A happy diplomat, it is said, lives in an English house, eats Chinese food, has a Japanese wife, receives American wages and drives a German car. His name is mentioned in the media, his secrets appear exclusively in diplomatic cables, and he vacations alone every summer in the south of France.
Jack, whose middle name is James, but could never brook being called Jimmy, has Robert as his first name, but likewise could never stand to be called Bob. Stationed by the United States Foreign Service in a former European Asian colony, until recently, he was exactly that – a happy diplomat, living in a genuine English house built in the 19th century with his Japanese wife, enjoying authentic Chinese (and Indonesian, Malay, Thai and colonial French cuisine, courtesy of his native-born Cantonese chef/valet), and driving around that country’s languid and lovely capital in a high-end Mercedes Benz coupe. His pay scale was decidedly American, and about as far into six figures as a Foreign Service career will allow. And yes, his name was mentioned, with just the right frequency, emphasis and context, in major media the world over. And until recently… aye, there’s the rub. Until recently, his secrets appeared exclusively in State Department cables directed to Foggy Bottom here in Washington. But, thanks to Wikileaks, as of last weekend, no more. And that, I suppose, is why I found him pounding down top-shelf drinks at the Round Robin Bar this evening.
“Jack!” I called out with a mild degree of concern, since he was obviously deep in is cups, “This is certainly a pleasant a surprise! What brings you Stateside?” Not that I really had to ask, of course.
“[Expletive] Julian Assange,” he grumbled, downing the dregs of an exquisite añejo mojito, rather too quickly. “Goddamn [expletive] [expletive] [expletive]. And that [expletive] traitor Private Bradley Manning. Here’s to them,” he sneered, raising his glass in a mocking toast, “may they both rot in prison for the rest of their lives, die alone in agony, and then roast in Hell forever! Bartender! Gimme… gimme… gimme a Hendrick’s Singapore sling!”
“Oh, come on, old buddy,” I chided as I sat down on the bar stool next to him, “it can’t be all that bad, can it?”
“[Expletive] yeah,” he affirmed, “it sure as [expletive] [expletive] can! For instance, Old Thunder Thighs…”
“You mean,” I interjected, “Secretary of State Hillary Clinton?”
“Who else?” Jack muttered ruefully. “She leaned all over everybody in the field to start spying on foreign targets: e-mail addresses, computer account passwords, biometrics, telephone numbers, frequent flyer numbers, credit card numbers…”
“But wasn’t that,” I inquired in as innocent a tone as I could manage, “just what she wanted our State Department people at the United Nations to do?”
“Officially, yes,” he nodded. “But off the record, well, everybody knew she wanted the skinny on anybody we could get. So, against my better judgment, I went along with it.”
“Well,” I consoled, “It’s an ill wind indeed that blows no good at all, isn’t it? I mean, look at Iran, for example. The Wikileaks diplomatic cables conclusively demonstrate that the leadership of every nation in the Middle East – not just Israel – thinks Iran is ridiculously dangerous, that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is totally insane, and that somebody, somewhere – hint, hint, the United States, for instance – ought to take some, shall we say, very decisive action before the Iranians lose it completely and nuke somebody. I mean, really, that’s good to know, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Jack reluctantly conceded.
“After all,“ I pointed out, “For the last thirty years, Iran has been telling anybody who would listen that the whole world is against it. So at least Wikileaks proved the old adage, ‘Just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean everybody’s not really out to get you.’”
“Right,” Jack nodded, taking another swig, “it just means you’re [expletive] paranoid.”
“Next time Ahmadinejad gets roaring drunk and decides to call me,” I assured him, “that will be one of my major talking points. Also, you have to admit, it was a bit of a revelation for the general public to learn that the Chinese are getting damn sick and tired of North Korea.”
“Yeah,” Jack sighed as he swallowed another very respectable tot of his Singapore sling, “isn’t everybody? Not six months ago, as a matter of fact, people in high places at Foggy Bottom were actually seeking my advice about the North Koreans – with respect to our entire sphere of influence in Asia, you understand. Now, however, after my cables have become… public” – he spat the word out like a piece of spoiled meat – “now… I’ve been recalled – sure, sure, on some utterly transparent pretext about briefings with experts from ExIm Bank about developing the [expletive] tropical hardwood industry in the [expletive] rain forests. Hah! What fatuous [expletive]! Let me tell you Tom, the real reason is no mystery, no, none at all..”
“No mystery?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
“None!” Jack insisted as he hoisted his Singapore sling, drawing down yet another hefty draught. “None at all,” he muttered, disconsolate, slamming his glass on the bar. “Those [expletive] [expletive] here in Washington want some scapegoats, and they’ve decided my cables about the host government where I’m stationed are perfect material!”
