The Geneva Option (7 page)

“Can I help?” she asked.

Yael shook her head. “No, but thanks for asking,” she replied, and meant it.

Eventually the elevator reached the ground floor and the policemen escorted her past the newsagent and candy store, through the turnstiles, and into the public lobby. It was crowded with tourists and visitors waiting for their passes at the security desk. Almost everyone turned to look at the spectacle of Yael and her escorts. The policemen walked her through an exhibition of gruesome photographs commemorating the Rwandan genocide. A large banner proclaimed “Never Again,” and a floor-to-ceiling poster for a charity called Africa Child Rescue displayed a photograph of near-naked children laboring in a mine. A bank of flat-screen televisions covering most of a wall showed Fareed Hussein nodding gravely as he was interviewed by UN television, and promising that the UN had learned the lessons of the 1990s. Africa Child Rescue, he intoned, was a new initiative, a unique program that would be at the heart of the UN's Year of Africa, combining the resources and dynamism of the corporate world with the knowledge and experience of the UN.

They stopped at the security tent. The chubby senior officer patted her down slowly, drawing out the process as long as he could. The young officer put her bag through the X-ray machine and guided her through the metal detector. Finally, the policemen walked her past the hordes of gawking tourists, down the steps, through the black metal fence, and onto the sidewalk at First Avenue.

“You are now free to go, ma'am,” said the junior officer regretfully.

Yael smiled. “Yes. I know. This is New York. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“I'll remember that on your next visit to the UN, ma'am,” he replied, stone-faced.

Yael pointed at his hand. The policeman looked down at his palm, stained with ink from her fountain pen.

“It's indelible. It doesn't come off,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Ever.”

His face twisted with anger, and he stepped toward her.

Yael nodded. “Be my guest. Because if you take one step closer, officer, I will call the NYPD and have you charged with assault.”

The senior officer put his hand on his colleague's arm. “Leave it. We're done,” he said, shaking his head as they walked back into the security tent.

Yael stood still for a moment, her bravado evaporating as she tried to process what had happened to her. It was a crisp autumn day, the kind New York did well. A cold breeze blew in hard from the East River; the sun was shining in a bright blue sky dotted with white clouds. Sirens howled in the distance, traffic honked and stalled, and the air smelled of coffee and exhaust fumes. Everything looked exactly the same as usual. The giant sculpture of a revolver with a twisted barrel was perched on its plinth, the lines at the security tent snaked down to the pavement, and the flags of the member states were a blaze of color, flapping in the wind. The new American UN mission loomed over the corner of East 44th Street and First Avenue, its cream-colored concrete façade with no windows on the lower floors still fresh and shiny. But she knew nothing would ever be the same.

Yael stepped off the sidewalk without looking. A tourist bus flew toward her, honking so loudly she jumped backward instinctively, her heart pounding as the bus thundered past. Yael shook her head, focused, and stepped into the road again, this time looking carefully as she crossed First Avenue. She turned left at the corner of 46th Street at the Turkish UN Mission, walked past the blue wooden fence around the empty lot that covered most of the block, and continued up First Avenue toward the Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza. The open space was a popular site for protests. A crowd of dozens of demonstrators was gathered, shouting and waving placards with graphic pictures of the Rwandan genocide. Two cops stood nearby chatting.

A young Indian woman waving a megaphone stood behind a large banner that declared, “No deals with murderers: put Hakizimani on trial.” Her upper-class British accent sounded familiar. Yael went to take a closer look. After all, it was thanks to her that they were there at all.

Seven

T
he young Indian woman with the megaphone was, indeed, familiar. She was Rina, the only daughter of Fareed Hussein. Rina was enthusiastically leading the crowd in a chant: “African resources for Africa!” and “No more UN sellouts!” Rina Hussein was one of Yael's rare failures. A year or so earlier the SG sent Yael on what he called “his most delicate mission”—to try to reconcile with his estranged daughter. The two young women quickly became close. Rina was great company: sharp, fast, and possessed of a dry wit. Yael did not have many friends and found herself drawn to Rina, who certainly seemed to enjoy her company. Yael kept procrastinating over the real reason for her meetings with the SG's daughter, perhaps because she sensed the likely outcome. One evening, over dinner at a chic bistro in Harlem, Yael carefully raised the topic of Rina's father and his wish to make contact. Rina said nothing. She simply picked up her bag and walked out. She never returned Yael's calls or e-mails. Eventually Yael gave up.

