The Geneva Option

by Adam LeBor

  Yael smiled, her voice conciliatory. “Professor, please call me Yael. And don’t believe everything you see on television or read in the newspapers. It suits us for the moment for people to believe that I have been fired. But I am here on behalf of the secretary-general, just as I was in Goma. Obviously I could not arrive at the hotel in a UN helicopter, or a car with little blue flags over the headlights. Now that you are in New York on such a sensitive mission,” she continued, sipping her wine, her tongue touching the rim of the wineglass, “we need to be discreet. We may have to meet quite often. And I am glad about that. But let’s not rush things.” She was pleased to see that her hand remained steady.

  The subtle promise worked, and she felt Hakizimani calming, his wounded pride now mollified. Now it was her turn to seize the moment.

  “Professor, we also have some unfinished business,” she said, holding his gaze.

  “What?” he asked, his voice wary.

  “The SG wants to talk more about the terms.”

  “What terms?”

  “The five hundred,” said Yael confidently, her heart speeding up. The five hundred people that you and your friends at the UN plan to kill, she thought, her fury fueling her courage.

  Hakizimani’s face darkened. He put his glass down and sat up straight, flirtatiousness gone. “No. No, no, and no. I was warned about this. The real negotiations with the UN start once the deal is done, not before. That’s what everyone told me. Now it seems they were right. This is typical. The five hundred are the spark. Everything flows from that. Everything. Years of work and planning.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “You did not object in Goma. Why is it a problem now?”

  Because I didn’t know anything about it, thought Yael. Suddenly she knew what to do.

  “There is a change of plan, Professor. It cannot happen. The SG and the P5 insist.”

  Hakizimani stiffened and he stared at her. Yael tensed, feeling his anger rise, half-expecting him to hurl the whisky or a glass across the room, or even at her. She felt the familiar churning in her stomach. The worldly Sorbonne graduate had vanished, replaced by the Butcher of Kigali. Dealing with men like Hakizimani was like walking blindfolded through a minefield. Instinct was her only guide.

  Yael had rarely been roughed up or directly threatened on a mission. There was no need. Even with Joe-Don nearby, the promise of deadly violence was always lingering in the background. Like Hakizimani, the warlords—whether in Baghdad, Gaza, or Kabul—were often sophisticated, educated men. She had once had a long conversation with a Taliban leader in Helmand Province about the use of Twitter as a means of spreading fundamentalist Islamic messages. He was an enthusiastic advocate and had proudly showed her his doctorate from MIT. Two minutes later an aide appeared and whispered in his ear. The Taliban leader’s face turned cold and his eyes became distant. Yael followed him outside. A skinny frightened man in his early twenties with a straggly beard had been thrown out of the back of a truck. He lay in the dust, whimpering. The Taliban leader knelt on the ground next to him, stroking his hair and reassuring him. He beckoned Yael back inside. The fusillade of shots sounded soon after.

  Yael knew the danger signs: Hakizimani sat silent and still, the muscles around his mouth tight. His eyes had turned dull, as though covered by a fine film. She knew he would kill her, here and now, without a second’s hesitation, if she impeded his plans. She gripped the wineglass tightly, ready to smash it against the table edge if he moved against her.

  Hakizimani spoke slowly and carefully: “You tell your SG this. If he starts altering the terms now, I will personally ensure that our communications during 1994 and subsequent years are leaked to the press. My soldiers have the guns and the UN uniforms. They attack the Tutsi camp at dawn local time.” He looked at his watch. “Which is in about two hours.”

  Fifteen

  Sami put on his jacket and placed the envelope in the inside pocket.

  Najwa stared at him indignantly. “You said you would—”

  Sami put his finger to his mouth, shook his head, and gestured at the walls and the ceiling. Understanding dawned on her face.

  “—buy me a drink to say thank you,” she smoothly continued.

  “Sure,” said Sami. “Cocktails at Grad? I’ll call and book a table for nine-thirty. That should give us enough time.”

  “Where else? Just let me get my coat.”

