any of his associates. This article is a pack of lies from beginning to end. It is clearly libelous as well as malicious, intended to sabotage my efforts to bring about a Palestinian-Israeli ceasefire. It is based on one anonymous source, yet at no time did its author come to me or any authorized person in the State Department to seek our reaction. Is this what passes for respectable journalism these days? The author and all the editors who intend running this travesty should be ashamed of themselves.”

  “Madam Secretary, Madam Secretary,” a couple of reporters called out as she paused for breath.

  “This is what actually happened,” she continued, ignoring their waving hands. “Yes, I did go to the territories—but not to Gaza to meet with a terrorist leader. I went to Bethlehem. As Archbishop Makarios of the Greek Orthodox Church has graciously confirmed in a statement that will be distributed to you shortly, I made a personal pilgrimage to pray for help and guidance at the Church of the Nativity, the birthplace of Jesus Christ who is my personal savior. We decided to keep my visit private to minimize security problems and avoid turning my visit, which was of deep personal significance, into a media circus. Fortunately, photographs were taken that evening. Copies have been made available for all of you, together with the Archbishop’s affidavit.”

  She paused again to allow the reporters to digest this as aides began distributing hand-outs. Delphine’s head was spinning. ‘Why did she lie to me? Was this some kind of bizarre loyalty test?’ Someone handed her a sheaf of papers. One photo showed Secretary Dayton inside the basilica shaking hands with a heavily bearded, black robed cleric; a second pictured her kneeling in front of an altar.

  “Questions?” Secretary Dayton asked.

  A forest of arms shot into the air, like a class of first graders vying for teacher’s attention. “Ira. Please go ahead,” she said, giving the most senior correspondent the honor of asking the first question.

  There was a long silence. “Um, I have no questions, Madam Secretary.”

  “Not even a hypothetical one?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “My my, that must be a first.”

  Delphine raised her hand and Secretary Dayton called on her.

  “Madam Secretary, do you have any idea where this information came from and is the administration launching an investigation to identify the source?”

  “Don’t worry, we don’t think it was you,” Dayton said, as everyone except Delphine laughed. The tension in the room had dissipated like air from a burst balloon. There was not going to be a scandal; there was no blood in the water.

  “With respect to your question, frankly we have no idea if there even was a credible source. For all we know, the author, for his own reasons, may have simply made the whole thing up. He clearly has his own malicious agenda. But there have been a number of worrying leaks recently and the President has asked the Department of Justice to investigate. When we find the culprit or culprits, I assure you they’ll be dealt with.”

  “Dealt with how?” Stewart Wentworth asked.

  “With the full force of the law, Stewart. However that’s not my main concern today. I’m focused on one thing only, which is to secure a ceasefire between Israel and the Palestinians. To that end, I’ll be returning to Jerusalem today to meet with Prime Minister Shoresh and President al-Bakr.”

  “Are you close to an agreement?” Andrew asked.

  Secretary Dayton grinned. With that question, she knew she’d won. Everyone was back on her page, pursuing her agenda once again.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said.

  As Dayton left the room, Bridget announced that their departure had been postponed for two hours to allow everyone ample time to file their stories. When it suited them, the State Department schedulers could be very flexible indeed.

  The mood at the Israeli prime minister’s office later that afternoon in Jerusalem was upbeat. Yair Shoresh, smiling broadly, descended the steps of his building to greet Secretary Dayton in person, clasping her hands in a gesture of welcome, placing a brawny arm over her shoulder as he ushered her inside.

  “Anything to say about the ceasefire, Prime Minister?” a reporter shouted.

  “Thoon, thoon,” he lisped, without looking back.

  “Any comment on the Secretary’s secret meeting?” another called.

  Hearing that, he turned on his heel and approached the forest of microphones.

  “With your permission, I’ll answer this question,” he said, turning to Secretary Dayton, who bowed her head in assent.

  For such a broad man, he had a surprisingly delicate, almost feminine voice. “Let me underline that the government of Israel knew in advance of Madam Secretary’s trip to Bethlehem. As far as we’re concerned, there was no secret meeting. Regrettably, there are elements in our country and others who want this ceasefire to fail. But something good did come from this malicious libel. It let the United States to make clear once again it will not deal with terrorists like Muqtadir. This assurance strengthens our determination to move forward together to end the bloodshed in our region and provide its people with peace.”

  Now Delphine finally understood her game. By denying she’d met Muqtadir, Secretary Dayton had disarmed Israel and its American supporters, making it much tougher for them to reject the ceasefire. It was sneaky but effective diplomacy.

  Barely an hour later, the meeting was over, all outstanding issues apparently resolved to Israel’s satisfaction, and the Secretary’s motorcade was heading for Ramallah to secure the blessing of the Palestinian President. It was clear the ceasefire agreement was imminent and everyone on the press bus was cheerful. By now, they’d all heard reports about the preparations underway for a signing ceremony in Aqaba.