Yael looked briefly and regretfully at the SG's daughter, and walked around the demonstration into Dag HammarskjÖld Plaza. The large plaza, named for the UN's second secretary-general, was one of Yael's favorite places in Manhattan. The plaza covered most of a block between First and Second Avenues on East 47th Street. Considering it was located between two of the city's busiest roads, the plaza was a surprising oasis, at least when there were no demonstrations. A row of wooden benches lined either side, under iron streetlights garlanded with flower baskets. There was a café in a greenhouse—a popular spot for diplomats who wanted to meet away from their offices—six fountains under square wrought-iron canopies, and a small garden named for the actress Katherine Hepburn, who had lived nearby. The rows of trees on either side almost touched each other, making a canopy of branches. The trees were shedding their greenery now, and the wind blew the autumn leaves across the wide open space.

Yael sat down on a bench and looked out at the nearby monument to Raoul Wallenberg. Four black pillars pointed skyward, while a briefcase lay at the bottom, signifying unfinished business. Wallenberg, like Hammarskjöld, was also a Swedish diplomat, but based in Budapest in 1944. Wallenberg had saved tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews in the closing months of the Second World War by issuing them with Swedish papers and placing them under his protection. Over the years, when Yael was plagued with doubts about the deals she had brokered, even though she knew they were the lesser of two evils, she often came here to sit and think. Wallenberg too had dealt with the devil, the Hungarian Arrow Cross Nazis, giving their murderous regime the diplomatic recognition they craved by deigning to negotiate with them. That was how he had plucked Yael's grandmother, Eva Weiss, from a lineup of Jews waiting to be shot or deported. Wallenberg had been arrested by the Soviets in Budapest in January 1945 and had never been seen again. Mystery still surrounded his fate.

There were still many questions over Hammarskjöld's death too. Hammarskjöld had died in 1961 in a plane crash in what is now Zambia while mediating between the newly independent Congolese government and secessionists in the province of Katanga. Despite three official inquiries, the cause of the crash had never been finally determined. Many in the UN still believed that Hammarskjöld was killed by Western intelligence agencies because he was about to achieve something still far out of reach: African control of its own resources.

Yael had read a lot about Congo before her trip to Goma. The chaos and continuing bloodshed were rooted in its colonial past under Belgium's brutal rule. Belgium had plundered the country's wealth and slaughtered or enslaved much of its population. Congo's declaration of independence in 1960 had enraged powerful Western business interests not just in Brussels but across Europe and the United States, especially when Patrice Lumumba, the new president, declared, to wild applause from his compatriots, “We will no longer be your monkeys.” Lumumba was a handsome and charismatic figure who believed in pan-Africanism and in Africans' right to benefit first from Congo's wealth—beliefs that made him many powerful enemies. With Belgium's help, the mineral-rich province of Katanga seceded from the new state.

As Congo collapsed in civil war, Lumumba turned to the Soviet Union for political support. UN troops arrived to stabilise the country. But they had little effect on the ground, and the fighting continued between Lumumba's government and the Katangese. Aided by the CIA, Joseph Mobutu, a colonel in the army, organized a coup. Allen Dulles, the CIA chief, personally ordered Lumumba's removal from power. Despite the presence of UN troops, Lumumba was arrested and flown to Katanga, bound and gagged. Lumumba and two comrades were propped up against a tree and executed by a firing squad commanded by Belgian police officers. Lumumba's body was later dissolved in acid to prevent his grave becoming a shrine.

