The Diplomatic Coup Page 7

  “Where you were born, where you grew up—that kind of stuff. You’re quite the mystery girl.”

  “I grew up in a small village in France.”

  “Which village?”

  “You will not have heard of it.”

  “Try me, I’ve been to France many times.”

  Delphine shrugged. It was clear she would have to divulge something, just to get Lisa off her back. “The place is called St. Brisson sur Loire.”

  “You’re right. I never heard of it. Where is it?”

  “It’s on the banks of the Loire. The nearest city is Tours, known as the ‘Garden of France.’ There’s a large cathedral and an old town. My village is in a famous wine region. I grew up surrounded by vineyards.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  “Oh yes, quite lovely but also quite boring. Every year, they bring in the grapes and celebrate the new vintage. It’s a huge party and everyone gets drunk. Apart from that, nothing has ever happened there and nothing ever will. Now you must tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

  “Nothing as exotic as St. Brisson,” Lisa said, making a valiant attempt to produce an authentic French accent. Delphine reflected, not for the first time, on how hard it was for Americans, indeed all English-speakers, to master the authentic ‘R’—that deep gurgle so essential to her language. The position of their lips, their mouths, was all wrong. But at least they weren’t talking about her childhood any more.

  “I’m from Westchester County, just north of New York City,” Lisa continued. “Now that was boring. Dad was a doctor, mom sold real estate, still does. I had the classic upper middle class childhood. I was even a cheerleader. Can you imagine? What do your parents do?”

  What more does she want, Delphine thought. The local color she’d provided about the grapes was not sufficient?

  “We were petit bourgeois,” she said. “My father worked in the post office. Mama had a little shop for tourists. She sold lavender sachets, potpourris, dried herbs, home-made confiture, honey, preserves, that kind of thing.”

  “You speak of them in the past tense.”

  “Yes, my parents are no longer alive.”

  “Oh, how terrible. I’m so sorry.” Instinctively, Lisa leaned forward and stroked Delphine’s cheek. It was a curiously tender gesture. For a moment, it almost felt to Delphine as if she and Lisa were real American-style girlfriends, going shopping together and exchanging little confidences. Delphine was on the point of asking Lisa about her trip to the pyramids with Jason King. Fortunately she stopped herself, saving them both from embarrassment.

  The Damascus souk, it transpired, was a series of separate but adjoining markets, each devoted to different products. They began by wandering through the Hamadiyah Souk, named after a Turkish sultan, an enclosed area covered by a high iron vaulting through which the sun’s rays penetrated in narrow beams of light. Delphine was entranced by the array of little shops and stalls stuffed with embroidered brocades, oriental carpets, silk scarves, leather goods, gorgeous wooden boxes inlaid with mother of pearl, backgammon boards and a thousand other items. There were stalls selling enormous heaps of exotic spices – paprika, cayenne peppers of the brightest red imaginable, vivid yellow turmeric, cinnamon sticks, ginger roots, saffron and others she could not identify. They stood for a few seconds breathing the heady smell. But time was short and they moved on.

  At this early hour, the market was not crowded. Still, as they turned to go, Lisa bumped into a young man, gaudily mustached, hurrying in the other direction. He grasped her by the waist to steady her, muttering something in Arabic that Delphine could not catch.

  “Look where you’re going,” Lisa said, but the man had already gone on his way.

  They proceeded to the Souk al-Saghah where jewelry merchants plied their trade. Never had Delphine seen so much gold and silver in one place. Stopping to gaze at the first shop window, she was dazzled by the sheer variety of rings, necklaces, bracelets and earrings, many encrusted with pearls, diamonds and other precious stones. “Mon Dieu, this is quite overwhelming,” she breathed.

  “Might as well go in,” Lisa laughed, taking her new friend by the hand. For the next half hour, Lisa tried on a variety of bracelets and earrings, haggling energetically with the shopkeeper. The prices were a fraction of what one might pay in New York or Paris and the workmanship exquisite. Before long, the counter was heaped high with merchandise.