“Golly,” I wondered, primarily for his benefit, “I can’t imagine why. And besides, there are over a quarter of a million cables. How could the Powers That Be at State even…”
“I’ll tell you how!” Jack vehemently interjected. “Because I told the truth! Because I was frank! Because I was [expletive] candid, for Jesus Christ’s sake!”
A profound hush fell over the Round Robin Bar as Jack suddenly realized how loudly he had been shouting.
“Sorry,” Jack proclaimed, to no one in particular. “Sorry! High stress job here! Sorry!”
With that, Jack killed his Singapore sling and motioned for the bartender, who pointedly ignored him. Then, like any true diplomat – or confirmed alcoholic, for that matter, not that there’s all that much difference – he grabbed my drink and tossed me a sly wink. Cocking his finger in a jocular manner at the bartender, “Guess he’s kind of busy at the moment,” Jack quipped.
“Gee willikers,” I gushed as I descreetly signaled to the bartender on my own behalf, seeking a prompt replacement for my stolen cocktail, “with two hundred and fifty-one thousand diplomatic cables in the Wikileaks files, isn’t it sort of unlikely that the bigwigs who report to Hillary Clinton have run across anything particular that you did?”
“No,” Jack murmured ruefully. “Not really.”
“Oh, gosh,” I prodded, “what did you… say?”
“I said the prime minister is a pedophile who throws all-night pool parties with little boys,” Jack moaned.
“Is he?” I asked. “And does he?”
“Yes and yes indeed, no doubt about it,” he confirmed with strong sip from his purloined drink, as the bartender delivered its replacement to me with a quick glance askance at Jack.
“Well,” I philosophized, “there’s nothing wrong with telling Washington about something if it’s a fact, now is there? And besides, I haven’t seen anything in the news about that particular gaffe. I bet Wikileaks hasn’t even made it public yet.”
“Correct,” Jack vouched, “they haven’t. But I know I said it, and so does Foggy Bottom.”
“Anything else like that?” I queried.
“[Expletive] yeah,” Jack confessed, “plenty. I said the finance minister was too stupid to figure out how compound interest works – I know because I saw him try to do it. I said the agriculture minister traffics in bootleg tiger skins and untaxed teak and mahogany. I said the chief of the national police is neck deep in the international narcotics trade. I said the crown prince has an uncontrollable gambling habit and has sired over a dozen bastard children. I said the minister of industry is in cahoots with sweatshop operators and colluded in the murder of at least nine labor activists. I said the prisons constantly violate international human rights laws against torture. I said that their army routinely uses rape as a weapon to oppress the peasants in the countryside. I said that US high tech firms send recruiters to their colleges to get unsophisticated but nevertheless very skilled workers shipped back to the United States on H1B visas, where they displace American engineers and toil away for convenience store wages as virtual slaves, only to be dumped back in their home village when their corporate masters are done with them. I said that the mayor of their capital city, a major sex tourism destination, has an organized extortion racket going with the clubs that supply the prostitutes and that he splits the take with the local vice squad. I said that their monarch steals sixty percent of the foreign aid we send them, and the rest of it nearly disappears completely before a single dime gets spent on anything that benefits the populace. I said that their banking system does nothing but launder money for crime cartels and American billionaires dodging taxes. I said…”
“I get the idea,” I politely interrupted. “But it seems to me you’re probably jumping to conclusions. I bet they really did summon you back here for some silly dog-and-pony show put on by some earnest young fools from ExIm Bank.”
“No [expletive]?” Jack exclaimed in an incredulous tone. “You really think so?”
“Sure,” I confidently confirmed. “What you just described is going on in at least a hundred countries around the world. I bet there are eighty or ninety guys like you in the Foreign Service, right now, all sweating bullets about Cable-Gate. You just happened to be the one who had the bad luck of being asked to come back here to Washington during the big brouhaha. Believe me, it’s dollars to doughnuts, old buddy, that tomorrow morning you’re going to confront nothing more problematic than acute boredom.”
“Okay, okay,” Jack slowly breathed, staring down at the bar. “It’s a very reassuring thought, no doubt about it, Tom, and I appreciate it. But what if that’s not the case, huh? What if the big kahunas at State demand an explanation for the things I said? What should I tell them, Tom?”
“If, in my humble opinion, the unlikely case they start beating you up for what you put in your dispatches,” I advised, “don’t even bother with excuses or rationalizations. Because what they really want at the moment, more than any suitable scapegoat, is something they can say in reply to all of the things they are hearing from around the globe about the Wikileaks data dump.”
“Which,” Jack said, looking up at me with a ray of hope beginning to shine in his eyes, “is what?”
“Just suggest they tell everyone,” I whispered, “that you folks at the State Department have such high respect for the truth, you only use it in your diplomatic cables.”