Had Lumumba lived, Yael and many others believed, the whole of African history would be different. Mobutu served as president until he was finally deposed in 1997. He was one of the greatest kleptomaniacs in history, embezzling an estimated $5 billion while his citizens starved. He built a runway for the Concordes that he chartered to go shopping in Paris. None of this mattered to Paris or Washington or London, because Mobutu was a staunch anti-Communist and keen friend of the mining companies. But with the end of the Cold War Mobutu was no longer needed. He had supported the Hutu extremists during the Rwandan genocide, and when two years later, in 1996, his government tried to expel Tutsis living in Congo—then known as Zaire—they rose up against him, together with Congolese opposition groups. Aided by the Tutsi government in Rwanda, the united opposition marched on Kinshasa and Mobutu went into exile, launching new rounds of wars and scrambles by Western companies for control of Congo's resources.

Yael's mind drifted back to Goma: the gaggle of street kids that greeted her with hugs and smiles when she slipped them bars of chocolate from the UN stores, Lake Kivu shimmering in the morning sun, and Hakizimani, the doctor turned mass murderer. Yael was lost in her reverie when she heard a familiar voice call her name. She turned to see Sami Boustani walking briskly down the plaza toward her and waving. He was the last person she wanted to talk to, but she was not about to run away. And she realized she did have something to say to him. She sat back on the bench, holding her bag against her chest, her emotions surging inside her once more.

Sami stopped and stood in front of her. He looked at Yael, running his fingers through his hair. A police car rushed by, its siren howling.

“Can I sit down?” he asked when the noise faded away.

Yael said nothing and stared at him.

Sami could not meet her eyes. He swallowed nervously. “I had to use it.”

Yael continued watching him silently.

Sami looked down at the ground and back up at Yael. “It's my job. I can't sit on a story like that. Even for you.”

Her voice was cold. “Your job. What about my job? Which I no longer have. Thanks to you. That's my reward for helping you out so many times. You didn't even give me a heads-up.”

“They really fired you? I'm so sorry. I tried to contact you. You were traveling. I kept getting your voice mail.”

“I checked it as soon as I got off the plane. There was nothing from you.”

“Why did they let you go? It's not your fault that the story ran in the
Times
.”

“No,” said Yael, “it's yours.”

Sami watched the wind blow her hair around her face and fought a powerful urge to brush it away from her mouth. “You are right. I should have told you it was going to run.”

“It doesn't matter now. Who sent you the memo?” Yael demanded.

Sami sighed. “You know I can't tell you that.”

She sensed his confusion and attraction to her and decided to push home her advantage. She stood up and stepped toward him.

“I think you owe me that much,” she said, making sure to hold his gaze.

Sami smiled tentatively. “The truth is, I don't know who sent it. It's from a Gmail account. It could be anybody.”

“Then forward the e-mail to me,” she said, her voice friendlier now.

Sami looked relieved at the change in Yael's expression. “Can I buy you a coffee? Lunch? Dinner maybe?”

Yael looked at him. “Send me the e-mail and we can talk about it.”

A stretch limousine with tinted windows and UN diplomatic plates drove past, accompanied by motorcycle outriders in front and behind. The noise of the motorcycles was so loud that conversation was impossible.

Sami waited again and shook his head. “I can't do that.”

“Then at least tell me the sender's e-mail address.”

Sami looked down at his feet.

“A printout?” Yael asked. “Nobody will ever know.”

“I'm really sorry,” he said regretfully.

Yael leaned closer and spoke into Sami's ear. “There is something you could do for me.”

Sami smiled tentatively. “What?”

“Stay away from me. And don't call me ever again,” she snapped.

Yael turned and marched away as fast as she could through the plaza. Her emotions burst open and her eyes misted up. She angrily brushed them away, trying to disentangle and control the feelings surging inside her. Shock, anger, sadness at Olivia's death, and a profound feeling of betrayal—betrayal by the SG, by the UN, and yes, by Sami.

