The Caliphate André Gallo (list of ebook readers TXT) 📖

was on one man, short but with good shoulders. When he sat down, the group pulled tables and chairs around him. He spoke Arabic, a language everyone seemed to understand. When Steve got up to leave, he saw that the man had a full black beard, an intense gaze and a sharp nose.

     This guy is on a mission, Steve thought.

     Then he recognized him. Tariq al Khalil had attended the Unversité Libre de Bruxelles at the time Steve had obtained his Master’s in International Relations there. Steve left without making any sign of recognitions. He and his classmates had always thought al Khalil to be from another world. He was obviously more comfortable here then he had been in a strictly European setting.

     He looked at is watch and decided he could still make the ambassador’s reception. The ambassador’s residence near Place de la Concorde was well guarded and he had to produce Coogan’s invitation to get through the French security gauntlet and then the Marines on duty at the door. He knew from the invitation that the reception was in honor of the American Deputy Chief of Mission Jack Hastings, who was being reassigned to Tel Aviv as the new ambassador.

     Here we go, he thought, as he waited his turn to go through the reception line. He was familiar with the ritual of the diplomatic reception. He understood that the cocktail reception was the professional vehicle of choice for the members of the diplomatic community. As wandering waiters in their impeccable white jackets circulated with flutes of American sparkling wine they referred to as “champagne” and trays of caviar, the several hundred guests in suits and cocktail dresses were busy playing their roles as diplomats, as spies pretending to be diplomats, or as reporters hoping to get a story. In the ecology of these affairs of state, Steve thought, members of the media were as remora to a shark. For the French officials, showing up was truly the most important part of their jobs—they enjoyed being courted. He was sure of one ground truth: the successful players never underestimated the size of the egos in the room.

     Out of the corner of his eye, Steve spotted an attractive woman striding across his field of vision apparently toward a bar set up in one corner of the large reception area. She appeared to be in her late twenties and was wearing a black halter dress that showed off her wide, coppery shoulders. He hesitated a second, his fingers lightly touching wooden beads he wore around his neck through his shirt, and then directed his steps to intercept her and took inventory of her model’s height and poised gait. Unlike many models, however, she was not anorexic; he let his eyes savor the outline of her body. As he got closer he saw that her face was oval with pronounced cheekbones and full lips, framed by tumbles of thick, black, wavy hair. Her almond shaped eyes and tawny skin color suggested Caucasian ancestors wedded to diversity before diversity became de rigueur.

     Still on course, Steve swept two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter and, a second later, handed one to the focus of his attention.

     “Hi. I’m Steve Church. I’m a guest of the American Embassy passing through Paris. Which embassy are you with?”

     The woman took an instant before replying, looking at him with a frank and bemused smile.

     “I’m Kella Hastings, Jack Hastings’ step-daughter. I don’t remember you coming through the reception line. Don’t you know about protocol?”

     She’s smiling encouragingly, Steve thought, glad to have passed muster.

     “I came late. I did go through the line but I didn’t see you either. You must have been on a break. Does protocol allow breaks? Are diplomats unionized? I’m in Paris for a few days, sort of on vacation. I gather that your father is being assigned to Tel Aviv. Are you going with him?”

     “No, no. I’m going to graduate school here in Paris. I’m at the Ecole Nationale d’Administration, better known as ENA. It’s like Harvard in reputation.”

     She grinned.

     “It’s also a great way to become prime minister. Over half of France’s prime ministers have graduated from ENA. Well, okay, Sarkozy is not an ENA graduate. Paris on vacation? By yourself?”

     “I’m actually on my way to Morocco—business trip. Do I detect an accent? What is your first language?”

     “I was born in Mali. My birth parents were Tuareg. Have you heard of the Blue People—the Tuaregs?”

     “A little. They’re desert nomads, right? So this means that your first language was…?”

     Afraid he was being too direct, he changed course.

     “You know, this is turning into more than idle cocktail chatter. What does the future prime minister say to moving the venue of this meeting to a more private location, away from the old folks?”

     In response to Kella’s raised eyebrows, Steve added, “Such as the bar at the Crillon Hotel. If I recall correctly, it’s within walking distance, right? OK if I check with you later?”

     “Well, maybe. I’m not sure what else is planned tonight,” she said, with controlled enthusiasm.

     Kella turned back to the reception line. The traffic of arriving guests had stopped and reversed. People with other diplomatic functions to attend were saying their goodbyes.

     While Kella played her role in the line, smiling and shaking hands, Steve quickly worked the room. He liked the give and take and circulated from one group to another. His social skills had caused him to be elected president of his fraternity at Lehigh University.

     Eventually, the American ambassador, as host, gave Jack a quick thanks, goodbye, and good luck speech, and Jack Hastings responded in kind to American, French, and other colleagues. The French foreign minister added his own thanks and best wishes to end the