Page 114 of Never

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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.’

Pauline sighed. ‘He may be relied upon to be unhelpful. What has he said?’

‘I guess he’s responding to our statement that we already have troops in Chad. Anyway, he’s said they should be withdrawn, to make sure they don’t get involved in a war that has nothing to do with America.’

‘So we would no longer be part of the struggle against ISGS?’

‘That’s the implication, but he didn’t mention ISGS.’

‘Okay, Sandip, thanks for the heads-up.’

‘Thank you, Madam President.’

She got into the tall black car with the armoured doors and inch-thick bulletproof windows. In front was an identical car with Secret Service bodyguards, behind was another with White House staffers. As the convoy pulled away she controlled her irritation. While she was urgently pushing forward a peace plan, Moore was giving Americans the impression that she was thoughtlessly drifting into another foreign war. There was a saying: A lie goes halfway round the world while the truth is getting its boots on. It was infuriating that her efforts could be so easily undermined by a blowhard such as Moore.

Motorcycle police held up the traffic for her at every road junction, and it took only a few minutes to get to Georgetown.

As they drew up to the entrance to the hotel, she said to Gerry: ‘We’ll separate soon after we walk in, as usual, if that’s okay with you.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That way, some of the people who are disappointed that they didn’t get to speak to you can have the consolation prize of a conversation with me.’ But he smiled as he said it, so she felt he did not really mind.

The hotel manager met her at the door and led her downstairs, preceded and followed by members of her Secret Service detail. A roar of conversation came from the ballroom. She was pleased to see the broad-shouldered figure of Gus waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo. ‘Just so you know,’ he murmured, ‘James Moore showed up.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him if I run into him. What about Prince Faisal?’

‘He’s here.’

‘Bring him to me if you get a chance.’

‘Leave it to me.’

She entered the ballroom and declined a glass of champagne. There was an atmosphere of warm bodies, fishy canapés, and empty wine bottles. She was welcomed by the chair of one of the charities, a millionaire’s wife in a turquoise silk sheath and impossibly high heels. Then Pauline was on the merry-go-round. She asked bright questions about literacy and showed interest in the answers. She was introduced to the main sponsor of the ball, the CEO of a huge paper-manufacturing company, and she asked how the business was doing. The Bosnian ambassador buttonholed her and begged for help dealing with unexploded landmines, of which his country had eighty thousand. Pauline was sympathetic, but the landmines had not been put there by Americans and she did not plan to spend taxpayers’ money removing them. She was not a Republican for nothing.

She was charming and interested with everyone, and managed to conceal how impatient she was to get on with her priorities.

She was approached by the French ambassador, Giselle de Perrin, a thin woman of sixty-something in a black dress. What would the news from Paris be? President Pelletier could make or break this deal.

Madame de Perrin shook Pauline’s hand and said: ‘Madam President, I spoke to Monsieur Pelletier an hour ago. He asked me to give you this.’ She took a folded paper from her clutch bag. ‘He said you would be pleased.’

Pauline eagerly unfolded the single sheet. It was a press release from the Élysée Palace, with one paragraph highlighted and translated into English:

The government of France, concerned about tensions on the Chad–Sudan border, will immediately send one thousand troops to Chad to reinforce its existing mission there. Initially, French forces will remain at least ten kilometres from the border, hoping that forces on the other side will reciprocate, thereby creating a twenty-kilometre separation between the armies, for the avoidance of accidental provocation.

Pauline was delighted. ‘Thank you for this, ambassador,’ she said. ‘It’s very helpful.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the ambassador said. ‘France is always pleased to assist our American allies.’