The Diplomatic Coup Page 8

  Hearing his serious tone, the reporters each nodded or murmured their consent. Erik pulled aside the curtain and Secretary Dayton appeared. Everyone stood and crowded around her, since she was not using the microphone or mult-box this time.

  “I’ll get straight to the point. You’ve all no doubt noticed that our friend and traveling companion Lisa Hemmings is not with us,” Dayton said in an expressionless voice. “Lisa was arrested this morning in the Damascus jewelry market for shoplifting. She of course denies the charge.”

  There was a rumble of astonishment.

  “We’ve been working very hard throughout the day to secure her release,” the Secretary continued. “In fact, and this is most definitely off-the-record, I even raised it personally with President Bashir during our meeting after I was informed about her arrest. I’m happy to tell you that the Syrians graciously agreed to drop the charge and released her into the custody of our ambassador in Damascus an hour ago. Lisa will spend tonight in the embassy and fly back home tomorrow. Given the circumstances, she won’t be rejoining us on this trip. The ambassador reports she’s in relatively good spirits and unharmed, though naturally still in shock. If you have any further questions, Erik will address them.” She swung back the curtain and disappeared.

  Everyone crowded around the spokesman who held up his hands.

  “Whoa, slow down everyone. There’s not much else I can tell you. You should ask Delphine. She was with Lisa when it happened.”

  They all swung around to face her.

  “Tell us,” said Stewart Wentworth. “What the hell happened?”

  Seeing she had no choice, Delphine related the story, skipping over only one detail – about the man who bumped into them in the Hamadiyah Souk. A voice in her head told her she shouldn’t allow the others to know everything.

  “And do you believe her? Was it a set-up?” Don Masters asked in his deep rumble, as interviewing somebody on one of his talk shows, his hand unconsciously flicking up to smooth his immaculate hair.

  “Of course I believe her. Lisa is my friend,” Delphine answered. “But can I prove it one way or the other?” She shook her head, no.

  “Listen everyone,” said Andrew Cushing, his eyes glinting behind his thick lenses. “We have to stand by Lisa. This could be terrible if it gets out. She’d lose her credibility, maybe even her job. We should keep it between ourselves. Don’t tell your editors or anyone else back home. That way, maybe she has a chance of riding this out.”

  “Really?” Masters asked. “You’re really asking us to cover up what could be a major development in US-Syrian relations?”

  “For the sake of our colleague,” Cushing replied. “And it’s not a major development. If she’d been held longer than a few hours, of course we’d have to report it. But this was clearly just some kind of mix-up. Why should Lisa have to suffer even more than she already has? Anyway, we got the information off-the-record so we’re not allowed to report it even if we wanted to.”

  They all nodded their agreement.

  By now, the plane was beginning its descent and the stewards ordered everyone to sit down. Minutes later, they landed in Israel.

  Chapter 5

  With sirens screaming, Secretary Dayton’s motorcade tore out of Ben Gurion Airport at breakneck speed, screeching around hairpin bends on the ascent toward Jerusalem. After one sharp turn, Delphine found herself catapulted out of her seat into Stewart Wentworth’s spacious lap.

  “Welcome to the craziest drivers in the Middle East,” he said. “If the terrorists don’t get you, the traffic will.”

  They checked into the Jonathan Hotel, where Delphine was assigned a room facing east with a stupendous view of the Old City. Thankfully, there would be no further events that evening, Erik Jens assured the reporters. A van would bring them to the Yad Vashem Holocaust memorial, the first stop on the Secretary’s official schedule, at nine the following morning. Delphine wrote a brief story announcing their arrival. That done, with no other pressing tasks, she sat by the window, gazing at cars zooming around the floodlit medieval walls that encircled the holy places fought over for so many centuries by three religions. She was still shaken by Lisa’s arrest. The hotel had been nice enough to leave a vase of violets in the room. Their heady scent ignited memories. Violets were her mother’s favorite and for a few seconds she ached fiercely. Then, the moment passed.