  Lisa’s problem, Delphine quickly perceived, was of scale. She was attracted to huge, gaudy baubles that overwhelmed her narrow features. First, she almost bought a heavy silver choker that must have weighed two pounds. Then, she looked at a gold necklace thick enough to support a suspension bridge. It might have looked good on Secretary Dayton but it was obviously completely wrong for Lisa.

  “I give you good price,” said the storekeeper, the hairs of his mustache bristling like a stiff broom.

  “Let’s try somewhere else,” Delphine suggested. “It’s always a mistake to buy in the first place.” The man glared as they left.

  They went into another shop a short stroll down the street. Delphine was immediately attracted by a pair of tiny gold, filigree earrings, the scrollwork details so precise she wondered how on earth the craftsman could have created them.

  “May I try them on?” she asked the shopkeeper. He nodded so she took out the small opal droplets she was wearing and put these new ones in, swinging her bob from side to side, watching in the mirror how they glinted in the half-light.

  “They’re lovely,” Lisa said.

  “How much are they?” Delphine asked.

  The vendor named a price so low as to be laughable. Before he could change his mind, she bought them and paid in dollars. The man placed them in a small cardboard box and wrote out a receipt by hand.

  Meanwhile, Lisa was examining a thin necklace of white gold. “That’s more your style,” Delphine advised her. “I think the color may suit you better.”

  Lisa decided to buy it. As the sales assistant carefully wrapped it, Delphine heard a bell jingle and, looking behind saw that two uniformed policemen had entered accompanied by another man. After a second, she recognized the storekeeper with the bristly mustache from the first shop. He seemed visibly nervous.

  “That one,” he said in Arabic, pointing a shaking finger at Lisa.

  One officer told him to calm down while the second addressed them in English: “Your passports please. Immediately!”

  “We don’t have them with us. We’re reporters traveling with the U.S. Secretary of State. What’s this all about?” Lisa replied.

  “I must ask you to empty the contents of your handbag. You too Mademoiselle,” he said, indicating Delphine.

  “Why? What’s happening? We’re members of the official U.S. delegation with the Secretary of State,” Lisa said, her face reddening.

  “Nevertheless, your bags please,” the officer insisted.

  Seeing no alternative, Delphine emptied the contents of her pocketbook on the counter. The officer examined the box containing her new earrings. “I just bought them, not five minutes ago,” she said, holding out the receipt.

  Lisa’s bag contained chewing gum, two purple condoms, a half-smoked package of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. Delphine wondered vaguely why Lisa felt it necessary to carry birth control around with her instead of keeping it with her toiletries like a normal person.

  “Now your pockets, empty them please,” the officer said.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Lisa snapped. “This is harassment. It’s outrageous. You don’t know who you’re messing with. I intend to file a formal complaint as soon as we return to our hotel. You’ll be in big trouble mister.”

  “Your pockets. Now!” the officer barked, slapping a pair of leather gloves on the counter. The sound, like a whiplash, shocked them both into compliance. Silently, Delphine turned out
her pockets which contained nothing but a packet of tissues and a plastic comb. Lisa reached into the deep pockets of her jacket, her face dissolving in puzzlement. For an instant, nobody moved, nobody even breathed. Slowly, she drew out a thin gold chain.

  “Yes, yes,” the mustache man shouted, adding angry and vulgar comments in his own language.

  Lisa’s eyes betrayed nothing but puzzlement, her mouth an ‘O’ of astonishment. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I have no idea…”

  “Mademoiselle, you must accompany us,” the officer said, grasping her firmly by the arm as his companion closed in from the other side. “You, mademoiselle,” he said, nodding in Delphine’s direction, “are free to go.”

  “It’s a set-up,” Lisa cried, struggling to free herself.

  “Best to come quietly, Mademoiselle,” the officer said. “Do not make things worse by resisting. We do not want to handcuff you.” His words seemed to penetrate, for she went limp and might have fallen to the ground had the policemen not held her up.

