once for giving arms to the Arabs, I think,” someone else observed over the line.
“So, the Greeks get along with the Arabs, but not the Pope? What about the Israelis?”
“Don't know,” the producer admitted. “Might be a good idea to find out.”
“So, now there are four religious groups involved.”
“Is the Vatican really involved, or did they just offer this place as neutral ground?” the anchor asked. Like most anchormen, he was at his best when reading copy from a TelePrompTer.
“When has this happened before? If you want 'neutral,' you go to Geneva,” the cameraman observed. He liked Geneva.
“What gives?” one of the researchers entered the booth. The producer filled her in.
“Where's that damned consultant?” the Anchor growled.
“Can you run the tape back?” the researcher asked. The control-room crew did that, and she freeze-framed the monitor.
“Dimitrios Stavarkos. He's the Patriarch of Constantinople— Istanbul to you, Rick. He's the head of all the Orthodox churches, kind of like the Pope. The Greek, Russian, and Bulgarian Orthodox Churches have their own heads, but they all defer to the Patriarch. Something like that.”
“They allow their priests to marry, don't they?”
Their priests, yes… but as I recall if you become a bishop or higher, you have to be celibate—'
“Bummer,” Rick observed.
“Stavarkos led the battle with the Catholics over the Church of the Nativity last year — won it, too, as I recall. He really pissed a few Catholic bishops off. What the hell is he doing here?”
“You're supposed to tell us that, Angie!” the anchor noted crossly.
“Hold your water, Rick.” Angie Miriles was tired of dealing with the air-headed prima donna. She sipped at her coffee for a minute or two, and made her announcement. “I think I have this figured out.”
“You mind filling us in?”
“Welcome!” Cardinal D'Antonio kissed Stavarkos on both cheeks. He found the man's beard distasteful, but that could not be helped. The Cardinal led the Patriarch into the conference room. There were sixteen people grouped around a table, and at the foot of it was an empty chair. Stavarkos took it.
“Thank you for joining us,” said Secretary Talbot.
“One does not reject an invitation of this sort,” the Patriarch replied.
“You've read the briefing material?” That had been delivered by messenger.
“It is very ambitious,” Stavarkos allowed cautiously.
“Can you accept your role in the agreement?”
This was going awfully fast, the Patriarch thought. But—“Yes,” he answered simply. “I require plenipotentiary authority over all Christian shrines in the Holy Land. If that is agreed to, then I will gladly join your agreement.”
D'Antonio managed to keep his face impassive. He controlled his breathing and prayed rapidly for divine intervention. He'd never quite be able to decide whether he got it or not.
“It is very late in the day for such a sweeping demand.” Heads turned. The speaker was Dmitriy Popov, First Deputy Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union. “It is also inconsiderate to seek unilateral advantage when everyone here has conceded so much. Would you stand in the way of the accord on that basis alone?”
Stavarkos was not accustomed to such direct rebukes.
“The question of Christian shrines is not of direct significance to the agreement, Your Holiness,” Secretary Talbot observed. “We find your conditional willingness to participate disappointing.”
“Perhaps I misunderstood the briefing material,” Stavarkos allowed, covering his flanks. “Could you perhaps clarify what my status would be?”
“No way,” the anchor snorted.
“Why not?” Angela Miriles replied. “What else makes sense?”
“It's just too much.”
“It is a lot,” Miriles agreed, “but what else fits?”
“I'll believe it when I see it.”
“You might not see it. Stavarkos doesn't much like the Roman Catholic Church. That battle they had last Christmas was a nasty one.”
“How come we didn't report it, then?”
“Because we were too damned busy talking about the downturn in Christmas sales figures,” you asshole, she didn't add.
“A separate commission, then?” Stavarkos didn't like that.
“The Metropolitan wishes to send his own representative,” Popov said. Dmitriy Popov still believed in Marx rather than God, but the Russian Orthodox Church was Russian, and Russian participation in the agreement had to be real, however minor this point might appear. “I must say that I find this matter curious. Do we hold up the agreement on the issue of which Christian church is the most influential? Our purpose here is to defuse a potential flashpoint for war between Jews and Muslims, and the Christians stand in the way?” Popov asked the ceiling — a little theatrically, D'Antonio thought.
“This side issue is best left to a separate committee of Christian clerics,” Cardinal D'Antonio finally allowed himself to say. “I pledge you my word before God that sectarian squabbles are at an end!”
I've heard that before, Stavarkos reminded himself — and yet. And yet, how could he allow himself to be so petty? He reminded himself also of what the scriptures taught, and that he believed in every word of it. I am making a fool of myself, and doing it before the Romans and the Russians! An additional consideration was that the Turks merely tolerated his presence in Istanbul — Constantinople! — and this gave him the chance to earn immense prestige for his churches and his office.
“Please forgive me. I have allowed some regrettable incidents to color my better judgment. Yes, I will support this agreement, and I will trust my brethren to keep their word.”
Brent Talbot leaned back in his chair and whispered his own prayer of thanks. Praying wasn't a habit with the Secretary of State, but here, in these surroundings, how could one avoid it?
“In that case, I believe we have an agreement.” Talbot looked around the table, and one after another, the heads nodded, some with enthusiasm, some with resignation. But they all nodded. They had reached an agreement.
“Mr. Adler, when will the documents be ready for initialing?” D'Antonio asked.
“Two hours, Your Eminence.”
“Your Highness,” Talbot said as he rose to his feet, “Your Eminences, Ministers, we have done it”
Strangely, they scarcely realized what they had done. The process had lasted for quite some time, and as with all such negotiations, the process had become reality, and the objective had become something separate from it. Now suddenly they were at the place they all intended to reach, and the wonder of the fact gave to them a sense of unreality that, for all their collective expertise at formulating and reaching foreign-policy goals, overcame their perceptions. Each of the participants stood, as Talbot did, and the movement, the stretch of legs, altered their perceptions somewhat. One by one, they understood what they had done. More importantly, they understood that they had actually done it. The impossible had just happened.
David Askenazi walked around the table to Prince Ali, who had handled his country's part in the negotiations, and extended his hand. That wasn't good enough. The Prince gave the Minister a brotherly embrace.
“Before God, there will be peace between us, David.”
“After all these years, Ali,” replied the former Israeli tanker. As a lieutenant, Askenazi had fought in the Suez in 1956, again as a captain in 1967, and his reserve battalion had reinforced the Golan in 1973. Both men were surprised by the applause that broke out. The Israeli burst into tears, embarrassing himself beyond belief.
“Do not be ashamed. Your personal courage is well known, Minister,” Ali said graciously. “It is fitting that a soldier should make the peace, David.”
“So many deaths. All those fine young boys who — on both sides, Ali. All those boys.”
“But no more.”
“Dmitriy, your help was extraordinary,” Talbot told his Russian counterpart, at the other end of the table.
“Remarkable what can happen when we cooperate, is it not?”
