‘A board meeting. Nothing too taxing. You?’
‘I have to make sure war doesn’t break out in North Africa. Nothing too taxing.’
He laughed, and for a moment she felt close to him again. Then he folded the newspaper and stood up. ‘I’d better put on my tie.’
‘Enjoy your board meeting.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘Good luck with North Africa.’ He went out.
Pauline returned to the West Wing but instead of going to the Oval Office she made her way to the press office. A dozen or so people, mostly quite young, sat at workstations, reading or keying. There were television screens around the walls, all showing different news shows. Copies of the morning’s papers were scattered everywhere.
Sandip Chakraborty had a desk in the middle of the room, which he preferred to a private office: he liked to be in the thick of things. He stood up as soon as Pauline entered. He was wearing his trademark suit-and-sneakers.
‘The trouble in Chad,’ she said to him. ‘Has that story had any traction?’
‘Until a few minutes ago, no, Madam President,’ Sandip said. ‘But James Moore just commented on NBC. He said you should not send American troops to intervene.’
‘We already have a counterterrorism force of a couple of thousand soldiers there.’
‘But he doesn’t know things like that.’
‘Anyway, on a scale of one to ten?’
‘It just went up from one to two.’
Pauline nodded. ‘Talk to Chester Jackson, please,’ she said. ‘Agree a short statement pointing out that we already have troops in Chad and other North African countries combating Islamic State in the Greater Sahara.’
‘Perhaps hinting at Moore’s ignorance? “Mr Moore doesn’t seem to realize . . .” That sort of thing?’
Pauline thought for a moment. She did not really like that kind of sniping in politics. ‘No, I don’t want Chess to come on like a smartass. Aim for the tone of one who patiently and kindly explains simple facts.’
‘Got it.’
‘Thank you, Sandip.’
‘Thank you, Madam President.’
She went to the Oval Office.
She met with the Treasury Secretary, spent an hour with the visiting Norwegian prime minister, and received a delegation of dairy farmers. She had her lunch on a tray in the Study: cold poached salmon with a salad. While eating her lunch she read a briefing note on the water shortage in California.
Next was her phone call with the president of France. Chess came to the Oval Office and sat with her, listening on an earpiece. Gus and several others were listening in remotely. There were also interpreters at each end, in case of need, although Pauline and President Pelletier normally got by without them.
Georges Pelletier had a relaxed, easy-going manner, but when push came to shove he would ask himself what was in France’s interests and do it ruthlessly, so there was no guarantee that Pauline would get her way.
Pauline began by saying: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le President. Comment ?a va, mon ami?’
The French president replied in perfect colloquial English. ‘Madam President, it’s very kind of you to pretend to speak French, and you know how much we appreciate it, but in the end it’s easier if we both speak English.’
Pauline laughed. Pelletier could be charming even when he was scoring a point. She said: ‘In any language, it’s a pleasure to talk to you.’
‘And for me.’
She pictured him in the élysée Palace, sitting at the vast President’s Desk in the gilded Salon Doré, looking as if he was born there, elegant in a cashmere suit. She said: ‘It’s one o’clock in the afternoon here in Washington, so it must be seven in the evening in Paris. I guess you’re drinking champagne.’
‘My first glass of the day, obviously.’
‘Salut, then.’
‘Cheers.’
‘I’m calling about Chad.’
‘I guessed.’
Pauline did not need to go over all that had happened. Georges was always well briefed. She said: ‘Your army and mine work together in Chad, combating ISGS, but I don’t think we want to get involved in a squabble with Sudan.’
‘Correct.’
‘The danger is that if there are troops on both sides of the border, sooner or later some fool is going to fire a rifle, and we’ll end up fighting a battle no one wants.’
‘True.’
‘My idea is a twenty-kilometre-wide demilitarized zone along the border.’
‘Excellent idea.’
‘I believe the Egyptians and the Sudanese will agree to keep their forces ten kilometres from the border if you and I do the same.’
There was a pause. Georges was no pushover and now, as she had anticipated, he was making unsentimental calculations. ‘On the face of it that sounds like a good idea,’ he said.
Pauline waited for him to say ‘but’.
However, he did not. Instead he said: ‘Let me run it past the military.’
‘I’m sure they’ll approve,’ Pauline said. ‘They won’t want an unnecessary war.’
‘You may well be right.’
‘One other thing,’ Pauline said.
‘Ah.’
‘We have to go first.’
‘You mean we impose a limit on ourselves before the Egyptians agree to do the same?’
‘I think they will probably agree in principle, but will not actually make the commitment until they have seen us do it.’
‘The snag.’
‘But your troops are nowhere near the border right now, so you merely need to announce that you’re going to observe the demilitarized zone as a gesture of goodwill, in the firm hope that the other side will reciprocate. You will look like the sensible peacemaker, which of course you are. Then you can see what happens. If the other side don’t do their bit, then you can move your troops to the border any time you like.’
‘My dear Pauline, you’re very persuasive.’
‘I hate to blight your evening, Georges, but could you talk to the military right away? Perhaps even before dinner?’ It was a bold request, but she hated delay: an hour turned into a day, and a day turned into a week, and bright ideas died from lack of oxygen. ‘If you could give me an okay before you retire for the night, I could progress this with the Egyptians, and you might wake up to a safer world in the morning.’
He laughed. ‘I like you, Pauline. You have something. There’s a Yiddish word. Chutzpah.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It is. You will hear from me this evening.’
‘I really appreciate that, Georges.’
‘You’re welcome.’
They both hung up.
Chess said: ‘Let me tell you something, Madam President. You’re very good. Incredibly good.’
‘Let’s see if it works,’ said Pauline.
*
She had a similar conversation with the president of Egypt. It was not as warm, but the result was the same: a favourable response without definite agreement.
That evening Pauline had to make a speech at the Diplomats’ Ball, an annual shindig organized by a committee of ambassadors to raise funds for literacy charities. Big companies doing business overseas bought tables to gain access to important envoys.
The dress code was black tie. The clothes Pauline had chosen earlier had been put out by the Residence staff, a Nile-green dress with a wrap in dark-green velvet. She added an emerald teardrop pendant with matching earrings while Gerry put cufflinks in his shirt.
Much of the evening’s conversation would be small talk, but a few powerful people would be among the guests, and Pauline intended to progress her plan for Chad and Sudan. In her experience, real decisions were made at events such as this just as often as in formal meetings around conference tables. The relaxed atmosphere, the booze, the sexy clothes and the rich food all made people ease up, and put them in a compliant frame of mind.
She would circulate during the pre-dinner cocktails, chatting to as many people as possible, then make a speech and leave before the meal, sticking to her principle of not wasting time eating with strangers.
On the way out she was intercepted by Sandip. ‘Something you might like to know before you get to the ball,’ he said. ‘James Moore has spoken again about Chad.’