  “With luck, she can wrap it up tonight, sign the damn thing tomorrow and we’ll be home by the weekend,” Andrew said. “I’ll spend it with my wife and kids for a change.”

  Everyone hoped the meeting with President al-Bakr would be as brief as the one with the Israelis had been but after two hours it was still dragging on. A few reporters started playing Liar’s Poker but Delphine didn’t join them. She’d been manipulated by an expert liar once already that day.

  As the game proceeded, she noticed one of the CNN cameramen carrying a walkie-talkie approach Stewart, whispering urgently in his ear. He turned to the others and the game broke up. Soon, everyone had heard the news.

  After more than four hours, Secretary Dayton’s meeting with President al-Bakr ended at last and they descended to face the press. The Secretary, Delphine had observed, had a special way of smiling at such occasions. She flexed the muscles around her mouth but those around her eyes did not participate. It made for a particularly blank expression of pleasure. But her political antennae were highly developed. As President al-Bakr, his plump lips wet with emotion, began hailing the newly agreed ceasefire, she sensed the mood in the room and gestured subtly to Erik who had resumed his accustomed position at her side.

  He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and handed it to Secretary Dayton behind her back. By now, the Palestinian leader’s remarks were reaching their climax.


  “And so, honored ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow, we will travel to Aqaba to sign this ceasefire which we have all worked so hard to reach, and none harder than my dear friend, Madam Secretary Julia Dayton. This agreement must be the beginning, not the end, of a process leading to a real peace with justice for the Palestinian people, the return of our refugees to their homes after these long decades of exile, the end of Israeli oppression, the end of military occupation, the removal of settlements and the establishment of our beloved al Quds, the holy city of Jerusalem, as the capital of our new, independent homeland. Madam Secretary, my dear friend, no doubt there are there some words you wish to add.”

  She stepped forward to the microphones, her voiced hushed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have just learned the tragic news that our friend and colleague Don Masters has passed away. Before I speak to this ceasefire agreement, let us have a moment of silence in his honor.”

  She bowed her head and all the reporters did likewise. Delphine could feel tears gathering as she recalled Don’s last words to her, which indeed may have been the last significant words he’d spoken to anyone. “Half the time I’m not there enough for my kids and they need a full-time father.” Now, they’d grow up without any father.

  Secretary Dayton resumed: “I wish to send my condolences, personally and on behalf of all of us, to his entire family. Later, we’ll have the opportunity to properly remember our friend and celebrate his extraordinary life and career. But let me just say, speaking for myself, how deeply I feel his loss and how much I will, frankly, miss his presence. Don was a great humanitarian as well as a great reporter. He cared deeply about the stories he covered, especially this one, the quest for peace in the Middle East. Frankly I think he would have wished us all, each in his own way, to rededicate ourselves to that end. If he were here, I believe Don would tell us all – diplomats, politicians, journalists alike – ‘Do your jobs.’ I intend to do mine by continuing to strive for peace.”

  As the press conference broke up, Delphine grabbed hold of Erik.

  “Don bought some earrings for his little girl,” she said shakily. “He showed them to me that evening a few minutes before he collapsed. They should be among his effects. Please make sure she receives them. It was his last gift.”

  “I’ll try.” Erik looked awful, his face white and strained with dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Don wanted to buy something for his son in Jerusalem – he spoke about maybe getting a carved wooden camel. I’ll try to do it for him tomorrow before we leave if there’s time so the little boy doesn’t feel left out.”

  Erik grasped Delphine’s hands; his were trembling. “I’d like to come with you. Call me in the morning before you go.”

  Delphine spent the evening alone. First, she wrote a long story explaining how Dayton had put together the ceasefire and what might come next. Then she sat waiting until the following day’s schedule was slid under the door, as it was each night. She’d been concerned they’d have another early start but departure to the airport was not until one o’clock leaving plenty of time for shopping. She called Erik’s room but he did not answer so she left a message suggesting they meet in the lobby at 10. Then she spent another hour channel surfing, hoping that Jason might show up. But he did not come and eventually she gave up and went to bed.

  Delphine slept poorly and awoke early. The sun was rising outside the window, its rays slanting down to warm the golden stones of Jerusalem. There was no way she was going back to sleep so she decided to take a walk.

  Down in the lobby, Delphine was surprised to see Jason standing at the front desk, checking out. She crept up behind him, placing both arms gently around his waist. Instantly, he leapt to one side pushing down hard with both hands to break her grip.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Delphine asked, stepping away, shocked her little surprise had backfired so badly. Even when Jason recognized her, his expression remained grim.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

  “Where have you been? I missed you.”