  “Delphine, it’s a trap, you’ve got to believe me,” Lisa shouted, fixing her companion with wild, desperate eyes, as they began dragging her away. “Tell them what’s happened. Tell Erik, he’ll know what to do.”

  The officers hustled her out of the store and her accuser followed. For a few moments, Delphine was too stunned to move. The sales assistant also seemed shocked and avoided her eyes.

  “Best you leave,” he said quietly. “Please go now.”

  Back at the hotel, Erik was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he was at the presidential palace with Madam Secretary awaiting the end of the talks. She saw a couple of her fellow reporters in the lobby, but instinctively avoided them. Then, she spotted a security agent, the one who had come to her aid on the plane and had later invited her to drink beer with him. “Please, please help me,” she said, rushing over and grasping his arm.

  He jumped in surprise. “OK, OK, take it easy Ma’am.”

  “I need to contact Erik Jens immediately. It’s very important, almost a matter of life or death.”

  “I believe Mr. Jens is at the presidential palace.”

  “Jesu Maria, I don’t know what to do. Please, you’ve got to help me….”

  “OK, OK, calm down, no need to cry,” he said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a tissue with one hand while patting her awkwardly on the back with the other. Delphine dabbed her eyes, aware she was making an exhibition of herself but unable to stop.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” the officer said decisively, taking her arm, steering her into an elevator and punching a button.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Control Room. That’s where we run the logistics.”

  They emerged into a corridor and entered a suite which had been converted into a communications center bristling with transmitters, computers and other equipment. Several technicians with giant earphones sat in front of screens. One looked up.

  “Hey Mitch, how’s it hanging? Who’s the pretty lady?”

  Ignoring him, the agent led Delphine into the bathroom, shut the door and sat down on the edge of the tub. Looking her straight in the eye he asked, “OK Ma’am, what’s the big emergency?”

  He looked like a typical Marine, with sandy hair cropped down to his scalp and almost invisible eyebrows, a bulky, over-muscled man—but his small brown eyes seemed friendly.

  “It’s Lisa Hemmings, the Newsweek correspondent, the one who sits next to me on the plane. She’s been arrested for shoplifting. They found a gold chain in her pocket.”

  “Who found?”

  “Two Syrian policemen. We were shopping in the souk when they burst into the store, demanding that we empty our bags and then our pockets. When they discovered the chain in her jacket pocket, they arrested her and took her away.”

  The agent whistled. “When did this happen?”

  “Not more than an hour ago.”

  “Did you ask to see their ID? Did they say where they were taking her?”

  Delphine shook her head, no.

  “OK, I’ll make sure the right people hear about this. Meanwhile, I want you to go back downstairs and behave like nothing has happened. Don’t tell anyone about this, not a soul. The last thing we need is publicity. Can you do that Ma’am?”

  Delphine nodded, relieved he’d turned out to be so capable a helper. “Thank you, thank you a thousand times.”

  “Someone will let you know what happens.”

  For the rest of the day, Delphine followed his advice, waiting in the press room, the events of the morning running in her head like an endless video. She imagined agents shining bright lights into Lisa’s eyes and slapping her, or worse, until she confessed. Could she possibly be guilty? But that was absurd. If Lisa had wanted that chain, she could have easily bought it. And yet, if it was a set-up, who benefited? Perhaps, the Syrians planned to use her as a pawn to obtain some diplomatic advantage. Perhaps they wished to embarrass Secretary Dayton.

  At around five, the traveling press was told to gather their hand luggage and board a van for the airport where Secretary Dayton and the Syrian Foreign Minister would hold a brief press conference. President Bashir himself never appeared at such events, considering them beneath his dignity.

  “Hey Delphine, where’s Lisa?” asked Andrew Cushing, as we they boarded.

  “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

  “Weren’t you two going shopping together?”

  “We did.”

  “So where is she?”