  Sami and Najwa walked down the gloomy corridor to the Al-Jazeera bureau, passing the Times of London’s office on the way. Jonathan Beaufort’s workplace was even smaller than Sami’s, presumably because of the steady stream of powerful stories he produced. Beaufort’s investigations into the Oil for Food Program—exposing the endemic corruption of the Iraqi aid scam that was supposed to feed the Iraqi population and had greatly enriched many UN officials along the way—had caused fury on the 38th floor. Several members of the US Congress had used his coverage to argue for a massive cut in the US contribution to the UN’s budget, although the money still flowed as steadily as ever. Beaufort’s work also resulted in several of Fareed Hussein’s aides now serving lengthy prison sentences. Somehow the SG himself had managed to survive, discarding his protégés like a combine harvester spewing chaff.

  The Times of London bureau lacked any kind of window, even a cracked one, and the British reporter usually kept his door open to let some air in—and to keep an eye on passing traffic. He poked his head out when he heard their footsteps and greeted Sami and Najwa, barely able to control his curiosity. What were the New York Times and Al-Jazeera up to?

  Sami said hi and no more, and steered Najwa toward her workplace, his hand firmly on her arm, feeling Beaufort’s eyes on them.

  The gray metal door opened onto another world: Al-Jazeera’s suite was spacious, light, and comfortable, spread over three rooms in the corner of the building, with a panoramic view of the East River. The black and chrome furniture was sleek and modern, the computer monitors slim, state-of-the art LED models. A high-tech brushed-steel coffee machine hissed and gurgled in the corner, scenting the air with the smell of roasting beans and a long, comfortable-looking leather sofa ran the length of one wall. The shelf above Najwa’s desk was crowded with awards, including two gold statuettes from the New York and Berlin television festivals for her undercover report about trafficked women and children brought from Africa to work in American brothels.

  Sami was reassured to see that Najwa’s desk was as chaotic as his: covered in an avalanche of papers and filming schedules. He declined her offer of coffee and greeted her colleagues. Unusual for a UN media operation, not only was Al-Jazeera’s researcher female, but so were the film editor, camera operator, and producer.

  “My offer is still open, habibi,” Najwa said. The producer, a lively Spaniard named Maria, looked up and raised her eyebrows with interest. “To work here, Maria. That’s all,” Najwa said, laughing. “We have so much empty space and poor Sami’s office is tiny.”

  Maria nodded sagely, as though she were well used to the mercurial ways of her star correspondent, before returning to her work.

  Sami looked around enviously at the space, light, and comfort of the Al-Jazeera setup. He shook his head regretfully. “I still don’t think it would work.”

  “No? But, habibi, we make such a good team,” Najwa replied, taking his arm and walking over to the editing suite, where she closed the door firmly behind them. Even that room was three times the space of his cubbyhole, Sami noted. Najwa leaned back against a desk and held out her hand expectantly, her tight skirt and fitted blouse showcasing her bust and hips. The warm air carried the scent of her perfume. Sami tried not to stare as he handed her the envelope.

  Najwa smiled, enjoying the effect she was having on him, and took out two sheets of paper that she read rapidly. “Travel arrangements. Plane tickets. Hotel bookings. Pickup times.” She looked disappointed. “So what?”

  �
�TV journalists,” said Sami shaking his head. “Read it more slowly. Fareed Hussein is flying to Geneva tonight for discussions on the launch of the Year of Africa.”

  Najwa shrugged. “Well, hold the front page. ‘UN Secretary-General Goes to UN Office in Geneva’ is hardly news.”

  “Look who else is traveling.”

  Najwa read the papers again. “Charles Bonnet. Bonnet is the UN special representative for the Great Lakes Region. Of course he would be there.”

  “How is Bonnet traveling?”

  “Swiss Air. Business class. From JFK. Tomorrow.”

  “OK, that’s something. Why aren’t they traveling together? Take a look where the SG’s plane is leaving from.”

  Najwa looked down at the paper. “Teterboro Airport. Where is that?”

  “Bergen County.”

