“Such as?” she asked. As frustrated as Chatterjee was, she was still a diplomat. She would listen.
“A more productive way of appeasing those irate delegates might be if the United States were to begin paying all of its two billion dollar debt,” the president said. “The delegates would have more money for UN programs back home, such as the World Food Council, the Children’s Fund, the Institute for Training and Research. And if we work this right, they’ll feel as though they’ve won something. They will have won American capitulation on the debt issue. Your own status will not suffer,” he pointed out.
Chatterjee looked at him coldly. “Mr. President, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this. But there are legal issues that cannot be dismissed.”
The president smiled. “Madam Secretary-General, almost twenty-five years ago, a Russian — Alexander Solzhenitsyn — said something at a commencement address that this lawyer never forgot. ‘I have spent all my life under a Communist regime,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you that a society without any objective legal scale is a terrible one indeed. But a society with no other scale but the legal one is not quite worthy of man either.’ ”
Chatterjee regarded the president carefully. This was the first time since she’d entered the Oval Office that she saw anything in his eyes, in his expression, that approached sincerity.
“Madam Secretary-General,” the president said, “you’re exhausted. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please,” she said.
“Why don’t you go back to New York, rest, and think about what I’ve said,” the president told her. “Think about how we can work together to establish new moral objectives.”
“Instead of deciding old ones?” she asked.
“Instead of rehashing divisive ones,” he replied. “We need to heal the divide, not make it wider.”
Chaterjee sighed and rose. “I believe I can agree to at least that, Mr. President,” she said.
“I’m glad,” he replied. “I’m sure the rest will fall into place.”
The president came from behind his desk. He shook her hand and walked her toward the door.
The secretary-general hadn’t expected the meeting to unfold like this. She had known the president would resist her demand but thought that she’d be able to use the press to sway him. Now, what could she tell reporters? That the president had been a bastard. Instead of turning over an American father, he’d offered to put the UN back on sturdy financial footing and help thousands of fathers in underdeveloped countries worldwide.
As they crossed the thick blue carpet with the gold presidential seal, Chatterjee thought how ironic it was. Coming to the White House, she’d felt unclean because diplomacy had died. Yet here, in this room, it had just been practiced with skill and intelligence.
Why, then, did she feel even dirtier than before?
FIFTY-NINE
Paul Hood had been in enough politically and emotionally charged situations, both in government and on Wall Street, to know that the outcome of important meetings was often decided before the meetings were called. Key people, often no more than two, spoke or got together beforehand. By the time everyone else arrived, the talk was mostly for show.
This time, there wasn’t even a show. Not inside the office, anyway.
Hood had waved to the press on his way in but declined to answer any questions. When he entered the Oval Office, Ambassador Meriwether was chatting with the president’s executive secretary, forty-two-year-old Elizabeth Lopez. The two were comparing perspectives on the previous day’s activities. They stopped when Hood arrived.
Hood had always found Lopez to be polite but formal. Today she was warm and welcoming. She offered him coffee from the president’s private pot of Kona, which he accepted. The usually poker-faced ambassador was also unusually outgoing. Hood thought it was ironic that the only mother who seemed to disapprove of him today was the mother of his own children.
The ambassador told Hood that Mala Chatterjee was inside.
“Let me guess,” Hood said. “She’s demanding that I appear in front of some ad hoc committee comprised of people who hate the United States.”
“You’re jaded,” the ambassador smiled.
“But not wrong,” Hood said.
“The secretary-general is not an unreasonable woman,” Ambassador Meriwether said, “just idealistic and still a little green. However, early this morning, the president and I discussed a possible solution to the problem. One which we believe the secretary-general will find acceptable.”
Hood sipped his black coffee and was about to sit down when the door to the Oval Office opened. Mala Chatterjee walked out, followed by the president. The secretary-general did not look happy.
Hood put his mug aside as the president offered Ambassador Meriwether his hand.
“Madam Ambassador, thank you for coming down,” the president said. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Ambassador Meriwether,” the president said, “the secretary-general and I just had a very productive exchange of ideas. Perhaps we can fill you in while we walk you back to the southwest appointment gate.”
“Very good,” she said.
The president’s eyes shifted to Hood. “Paul, it’s good to see you,” he said, offering his hand. “How’s your daughter today?”
“Pretty shaken up,” Hood admitted.
“Understandably,” said the president. “Our prayers will be with you. If there’s anything we can do, please ask.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“In fact, I think we’ve got things pretty well under control here,” the president said. “Why don’t you go home to your daughter?”
“Thank you, sir,” Hood said.
“We’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” the president said, “though it would be a good idea if you stayed away from reporters for a few days, let Op-Center’s press rep handle this. At least until the secretary-general has had a chance to talk to her people in New York.”
“Of course,” Hood said.
Hood shook the hands of the president and the ambassador. Then he shook the hand of the secretary-general. It was the first time she looked at him since the night before. Her eyes were dark and tired, her mouth was downturned, and there was gray in her hair he hadn’t noticed before. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. She hadn’t won this battle either.
A security area sat between the end of the main corridor and the west-wing entrance. Lowell Coffey and Bob Herbert were there, chatting with a pair of secret service agents. They had not been invited to the meeting but wanted to be nearby in case Hood needed moral or tactical support or even a lift, depending on where he had to go after the meeting.
They approached Hood as the president, secretary-general, and ambassador went out to meet reporters.
“That was quick,” Herbert said.
“What happened?” Coffey asked.
“I don’t know,” Hood said. “Ambassador Meriwether and I were not in the meeting.”
“Did the president say anything to you?” Coffey asked.
Hood smiled weakly. He put a hand on the attorney’s shoulder. “He told me to go home to my daughter, which is exactly what I intend to do.”
The three of them left the White House. They avoided reporters by heading toward West Executive Avenue and then making their way south toward the Ellipse, where they’d parked.
As they left, Hood couldn’t help but feel bad for Chatterjee. She wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t even the wrong person for this job. The problem was the institution itself. Nations invaded other nations or committed genocide. Then the United Nations gave them a forum to explain their acts. Just allowing them to be heard had the effect of legitimizing the immoral.