The Diplomatic Coup

by Alan Elsner

  “Meaning what?”

  “Step aside, leave the arena. If you’re lucky, she won’t waste her time pursuing the matter if you get out of the way.”

  “Step aside?”

  “You must be of an age to collect your pension.”

  “You’re telling me to retire?”

  “It’s your best course.”

  “I can’t believe this. What’s the French for chutzpah? What would you have me do? Move to Boca Raton? Play shuffleboard? Eat the Early Bird Special and go to bed at eight thirty?”

  “Retirement doesn’t mean death. It’s a natural phase of life.”

  “Ha!”

  Delphine stood to leave. She’d said her piece and now she had a plane to catch. If Ira chose not to act on her suggestion, it would not be her fault.

  Chapter 14

  Delphine flew into New York City and took a taxi straight to the AP photo archive on West 33rd Street. The archivist examined her press pass and made her fill out a form.

  “You want to see what exactly?” she asked.

  “All the photos taken by Al Bauman in August 1968.”

  “It’ll take some time to find them. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “I was hoping you could just access them on a computer.”

  “No such luck. We only began to go digital last year. We’re slowly entering the old material into the data-base but it’s going to take many, many years. Every picture has to be individually scanned into the system. This archive has over half a million images.”

  “How are they stored?”

  “In envelopes with the negative taped to the back of each photo.”

  “I’ll come back then.”

  Delphine used the evening to catch up with some old acquaintances and presented herself promptly at 10 next morning. The archivist led her into an empty room and left her with a four large manila envelopes. It didn’t take long to discover that that the pictures she was looking for weren’t there. Delphine was strangely unsurprised. After all, here she was, alone in this room, completely unsupervised. It would have been easy to slip an envelope into her bag and walk out. Someone had been here and had done exactly that.

  Delphine took the train back to D.C. and spent the rest of the day in the bureau, returning home after dinner. A note from Jason on the kitchen table said he’d returned to his own apartment for the night and would be in touch next day. There was also a message on her answering machine from a cocky, snickering voice she didn’t recognize.

  “This is Tommy Allstott. I believe I have a little something you’ve been looking for. I’ll be at Dubliners on North Capitol Street at one tomorrow. If you’re interested, come on down.”

  Delphine was up early next morning. This was also the day she’d agreed to meet Devon Dawson, the New York publisher. The phone rang as she was on the way out the door. She rushed back to grab it in case there had been a change of plan but it was only Jason.

  “How was Duluth?”

  “Nasty – cold, dark and miserable.”

  “And the funeral service?”

  “About the same. Erik’s mother was distraught.”

  “How about we get together and I console you? Lunch maybe?”

  “I’m booked. Your former colleague Thomas Allstott called last night. He wants to meet at some place downtown.”

  “What place?”

  “Dubliners. Do you know it?”

  “It’s an Irish pub on Capitol Hill. Did he say why?”

  “It sounds like he’s gone into business for himself. He’s testing the market, seeing how much that photograph might be worth.”

  “Would you pay to get hold of it?”

  “Respectable journalists don’t do that. But you can be sure someone will. People Magazine or National Enquirer will eat this up if it really shows anything incriminating. Imagine the headline: ‘Mystery of Julia Dayton’s Secret Love Child.’ The wheels may be coming off her presidential campaign before it’s even gotten started.”

  “Why meet him if you don’t intend to pay?”

  “I just want to see the damn thing.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  “I should go alone. You might spook him.”

  “OK, so how about dinner? I still want you to meet my brother.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “I’ll come by your place around seven thirty. We can meet Craig somewhere downtown and grab a bite.”

  Delphine took a taxi to Devon Dawson’s hotel, arriving only ten minutes late, which meant her timing was just about perfect. Looking around, she saw a blond woman of about her own age wearing a beautifully-tailored dark chocolate suit that probably cost several thousand dollars. She oozed authority, efficiency and business savvy.

  It was the first really warm day of the summer and Delphine had chosen a pale blue cotton sateen sundress with scoop neck and patch pockets. The two women quickly identified each other across the lobby.

  “Ah there you are. Your pictures don’t do you justice,” Ms. Dawson gushed, moving in for an air kiss. Delphine caught an unmistakable rose and jasmine whiff of Chanel No. 5.

  “I love the straw bonnet,” the editor continued. “And the scarf. Hermés, I presume. You’re going to look great on posters in Barnes & Noble. Let’s sit here. Did you bring a summary of your book?”

  “Regrettably I did not have time to write one yet.”

  Devon Dawson smiled as if this answer could not have pleased her more.

  “No problem; we both know what it’s about. I’ve drawn up a contract which you can have your lawyer review before you sign it.” She handed Delphine a folder.

  “Shouldn’t I have an agent?”

  “Of course, eventually. I’ll be happy to recommend one. There’ll be foreign rights to negotiate. I see this book as an international bestseller, starting with your native France of course. But for now any competent lawyer could go over this. It’s a standard contract. As you’ll see, we’re offering one million dollars, half up front and the rest on delivery of the manuscript. You’d have a year to submit the finished product.”