  Najwa shook her head. “Never heard of it. Is that near Manhattan?”

  Sami laughed. “Bergen County, New Jersey. On the other side of the Hudson River.”

  She pouted. “Thanks very much for the geography lesson, Sami, but what has this got to do with anything?”

  Sami sat at the desk and moved a slider up and down on the sound-mix panel. “A friend of mine works at Teterboro Airport.”

  Najwa picked his hand up and removed it. “Don’t touch. And your friend says?”

  “That I might be interested in a Bombardier Global Express, registration D–7430.”

  “And are we?”

  Sami nodded, wryly noting the change of pronoun. “Very.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is registered in Berlin and owned by KZX Avionics Limited.”

  Najwa looked at him with new interest. “Well, now. And where is D–7430 going?

  “Geneva, tonight at nine. With just two passengers.”

  “Mabrouk, habibi. Fareed Hussein and?”

  “His new best friend: Reinhardt Daintner.”

  She smiled brightly. “Geneva is very pretty at this time of year. And such good shopping. When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. On the same Swissair flight as Bonnet,” said Sami when his telephone trilled.

  It was Jonathan Beaufort: “Even though you are being such a secretive bastard, I thought you might like to know that the Rwandan ambassador is holding an emergency press conference.”

  “Thanks, Jonathan. Where and when?” asked Sami.

  “On the sidewalk on First Avenue. By the flags. Now.”

  Hakizimani picked up his glass and sipped his whisky. “Of course, we will not exceed the agreed number of casualties,” he said, once again the very picture of reasonableness.

  Yael’s mind was racing. The sound file. Olivia’s letter. Reinhardt Daintner on CNN, describing “the biggest single aid project in history.” The nightmare scenario was completely correct. Hakizimani’s men, dressed in UN uniforms, would kill five hundred people at the Goma camp. There would be chaos, uproar, calls for international intervention. The news channels would show endless footage of bloody peacekeepers’ berets left on piles of corpses. KZX and the Bonnet Group would use the massacre to take control of Eastern Congo, with the support of the UN, under the guise of security and stability. Quentin Braithwaite would be disgraced, the DPKO purged. Eastern Congo would be a colony in all but name. Eventually, of course, the news would come out that Hutu militiamen had carried out the massacre, but by then the damage would have been done.

  This was her doing. She had negotiated this deal. Hakizimani was in New York thanks to her. And the Goma massacre was just the beginning, Hakizimani had said. What else was to follow? What had she set in motion? She felt physically sick.

  Yael showed nothing of her inner turmoil as she spoke. “Professor, I am only the messenger. Please don’t get angry with me.”

  She looked at her wine, wrinkled her nose, and put her glass down. “Could I have a different drink please? This is too dry for me. Some of your whisky, perhaps?”

  Hakizimani picked up the bottle of Johnnie Walker. Yael reached into her handbag and took out the black, old-fashioned mobile telephone. She ran her thumb down the side, searching for the switch. Her hands were steady, but running with sweat.

  The telephone slid out of her palm and crashed down on the table. She reached for it, but Hakizimani was faster.

  He picked it up and looked at it curiously, turning it over in his hand. “This must be ten years old at least. And it’s so heavy. Is that the best the UN can do?”

  Yael smiled, her heart racing. “I know, it’s ridiculous. But my iPhone is broken and it’s the only secure handset that the UN’s communications people could supply at short notice. Actually I want to switch it off. So we can enjoy our drinks in peace,” she said, gently taking the handset from Hakizimani’s palm, her fingers brushing against his hand. Several of the buttons had been forced into the keypad by the drop, she noted with alarm. Would it still work?

  He nodded, poured her a generous measure of whisky, and placed it front of her on the table. Yael thanked him and ran her thumb down the side of the phone. She pressed a button three times and moved next to him on the sofa, her leg resting against his.

  “I am sorry if I upset you, Professor. Just let me switch this stupid thing off and put it away,” she murmured, feeling him stir with anticipation. “How about some music?”