  He was unshaven and seemed uncharacteristically tense. “Been busy.”

  “Too busy to call?”

  “Sorry.” His light gray Zegna suit, usually so impeccable, was rumpled, the pants spattered with mud stains.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not traveling with the Secretary and the rest of us?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you went everywhere with her.”

  He lowered his voice. “I’ve been reassigned. I’m to join the advance team for the signing ceremony.”

  “Is that good?”

  “What do you think? No, it’s not good, Delphine. It’s low-level crap. Yesterday I was a general and today I’m a corporal.”

  “Because of the back rubs?”

  “For Christ’s sake lower your voice.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not.” But he would not meet her gaze.

  “Is because of me?”

  “I said not now. I have a plane to catch if I want to save what’s left of my career. We’ll clear this up later.”

  He turned back to the checkout clerk. Fuming, Delphine stalked out of the lobby. How dare he! One moment, he was an attentive lover; the next a typical male asshole. She told herself she should be glad. At least, now she knew exactly where things stood. After their hours together in Saudi Arabia, she’d allowed herself to think this might be more than just sex. What a fool!

  Delphine passed Mitchell’ favorite fast food place, now shuttered, and continued up a hill until she reached The Rainbow Club where a drunk curled in fetal position lay across the front door. Something about him made her turn back for a second look. The man was wearing a suit and his hair was too neat for a homeless man.

  Approaching, Delphine almost laughed out loud. Who’d have thought Erik was a party animal, but here he was sleeping it off on the steps of a gay disco. No wonder he hadn’t answered her phone call the previous evening.

  “Wake up Prince Charming; it’s morning,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. It was only then she noticed a pool of congealing blood around his feet.

  “My God, what’s happened to you?” she yelled, grabbing his lapel to turn him around, his cold flesh bumping against the back of her hand.

  This spokesman had held his last briefing and had answered his last question. Erik Jens’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear.

  Chapter 9

  Delphine stepped away from the body. A voice in her head told her to not to panic. She had to think clearly. Although she’d never been in the presence of a corpse before, much less one so brutally mutilated, she was not unfamiliar with death and its effects. Years ago, when she was a little girl, the two people she loved the most had gone on a simple errand, assuring her they’d be back soon. She was still waiting for their return. In Delphine’s mind, death was a magician who wore a black frock coat with a red “boutonnière.” Sometimes he was flashy with fanfares and drum rolls; other times subtle, like a card shark making an ace disappear. One minute, a fellow human being is present among us. Monsieur Le Magicien taps his wand. Poof, that man or woman is gone. That’s the way it was with Erik. His physical remains lay before her but he himself—his essence, his human soul – had vanished.

  Once her heart had recovered from its initial frenzy, Delphine’s first instinct, naturally, was to call the police. Then she thought, perhaps she should return to the hotel and inform someone on the U.S. security team. But either of those would inevitably entangle her in unwelcome complications. She’d be stuck for hours undergoing tedious questioning about something she was not involved in and of which she knew nothing. The plane would leave without her. She’d miss the signing ceremony, the climax of the trip. She knew she was being crass, selfish and perhaps unworthy – but there was also some inst
inct of self-preservation telling her not to get involved. This was not like a hit-and-run. Erik was indisputably dead.

  Delphine looked around to see if anybody had observed her. No, the street was deserted. Gently allowing Erik to slump back against the wall, she extracted a tissue to wipe her hands and shoes, checking to see if she’d left any footprints. After looking again to ensure that the coast was clear, she returned to the street and walked away, avoiding eye contact with the few people she passed. Everything was different; even the air smelled caustic and threatening. It still felt wrong abandoning the body but there was nothing Delphine could do for Erik now. The blood on his shirt was almost dry; he’d been dead for some time. Soon enough, somebody would discover him and an investigation would begin, although her instinct told her the killer or killers would not easily be discovered. Was this a mugging gone bad? Although Jerusalem could be violent, with political riots and suicide bombings, it was not crime-ridden. No, this had the hallmarks of a professional job.

  Returning to her room, Delphine stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning up the water as hot as she could bear it. For several minutes, she scrubbed her hands and arms and scalp, standing in a post traumatic daze until her skin was red as a lobster. Finally, she pulled herself together. Delphine prided herself on cool nerves; if ever she needed them, now was the time.

  She shoved her soiled clothes into a plastic bag which she stuffed into her suitcase and extracted a new set – a plain cotton blouse, knitted cardigan and three-quarter length jeans, all black. Next, she applied a touch of foundation to warm the skin under her eyes, making her less pale and gaunt. As a finishing touch, she fastened the gold filigree earrings she’d bought in Damascus, was it only a few days ago? She left her suitcase outside the door for the State Department staff to collect and went down to the restaurant, deliberately seeking out colleagues, determined to act normal.