A slight young Iraqi man sat next to Aziz—his assistant, and Dellinger’s counterpart. Another Iraqi, a dead ringer for the young Saddam Hussein, stood by the door, his jacket bulging conspicuously. Standing near the table was a middle-aged Frenchman, Gérard Touvain, the French Foreign Ministry liaison.
Aziz bounded out from behind the table and headed straight for Millikan. It was a deliberate breach of protocol, no doubt carefully planned by Aziz to look like a spontaneous gesture. Gérard Touvain tried halfheartedly to intercede and make the proper introductions. He would listen in, but for both Aziz and Millikan would be no more functional than the designs on the wallpaper, and less efficient than the listening devices both knew were implanted in the room.
Millikan shook Touvain’s hand perfunctorily. “Dr. Millikan,” Touvain said, “allow me to present His Excellency Tariq Aziz.”
Millikan gave his best warm, two-handed grasp to his old colleague. “Zdraustvui, tovarishch,” Millikan said—the two had served in Moscow at the same time. “Salut, mon vieux,” Aziz responded, and the two sat down at the table. Touvain tried to make small talk, pointing out for whomever would listen the “belle lumière” of the hotel. The assistants were introduced, the Iraqi bodyguard was ignored, and Touvain, after a few minutes, was politely told to beat it.
On the small table was a tray laid to Millikan’s specifications with a bottle of iced Stolichnaya, beluga caviar, and plates of black bread, butter, onions, chopped hard-boiled eggs. “I thought that you might have had too much champagne by this time, old friend,” Millikan explained, knowing the contempt in which Aziz held the French for, among other things, their sheltering of the Ayatollah Khomeini in the 1970s.
“You couldn’t be more correct, Jim,” Aziz responded. Millikan hated to be called Jim, had got into fights as a child when somebody had called him Jim, but Aziz had called him Jim for the past twenty years, and he was not about to ask him to change.
“A toast,” Millikan said when the shot glasses were filled with the vodka, syrupy in its subzero cold. “To diplomacy.”
The four clinked their glasses and downed the Stoli in a single gulp. They carefully prepared, consumed, and savored their slices of black bread with butter, onions, pieces of egg, and caviar. Aziz then proposeda toast. “To us, Jim, and the continued cooperation of our countries.”
A half hour later the caviar was gone, the vodka half-drained and forgotten. The assistants had gobbled some bread and butter and had taken out their notepads. Millikan and Aziz, as befit kings of diplomacy, began the third course, a refreshing light lemony soup to clear the palate of the excellent but intense steak tartare that had preceded it.
Aziz looked through the dishes and candlesticks and pointed upward to the ceiling, noting that they would both proceed on the assumption that they were not the only people listening. “How goes your task in Washington, mon collègue?”
“Otlichno, moi drug.” Excellently, my friend. “The President understands what has to be done. With the exception of a few of the usual firebrands in Congress there is no problem. The press still understandsthat Iran is our major problem, although you have to understand that your boss by his very nature appeals to the more sensational of our journalists. Private sector is on board in supporting our policy. What about in your shop?”
“We are very pleased with our cooperation with you—although you understand the need to replace both the men and matériel that we lost during the last war. We have had to make some creative use of some of your assistance. I’m sure you understand.”
The two liked playing this game, knowing that as they spoke, their words were being reprocessed and sent to a dozen capitals. And they had said nothing that had not appeared in last week’s New York Times. “Is there anything more to talk about before the next course?” Millikan asked.
“No,” Aziz responded. “Let’s let our friends enjoy some of this good food.” The stewards reentered, brought in new plates, and began the next course, a simple, hearty saumon grillée.
They ate well and drank better, the two old friends who knew that their performance was being observed by a surveillance camera peering out between the louvers of the ventilation grille in the wall. No papers would be slipped across the table, nothing untoward would happen, except to live well, eat well, and have a good time—a diplomatic good time.
“I have to take a piss,” Aziz suddenly announced in a loud voice.
“Moi aussi,” Millikan responded. “I’ll go with you.” The steward led them across the main dining room, down a corridor, and around a few corners to the WC, accompanied the whole way by the bodyguard, who went in first and spent a couple of minutes checking under the fixtures for bombs.
They went in, Aziz to a urinal, and Millikan to a stall—Millikan apologizing for his shy kidneys—and they loudly peed.
Millikan began to chuckle naughtily, as though the vodka had made him regress back to a rowdy college boy.
“What is it?” Aziz said loudly.