Body Count
“Quantifiables. We need more quantifiables. We need to illustrate to Washington we are accomplishing something out here.” The Ambassador was animated. “We need to build justification for our request to increase the budget. When we get more money we can then again increase the quantifiables!”
“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” the country team and her personal staff answered in chorus.
“Bebe Buchanan will be arriving next week and she will be impressed.” The Ambassador turned on her heel and marched out of the room followed in lock step by her company of assistants.
Madeleine and Bebe had maintained a begrudgingly friendly relationship for years. They were always in competition. Old money versus new. Heiress versus overachiever. King maker versus money raiser. Madeleine was not happy with the current situation. Her family had been a fixture in the Party for decades. They had worked their way to prominence by supporting candidates from the local dog catcher to the highest tiers of power in the nation. They didn’t just show up with a campaign donation. The Howells had earned their position of prominence. Even if that weren’t the case, Madeleine had raised more money than Bebe, yet Bebe prowled the halls of power with a domestic presidential appointment while Madeleine had been forced to settle for the ambassadorship to Nordeland. Banished to the fringe of civilization. She might not be in Washington, but by damn she was still going to make herself known.
“What is the head count?” The Ambassador demanded as she sat behind her desk.
“Quite impressive,” Lynn gushed. “More people attended your welcome party than that of any previous American ambassador for which we have records. According to the society pages of the Morning Nordelandian it was one of the largest private social events ever held in the city. Certainly larger than any other ambassador’s parties.”
“Excellent.” Madeleine beamed.
“Adding the attendance from the Solstice Celebration, the Whodunit Mystery Party, The World of Wine wine tasting event, the largest 4th of July party on record, the movie nights, the lunches and receptions we have held, we are on track to report some very impressive, quantifiable outreach results.”
“Fine. Fine. I want a weekly update to Washington regarding the number of people who walk through those doors. Now what about press placements?”
“I have those figures from Gretchen. We are doing very well in that respect also. You have an article in Nordean Homes regarding the redecoration of the ambassador’s residence. It was very complimentary of your decision to paint everything “money green.” There was the column in the society page about the party. A mention in the metro column about the traffic jam created by the carriage ride to the palace. The press release from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs regarding your accreditation. A short piece in the Peculiar Happenings section of the Morning Nordelandian about the Ben Franklin and Marten Martenson impersonators. You were mentioned in Nordeland Fashion Weekly for your unique personal style. A short profile in Nordic Woman magazine and a few other lesser mentions.”
“Oh, that does sound good.” Madeleine was definitely pleased with the impression she was making on Nordeland. Becoming very serious she asked, “How many press placements for Bebe?”
“Only three,” Lynn sneered. “Newsweek, the Wall Street Journal and US News and World Report.”
“Only three,” Madeleine laughed.
G & T’s
Anthony Michaels was a man meant for a different time, when diplomats were a select few. The elite of American society sent forth unto the world as representatives of a benevolent benefactor to bestow guidance, protection and goodwill upon the less fortunate of the world. Days were filled defeating fascism, fighting ignorance, eliminating poverty, turning water into wine and spreading the virtues of American capitalism. Evenings were spent relaxing under the swaying palms, sipping gin & tonics served by uniformed aboriginal servants, the aromatic smoke of a fine cigar wafting away on the breeze. Life as intended. Not a care in the world. Every whim provided for by the profligate institution. But those days were no more.
Anthony hated his posting in Washington. The Department did nothing for him. He had to provide his own home, utilities, phone service, cable, internet… Everything! He even had to drive himself to work. Barbaric. And most bewildering of all, there was no one at work to blame when something went wrong. He was responsible for himself. For his own well-being. For his own happiness. And he wasn’t happy. The pedestrian lifestyle was not his calling. He yearned for another cushy posting overseas. In the meantime he enjoyed his occasional jaunt abroad. For at least a few days every desire would be catered to. Someone would be at his beck and call. Once abroad there is almost nothing that the US government would not do for him. Fortunately, his current position as Special Liaison afforded at least the infrequent opportunity to visit posts abroad. On this particular trip he was babysitting the President’s Special Envoy, providing counsel, as she toured Europe with no apparent purpose. Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was a long flight, even with the spacious business class accommodations. It was a travesty that he had to pay for the upgrade himself. The government would only pay for coach seating even for persons of his stature, Senior Foreign Service. Appalling. He was subjected to such treatment just to save money.
He had hoped to discuss the trip with Bebe during the flight but she had purchased a first class ticket and remained cloistered in the realm of the truly elite the entire duration. The thought passed through his mind that he should be grateful he was not crammed back in coach with their staff. It didn’t linger long. They were staff. Serfdom. He was Senior Foreign Service.
Bebe Buchanan had paid him little attention since their first introduction at the airport. She sat with her hands permanently attached to her WeCom, thumbs furiously massaging the keypad. Her personal assistant effectively ran interference until Bebe was able to take refuge in the serenity of the first class lounge.
Anthony tried again during their layover. He cautiously approached, much as he would a scared animal, trying not to spook her. It appeared that she was purposely trying to avoid making eye contact. She immediately rummaged through her purse, withdrew the WeCom, and devoted all her attention to the device. Never one to shrink from a challenge Anthony stood up straight and stepped forward. “Madame Envoy.”
Her thumbs stopped moving but her head remained down, eyes focused on the screen. Her shoulders heaved when she took a deep breath as if making deliberate preparations for the contact. She slowly lifted her head, raising her eyes to meet his, leering at him over a pinched face. “Not now. I am quite busy. Perhaps later,” she said dryly.
Anthony was somewhat stunned. She refused to talk to him. Instead, with a sloth like mannerism, she turned her attention back to the WeCom, and like a Muppet on amphetamines, began frenetically entering information into the keypad.
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