The Diplomatic Coup Read online

  “Yeah, come over here,” he said, baring yellow teeth. “You can buy me a beer with all that money you won.”

  While Delphine was glad to see his good humor restored, the sight of the half-masticated food in his open mouth was too much.

  “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  On the street, Delphine walked aimlessly for a while. She must have subconsciously followed the previous day’s path because she soon found herself standing outside Mitchell Webb’s favorite fast food joint. A second later, the bodyguard himself emerged. For a second he registered pleasure; then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello?” Delphine asked.

  “What you doing here?”

  “Just taking a walk.”

  “Are you following me?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I had no idea you’d be here. But since you are, let’s go somewhere together. You still owe me dinner.”

  He looked at the ground.

  “Don’t you want to?” she asked.

  “Of course I do—a whole heap. But I’m not going to fight over you,” he said, blinking furiously as he met her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When that elevator arrived, you could have stayed with me—but you went with him. Why d’you do that?”

  “It was a five-second elevator ride, not an elopement.”

  “He may be an asshole but he’s also my commanding officer. I can’t afford to cross him. Not yet. And he told me you’re spoken for.”

  “Spoken for?” Who the hell did this Jason King think he was?

  “Screw him. I’m not spoken for. Nobody speaks for me but me.” Her hand snaked out, grabbing hold of his belt. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”

  She half-dragged him down the street, past a building from which throbbing music was blasting so loudly that the pavement shuddered under their feet.

  “Let’s go in there,” Delphine shouted, leading him to the door, where a heavily tattooed man wearing a denim muscle shirt was selling tickets. Suddenly, she craved nothing more than to dance and lose herself in an ocean of sound.

  “No way,” he yelled, pulling away. “Don’t you see what this place is?”

  Belatedly, Delphine noticed there were only men standing on line and seeing the sign over the door—“Ma’adon Keshet – The Rainbow Club,”—realized this was a gay disco. Frustrated at being thwarted, she turned but before she could speak he’d grabbed her lapels and pulled her toward him. Their mouths met – and she immediately knew it was all wrong. His lips felt cold and lifeless, like being kissed by a raw chicken. His arms coiled around her but his embrace did not quicken her heart. They were oblique angles, knocking awkwardly against each other. Delphine’s body wanted a different pair of lips. He broke away.

  “I could kill that bastard,” he said, breathing raggedly.

  Delphine didn’t bother commenting. Her mind was churning too much.

  They trudged back toward the hotel in silence, not touching. There were only inches between us but it might as well have been the Suez Canal. A block away, he stopped. “You go on alone. I’ll follow.”

  As Delphine left, he called, “You may think you want him but you’ll find out different once you know him.”

  Back at the hotel, Delphine wandered into the restaurant to find her colleagues still sitting where she’d left them an hour before. Judging by the number of empty wine bottles littering the table, alcohol had been flowing freely. Everyone looked flushed and happy. Ira, his napkin even more stained than before, had moved on to dessert.

  “Try the crème caramel,” he said. He helped himself to a giant dollop, a beatific smile on his smudgy face. Delphine left without answering and returned to her room where she phoned the switchboard, asked to be put through to Jason’s room and left a voicemail:

  “Tell Secretary Dayton I accept her terms. As for you, stop playing mind games. Either put up or shut up!”

  Then she waited.

  Chapter 7

  Delphine washed and changed into her lace nightgown but, fatigued as she was, made no attempt to sleep. The knock came at around one in the morning. She opened the door and he strutted inside. Part of her resented his arrogance, but his alpha behavior was also undeniably arousing.

  Approaching very close but not yet touching, Delphine asked, “So what kept you?”

  He smelled faintly of cologne. “Work.”

  “The queen bee has finally released you?”

  “I wasn’t with her.”

  “She didn’t require a backrub before bedtime?”

  “Not from me.”

  “Does she know you’re here?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. She has spies everywhere.”

  “And you thought you’d be welcome at this ridiculous hour?”

  He looked like a cat about to devour a bowl of milk and Delphine was briefly tempted to slap him hard to wipe the smirk off his face. He read her thought and his grin got even wider. Instead, she traced her middle finger along his lips and then inside. He sucked hard, until she could feel it pulsing in his mouth and that pulse spread itself through her own body.

  “You’re an arrogant prick, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  Both his hands had snaked inside her nightgown and were tracing the outlines of her ribs. “One way to find out,” he murmured. “Such a skinny little thing. Look, I can count your ribs—two three four…”

  “Shut up,” she gasped, coherent speech now all but beyond her. He shucked his jacket off and removed his gun, placing it carefully on the desk. Then he lifted her in his arms and walked the few steps to the bed.

  Next morning, Secretary Dayton’s motorcade with the press van in the rear drove the short distance to the Palestinian presidential compound known as the Mukataa in the West Bank city of Ramallah, speeding unimpeded through the many Israeli checkpoints on the way. Jason had left in the pre-dawn, allowing Delphine a couple of hours of sleep before the alarm rang. She spent a long time in the shower, washing away all traces of the night, but she could still feel his presence, as much in her head as in her churned insides. It hadn’t been so much lovemaking as bodily combat. Nobody had ever brought her so quickly to the edge nor held her there so long. Delphine had retaliated using all her muscles, including a few she never knew she had. Now, in the cold light of day, she wondered if the whole thing had been a huge mistake.

