by Adam LeBor
There were no points for shyness where Jasna came from, especially from the womenfolk, and Yael answered confidently. “No. Do you?”
Jasna laughed—a deep, throaty sound that came from somewhere deep inside—and sat back, more relaxed now. Yael could feel her becoming more sympathetic. Yael leaned forward and held Jasna’s eye. “I am not scared of hard work, Jasna. I tidied up after my brothers and sisters at home. I helped my mother. I know which end of a mop to hold.”
“That’s more than my husband ever did.”
Yael decided she liked this woman. “Did?”
Jasna rolled her eyes, but Yael sensed the pain behind the bravado. “We came here in 1991 when the war started. I worked to build up the business but he refused to clean. It was woman’s work, he said. A man’s work, it turned out, was drinking with his cronies, smoking, and watching the war on Serbian television. After six months he went back to Belgrade. To fight for our homeland, he said, against the Ustasha in Croatia. But even that wasn’t enough for him. Or maybe I wasn’t. Once that war was over, he went again, to fight the Mujahideen in Bosnia.”
Jasna shook her head. “He was a fool. I never saw him again. Still, I can manage without a husband.” She picked up the photograph nearest her and swallowed hard. “But he took my son with him to Bosnia.”
Yael felt Jasna’s grief radiate through the room. She looked at her questioningly.
Jasna shook her head, almost imperceptibly. She put the picture down and handed Yael’s passport back to her, her hand shaking slightly as she fought to steady her voice. “And you? Student?”
Yael nodded. “Community college in New York. I want to take some more courses here. Maybe do a degree in economics.”
“Like my daughter. She is a lecturer in economics at the NYU,” said Jasna proudly, showing Yael the second photograph, one of a younger version of Jasna.
Yael caught sight of herself in the mirror behind Jasna’s desk. Her auburn hair was now black, cut short and spiky; her eyes were dark brown, thanks to tinted contact lenses; and her skin was the color of light coffee, courtesy of a fifty-euro bottle of fake tan. Dressed in black jeans, blue sweater, tennis shoes, and a padded denim jacket, she looked like any of the many thousands of young internationals in Geneva. The ten-euro half-diopter reading glasses made her appear almost intellectual, she thought, although she still started with surprise each morning when she looked in the mirror.
Claudia Lopez had passed easily through immigration at Charles de Gaulle Airport two days ago, and there was no reason why she should not have. Claudia’s passport was genuine, recently issued for a woman two years younger than Yael, although a thousand dollars handed across a desk by an old friend of Joe-Don’s had ensured that Costa Rican officialdom had not yet caught up with the fact that Ms. Lopez had been killed in a car crash a year ago. Yael did not enjoy traveling under the name of a dead person, or mimicking her appearance, but recognized that she had little choice. She and Joe-Don had stayed overnight in Paris at a dingy hotel in Belleville, and the following morning he had purchased a well-used Peugeot 303 in cash for two thousand euros. They drove straight through the French-Swiss border, where, because it was lunchtime, there was not a guard in sight, just as Joe-Don had predicted.
Joe-Don had used the five-hour journey to give Yael a detailed tutorial in living off the grid. They would pay for everything with cash and never use debit cards, credit cards, or ATMs. (When Yael had asked where they would get the money, he had smiled knowingly, telling her not to worry about it.) They would keep Internet communications to the bare minimum, using both public terminals in different Internet cafés and TOR, a free anonymizing software that disguised their IP addresses, making them untraceable. They would communicate via pay phones or through text messages sent on disposable, prepaid cell phones. They would throw away the phones every couple of days, would stay in seedy hotels where nobody asked questions, and eat in cheap cafés or from supermarkets. They would blend in, be unremarkable. The Brits, he said, called it “Going Gray.” Yael had listened patiently, although she was already familiar with these precautions. The good news, he added, as they trundled along at a steady seventy miles an hour, was that gray and unremarkable did not necessarily have to mean drab. Yael did not have to look like a bag lady, Joe-Don said, handing her two thousand euros.
Geneva was stolid and Swiss, but with a strong French influence, and the city was more cosmopolitan than many knew. The older Genevois were neither friendly nor unfriendly, and well aware that the prosperity of their hometown—and prosperity was very important to them—rested largely on the internationals and their generous allowances and per diems. But the younger Swiss were open-minded and welcoming. The city was home to a vast and transitory population, many of them with large disposable incomes and time on their hands. They worked at the UN complex, the International Committee of the Red Cross, the CERN nuclear center, or the myriad aid organizations, think tanks, consultancies, and foreign diplomatic missions that added zest to the otherwise staid city.
Yael looked back at Jasna as she continued: “So with your interests and experience you would be perfect for this KZX place. Personally, I do not much like German companies. The Germans killed almost all of my family in the Belgrade air raids in 1941. But they pay well and on time too, so we cannot be choosy.”
