Diplomatic Immunity - Grant Sutherland - Hardcover

9780553801866

0553801864

"We're going to be late," Patrick O'Conner remarks unhappily. We have just emerged from a twenty-minute session in the local Starbucks, Patrick, over two light grandes, telling me his woes. Now he considers the thickening crowd on the sidewalk before veering right, wiping the last muffin crumbs from his mouth with a handkerchief as I fall into step beside him. "You know," he says, continuing his complaint as we walk, "it's unbelievable. This thing's been on the cards how long? Years. And here we are, the whole jamboree set to start -- for chrissake, they'll be voting on it in two days -- and still no one knows the numbers. Tell me, Sam. Really. What kind of cockass thing is that?" This question, in variations, is one I have been listening to every day now for at least a month. So I incline my head but offer no comment, and as we push our way through the sightseers, Patrick goes on delivering his latest thoughts on the subject, the main matter of debate at Turtle Bay, in fact, for over a year: the elevation of the Japanese to a place at the top table of international diplomacy, a permanent UN Security Council seat. What Patrick refers to in private moments, in his inimitable Australian way, as the Nip Question. "Every tinpot bozo lining up for his say, and the Japs still walking around like a buncha zombies, like it's in the bag, as if it'll all go through on a nod from Uncle Sam." He shakes his head, disconsolate. He swears. And then, mercifully, he lapses into a thoughtful silence. He is not a tall man, and is in his late fifties, but as he barrels forward, the crowd parts around him like water around a stone. Patrick O'Conner, the UN's Undersecretary-General for Legal Affairs, has been my boss for almost three years. I have become accustomed to his moods, but today, this morning, his disgruntlement has gone into overdrive, reached an altogether higher order of magnitude. He sweeps a hand across his forehead. He sets his bulldog jaw tight. He does not look happy. Patrick, as everyone in the Secretariat knows, has fallen out of favor lately with the thirty-eighth floor. Breaking with his usual practice, the Secretary-General no longer calls Patrick to his side at the onset of any crisis. He has ceased to find Patrick's speechwriting talents indispensable. He does not invite Patrick back to his grand Upper East Side residence, as he once did so often, to shoot the breeze and drink whiskey till all hours of the night. And everyone knows, too, that the reason for Patrick's fall is the vote, just two days away now, on Japan. Following Patrick's advice, the SG has forced the pace on the vote, driving it to the top of this year's General Assembly agenda. Patrick, in a rare miscalculation, was certain the Japanese had the numbers. In fact, they still may. But the whole thing is so delicately balanced now that no one can call it, and if the worst should happen, if Japan loses the vote, then the SG, after all his efforts, will look like a fool. Which is why for the past several weeks Patrick has been kept at arm's length from the thirty-eighth floor. Should the need for a scapegoat arise, Patrick is shaping up as ideal material. Now Patrick shoulders his way impatiently through the sightseers and tourists who have gathered near First Avenue. It is not just me. Patrick O'Conner is unhappy with the world. "Speak to Hatanaka," he tells me as we bump together in the throng. Right, I think. Okay, now I get it. Why Patrick has asked me to Starbucks for a quiet word, why I have just spent twenty minutes listening to his beef. He has been softening me up, priming me to comply with this request. Speak to Hatanaka. When I pretend not to have heard, Patrick touches my arm. "I want you to speak to Hatanaka. Get him to ease off this crap he's talking, trashing his own bloody country. Who's h