  Signs of destruction were evident inside the walled Palestinian government compound, the result of Israeli military action during previous rounds of violence. Troops wearing dark blue fatigues and carrying sub-machineguns lined the perimeter. A couple of hundred people, some wearing black ski masks, stood across the street shouting anti-American slogans but the protest remained orderly.

  The compound contained a number of structures, some so badly damaged as to be unusable, built around a main building – the presidential office. Delphine took a couple of pictures before the press corps was ushered inside a small side building where waiters plied them with small cups of sweet Turkish coffee and honey-glazed pastries. Her colleagues, several of whom seemed to be suffering from nasty hangovers, were in a glum mood, facing another day of waiting with scant prospect of a good story due to the news blackout.

  While they waited, a couple of reporters went outside to interview protesters. Others sank into chairs and closed their eyes or played games on their laptops. Trautmann tried to get another game of Liars’ Poker going but no-one was in the mood. Delphine buried herself in the Jerusalem Post which carried a new Mark Lazarus diatribe against Secretary Dayton on the back page. If Ira Milstein was indeed the columnist, he’d clearly decided to ignore his friend’s warnings. This time, he’d been even tougher, accusing the Secretary of State of acting with personal malice toward Israel.

  After reading this, Delphine wandered over to Ira wh
o sat in a corner, a plate piled with pastries perched on a small table in front of him. He’d changed his shirt for another, equally threadbare, but his tweed jacket could definitely have benefited from a visit to the dry cleaner.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  He looked up. “Oh it’s you Frenchy. It’s a book about the Israeli War of Independence, greatest event of the 20th century.” He picked up a honey encrusted pastry, stuffed it whole into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.

  Frenchy? It sounded like the name of a bar-girl in an old-time Western movie. Delphine said, “The Palestinians don’t think so. They call it the ‘naqba’—the catastrophe.”

  This innocent comment triggered a volcano. “Young lady, don’t tell me about Palestinian catastrophes. They brought it all on themselves. Don’t you know any history at all? I see you’re wearing a Star of David around your neck today. Is it just a bangle to you? Don’t you know how many millions of people were martyred for it? Don’t you realize how lives were sacrificed to bring this country, Israel, into being from the ashes of the Holocaust and what tremendous odds they overcame to make it happen?”

  Delphine tried to answer but he didn’t allow her. “Don’t you know how many times the Palestinians were offered peace and how every single time they responded with bombs and terrorism and by teaching their children to hate?” He snorted dismissively. “Bah, you should be covering School Board meetings in Pascagoula, or the goddammed French equivalent.”

  Delphine knew a lot more about those things than Ira Milstein could possibly have imagined – but she was not about to reveal herself to this obnoxious man. Still, some response was called for.

  “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I don’t know any history.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “And the way you paint events is simplistic and one-sided. Both sides have bled and suffered. Both have their martyrs. Surely the only way to make peace is to put aside the past and make compromises. Both sides would benefit immensely.”

  Ira laughed mirthlessly. “You sound just like Secretary Dayton, despite the cute accent. She’s also in favor of forgetting the past. But it’s not the past, not to the Israelis, certainly not to the Palestinians. Two days ago in Damascus, President Bashir was almost frothing at the mouth about how the Crusaders ruled Palestine for 200 years before the Arabs threw them out and the same would eventually happen to the Israelis. Dayton just sat there and took it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have my sources. Listen Delphine Roget, you’re sharp and ambitious and I’m an old fart. You’re the future and I’m the last of my breed. I’m fat and wrinkled and you’ve got what exactly it takes to succeed in journalism these days—a pretty face, not to mention that sultry, throbbing voice. But let me offer you a piece of advice, free of charge, no obligations.”

  “What advice?”

  “Try to remember, you’re a reporter, not a whore. Oh, don’t give me that innocent, wounded gaze. I was up early this morning fetching ice from the machine—goddamned acid reflux won’t let me sleep—so I saw that bodyguard creeping out of your room. Good, was he?”

  A warm blush suffused Delphine’s face. Milstein grinned nastily and picked up another pastry. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Your secret’s safe with me. God, I love these cakes. They’re terrible for me but I can’t resist temptation. I guess that’s a problem you and I share.” He popped it in his mouth. Delphine heard it crunch between his yellow teeth.

  She found a seat and spent the next hour pretending to doze, feeling not exactly ashamed but certainly discomforted. She told herself not to listen to this bitter man. If Ira really was writing columns under the false name of Mark Lazarus, he was not exactly a paragon of virtue either. But she could not fully dismiss his insinuations.

  After three hours, Secretary Dayton emerged with Palestinian President Walid al-Bakr. A plump-faced man with full, pouting lips, he was rumored to keep one mistress in Paris and another in Beirut. Possibly, there were others as well; politicians rarely have problems luring nubile women to their beds. It’s one of the perks of power. Not that al-Bakr had much real power these days. The Gaza Strip was run by Islamic militants while his control of the West Bank barely extended beyond the half-ruined presidential compound.