She walked out onto East 47th Street, crossing Second and Third Avenues, and continued westward, her feelings ebbing and flowing with an almost physical intensity as she steered through the crowds. The movement calmed her. By the time she reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, she had slowed down and her eyes were clear. Yael turned right and walked through the hordes of tourists, past the high-end shops and boutiques, continuing a dozen blocks north, past the Plaza Hotel, the statue of General Sherman immortalized on his horse, and into Central Park.

The Hansom Cab drivers gathered at the park's entrance called out to her and she was almost tempted to hire one. What luxury it would be, she thought, to sit back in the upholstered seat and be chauffeured around the park, listening to the reassuring clip-clop of the animal's hooves, enjoying the greenery and fresh air. To let someone else take control of her life for half an hour. Most of the drivers were from Africa, and several were from Congo. She often stopped to chat with them and knew a few by sight. But today she did not feel like talking. And what would she tell them? That she had ensured that one of the continent's greatest killers would go free, so that the world could keep using its cell phones?

Instead she smiled, shook her head, and walked into the park toward her favorite bench, looking out over the Pond. The grand apartment blocks of Central Park West loomed in front of her, but the Pond was a verdant oasis, a landscaped lake ringed by trees and a curving path. The water rippled gently in the autumn sunlight, turning from olive green to khaki to gray and back again. A leaf drifted down onto the surface and the air was filled with birdsong. A raft of ducks ventured out from the bank, heading in all directions.

The setting calmed Yael. She closed her eyes and went to her favorite place. She emptied her mind and concentrated hard until she could feel the sand beneath her bare feet and the bright Mediterranean sun on her skin, hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, smell the kebabs sizzling in the park nearby. She was on a small stretch of beach, exactly on the border between Tel-Aviv and Jaffa. The Ottoman seawall curved behind her, and the fishing boats bobbed out to sea on the turquoise waves. She could look right to the modern tower blocks of the Tel-Aviv seafront or left to the Jamia al-Bahr, the Mosque of the Sea, and the winding alleys of Old Jaffa. She sat on the sand in the middle, precisely located and happy. Her sixth sense—of intuition and vivid visualization—was sometimes a curse, but now it was a gift, bringing respite, no matter how brief.

A police siren howled through the park, breaking her reverie. She opened her eyes. The ducks had vanished from the pond, and the sun was now hidden behind thick, dark clouds. The wind was up and she suddenly felt cold.

It was time to take stock and deal with today's reality. Her future with the UN was over; that was clear from the manner of her departure. She had been deliberately humiliated. Hussein could just have easily arranged a discreet exit from the building; she knew there had been enough of those. Instead she had been paraded like a criminal. Dozens of staffers had witnessed the policemen escorting her through the public lobby out to First Avenue. She could imagine the breathless gossip now whizzing around the building. Doubtless Sami Bous-fucking-tani was already tapping away at another story.

So now what? Judging by her experience in the elevator, she doubted that many of her former colleagues would remain in contact. Rina would not talk to her. Olivia was dead. Perhaps Thanh would stay in touch, or maybe Quentin Braithwaite. But for how long without having the UN in common? Yael knew she was on her own now. She certainly had some very useful skills, especially for anyone wanting to disarm a suicide bomber, cut a deal with a genocidal African warlord, or arrange covert US military protection for Afghan opium fields in exchange for not blowing up gas and oil pipelines. But the confidentiality agreement she had signed meant that she could never disclose her real work to potential employers. All of whom, apart from one type of agency, would dismiss her as a fantasist. And that was a world she had no desire to reenter. Plus, judging by Hussein's pencil snapping, she would be in danger if she talked.

Maybe, she thought, it was time to forget about the whole career thing. Two young Upper East Side mothers walked by, perfectly made up and dressed in precisely coordinated designer outfits, while their Hispanic maids pushed their baby strollers several paces ahead. A pretty little girl, two or three years old, looked out from her Eskimo parka, its hood ringed with fur. She laughed and waved at her. Yael waved back, trying to ignore the sudden surge of longing and the dull ache inside her womb. She checked the date on her watch: September 25. It was exactly a year ago to the day. Fareed Hussein's timing was as impeccable as ever.