The Geneva Option

by Adam LeBor

  Yuri was as surly as ever. “What? No work, no, nothing was authorized for your office, Mr. Boustani.”

  “Are you sure? Then who put in the new light, fixed the window, and cleaned up?”

  “We received nothing, no paperwork. No papers, no work,” said Yuri, and hung up.

  Sami put the phone down, his heart thumping, and grabbed the key to his filing cabinet.

  He opened the drawer and looked for the UN report. There it was: “A Statistical Evaluation of UN Feeding Practices in Conflict Zones.” He shook the document to find Roxana’s papers. It was empty.

  Yael picked up her laptop and opened East Side Escorts’ website. It had been a long time since she had dressed to kill, she thought, so perhaps the website could give her some direction. Both men and women were displayed and diligently subdivided by category and subcategory, though all were equally stunning. There was even a “fusion” menu, and she clicked on a picture of Tina, twenty-eight. Tina was half-Japanese and half-Mexican, dressed in expensive-looking lingerie, pearls, and a pair of Christian Louboutins.

  East Side was the agency of choice for visiting UN delegations. Its escorts could be taken to a gourmet restaurant or a diplomatic reception, without fear of faux pas or embarrassment. They were regularly checked for STDs and were intelligent, able to converse on politics and diplomacy as skillfully as they could disport themselves in the bedroom. Human nature being what it was, it was understood on the 38th floor, and by the P5, that visitors, especially those new in town, would want to enjoy Manhattan’s many pleasures, including those of the flesh. When the inevitable query as to where they could enjoy some female company came from delegations’ leaders—whether to the UN or to the hotel concierge, who was always primed beforehand—the answer was East Side. The escorts usually visited the delegates in their hotel rooms, but East Side also ran its own “Exclusive Gentleman’s Club” in a town house in the West Village.

  The General Assembly in September was the agency’s busiest time of the year, so much so that it closed for two weeks afterward to allow its employees to recover. Special visitors to the UN, at any time of the year, were allocated a dedicated individual escort, or even a team, depending on tastes. The escorts were given thick briefing folders on the visitor’s home country and the conflicts being discussed at the UN. The clients were always impressed by their companion’s knowledge of their homelands. Pillow talk usually yielded a rich harvest of intelligence, which the escorts recorded on concealed equipment and then forwarded to the Department of Political Affairs.

  Over the years, as Yael had become trusted with the most sensitive of UN business, she had frequent dealings with East Side escorts. She often took the visitors to the town house in the West Village and naturally always eagerly read the transcripts of the recordings. Yael had become quite friendly with Carmen, the statuesque Argentinian matriarch who ran East Side and was a former secretary at the UN Department of Information. At first Yael had found the whole business distasteful, but after a while, setting up a night of paid-for sex with no emotional entanglements seemed positively straightforward compared to some of the deals she had arranged with warlords like Hakizimani. She sometimes found herself browsing the male section of the website herself. Carmen was grateful for Yael’s discretion and for the amount of business she brought in. She had several times offered Yael a private room with one or more of her best “Caballeros.” Yael had always smiled and declined.

  But now Yael had finally called in the favors she had done for Carmen over the years. When the request for the “Special Executive Massage” came, as expected, from Mr. Lumumba in suite 3017 at the Millennium Plaza hotel, Carmen described in long and salacious detail the charms of Sharon Mantello, her new recruit from Newark. So Sharon it was, due at the hotel in two hours, at 8:30 p.m. Yael picked up Sharon’s driver’s license from the coffee table and examined her own photograph, which stared out from it.

  In the meantime Yael had some work to do. She logged on to her computer, opened her browser, and shut down the anonymizing program that disguised her IP address and data trail. She booked a round-trip ticket to San Antonio on a flight departing from La Guardia at 7:30 the following morning; a seat on a Greyhound bus from the Port Authority terminal on Eighth Avenue to San Antonio at 3:45 a.m., in nine hours’ time; and a business-class train ticket from Penn Station to Austin at 6:45 a.m., all in Sharon’s name.