  Hakizimani reached for a remote control and pressed a button. Jacques Brel’s rich baritone filled the room. He picked up his drink with one hand and rested the other on her leg. This time she did not remove it. She smiled and slid right next to him, her thigh pressing hard against him. He turned to kiss her.

  She moved her face toward his, her left hand lifting and opening his dressing gown. He closed his eyes and sighed as the heavy robe fell away from his skin. She pulled his boxer shorts up toward his groin, feeling him swell under her touch. His sigh became a moan.

  Yael swiftly jabbed the handset’s antenna into his upper thigh. She twisted and pushed it hard against his skin for several seconds. The telephone buzzed and shook. Hakizimani’s eyes bulged, the veins on his neck turned rigid as steel tubes, and he groaned loudly. The whisky glass fell into his lap and rolled onto the floor.

  Charles Bonnet stood up from his chair, stepped away from his desk, wiped his damp forehead with a silk handkerchief, and zipped up his fly. Still breathing heavily, he glanced at the corner of his office as he gently cupped his still-tender genitals in his hand and sighed with pleasure. The bathroom door was closed but he could hear the sound of running water and coughing. He poured himself a large cognac from the bottle of Remy Martin XO on his desk and sipped it contemplatively before he walked across the room.

  He opened the door. A slim young Asian woman was bent over the white marble washbasin, spitting repeatedly into the water swirling around the drain.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, raising his glass to her.

  She looked up and stared at him with contempt as she dried her face on a hand towel. “You are finished here,” she said. “I will report you. I will tell the New York Times.”

  Bonnet leaned against the doorpost, admiring her black, silken hair and trim figure. “I doubt you really want to do that. No force was involved. It would be your word against mine,” he said with the kind of confidence born of long experience. “A lonely middle-aged bureaucrat, far from home, working late to better the world, seduced by a manipulative little minx, using everything she has got to advance her career. East meets West, East takes everything it can get, once again. A sad, but so familiar story.”

  He stroked her hair, ignoring her shudders. She brushed his hand off, balled up the hand towel, and threw it into the wastebasket.

  Bonnet sighed regretfully as he checked his tie in the bathroom mirror. “And even if they did believe your ludicrous allegations, ma chère Thanh, I fear that your brother in Hanoi would have to wait a very long time for his F
rench visa and residence permit.” He shook his head, walked over to his desk, and picked up a bulky report on African peacekeeping, flicking slowly through the pages. “You know how cautious French bureaucrats are. The paperwork moves at a snail’s pace. If it moves at all. And if there is the merest hint of scandal . . . ”

  He put the papers down and poured himself some more cognac. “Of course, if those French bureaucrats do finally get off their pampered backsides, they can bring a whole new set of problems. The health inspectors, for example, in the 19th arrondissement. They might decide to take an interest in your parents’ restaurant. Mekong, I think it’s called? Once they start, the whole creaking machine lurches into action: tax, immigration, and who knows where it will end? Perhaps in the departure lounge of Charles de Gaulle, waiting for the next plane to Saigon.”

  Bonnet shook his head. “That would really be a disaster. Anyway, we can talk more at dinner about how we can help each other, can’t we?” he said.

  Thanh wiped her eyes, crying softly.

  “At dinner, I said,” his voice cold and commanding.

  Thanh nodded, her head bowed.

  “Ah, bon. There is nothing to cry about. I will let you know the time and place. You will be free?” he asked, lifting her chin up.

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  “We will have a cordial and friendly conversation? Without threats or sulking? A pleasant meal and perhaps a nightcap to follow?”

  “Yes. I look forward to it, Monsieur Bonnet,” she said in a monotone.

  He smiled and patted her cheek. “See, it’s not so difficult after all.”

  The telephone on Bonnet’s desk rang and he pressed the speakerphone button.

  “Daintner,” the speaker announced.

  Flustered at the surprise call, Bonnet nervously asked him to wait, just for a minute. Daintner hung up without answering. Bonnet opened the door of his office. Daintner was standing outside. He wished Thanh a good evening, taking in her disheveled appearance and red eyes. He looked at Bonnet with disgust.