The Diplomatic Coup Read online

  The Diplomatic Coup

  A Thriller

  © 2021, Alan Elsner.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-09839-1-805 (eBook)

  Contents

  EDITORIAL NOTE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  EDITOR’S AFTERWORD

  EDITORIAL NOTE

  As a senior executive at the New York publishing house of Godfrey and Spickler, I and my colleagues view thousands of manuscripts a year. It most cases, it becomes evident after reading a only couple of pages that they hold little interest or value. So when my assistant entered my office one morning and told me I simply had to read a new work that had just arrived unsolicited in the mail, I was skeptical. My doubts only grew when he informed me that it was anonymous and had been delivered in a plain, unmarked envelope without a return address. However, it quickly became clear that I was looking at a document of rare historic value; an eyewitness account that cast new light on the sensational events surrounding Secretary of State Julia Dayton’s dramatic political and diplomatic career about which so much has already been written. The author had fittingly entitled the work “Madam Secretary,” however because there were already several other works with that title already on the market, we decided to change it to “The Diplomatic Coup,” a title which readers will gradually understand is equally appropriate.

  The protagonist in this tale is a young French correspondent, Delphine Roget. Although it is written in the third person, it is likely, although not certain, that Ms. Roget herself or someone very close to her is the author. A quick check verified that there had indeed been such a correspondent who accompanied Secretary Dayton on her travels. Ms. Roget subsequently disappeared from the record and her subsequent career and life remain unknown. Did she leave journalism? Did she return to France? Did she change her name and build a new life with her lover? We simply do not know. All we can say is that the manuscript was accompanied by a note from a prominent New York law firm informing us that the anonymous author wished to donate all proceeds from sales of the book to a number of charitable organizations promoting women’s education and business opportunities in Third World nations. We will of course scrupulously honor these wishes.

  Naturally, we did our best to fact-check the events described by the author against other contemporary accounts. We also reached out to some of the other public figures mentioned in the manuscript. In many details, these other witnesses and actors confirmed the author’s account, although they often added their own, somewhat different perspectives. However – and here lies the special value of this book – the author was privy to some events and conversations that no-other person with the exception of Secretary Dayton herself could possibly have known about. And Secretary Dayton herself, as the world knows, is no longer with us.

  One final note: this book reflects the time period it describes. Social attitudes to issues such as gay rights, women’s rights, sexual harassment and the like have developed and changed in important ways. Readers should bear this in mind when reading the book. Viewpoints that may have been acceptable then are less acceptable now. These instances do not detract in any way from the true historical value of this book. If anything, they lend it authenticity.

  But this work has much more than purely academic interest. It is a young woman's be coming-of-age story; also a touching love story. It’s about war and peace and friendship. It’s about courage in the face of danger. Most of all, it is a tale about power and the lust for power. In that light, it represents a stark warning to us today that our democracy remains fragile and vulnerable to the desires and machinations of unscrupulous politicians unwilling to play by the rules.

  And now, without further ado, I invite you to hop on the Secretary’s plane with Delphine and enjoy the wild ride!

  Cornelia de Corning

  Executive Vice President, Godfrey and Spickler

  “The illegal we do immediately.

  The unconstitutional takes a little longer.”

  Henry Kissinger

  Chapter 1

  As Delphine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington D.C., a guard stopped her at the entrance. This was back in the time just before the Internet transformed the world. Email was just getting started; cellphones were the size of shoe boxes and had a battery life of a couple of hours if you were lucky. Social media hadn’t been invented yet. Nobody discussed the deliberate fabrication of fake news. A different world – and yet some things are always the same, among them the struggle for power and what people are willing to do to achieve it.

  “I’m a reporter traveling with the Secretary of State,” Delphine told the guard, as if this was an everyday occurrence. The security man told her to pull over to one side and she waited for a couple of minutes while he checked her passport against his list and made a phone call. Then he strolled over and examined her through the car window, dubiously comparing her face to the one in the picture. Finally, he handed back the passport, saluted and waved her inside the base.

  Delphine drove slowly past the neat rows of officers’ houses, following signs for the VIP terminal. When she saw the plane painted in its official blue and white livery with the American flag on its tail and the words “United States of America” running the length of the fuselage, she shivered slightly and thought, “Bravo, you have arrived.” Then she reached for her mother’s little gold crucifix, kissed it and whispered, “Wish me luck, mama.”

  Inside the terminal, a few men were leaning against a bar, sipping soft drinks. Delphine asked where to leave her suitcase and was told to fill out a ‘Department of State’ tag, attach it to the handle and place the bag in a corner beside some others already there. Back at the bar, a basketball game was playing on a giant TV screen with the sound muted. She recognized Richard Levin, the State Department’s number three official, talking to another man in hushed, important tones – affairs of state, no doubt. He looked tired and worried with deep circles under his eyes. She’d tried phoning him for an interview several times but he’d never returned her calls. It was one of the frustrations of being the youngest member of the press corps as well as a foreigner representing an overseas news outlet. Delphine was not yet taken seriously.