  The clothes had arrived that afternoon: a black Donna Karan minidress, a matching raincoat and cap, Manolo Blahnik shoes, brown contact lenses, and Chanel tinted glasses. The dress showed her slim figure and toned legs; the raincoat gave her the look of a 1940s film star; and the cap, big enough to pile her hair up inside, and glasses added an air of mystery. Yael tried them on and stood in front of her mirror, turning from side to side. She nodded approvingly. Perhaps it was time for a fresh look. It was a shame that in four hours’ time her new outfit would be in a garbage bag at the bottom of the East River.

  Fourteen

  The security guards eyed Yael suspiciously as she walked along the 30th-floor corridor of the Millennium Plaza. The two men wore identical well-cut black business suits, white button-down shirts, and navy neckties. Bluetooth headsets were perched on their right ears, and a small but telltale bulge distended the left armpit of their jackets. Heads of state and prime ministers visiting the UN were guarded by the Secret Service, but lower-ranking officials were protected by the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, which was part of the Department of State. These two looked familiar, Yael realized. She thought she had seen them guarding the Nigerian minister of resources just a month or so earlier, at a UN conference on aid and development.

  The hotel seemed the same as ever, she thought, with its light-brown walls, dark, patterned carpet, and muted lighting—the bland comfort of five-star anonymity. Which sometimes was very pleasant indeed. Yael felt a wave of nostalgia as she walked down the corridor. Six years ago, for several months, she had spent most Thursday afternoons and early evenings here, as one half of what the French gallantly referred to as un cinq à sept, a love affair conducted between the hours of five and seven in the afternoon, although the liaisons had often lasted much longer. The Millennium had perhaps been a rather obvious choice for a memorably passionate affair with a UN senior staff member, but the hotel staff were discreet, the bed large and comfortable, the views spectacular, and it was just a couple of minutes from the UN headquarters.

  A room-service waiter walked down the corridor toward her, pushing a large trolley covered with used plates and glasses. He was tall and handsome, with short black hair, brown eyes, and tawny skin. The waiter caught her eye and smiled flirtatiously. “Nice outfit, ma’am, if I may say so,” he said as he maneuvered the trolley past her.

  “You may,” said Yael, reading the nametag pinned to his jacket, “Miguel.”

  She was still smiling, buoyed by the brief encounter, when she reached the door. The two security guards moved closer together, blocking her path. One was squat, muscular, and bald, the other tall and wiry, his blond hair cut short in an army buzz cut.

  Yael looked them in the eye. “Good evening, gentlemen. East Side Escorts, for Mr. Lumumba. We are booked for 8:30 p.m.,” she said, raising the pitch of her voice and altering her accent to sound like a Newark native.

  The bald protection officer looked at her with open disdain. Disdain was good, thought Yael, because they had definitely met before at the aid conference. And now, with her photo circulating in the Times, she was relieved he did not immediately recognize her.

  Yael let her coat fall open, revealing her tight-fitting minidress, and subtly pushed her breasts forward. “Mr. Lumumba has ordered our Special Executive Massage, so I will need around an hour.”

  “ID please, ma’am,” the bald guard asked.

  Yael gave him Sharon’s driver’s license. He looked at her and back at the photograph on the plastic card. Yael could sense his disapproval
.

  He checked the license against a list and nodded. “Ma’am, I am required to inform you that suite 3017 has temporarily been declared United Nations territory. United States law no longer applies. Once you go through the door the NYPD has no jurisdiction here. Do you understand?”

  Yael smiled. “No NYPD? It’s my lucky night,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  The blond guard moved forward and stared at her, stony-faced. “Ma’am, if you wish to proceed, I am required to frisk you. I regret we do not have a female colleague available. If you believe any of your rights have been violated, or you have any complaints about our conduct, please take them up with the United Nations Department of Safety and Security. You can find all the necessary information on their website. Please stand here and raise your arms.”

  Yael did as she was told. The blond guard ran his hands up and down her arms, legs, sides, front, and back swiftly and professionally, not lingering anywhere. “Please open your bag,” he said.

