The Geneva Option (9 page)

B
ONNET
: Are the uniforms ready?

R
EMBAUGH
: [
reassuringly
] Everything is in place. They all have been distributed.

H
USSEIN
: [
plaintively
] I am sure you all understand how difficult this is for me. I have devoted my whole life to the ideals of the United Nations—

A
USTRIAN VOICE:
[
interrupting
] Mr. Secretary-General, we all appreciate your many years of hard work for the most noble of causes. But we need to know that this decision is made.

R
EMBAUGH
: [
conciliatory
] Fareed, like Charles said, just keep the big picture in mind. You know it's the right thing to do. History will vindicate us.

H
USSEIN
: [
reluctantly, after several seconds
] Yes. The decision is made. We go ahead.

The sound file ended and Yael pressed the stop button. She had heard correctly. The UN secretary-general and two of his most senior officials—together with an unknown Austrian—were plotting to discredit the DPKO, force the resignation of Quentin Braithwaite, and return UN peacekeeping operations to the passive approach of the 1990s, which would allow the warlords to take over again. Five hundred people were about to die —because of the deal she had brokered with Hakizimani. She had instigated a massacre.

Nine

T
he special press conference was standing room only, the atmosphere electric. Hundreds of correspondents were accredited at the UN New York headquarters, and it seemed every one of them was here, all talking in a babel of languages. Sami heard French, Russian, Chinese, German, Portuguese, and Urdu, and that was just nearby. Rumors had swirled through the building all day: that the SG was about to resign, that his secretary had been found dead in his office, that Olivia had been murdered in a crime of passion.

Sami counted TV crews from Reuters, the BBC, Al-Jazeera, Bloomberg News, Associated Press, Russia Today, China's Xinhua agency, and CNN in the first row of cameras, and there were two more rows behind them. A tangle of thick cables snaked across the floor. Sound men lined up their microphones on the long wooden desk, jostling for the best position, and correspondents directed their cameramen to get the best shots. Sami spotted Najwa bossing her crew around and caught her eye. She waved enthusiastically at him and he waved back.

Sami stood away from the crowd at the side of the room, browsing the Internet via his smartphone as he waited for the proceedings to start at 4:00 p.m. Jonathan Beaufort, the tall, languid, and extremely sharp correspondent for the
Times
of London wandered over. Beaufort, the doyen of the UN press corps, had been based there for more than two decades, outlasting several SGs. The
Times
of London, as the Americans referred to the newspaper, and the
New York Times
were fierce rivals, but the usual rules of engagement were that once a story was in print, details and contacts might be shared or, more often, exchanged.

He and Sami shook hands. “Sami, brilliant work. Well done,” said Beaufort. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “A copy of the Goma memo gets you lunch at the Delegates Dining Room,” he murmured. Aside from the SG's private dining suite, the Delegates Dining Room had the best food in the UN building. Its excellent buffet and spectacular views of the East River and the Manhattan skyline ensured it was always crowded with gossiping diplomats. The eavesdropping was of a quality just as high as the cuisine.

Sami shook his head. “Sorry, Jonathan. No can do.”

Beaufort ran his hand through the hair flopping over his forehead. “I have some leads of my own. Trade? Cooperate? Nobody need know.”

Sami said regretfully, “Editor's orders. Exclusive: a
New York Times
investigation.”

Beaufort grinned. He knew when to retreat. “Then let battle commence. May the best man win,” he said. Beaufort wandered off to talk to the new reporter from the France 24 news channel who, rumor had it, was the illegitimate daughter of the French president.

Henrik Schneidermann, the SG's spokesman, walked in and sat down behind a brown wooden desk against a backdrop of dark blue curtains emblazoned with the UN emblem. The room quieted, and the rows of journalists sat down, suddenly still and attentive. Schneidermann was Belgian—pale, podgy, and earnest, with untidy blond hair that had notably thinned out since his appointment a few months earlier. He was a former UN correspondent, but his appointment had caused deep gloom among the press corps. Schneidermann had previously worked for an obscure news agency based in Paris covering development and public health issues. Most of its output was topped and tailed versions of UN press releases, hailing the organization's latest success in combating hideous parasitical diseases.

Schneidermann tapped the microphone and the room fell silent. “I will read a statement from Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general. It concerns the events of today regarding two UN staff members: Olivia de Souza and Yael Azoulay. I will not take questions.”