  The room had fallen into darkness when Delphine heard a knock. Opening the door, Mitchell A. Webb III stood at attention like a Marine on parade.

  “Howdy Ma’am, how you doing?”

  “Quite all right. I haven’t thanked you properly for what you did today.”

  He hesitated. “No need to do that. In fact, I was hopin’ you’d see your way clear to …” His voice trailed away.

  “What is this?” Delphine teased. “A proposal?”

  He colored down to the roots of his closely-cropped hair. “I was just thinkin’ maybe you’d join me for a bite. There’s a place nearby where they do a mean hamburger and fries.”

  Delphine considered this unexpected, yet touching, invitation. Only two days had passed since her breakfast with Jason and she still felt the memory of his lips on hers. But he’d made no attempt to communicate since then. Was he interested or not? Delphine was feeling friendless, and maybe a little scared after what had happened. An evening with Mitchell, even if he lacked eyebrows, was not entirely unappealing. “I’d love to join you. Perhaps we could find some Middle Eastern cuisine.”

  He smiled gamely. “Sure, if that’s what you want. I don’t generally appreciate foreign food too much, truth be told.”

  Delphine shrugged. “Perhaps we could find a place with both kinds. If you might give me a few seconds to get ready…”

  They descended to the lobby and out into King David Street. Delphine turned naturally toward the towers and spires of the Old City, which she knew concealed many wonderful eating places, but Mitchell took her elbow and steered in the opposite direction.

  “Not that way Ma’am. It’s off-limits. We have to stay in West Jerusalem.”

  “If you call me ‘Ma’am’ once more, our evening is over,” she told him sternly, only half-joking. “You know my name don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then say it now.”

  He looked into her eyes to see if she was serious and decided she was. With the air of one trying to pronounce a difficult sound in an unfamiliar language, he said, “Delphane.” It sounded strange but charming from his southern lips –as if it belonged to someone else.

  They proceeded up a hill past shabby shops and found themselves on Ben Yehuda Street, a pedestrian mall lined with cafés and restaurants normally bustling with activity, now mostly empty. This street had been repeatedly targeted by suicide bombers.

  “People are still scared to go out,” Delphine said.

  He shrugged. “Gotta eat.”

  “So do you like your job? It must be difficult always being at someone else’s beck and call.”

  “Not at all. Madam Secretary’s a truly great human being. Look at what she’s doing here, bringing peace to the Holy Land, the land of our Lord Jesus Christ. What could be more important than that? As for always being on call, that’s not much different from you reporters. When she says ‘jump,’ y’all jump, just like us.”

  Sadly, this jab hit home. How quickly Delphine had become disillusioned by her job which had seemed so glamorous and alluring only a short time ago.

  Mitchell seemed to know his way around and soon led them to a brightly-lit fast food restaurant that could have been airlifted from any American strip mall.

  “This is it,” he announced. “They do a neat apple pie here too.”

  Delphine was about to register a gentle objection and suggest something more authentic when she became aware of a buzzing sound emanating from somewhere on his body. He stiffened
and extracted a tiny communication device.

  “Oh shoot, got to get back asap.”

  “What’s happening?” Delphine asked, her journalistic instincts aroused.

  “There was nothing on her schedule, I swear.”

  “Last-minute change of plans?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They’d already left the restaurant and were half-walking, half-running back to the hotel. “It’s all right,” Delphine panted. “We’ll do it another time.”

  They entered through the revolving door and he charged across the lobby toward the elevator without saying goodbye. Delphine wasn’t offended. Clearly his job must come first and she was busy processing the snippet of information he’d handed her. Instead of going upstairs to her room, she exited the hotel and waited on the street by the entrance to the underground parking garage. Ten minutes later, three unmarked mini-vans with darkened windows emerged and sped off down King David Street heading toward East Jerusalem, the Palestinian sector. Usually, the Secretary of State traveled in an official limousine at the head of a long motorcade with the U.S. flag fluttering proudly in front. Wherever she was headed now, she obviously didn’t want the media to know. But Delphine thought it unlikely the Israelis were unaware of her movements. The Shin Beth always bugged the rooms of visiting American officials and watched their every move.