  “I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  “Christ, we don’t want her missing the plane,” he said.

  At the airport, the reporters were ushered into a lounge to await the ministers. Minutes later, a door opened and a grim-faced Secretary Dayton appeared, accompanied by her Syrian counterpart, Farouk al Sharjah, whose head barely reached her shoulder. The Syrian ambassador to Washington, a man chiefly notable for his epic gray mustache which curved like a scimitar around his mouth, completed the party. After glaring at the assembled reporters and cameramen with ill-disguised disdain, the Syrian minister began.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, President Bashir and Madam Secretary Dayton have just concluded a lengthy and comprehensive meeting. It was marked by a frank exchange of views on the current situation, especially the continuing Israeli brutality in occupied Palestinian lands.”

  The minister delivered these uninformative remarks in a brusque, unfriendly tone. He reminded Delphine of a pet terrier her family had kept when she was little, before the tragedy—a stupid, nasty dog that always welcomed visitors by snapping viciously at their heels.

  The minister continued: “President Bashir explained to Madam Secretary once again that the Arab Republic of Syria desires peace in the Middle East. However, for this to occur, there must be an end to Zionist aggression, a return of all occupied Arab lands including the Golan Heights and a just solution for the Palestinian people that fully restores all their human and national rights on their land. The current Israeli aggression must stop at once.”

  Jason King, standing as usual behind the Secretary of State, caught Delphine’s eye and mouthed, “Are you OK?”

  She nodded slightly, touched that he cared enough to ask.

  The first question by tradition went to Ira Milstein, the longest-service member of the State Department press corps.

  “Mr. Foreign Minister, if there were to be a Middle East peace conference bringing together Israel, the Palestinians and the Arab states, would you be willing to shake the hand of Israeli Prime Minister, Yair Shoresh?”

  This innocent query seemed to catch Minister al Sharjah by surprise, although it was clear from his demeanor that he did not welcome it.

  “Shake the hand of the aggressor? Shake his hand? Why do you ask such a question?” he burst out, as Secretary Dayton sto
od beside him, ramrod stiff. “Do you know what this man, this Shoresh, this war criminal, has done? Do you know the crimes he has committed? Never would I shake a hand soaked in the sacred blood of my brothers. Never! This man is an enemy of the Arab people, and his country is an illegitimate entity thrust into our midst by force. If such a hand were offered, I would spit on it.”

  For emphasis, the minister banged his fist on the podium, his eyes flashing angrily. Cameras snapped, capturing the moment.

  “And your reaction to that statement Madam Secretary?” Ira followed up, delighted to have elicited such a response, which both illustrated Arab intransigence and would provide an excellent headline after a long, boring day.

  “Thank you for your hypothetical question, Ira. Most helpful,” she replied coldly, fixing him with a laser-like glare under which a lesser man would have wilted. “We can always rely on you for constructive contributions. With respect to the facts, I suggest we all calm down and remember that talk of a peace conference at this stage is premature. The first step is to secure a ceasefire between the Israelis and the Palestinians. I’m very happy to tell you that President Bashir has assured me of Syria’s support in this effort. Frankly, that should be your headline. It’s a much bigger issue than who would shake whose hand at a peace conference which has not even been scheduled and may never take place. I’m sure Foreign Minister al Sharjah agrees.”

  The Syrian minister gave a curt nod.

  As the press conference ended, Erik told the reporters they would have a full hour to file before departure for Jerusalem, a relative luxury after the previous day. And this time, because of al-Sharjah’s outburst, there was real news.

  Boarding the plane after filing her story, Delphine felt strangely bereft sitting next to an empty seat, as if she had truly lost a friend. She wondered again what was happening to Lisa. By now, everybody had noticed her absence. Once they were airborne, Erik wasted no time in entering the press section.

  “Listen up, Madam Secretary is coming back to make an important announcement which concerns you all but it needs to be off-the-record, for reasons you will soon understand. Do I have everyone’s agreement?”