Y
ael saved and printed out the story she had just read on the
Economist
website and poured herself some more tea. The builder's brew was working nicely, clearing her head for a crash course in the Bonnet Group's history, reach, and influence. The conglomerate had been founded in 1880 by Jean-Claude Bonnet, great-great-great grandfather of Charles, a miner from Brittany who found a rich seam of gold in what was now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. From there the firm had expanded over the decades into transportation, coffee, silver and copper mining, and logging. Last year a scandal had erupted after a French Socialist MP produced documents that detailed how, during the war, the Bonnet Group had continued to trade with the Nazis through Swiss intermediaries in Geneva. The company had flatly denied the claims and stonewalled every attempt to investigate. The furor had eventually faded away, to be replaced with news of the Bonnet Group's latest charitable projects.

The
Economist
noted that turnover in the Bonnet Group's mining division, headquartered in Kinshasa, had more than doubled in the last two years. Several stories from the French press showed various members of the Bonnet family attending receptions and dinners at the Élysée Palace, the home of the French president.

Yael pulled off a piece of the sourdough loaf, slathered it with salmon and cream cheese mix, put six spicy olives on top, and chewed thoughtfully. A separate article in the
Wall Street Journal
noted that both the Bonnet Group and KZX had donated $5 million to UNICEF, the UN Childrens' Fund. Henrik Schneidermann had fulsomely praised the firms as “socially responsible corporate citizens.” Yael added the printout to the growing pile of cuttings and articles now spread over her kitchen table.

She picked up the tub of ice cream, walked over to her window, and looked out over the Hudson River. The sky was dark and gray, the water choppy and flowing fast. The ice cream was delicious, thick, and rich, but provided little comfort. She watched a ferryboat chug its way across to New Jersey, the anger, resentment, and sadness surging again inside her. The shoreline across the water was lined with apartment blocks, and a patchwork of lights glimmered in the afternoon gloom. Her apartment began to shrink and close in on her. And she had an appointment downtown. As far downtown as it was possible to go.

Yael filed away her research, put on her favorite winter coat (a dark-brown vintage 1940s single-breasted wraparound), and grabbed an orange cashmere scarf and her leather backpack. She tore a small piece of paper from her printouts and walked to the door. She scrunched the paper into a tiny ball, reached up, and pressed it against the door frame to hold it in place just as she carefully closed the door. The old-fashioned tells were still the best. If someone entered her flat while she was out the scrap of paper would fall to the floor. If Yael was the first to open the door she would see it tumble.

The wind blew in cold and hard from the west, buffeting her as soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Yael shivered as she walked up the two blocks from Riverside Drive, along 81st Street toward Broadway. Bertrand was standing at his stall on the corner, wearing three woolly hats at once with half a dozen brightly colored scarves draped around his neck—a walking advertisement for his wares. Whatever the weather, Bertrand was there, always with a smile, a rare permanent fixture in her transitory life.

Bertrand Ogimbo was a Congolese refugee—short, round, perpetually cheerful, and full of wonder that he and his children now lived in a country where nobody would burn down his home and kill what was left of his family for belonging to the wrong ethnic group.

Yael waved hello. Bertrand greeted her with a wide grin and open arms. He gestured for her to stop for a moment and immediately unwrapped a purple scarf from his shoulders and handed it to her. “
Pour toi, chérie
,” he said.

Yael smiled and shook her head. She had more scarves, winter hats, and gloves than she could ever wear, which was Bertrand's way of thanking her for using her contacts at the State Department to arrange for him, his wife, and surviving children to obtain US citizenship.

Bertrand looked downcast and beckoned her nearer. Yael surrendered and walked over to him. Bertrand pointed at her orange scarf. Yael shrugged, took it off, and handed it to him.

He held both scarves in one hand and with a few deft movements entwined them. He leaned forward, whispering in Yael's ear as he draped it around her neck. “Down there,
chérie
, a block away, there is a taxi parked on the corner of West End Avenue. Nod if you can see it.”

Yael did as he said. The cab had tinted windows.

Bertrand continued in a low voice: “I see this car every day for a week now. Registration 7H35. It sits there or goes down 81st Street to your apartment building and waits there. I don't like this car. I don't like the kind of men I see around it. They bring back bad memories.”

He stepped back and looked at Yael, handing her a mirror. “
C'est belle, non?
” Once again the smiling salesman.