  Lacking the courage to intrude on Levin’s conversation, she poured a cup of coffee from an urn in the corner, sat down on an overstuffed leather sofa and pretended to be absorbed in her notes, all the while observing. He was an interesting character, this Levin. Before joining the administration, he’d built his reputation firing off editorials and fuming on Sunday TV talk shows. He was a hardliner who had never picked up a gun but thought every diplomatic problem could be solved by the threat or use of military action. It was widely rumored that Secretary Dayton was anxious to be rid of him. She�
��d never wanted him in the first place but he had powerful allies in the party.

  Other reporters began arriving – Todd L. Trautmann, the Washington Post man, rotund and self-important, already at age 38 winner of two Pulitzer Prizes; Andrew Cushing, the studious, bespectacled representative of the Wall Street Journal; UPI’s gray and grizzled Ira Milstein, doyen of the press corps who’d been on the beat since time immemorial. Delphine felt honored to be part of such company. They greeted each other with the enthusiasm of long lost friends at an alumni reunion. Her, the new kid on the block, the foreign interloper, they ignored.

  Eventually, someone announced over the hubbub, “Place your hand luggage outside the door for screening.” Some of the officials were toting large, black leather briefcases that expanded like concertinas to accommodate hundreds of pages. Delphine was traveling light – her leather carry-on contained only a simple battery-operated laptop, tape recorder, pocket camera, spiral notebook, pens, a detective novel, a mini-jewelry case, essential toiletries and makeup.

  Two security men with German shepherds on leashes arrived. The dogs sniffed everything in a perfunctory way but found nothing of interest. The travelers retrieved their hand baggage and walked out on the tarmac, forming a line in front of the steps leading up to the rear door of the plane, the front being reserved for the Secretary of State and other important officials. One by one, they gave their names to the officer at the foot of the stairway.

  “Delphine Roget,” she announced when it was her turn, not quite believing he’d find her name on the list. But yes, it was there. The officer checked it off, saluted smartly and she mounted the steps.

  That particular Boeing, aging and near the end of its working life, resonated with history. Decades earlier, it had been Air Force One, the presidential plane. It had carried John F. Kennedy to Dallas on his final, fateful trip in November 1963 and had brought his slain body back to Washington. President Johnson was sworn into office during that mournful flight. There’s a famous photograph of Johnson holding up his right hand to take the oath while placing his left on a Bible; however Delphine’s attention always strayed to the figure of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy standing to his left, a model of restrained dignity and elegance despite her unbearable grief. Her husband’s blood still stained the outfit she wore. Now, a couple of decades later, this same machine would carry Delphine on her first trip with the Secretary of State.

  Inside the cabin, the back of each seat had a sticky label pasted on with the name of its intended occupant. This was a relief; Delphine did not want to have to decide where to sit, or have others choose whether or not to sit next to her. By chance or design, she found herself in a window seat next to the only other woman in the press corps – Lisa Hemmings of Newsweek. This was exciting. Delphine admired Lisa greatly because of her wonderful series of scoops over the past year. Time and again, she’d been first with the news, leaving her male colleagues hopelessly behind. Delphine proffered her biggest smile as she sat down.

  “Hello, I’m the correspondent from Agence France Presse.”

  Already, Delphine could see that with her black, three-quarter-length culottes and pink paisley blouse with its open tie-neck, she was overdressed for the long trip, even though she’d spent hours agonizing over what to wear. Delphine knew her appearance was an important weapon in the unfriendly professional world in which she moved, which was mainly populated by middle-aged males. For this trip, she’d thought to dress for comfort without sacrificing style. Now, too late, she realized nobody else on the plane cared a jot about style. Her traveling companions were all wearing baggy warm-up suits like members of an aging Olympic squad—and such dreadful suits, in loud, clashing colors, with vivid reflective stripes and shiny commercial logos. Yet again, Delphine felt her foreignness. Where she came from, nobody would ever dress like that.

  “I know who you are. I saw your name on the passenger list,” Lisa said, looking her new companion up and down. She was perhaps 12 years older than Delphine, approaching 40, dressed in a pink velour top with black piping that accentuated her natural pallor. Her blond hair was tied in a ponytail, stretching the skin on her forehead while accentuating her facial bones. Lisa was one of those women who walked a fine line between the hauntingly beautiful and the strangely repellent. Everything about her was tense and clenched, from the way she held herself to her forced, closed-mouth smile. Delphine wore her own dark hair medium-length in a stylish bob and enjoyed the feel of it swishing around her neck.

