by Adam LeBor
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.
She stood up, touched her toes, stretched, and walked through the park to Central Park West. She crossed Broadway and headed uptown, past the familiar landmarks: the Greek diner with fantastic hamburgers and green plastic garden chairs; the homeless Vietnam vet who lived on the church steps by the 72nd Street subway station, to whom she gave a dollar; and Zabar’s, the world’s greatest delicatessen, on the corner of Broadway and West 80th Street. There she bought herself a large tub of the shop’s special mix of cream cheese and smoked salmon, a sourdough loaf, a pound of mixed olives, and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Brownie ice cream. Yael turned left when she came out of the shop, walked one block north, turned left again, and walked down 81st Street toward the Hudson River. A taxi was parked across the road from her building’s entrance at the corner of 81st and Riverside Drive. The vehicle caught Yael’s attention with its tinted windows, which were unusual for a New York cab. She watched it pull away from the curb, reflexively memorizing its number plate: 7H35.
Her apartment was a good-sized one-bedroom in a 1930s apartment block with thick walls, a uniformed doorman, and a revolving door that opened onto an expansive black and gray marble foyer that looked like a Hollywood film set. Each time Yael stepped inside she half expected to see Cary Grant or Lauren Bacall come out of the elevator. Her kitchen still had the original wooden cabinets and door handles; the small bedroom had an en-suite bathroom with a deep tub and the noisiest pipes in the world; and the living room had high ceilings, huge windows overlooking the Hudson, and enough room for the three-piece art-deco furniture suite that her grandmother had shipped over from Budapest after the war.
Yael greeted the doorman, took the elevator to the 12th floor, and she was home.
Sami felt guilty, regretful, and excited. The foreign desk had ordered a 1,500-word story on the mysterious death of the SG’s diary secretary and the firing of Yael Azoulay. He was the cause of Yael’s unemployment, and yet he had to write about her once again. But the SG had confirmed what Sami’s journalistic instincts were shouting: that something big was brewing in the UN headquarters, and he was way ahead of the pack. Sami’s e-mail inbox pinged: the SG’s press office announced an emergency press conference in two hours. He picked up his sandwich. It seemed his appetite was coming back.
Eight
Yael sat in the half-lotus position on her bed, and turned the piece of lava over in her hand. It was brown and pitted and surprisingly light. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the burnt, sulphurous stink. The lava was somehow reassuring: her senses worked. It was real. Even in her current admittedly febrile emotional state, she was not imagining things. She put the lava down, paused the sound file playing on her laptop, and pushed her headphones off her ears.
It was almost 1:00 p.m. and she had been home for an hour. As soon as she’d returned she sent an e-mail to her UN address. It immediately bounced back with the message that the address was invalid. She was also locked out of the UN computer system. She had called Rina and left a message on her voice mail, but she did not expect a response. Yael unscrewed her pen and uploaded the contents of her UN computer to her personal laptop: all her files, documents, e-mails, and notes, together with all the contact numbers from her UN mobile telephone. From there they would be automatically backed up to an encrypted server, protected by a complex alphanumeric password that only she knew.
Her work done for now, Yael closed her computer and stripped down to a tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. She needed to clear her mind, and Budokan was a recent addiction. At first she had been dismissive of the sport—a mix of the tougher yoga styles and martial arts and favored by Hollywood stars. Yael already knew how to defend herself, brutally if need be. Her father had taught her Krav Maga, the street-fighting self-defense style invented in the back streets of Bratislava in the 1930s to dispense with fascists and then honed by the Israeli Army. Krav Maga was fast, vicious, and effective, using knees, fists, and elbows to attack the eyes, neck, and groin. Yael could swiftly take down two or even three assailants. But she wanted something more, exercise that left her feeling calm after a training session, instead of hyped and ready to take on the world.
Budokan’s mix of the physical and mental did just that. She started the Sun Salutation, the series of yoga poses to start the day. She began slowly—bending, stretching, and holding each pose—and steadily speeded up. Each movement flowed into the next as she concentrated as hard as she could on her body, her breathing, and her protesting muscles. Slowly, the poses worked their magic. Her mind emptied as she moved into the fighting stances: kicking, blocking, punching, and lunging. After half an hour Yael was sweating, and the physical exhaustion brought a welcome and relaxing tiredness.
Until she had recheck
ed her e-mail and found the sound file. It was twelve minutes long and of good quality. The sender line showed an e-mail address: [email protected]. No information there, except that the sender wanted to remain anonymous. But few people knew that buried inside each e-mail was plenty of useful information, if you knew where to look. Which was why she had pushed Sami so hard to send him the e-mail with the Goma memo. She opened the e-mail header of the message from “afriend99” that contained the message’s path through the Internet, all recorded forever.
Yael wanted the IP address given to each computer that would show from where the e-mail had been sent and which Internet service provider had processed it. The IP address was recorded in the first line, next to “Received.” She extracted the ten-digit number, opened a new browser window at a database website, and tapped the series of numbers into the window. The site linked to Google maps automatically. A new window opened and revealed that the mail had been routed through gratis.com, an Internet service provider located on East 43rd Street and Second Avenue that also had its own Internet café. It was two blocks from the UN.