  Delphine’s hands started trembling. She’d never been rich; since an early age she’d been forced to make her own way. With that kind of money she could buy her own apartment in Paris. With that kind of money, what couldn’t she do?

  “One million?” Delphine stammered.

  Devon Dawson emitted an operatic trill that contained no hint of humor.

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  Her cupid bow lips, painted a deep red, made her look as if she was perpetually smiling. She kept patting her lacquered curls, as if to check they were still there.

  “No, a million sounds … about right. It’s just a little sudden.”

  “Remember, it’s just the advance. With foreign editions, paperback sales and books on tape, you could end up making much more, especially if Madam Secretary becomes Madam President. You’re a very lucky girl, Delphine. You have powerful interests behind you. Not many people get that kind of patronage.”

  Delphine blurted out, “Can I write whatever I like, even if it’s critical of Secretary Dayton, even if it contains revelations she may not like?”

  She could tell by the momentary pout that flitted across Devon Dawson’s perfect features that the editor was not pleased.

  “What kind of revelations?” Her pen tapped against the coffee table.

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Of course, Heathgate would never, ever interfere with an author’s editorial freedom. That’s my official response.”

  “And the unofficial response?”

  Devon Dawson leaned forward, a hand on Delphine’s knee, lowering her voice. “Look, we’re both big girls. You know as well as I do who controls Heathgate. A million is an awful lot for a first-time author and Mr. Schuyler i
s not one to throw away cash. He expects value for money.”

  “What if the book is no good?”

  “I’m sure it will be fabulous. But it’s not the book we’re marketing. We sell books that nobody reads all the time – most political memoirs fall in that category. It’s you, or rather your image, that will sell the product. And your image is perfect.”

  Delphine took the contract and got out of there, hurrying across town to her next appointment. She knew very well she was being bought; there was nothing subtle about it. Schuyler liked acquiring things and now, it seemed, he wanted to add Delphine Roget to his collection. But she still couldn’t help but see dollar signs dancing before her eyes.

  She found Allstott balanced on a bar stool watching football on a giant TV screen and chewing on a chicken wing.

  “Well lookee here,” he greeted her. Everything about him was oversized from his Popeye The Sailorman forearms to his massive bull neck. An octagonal college fraternity ring protruded from a meaty finger. Too late, Delphine realized that her flirty summer dress might have been a poor choice. Allstott wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin and held out his hand. Delphine shook it gingerly.

  “Guinness?” he asked, waving to a barman.

  “A kir please.”

  “What’s that?” He moved his stool closer.

  “One part crème de cassis, five parts white wine, preferably a good chardonnay. It’s very refreshing, especially in summer.” Delphine edged her stool away.

  “I’ll stick to beer. None of that foreign stuff for Tommy. Want some wings, chili, onion rings, burger and fries? Anything you like darlin’. On me.”

  “Let’s get down to business.”

  “I’d love to get down to business with you, down and dirty. Just say the word and I’m there.”

  “That’s sweet – but you mentioned a proposition.”

  Allstott took another swig of beer and swallowed loudly. “It’s simple. I have something you want—a photo. You have something I want—money. All we have to do is to agree a price and make the exchange.” He stuffed another chicken wing into his mouth, tearing away at the skin, crunching down on a bone.

  “Is this photo yours to sell?”

  He chortled like a schoolboy hearing a dirty joke. “I’ve got it haven’t I?”

  “Could I see it please?”

  “I’ll need a thousand bucks.”

  “You’re selling it for a thousand dollars?”

  “A thousand is just to see it, sweetheart, in cash. It’ll cost you fifty thousand to buy it, maybe more if I can get a bidding war going. This photo is going to change American history. I’m not running a charity here.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  He smiled. “Once I have the money, we’ll arrange a viewing.”

  “At least tell me what it shows. How do I know it has any value?”

  “Darlin’, please stop messin’ with me. You know damn well what it shows.”

  “No I don’t, not without seeing it.”

  “It shows a certain female who’s fixin’ to be the next President of the United States with a bun in the oven.”

  “Does it really show that? Or does it just suggest it?”

  Allstott hesitated long enough to increase Delphine’s suspicions. “You’ll just have to ante up to find out.”

  “Mr. Allstott, paying just to see the picture is unreasonable. Perhaps you’d reconsider. Most businesses offer free samples.”

  “If you won’t pay, others will. That Trautmann dude sounded mighty eager.”

  So Todd was on the trail too. “I don’t believe he’ll pay for it either. It would be a grave ethical violation. This asset may not be worth as much as you think.”

  “If that’s so, why are y’all chasing after it so hard?”

  How to put this? “Mr. Allstott, Thomas, what you have in your possession may be of some journalistic interest, but that obviously depends a lot on what it actually shows. You should be careful how you handle it. This requires responsibility and maturity. The best option would be to make it available to experts to examine. If you wish, I could call together two or three objective analysts to evaluate it.”