Yael nodded.The orange and the purple went very well, a dash of color against her brown coat. She reached into her pocket for her wallet, but Bertrand waved her away, with a warm smile and a warning look.

Yael thought about what Bertrand had said as she walked down Broadway to the 79th Street subway station. It was just after 3:00 p.m., a good time to travel downtown. She loved the 1 train, which ran right through the island of Manhattan, starting at 215th Street and ending on Manhattan's southernmost tip at South Ferry, against a spectacular backdrop of the Financial District's skyscrapers. During rush hour, every car was packed solid with commuters. Now there was room to sit, breathe, even stretch her legs out.

Yael also preferred traveling at this time because it was easier to notice if she was being followed. It certainly seemed her apartment was being watched. She walked down the narrow, grimy stairway, bought a new MetroCard with cash, swiped it, and stepped through the turnstile onto the platform. It was empty. As soon as she had started working for the SG she assumed—correctly, she quickly learned—that she would immediately become a person of interest to numerous intelligence services, especially those of the P5: the CIA, MI6, France's DGSE, China's MSS, and Russia's FSB. She took it for granted that her access to high-level decision making and behind-the-scenes deals in war zones where the superpowers had economic interests meant that her telephones were tapped.

She sat down on the wooden bench and loosened her coat. The 2 train express roared past, hurtling downtown, the passengers' faces a blur. Condensation dripped down the cracked tiles, and a stale smell wafted up from a pool of stagnant water nearby. She took out a small Swiss Army knife from her bag and methodically cut her new MetroCard into small pieces.

Yael's cell phone was encrypted to military level. The encryption provided a degree of protection, for example, against Afghan warlords or Iraqi insurgents listening in, but she had no doubt that it had quickly been broken by the US National Security Agency and its foreign rivals. She didn't enjoy the knowledge that somewhere in Beijing, Moscow, or London, a technician was sitting hunched over a computer screen, listening to her calls, but it didn't bother her that much either. Her defense was transparency: she was a good soldier, obediently following the SG's orders, which were the P5's orders. There was nothing extra to discover; she was not negotiating secret deals or accommodations on the side. She did not take bribes, and she had little time for a private life.

But she drew a line at microphones in her home. Thanks to Joe-Don Pabst, she knew her flat was bugged. Joe-Don visited once a month to sweep and debug the apartment. A fresh crop always appeared soon after, but at least they, whoever they were, knew that she knew. Now, though, her life had changed. She was on her own. She needed a telephone, and one that was not traceable—one of several items she would require if she were going to really do this.

Her plan had two parts. The first part, about which she was certain, was to get information—the facts that would finally, after so many years, give her closure about the death of the person she had loved most in the world. It would be messy, difficult, and dangerous, but with skill and some luck she could probably pull it off in such a way that there would be no consequences. The second part, if she went ahead, was an act that was irrevocable. It would change her life forever. But a dark seed had been planted in her mind. Planted some time ago, she realized, and now, watered by the Hakizimani deal, it was germinating more rapidly than she could have imagined.

A
n angry buzz filled the press conference as though a swarm of bees had suddenly been let loose. The journalists turned to each other, incredulous and indignant that Schneidermann would not take questions.

The SG's spokesman tapped the microphone again and the room fell silent. He held a piece of paper in his hand and read slowly in his tenor voice. “Fareed Hussein and all UN staff extend their deepest condolences to the family of Olivia de Souza. She was a loyal and hardworking colleague who devoted many years of her life to advancing the values of the UN, which we all hold so dear. She will be greatly missed.”

He flipped the paper over and read from the second sheet. “Yael Azoulay, a political adviser to the office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, is currently suspended on full pay, pending an investigation into a report in the
New York Times
that she leaked confidential and false information to that newspaper. The investigation will also look at claims of inappropriate personal behavior with local staff while on assignment in Afghanistan. Thank you.”

The indignant clamor erupted afresh as the journalists shouted questions and demands for more information. Sami silently accessed a subscription-only database on his smartphone. Having obtained the information he needed, he watched the pack go into action, led this time, he could see, by Al-Jazeera.

Najwa strode up to Schneidermann, her camerawoman behind her, with a very determined look on her face. She pushed her microphone toward Schneidermann. “Can you confirm that the UN made a secret deal with Jean-Pierre Hakizimani? Is the
New York Times
story true?”