Marie Lehnert, Advisor on Cultural and Humanitarian Issues

The hotel room smelled of air freshener and stale air conditioning. Twelve square meters, perhaps. A narrow bed, a desk, a simple chair, a flat-screen monitor embedded in the wall. The only window couldn't be opened; the glass was thick and reflective, so that the outside world was invisible. A narrow door led to the bathroom with a shower.

Marie Lehnert closed the door behind her, leaned her back against it, and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, as if to make sure she had really arrived.

The male members of the delegation were accommodated six floors higher, in suites with living rooms and bedrooms and a view of the illuminated city. That had been communicated to her without further ado – organizational reasons, security protocol. Marie had nodded, smiled professionally, and said nothing. She had expected them to try to humiliate her. After all, the Americans had originally insisted on an all-male delegation; the mere fact that Marie was able to travel with them was a major diplomatic success for the European Union.

She sat down on the bed, placed her hands on her knees, and exhaled slowly.

The journey from the airport had been like going through a tunnel. Black vehicles, tinted windows, motorcycles in front and behind. No stops. No looking outside. They had called it a security measure. Protection. She had wondered who they were actually trying to protect her from. Or was it the other way around, were the Americans to be protected from her?

Now, in silence and solitude, she felt the weight of her task bearing heavily on her. Officially, she was a protocol officer. Taking notes, filing, observing. Recording results, not making decisions. She would play her part. Professionally. Unobtrusively. Efficiently.

She knew that was only half the truth. Her presence was a concession—and a test. For the Americans as well as for the Europeans. How far did political liberalization really go? How much womanhood was acceptable to the US?

She wondered how the women who were born here lived. Whether they sat in rooms like this and also reflected on their role – or whether thinking was something they had been conditioned out of. The briefings had talked a lot about ideology, education, stability. Little about individuals. Always just collectives.

During the flight, Étienne Moreau, the French chief negotiator and official head of the EU delegation, had announced that there would be a preliminary meeting that evening to discuss initial analyses and coordinate strategy. Marie assumed that the meeting would take place upstairs in his suite. To be sure, she dialed the number of his deputy, Lars Holmgren, on her cell phone. The Swede was a specialist in natural resources, supply chains, and energy. A technocrat, always objective. He was interested in numbers, not ideologies.

The phone rang several times before he answered. Lars had to speak very loudly for her to understand him. In the background, Marie heard lively, casual conversations and music—electronic harmonies with a dull rhythm.

"Oh, it's you, Marie. Étienne canceled the preliminary meeting because the Americans invited us to an informal gathering to get to know each other on a personal level. I'm sorry, I thought he had notified you. It's probably better if you're not there, given the sensitive political environment. I'm sure you understand."

Marie rattled off a few platitudes about how that was okay and hung up.