She reached under a pile of newspapers and took out that day’s edition of the Financial Times, tapping a story on the companies’ page. “This is a good opportunity for us. KZX is going to merge with the Bonnet Group, it says here. KZX wants to launch its own range of mobile telephones, tablet computers, gaming consoles, and laptops. They are talking about setting up a joint headquarters here in Geneva.”
Yael silently processed this news. The Bonnet Group and KZX. The mining company and the media company. Together they would be unstoppable. They could corner the market in coltan and cut off the supplies to the competition. Nokia, Samsung, even Apple would all eventually go out of business.
Jasna looked at Yael. “I follow the news. Can you guess what I did before I came to Geneva?”
Yael shook her head. “Actress? Film star?”
Jasna smiled, pleased despite herself. “Flatterer. I was a professor of economics at Belgrade University.” She looked carefully at Yael. “Claudia Lopez, you remind me of someone. Have you been to Belgrade? Have we ever met?”
Yael shook her head and thought fast. Jasna did seem familiar, but she could not place her. Yael had been to Belgrade several times in the last few years on UN business as successive Serbian governments tried to assure the world that they were doing all they could to find and arrest General Ratko Mladic, then the world’s most-wanted war criminal. Yael was sure she had not met Jasna among the procession of slick-suited functionaries with American accents and university degrees that Serbian governments produced to show the West that the country was on the right track.
Yael had also briefly visited the Serbian capital in early 1994 with her brother, David, when she was sixteen, while he worked for the UN refugee organization. And then she remembered that David had been severely disciplined for using UN vehicles to move Serbs stranded in newly independent Croatia across the front lines back to Serbia. What was the name of the town where they had been? Osijek. Yes, that was it. A grim place, freezing cold and frightening, where everyone had taken cover underground from the shellfire. The entire hospital had been moved into the basement. She remembered crying because the streets were full of dead dogs.
Jasna gave her a searching look, picked up a thick file, and weighed it in her hand. “This is all the paperwork we had to organize for one employee, and she is from Stockholm and has a work permit. I like you, Claudia, but with all respect to . . . Costa Rica,” she said, the faintest trace of sarcasm in her voice, “if you don’t have a work permit I cannot help you. You do have a Swiss work permit?”
Yael shook her head. Holders of Costa Rican passports e
njoyed visa-free travel to the Schengen Area of the European Union and Switzerland. Joe-Don had supplied Claudia’s passport, but a Swiss work permit was beyond his reach, he had explained. They had already taken a risk entering the country with a machine-readable passport, but had had no option. The old-style version would have required a visa and would have drawn far more attention from the French border officials at the airport. A Swiss work permit would demand extensive background checks, financial references, and questions to the Costa Rican authorities. Use your charm, Joe-Don had replied, when Yael had asked how to get around this.
Jasna shrugged and put the file down. “No work permit means no work. It’s very simple.”
So now what, Yael thought quickly, sensing Jasna’s growing disbelief in her cover story. She had to get this job. Yael reached into her purse for her wallet. “Perhaps there is a way around this, Jasna,” she said, taking out several large denomination banknotes.
Jasna put up her hand. “Please, Claudia, or whatever your name is, do not insult me. This is Switzerland, not Central America. I don’t know how it works in Costa Rica, but here the boss pays the employees, not the other way around.”
Yael put her wallet back in her purse, the sinking feeling growing stronger. So much for her charm. She had to get into the Institute. There was a plan B: to go into the UN building as a tourist on a guided visit and head off on her own and either break or talk her way through, but that was much more risky. The building was blanketed with CCTV cameras and security guards were everywhere. Either way, there was clearly no point staying here.
Yael stood up to go and picked up her passport. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jovanovic. It has been a pleasure to meet you,” she said politely, offering Jasna her hand.
“Sit down, please,” said Jasna, her voice tinged with amusement. She picked up her cigarette, drew on it, exhaled slowly, and regarded Yael thoughtfully as the smoke swirled around her. “There is one other option,” she said.
“What?” asked Yael warily.
Jasna leaned back and gave Yael a piercing but not unfriendly look. She opened the drawer in her desk and took out a bottle of clear liquid and two small glasses and poured a generous measure into each.
Jasna handed one to Yael as she sat back down, and the two women clinked glasses. “It’s slivovitz. Home-distilled. Don’t tell the Swiss customs authorities. Ziveli,” said Jasna, looking Yael in the eye as she knocked the drink back in one gulp.
“Ziveli,” said Yael, doing the same. Anyone who did not make and hold eye contact while making a toast was regarded with deep suspicion in the Balkans. The alcohol coursed through her, the plums first caressing her palate, then delivering a sharp, fruity kick. “Thank you. That was excellent,” she said appreciatively, as she put her empty glass down.
Jasna nodded knowingly. “Like your pronunciation. Especially for someone who has never been to Belgrade. Now, Claudia, why don’t you tell me who you really are and what you want with KZX and the United Nations.”