  Allstott took a deep draught and slapped the empty glass down on the bar. “Piss on that. I’m interested in cold, hard cash.”

  Delphine shrugged. “You’ve approached the wrong person.”

  He stood up. “Then have a nice day, darlin’. If you change your mind, give me a call.” Before she could react he was gone.

  Delphine sat sipping her drink, weighing her options.

  “Lovers’ spat?” the barman asked, trying his luck.

  Just what she needed – yet another bumbling, oversexed lout buzzing around her. “We were going to be married but he’s called it off.” Delphine dabbed her eyes with a napkin, enjoying the sight of the barman’s mouth dropping open.

  “He just came out as gay and now he’s running away with his masseur.” Delphine threw in a little fake sob for effect. “And I’m carrying his child, triplets actually.” Just then, she heard two sharp bangs outside the door, a bit like a car misfiring, but louder.

  “What the hell …” the barman bleated.

  “Call 911,” Delphine yelled. Rushing to the door, she looked in both directions, already knowing what she’d see. Allstott’s elephantine body lay sprawled across the sidewalk like a felled tree, blood pouring from where the back of where his head used to be. Seconds later, she heard police sirens.

  As magic tricks went, this was what the Americans would call a humdinger.

  Delphine stumbled in the other direction, desperate to get away before someone decided to shoot her too. There was a percussive thumping in her head. The barman yelled something from the door; she walked faster, turned a corner and was absorbed into the lunchtime crowd. She knew she should have stayed to help the police identify the victim but she couldn’t do it. Instead, she hailed a cab to take her home where she locked the door and drew the curtains.

  Now that she was temporarily safe, reality kicked in. She was shaking and her head was pounding. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, white-faced, wild-eyed. This was different from the previous two deaths she’d witnessed. This time, Delphine was directly involved. Her meddling may have even given Allstott the brilliant idea of trying to cash in on the photo.

  She made herself calm down. Obviously, this had been a professional job. But why blow him away in the middle of a crowded street in broad daylight instead of doing it quietly and disposing of the body where nobody would find it? There was only one explanation. Whoever ordered the hit wanted to send a message—to Delphine and anyone else intent on digging up long-buried secrets. Well, the message was received loud and clear. Had they wanted, they could easily have killed her together with Allstott. But for some reason, they … She … had allowed Delphine to live.

  Even in her panicked state, everything seemed brutally clear. Delphine faced a choice. She could either forget what she suspected and take the million-dollar book offer –or she could continue her quest and risk the consequences. It seemed like a complete no-brainer. She’d take the money and live.

  Delphine realized she had to let the killers and those pulling the strings know she was no threat. The first step was to stop investigating and make sure they knew she’d stopped. Secretary Dayton valued loyalty above all things. Delphine would be as loyal as a spaniel. Schuyler was paying a million dollars for a tame author to write a fawning biography. He’d get one. Why should Delphine care if they wanted the presidency or how they went about getting it? This wasn’t even her country.

  Another thought: how had the killer or killers known where to find Allstott? Had they trailed him to the pub or had someone tipped them off? Delphine had only told one person about her meeting—Jason. Now in her terror, Delphine asked again, could she really trust him? He’d made
a remarkable transformation from tough security man to sensitive new-age lover, maybe a little too remarkable. Yes, they were great together in bed but what did that prove? Physical attraction was not love. Tenderness could be faked; great sex was just a matter of mechanical engineering. Delphine’s mind went back to the spatter on his pants the morning in Jerusalem just before she’d found Erik’s body. And yet, she still wanted to believe in him. She just didn’t know if she could. Until she was one thousand percent sure, Delphine would act normal and give him no reason to suspect her. She’d flirt with him, kiss him, cook for him, eat and drink with him, go to bed with him and fuck him—but she’d also watch her back and her words.

  When the phone rang, Delphine let the answering machine pick up, not wanting anyone to know she was home.

  “It’s Todd. We need to talk.”

  Delphine thought about it for a moment, then picked up.

  “So you are there. Did you see the news? The police are looking for you. How do you manage it? You always seem to be right in the middle of things.”

  “They’re looking for me by name?”

  “According to TV, they want to interview a petite woman with a French accent wearing a straw bonnet, who was seen deep in conversation with the victim just before he was killed.”

  “Merde!”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “We only spoke for a few minutes.” Delphine spared a brief thought for Allstott. Even dimwitted oafs had loved ones who loved them and would miss them.

  “Did you actually see him die?” Todd asked.

  “I heard the shots from inside the bar. What are they saying on the news?”

  “The killers arrived on a motorbike, two of them dressed in black wearing helmets and visors. They stopped right next to Allstott with the engine still running. The guy in back pulled out a gun, shot him twice and they were gone. It was over in seconds.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t see it.”

  “Did he show you the picture?”

  Delphine sighed wearily. “No, he wanted a thousand dollars just to look at it. He seemed to think you’d pay even if I wouldn’t.”