  What she’d learned was interesting, although not enough for a news story. But maybe she could use it as a bargaining chip to extract some actual information. Returning to her room, Delphine called the hotel operator, asking to be put through to Erik Jens, expecting to leave a message on his voice mail. To her surprise, he answered in person.

  “I hear Secretary Dayton just left the hotel for a secret rendezvous,” she said.

  “What?” It was clear from his panicked tone he hadn’t known. The spokesman was being kept out of the loop. Very interesting.

  “My sources tell me she’s headed to a secret location in the Palestinian territories,” Delphine said, throwing out a wild guess.

  There was a long silence. Then, “Are you sure these sources know what they’re talking about? I’d hate to see you publish some wild speculation you heard and then have to issue a correction.”

  “Are you denying it?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not confirming nor denying anything.”

  “I may be able to hold the story for a while if you promise to get back to me tonight with something concrete.”

  “I can’t promise anything.”

  “OK, then I’ll publish.”

  “No wait. Give me a couple of hours.”

  “One hour.”

  “Two.”

  “OK, two hours. Just so you don’t leave me hanging all night. You have to call me back one way or another. Otherwise all bets are off.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I may not be able to tell you anything.”

  “I’ll wait until midnight.”

  For the next couple of hours, Delphine ordered room service, watched some TV and tried to stay awake. The Israeli news shows were talking about the tough challenge Secretary Dayton faced with her ceasefire mission. In other news, Islamic extremists in Damascus and Tehran had again vowed everlasting war on the Jewish state. Israeli TV carried an interview with Prime Minister Shoresh who promised to stand equally firm against U.S. pressure and steadfast against Israel’s enemies. For his part, President al-Bakr swore he was against violence but said it wouldn’t end until the Israelis stopped oppressing his people. It was the same old tune. These guys always played tough, waiting for the other side to blink. Concessions were for chumps; to compromise meant you were weak. Even when they said “yes” to an American proposal, there was always a long list of conditions attached.

  The phone rang at around 11. “Come up to room 1224, the Sultan’s Suite. Madam Secretary wants to speak to you in person,” Erik said.

  “Now?”

  “Hurry, she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Delphine brushed her hair and checked her appearance. Wide awake now, bristling with nervous energy, she emerged from the elevator on the 12th floor to find the corridor crowded with security men, one of whom was waiting to escort her down the passage. She felt the dread of a convent novice summoned into the presence of the Mother Superior wondering how exactly she had sinned. The security man tapped gently on the double doors; they opened and a grim-faced Erik gestured for her to enter.

  As Delphine stepped inside the room, her eyes were dazzled by the light of a massive chandelier that would not have been out of place in the Palais de Versailles. Glancing quickly around, she tried to take stock of her surroundings. She’d entered the most extravagant hotel room she’d ever seen, furnished in faux oriental style. The floor was spread with richly embroidered Turkish rugs, the walls gaudily painted with intricate plant and flower motifs and Arabic calligraphy. A rich, cloying smell, like half-rotting gardenias, pervaded the overheated air. At the center stood a long divan heaped with overstuffed pillows in clashing shades of purple. On it lounged Secretary Dayton clad in a scarlet silk kimono, eyes closed. Jason King stood behind her, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Delphine observed with astonishment his hands curled around her neck, his fingers penetrating deep into her saggy skin. For an incomprehensible moment, she thought he was assaulting her; then, she emitted a long, low, purring sound, writhing slightly, and Delphine realized that Jason was administering a deep and rigorous massage.