  He rummaged in her bag and took out the heavy mobile telephone that Joe-Don had given her at Battery Park and looked at it with disdain.

  “No mobiles, ma’am,” he said. “No electronic equipment of any kind in Mr. Lumumba’s suite. That’s the rules.”

  “No mobile, no massage. Every escort must always have a cell phone with her, for her own security. That’s East Side’s rules.”

  The blond guard looked at her uncertainly. Yael felt his hesitation and growing sense that she looked familiar. She needed to take control and fast. She moved closer. “Mr. Lumumba is going to be very pissed if he does not get his massage. It’s all been booked and authorized. And if he is pissed, the people who sent you here will be even more pissed. Mr. Lumumba is a VIP. Otherwise you would not be here. And you have the paperwork.”

  Yael stepped even closer and took the handset back. “Do I look dangerous? I guess if you are really worried, you could come in and keep an eye on us. If you like.”

  The guard snapped: “One hour, ma’am.”

  Yael walked down a narrow corridor and turned right into the suite, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure it was audible. Hakizimani was standing by the window facing First Avenue, looking out over nighttime Manhattan. He was dressed in a hotel robe and speaking in rapid Kinyarwanda on his mobile telephone.

  “Bon soir, Professor,” said Yael.

  Najwa al-Sameera walked into Sami’s office, took in the sight of the bureau chief on his knees and surrounded by scattered papers, and shook her head disapprovingly.

  “Habibi, what are you doing here so late? It’s after 8:30. And how can you work in this chaos?”

  Sami looked up from the contents of his filing cabinet and desk drawers spread out over the floor. The envelope was definitely gone. And it had definitely been hidden in the UN report. What an idiot he was. Idiots could not help being stupid, but he was not stupid. He was worse than that. He was an amateur. He knew he could not handle alcohol. Instead of having bright ideas with a head full of vodka and beer he should have gone to bed. He looked up to see Najwa standing over him, holding a slim leather portfolio with a Louis Vuitton clasp.

  “The door was open. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, putting the folder on his desk.

  He stood up and shook his head. “No, not at all.” Najwa was a distraction but a welcome one. The search, he knew, was futile.

  Najwa looked around the room with interest. “Fresh paint, new light, clean walls. So that’s what they were doing. ” She stood with her hands on her hips and looked thoughtful. “Ah-ha! I can see the headline: ‘From Triumph to Triumph: Fareed Hussein Saves the World’.”

  “Sure. A paint job. That’s all it takes,” Sami replied drily. He paused. “That’s what who was doing?” he asked, remembering his conversation with Yuri, the building manager.

  “The maintenance guys I saw in here last night.”

  “Close the door, Najwa,” he said, alert now.

  “You want to be alone with me? What about Foxy Roxy?”

  Sami could not help smiling. “Roxana is busy with her boyfriend.”

  Najwa nodded. “Yes, she is. I could have told you that, before you started buying her cocktails at Grad. Did you learn anything interesting?”

  “How do you know about that?” Sami demanded.

  Najwa raised her sculpted eyebrows. “Do you give me your sources, habibi?”

  Sammy shook his head. Najwa stepped closer and looked him up and down. “But now she has your whole life story, which you just had to share, as she stared at you with her big, baby-blue eyes, totally entranced by your wit and sophistication.”

  “Not all of it,” he said feebly.

  “Enough, I am sure. Foxy Roxy moves fast. Don’t worry, you are not the first and won’t be the last to fall for her charms. I am sure her boyfriend will be out of the picture in a month once the Romanian Information Service has everything it needs from him. Maybe you can try again then.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Najwa put her hand on Sami’s arm. “Habibi, next time you are missing Yael and want some female company you know where I am. I will even buy you a drink.” She sat in Sami’s chair and made herself comfortable. “Don’t worry. I did not come here to torment you. I had quite an exciting evening myself yesterday.”

  Sami nodded. “The maintenance men.”