  “I’m very glad to meet you,” Delphine said.

  “Likewise,” Lisa said without warmth.

  “Thank you,” Delphine replied, anxious to be friendly, despite this cool reception. “I’m so excited to be here. I’ve been covering the department for several months but this is the first time I secured a seat on the Secretary’s plane. And such a nice seat too, plenty of legroom.” She stretched out her feet, slipping off her sandals, and wiggled her toes inside their stockings, enjoying the sense of freedom.

  “You only got the seat because nobody else wanted it,” Lisa responded, pursing thin, bloodless lips which would have benefited greatly from a touch of color. “What a torture it’s going to be – 24 endless hours flying to Australia for three days of boring talks and then another 24 back again. There are only seven reporters aboard. The cabin’s half empty.” She gestured at their rear section of the plane, divided from the front where the officials sat by a thick gray curtain. “For major trips to Russia or the Middle East, there are at least a dozen of us. They turn the less important reporters away—as you’ve no doubt experienced.”

  “May one ask why you are here if it’s such a bore?” Delphine asked, smiling agreeably, despite her colleague’s ill-manners.

  “My editors insist I staff every trip in case the Secretary makes news. She’s probably going to run for president next year so the whole world hangs on her every word. Every time she farts, it’s a front-page story, if you’ll excuse my French. With all the suicide bombings and rocket attacks in the Middle East, maybe she’ll say something newsworthy. One can only hope.”

  “Speaking for myself, I’m very contented to be aboard whether she makes news or not. It’s a chance to meet Secretary Dayton at last and other people of significance in the department. I hope I have the opportunity to get to know her.”

  Lisa shot a hostile glance. “I hope you realize this isn’t a pleasure trip where you get to play dress-up and interview celebrities. Nobody on this plane cares how young and pretty you are. This isn’t ‘Inside Hollywood.’ We’re all seasoned professionals with deep knowledge of foreign affairs and years of experience.”

  Before Delphine could respond, there was a stir among the crew as a large, black limousine flanked by motorcycle outriders and trailed by several other vehicles pulled up beside the plane. Around a dozen people quickly mounted the front stairway. Delphine caught sight of the Secretary of State dressed in powder blue striding up the steps with surprising agility for a woman of her age and height. Soon, six men, all dressed alike in somber suits, entered the cabin and took possession of the first three rows of seats which had been left vacant. Removing their jackets and placing them on hangers, they revealed shoulder holsters from which the handles of pistols emerged.

  “Security detail,” said Lisa, in answer to Delphine’s unspoken question. “Watch yourself with them. They’re not used to having pretty girls aboard. Give them five minutes, they’re certain to hit on you. Try to remember, most of them are married or have girlfriends at home. You know how it is. Wheels up, rings off.”

  Being new, Delphine had never heard this adage before.

  “Is it always the same agents every trip?” she asked.

  “No, they change them around for each treep, except Jason King, the head of security. He doesn’t sit back here with the hoi polloi. He’s up front with Madam. They’re joined at the hip – or should I say ‘heep’?”

  Delph
ine sighed. America seemed to be full of people who felt compelled to imitate what they thought was a French accent whenever they met her, even though her English was in fact excellent and her accent, while discernable, was far from unpleasant or intrusive. Some might even have called it charming.

  A minute later, a voice announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Madam Secretary has boarded, please prepare for takeoff.”

  As soon as they reached cruising altitude, a pudgy man in a navy blue warm-up suit a couple of sizes too big pushed aside the curtain dividing their cabin from the rest of the plane. This was Erik Jens, the department’s chief spokesman and one of Secretary Dayton’s closest confidants. They were even rumored to be secret lovers, though Delphine did not believe it. For one thing, Secretary Dayton was dating the billionaire industrialist Elton Schuyler, owner of Frostburg Frozen Foods and many other well-known brands including some in Delphine’s native France. They were often photographed together at art show openings and theater premiers. Cynics said Secretary Dayton needed a husband if she was to run for president, even a little gnome in his seventies who reached scarcely half her height, since an unmarried woman candidate would be too much for America to swallow.

  As for Erik, he was at least fifteen years her junior as well as having unsightly pock-marked skin, which was scarcely his fault but did little for his overall attractiveness. One could not, of course, question the sincere devotion he felt for Secretary Dayton; however it was, in Delphine’s opinion, akin to the hopeless passion the drone feels toward his Queen.

  Delphine had been attending Jens’s daily press briefings for some months and had found him to be arrogant and dismissive, especially with reporters he did not consider important enough to warrant his attention. Probably he was more accommodating to representatives from the major American outlets. Usually, when Delphine called his office to ask a question or elicit a response, her call was diverted to his mousy deputy Bridget Daly, who was far less well-informed and much more cautious about giving out information.