  They were so immersed in the moment that neither noticed her entry. Jason dipped his hand into a jar of cream and began rubbing it into Secretary Dayton’s loose flesh. Delphine felt as if she had intruded on an intensely intimate scene. She really didn’t want to see this; she felt like she might throw up and turned to go.

  “Um, excuse me Madam Secretary, Delphine is here to see you,” announced Erik whose face had turned a deep, tomato shade. Now, Delphine had no choice but to stay. Secretary Dayton opened her eyes and focused lazily on the other side of the room where her guest stood waiting. Jason also turned in surprise, while his fingers continued to knead. When he saw Delphine, he immediately turned away, but not before she’d caught a look of what looked like deep embarrassment on his usually impassive face.

  “Ah, there you are,” Secretary Dayton said, and immediately yelped as Jason found a particularly tender spot. “Take it easy honey, not so hard. I’m not a piece of dough. Have a seat Delphine; I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Cheeks flaming, not knowing where to look, Delphine sunk into an armchair. The massage continued for a few more minutes that felt like half an hour. She glanced at Erik and saw his fists clenched, his knuckles white.

  Finally, Secretary Dayton said, “OK that will do. Go now Jason. You too Erik.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay?” Erik asked, voice trembling.

  “I’ll talk to Delphine alone. I assume this room’s secure.”

  Erik flinched as if she’d slapped him and turned to go without answering. Jason wiped his hands on a face towel, picked up his jacket and walked quickly toward the door, avoiding Delphine’s eyes as he passed. The door sighed open, then closed with a quiet click. For a couple of seconds, the only sound in the room came from an antique clock above the fireplace, ticking like a time bomb.

  “So you’d like to know about tonight,” Secretary Dayton said, sitting up.

  Delphine was silent since no response was required. Besides, her throat felt so dry she wasn’t sure her voice would function

  “Obviously I’m not going to tell you,” Dayton said.

  Delphine thought, “Then why am I here?” This could not be the end of the matter. She coughed. “Not .. not even off the record?”

  Dayton smiled mirthlessly, her nostrils flaring. “I asked you up here because what I did tonight was rather sensitive. I’d like to know how you found out about it.” She stretched her
legs, placing her feet carefully on the coffee table.

  Obviously, Delphine couldn’t tell her. A journalist always protects her sources – and in this case she didn’t even have a proper source to protect, only poor Agent Webb, and she certainly wasn’t about to land him in trouble. He’d been nothing but helpful.

  “I hate leaks,” Dayton continued. “I abhor and detest them. Anyone who leaks sensitive national security information has no loyalty, no patriotism, no morals, no reason to exist whatsoever. If I had my way, I’d all have their tongues cut off. That’s off the record by the way. This whole meeting is. Print one word and you’re finished as far as covering the State Department is concerned.”

  Delphine sat squirming at this intemperate talk.

  Dayton stood and commenced pacing the room. Her bare feet were massive and boney with large, yellowish toe nails. Finally, she stopped in front of Delphine, hands on hips. “What do you have to say?”

  It was a moment of truth. “Nothing,” Delphine said, the only answer she could give.

  “You refuse to tell me?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  Secretary Dayton smiled, as if this was the answer she’d been waiting for. “I could make your life very difficult if I wanted. But I’ve taken a liking to you so I’ve decided to offer you a second chance. A big one.”

  Delphine was frozen in place, unable to understand what the Secretary was talking about, much less come up with an intelligent response.

  Dayton sat down opposite her, placing a hand on her knee. Delphine stiffened, discomforted by the physical contact. That hand seemed to be all bone and no flesh. She could feel each individual finger exerting pressure.

  “I’ve been watching you for quite a while. I admire your spirit and enterprise. You’re bright and inquisitive and also, it would seem, rather enterprising. Those are valuable talents if put to use in the right way. Of course, they can also be dangerous and destructive if used in the wrong way. Most of all I admire your loyalty. The way you stood up for your principles was … impressive.”