  “I was working late on a package about the Year of Africa. Just after eleven o’clock I saw these guys going in and out of your office. I came in to take a look. They were fitting the new lamp and window. But they were unfriendly and working extremely quickly, not at the usual UN pace. Something did not feel right. They asked me what I wanted. I said I was a colleague of yours, and had left something in there. Your filing cabinet was open. One of them was holding a blue envelope,” she said, enjoying Sami’s now rapt attention.

  Najwa paused and took her buzzing iPhone out of her trouser pocket. She slowly flicked through the menu, a faint smile playing on her face.

  “Najwa, did I read e-mails when you wanted the Goma memo?” asked Sami indignantly.

  “No. I’m sorry. How rude of me.” She smiled and put the handset away. “Where was I? Oh yes, they asked me what I had forgotten? ‘That,’ I said, pointing at the envelope. At first they did not want to give it to me. They said it was theirs. I said it was mine. This went on for a while.”

  “And then?” demanded Sami.

  “I took their picture with my iPhone. I told them I would find out their names and make them famous. On Al-Jazeera, Osama bin Laden’s favorite channel.”

  “Where is it?” demanded Sami, relief coursing through him.

  Najwa looked at the portfolio on his desk.

  Sami tried to grab it but Najwa swept it out of his grasp. “Are we sharing?” she asked.

  Sami nodded.

  “Then open it,” she said, handing Sami the portfolio.

  Yael watched the emotions play over Hakizimani’s face: puzzlement, suspicion, recognition, and pleasure. He put his mobile phone down and smiled widely. “It really is you.”

  Joe-Don’s instructions sounded in Yael’s head: take and keep control of the situation and set the pace. Just imagine you are holding one of your negotiations. Keep the subject relaxed, let him feel he is running things. Then get what you need and make your move. Quickly.

  Yael took her cap off, shaking her hair loose over her shoulders. “Yes, it is. I hope you are not disappointed.”

  Hakizimani shook his head. “No, no, of course not,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s just that I was expecting . . . someone else.”

  “That’s me. The UN runs all sorts of agencies, Professor.”

  “So I see,” he replied, looking at her appreciatively.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Yael asked. She could hear his mind trying to process the situation: What was she doi
ng there? What did she want and what did she have to offer? And was she really going to have sex with him?

  Hakizimani nodded. “Of course. What would you like?”

  “A glass of dry white wine.”

  Yael sat down on the sofa, letting her dress ride a little way up her legs, and placed her handbag on the floor. She looked around the suite as Hakizimani stood at the minibar on the other side of the room and opened a small bottle of wine. The lounge was comfortable and spacious, around thirty feet by twenty, and smelled of furniture polish and air-conditioning. The dark-blue patterned carpet toned in with lighter blue walls, and abstract art hung on the walls.

  The modern sofa, also blue, sat in the center of the room. There was a coffee table, writing desk, a chair, and a fireplace. Double doors with wood and glass panels led through to the bedroom. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label stood on the coffee table next to an ice bucket and four crystal glasses, together with a box of pills.

  Hakizimani sat next to her and handed her the glass of wine. “Should I get dressed?” he asked, clearly preferring not to.

  Yael looked at him, assessing how much of his bare skin was exposed. Hakizimani’s neck was uncovered and his dressing gown was open halfway almost down to his navel. His legs were also bare. Thankfully she could see the top edge of a pair of boxer shorts.

  She moved slightly closer and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Hakizimani raised his glass. “À votre santé.”

  Yael clinked her drink against his. “And to yours. Sans volcanoes. I’m sorry I had to leave town so quickly.”

  “Oui. The earth moved, but not for us. At least not yet,” he said, laughing as he rested his hand on Yael’s leg.

  She gently lifted it off. “No, not yet.”

  Hakizimani sat up, affronted, a man unused to having his advances rebuffed. “What exactly is the purpose of your visit, Ms. Azoulay? The New York Times and CNN say that you have been sacked in disgrace. All the necessary arrangements with the UN have been made. I see no role for you as an intermediary at this stage.”