  “Welcome to Palestine, dear brothers and sisters of the esteemed American press,” he gushed, rubbing his fat hands together. “As I told the honorable Madam Secretary, my people want you to feel as comfortable in our beloved homeland as in your own esteemed country. Anything I or my colleagues can do for you, you have only to ask. Among us, a guest is sacred. And so, dearest Madam Secretary, you and your entire entourage are most assuredly welcome.”

  Secretary Dayton responded with her widest, toothiest, emptiest smile. Delphine looked for Jason but he was not in his usual place just behind her shoulder. Instead, Mitchell Webb was standing there.

  “Thank you for such a heartfelt reception, President al-Bakr,” she said. “We’re honored to be here on such an important mission with the hope and expectation of saving lives and ending bloodshed in this holy land.”

  “With respect to our meeting,” Secretary Dayton continued, “President al-Bakr and I had a candid exchange of ideas. We can’t yet announce an agreement but, frankly, we’re moving in the right direction. As with Prime Minister Shoresh, we agreed not to divulge details so we won’t be taking questions today. The talks will continue in coming days.”

  They shook hands and Secretary Dayton stepped into her limo for the drive back to Jerusalem. The press van followed in the motorcade. Back at the hotel, there was a message for Delphine to call Jean-Luc Boulez urgently.

  “You heard about today’s ad in The Times?” he asked, sounding harried.

  “What ad?”

  “Several Jewish organizations, including the AIPAC and the American Jewish Committee, bought a full-page ad in today’s New York Times blasting the peace mission and urging Shoresh to reject Dayton’s plan.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “They seem to have been inspired by a series of newspaper commentaries by someone called …”

  “Mark Lazarus?”

  “Precisely. But the strange thing is that nobody seems to know who this Lazarus is. We can’t find anyone who has ever spoken to him or met him. It’s evidently not a real identity. Do you know anything? This man is beginning to influence events. It would be great to expose him, even better to interview him.”

  Delphine hesitated. Was it her place to expose Ira Milstein? If she did so and the information became widely known, he would certainly lose his job. Anyway she had nothing solid, only what she’d overheard.

  “Let me ask around. Perhaps somebody here knows something.”

  “The White House is greatly concerned. The President will back Dayton up to a point but clearly he can’t afford to have such an important community with great political clout and resources lining up against him.”

  No sooner had Delphine put down the phone when it rang again. “Madam Secretary would like to talk to you in her suite,” said Erik. “She’s talking to the President; she’ll have a few minutes for you as soon as they’re done.”

  Erik was waiting outside the elevator on the penthouse floor.

  “So what are they talking about?” Delphine asked.

  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. Madam Secretary’s conversations with POTUS are always totally confidential.”

  Delphine offered a shot in the dark. “Probably discussing Mark Lazarus. I hear the President’s catching a little political heat back home.”

  Erik stiffened. “Do you know who this Lazarus is?”

  “Do you?”

  “If I did, why would I be asking you?” Erik said.

  “But you have your suspicions?”

  “No comment.”

  After five minu
tes, during which no further words passed between them, the big double doors swung open. Delphine was braced to find Secretary Dayton as before, en deshabillée cavorting with her chief bodyguard, the man who was now her lover. So it was a relief to see her sitting behind a desk reading a document, still dressed in the bottle green suit she’d worn for the meeting with President al-Bakr.

  “Shut the door and sit down,” she muttered without looking up.

  “Me too?” Erik asked.

  Secretary Dayton looked at his pleading spaniel eyes and nodded. Meanwhile, Delphine glanced quickly around the room.

  “He’s not here,” Secretary Dayton said.

  “Who?” Delphine asked, making her voice as innocent as she could. Damn, she needed to be more careful. Dayton was as sharp as a tack.

  The Secretary of State put down the paper she’d been reading and looked Delphine in the eye. “Don’t play the innocent with me, child. I know everything that goes on around here – everything! If you join my team, there can be no pretense between us. I demand the truth from everyone I decide to trust, right Erik?”

  “Right,” he muttered wanly.

  “Speak up man, Delphine can’t hear you. What’s the use of a spokesman who doesn’t speak up?” She gave a seal-like bark.

  This was embarrassing.

  “Anyway, Delphine, you’re part of the inner circle now, one of the family,” Dayton continued. She’d slipped her shoes off; under the desk one foot was scratching the other. “But I warn you, lie to me just once, deceive me just once—and we’re done. I don’t tolerate lies from my family, do I Erik?”

  “No Madam Secretary.”

  Hearing this exchange both scared and thrilled Delphine; she felt privileged and powerless at the same time.

  “Stop gawping and ask your questions. We don’t have all night,” Secretary Dayton said. Delphine snapped to attention. “How are the talks going?”

  “I already have the principles of the ceasefire nailed down. Of course, I want much more—a resumption of proper peace negotiations and a commitment from both sides to attend a peace conference when I decide the moment is right. But that’s for later.”