Nineteen
Joe-Don squirmed on the deep padded-leather armchair, trying, without success, to get comfortable. He was wearing his only suit, which he hated: a navy double-breasted one from the 1990s. Its shoulders kept riding up around his neck. His necktie was too tight, or perhaps the collar of his shirt was too small. His trousers were cutting into his waist. The dark-blond wig and mustache were starting to itch, and the padding around his stomach was becoming heavy and uncomfortable. The heavy, old-fashioned tortoiseshell frame of his eyeglasses was pressing on the bridge of his nose.
But Joe-Don’s outfit was not the only cause of his irritation: he had been waiting in the overheated reception room of Banque Bernard et Fils’ managing director for more than twenty-five minutes. He was usually ushered straight to his deposit box. But today the receptionist in the lobby had checked his name against a list and asked him to go upstairs to see “Monsieur Director.”
This was not good news, he knew. He could feel a thin rivulet of sweat running down his back and knew that if he took his jacket off there would be two large damp patches on his shirt under his armpits. He looked around and tried to control his annoyance. The room embodied the understated good taste on which BBF prided itself. The walls were lined with dark, polished wooden panels on the lower half, topped with silk crimson wallpaper. A small, original Picasso drawing was tastefully illuminated under a narrow, brass lamp. The room smelled faintly of cigars, coffee, and another aroma, something papery and fresh. At first Joe-Don could not place it. Then he realized it was the smell of money itself.
Monsieur Director’s assistant, a tall young man in his twenties with dark-blond hair, even remembered how he took his coffee: black with sugar. He also brought him a tray of newspapers and magazines to read while he waited. Joe-Don flicked through that week’s edition of the Economist, which carried a lengthy report on the turmoil at the UN. Fareed Hussein’s position was looking increasingly shaky, it opined, especially if the UN’s own police force did not come up with a proper report on the death of Olivia de Souza. And there were still many questions to be asked about the role of the “mysterious Ms. Azoulay,” her relationship with Hussein, and the whereabouts of Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, the Rwandan warlord for whom she had apparently brokered a deal. Many questions indeed, thought Joe, smiling to himself.
Joe-Don and Miguel had quickly dragged the two unconscious security guards into suite 3017 and tied their hands and legs with duct tape. Yael had removed the SIM cards from their mobile telephones, flushed the cell phones down the toilet, and ripped out the cords from the room’s telephones. The two men began to stir until Joe-Don gave them a longer burst from the gas spray. That put them under again for another twenty minutes. Joe-Don, Miguel, and Yael had taken the service elevator down to the kitchen, where their departure through the hotel’s back entrance—with Miguel’s jacket draped over Yael’s head—had caused little interest. Stars and VIPs were often ushered through to avoid paparazzi gathering at the front of the hotel.
From there they walked briskly to a parking lot on 44th Street where Joe-Don had left a newly purchased twelve-year-old Ford Focus. They drove through the night, staying away from interstate highways, to Vermont and the Canadian border. They crossed over on a narrow, rarely patrolled dirt road at dawn. They left the car in a parking lot in Montreal, from where they had flown to Paris.
Joe-Don put the magazine down and looked at his watch again: 4:30 p.m. There was still no sign of the manager, although Monsieur Bernard himself had confirmed their appointment for 4:00 p.m. Perhaps there was a legitimate reason for the delay, Joe-Don told himself. He had chosen BBF, after all, for its legendary discretion. Despite the rigorous new international laws controlling the flow of capital and finance, it was understood in numerous capitals, not least Berne, that the world’s decision makers still needed a bank that would take deposits, cash or transfer, without too many—in fact, without any—questions being asked. Joe-Don had selected BBF, which was two hundred years old and one of the less well-known, family-run firms, for that role, which it had accepted gladly and fulfilled with enthusiasm. A small but steady percentage of CIA operational cash, written off as “miscellaneous expenses” over twenty years and never enough to draw the attention of the bean-counters at Langley, now added up to a substantial sum for Mr. Wilson Smith.
Joe-Don stood up, walked over to the window, and watched a motorcyclist weave in and out of the early rush-hour traffic, a sleek procession of Mercedeses and BMWs. The sky was heavy and overcast, and a light rain spattered the window. Unlike many of the more famous Swiss banks, BBF was not headquartered downtown on the quayside of Lake Geneva, or in an imposing steel and glass building in the shopping and business quarter at Geneva’s historic heart. Instead BBF conducted its business from an anonymous apartment house on the Rue de Montbrillant, a busy and unremarkable thoroughfare in the north of the city. BBF was so discreet that it did not even have a nameplate on it
s door, which doubtless breached Geneva’s municipal codes on numerous counts. BBF used only three of the five floors, and the other two, Joe-Don knew, were rented to companies that did not exist, to prevent any curious neighbors noting its clients.
BBF’s down-market neighbors included a cheap—by Geneva standards—Chinese restaurant, a bicycle repair shop, and a gas station. But the street was a short walk from the Palais des Nations, the former League of Nations building that now housed the UN’s European headquarters. Rue de Montbrillant also ended at the headquarters of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, whose entrance was easily visible from the BBF window. Joe-Don was idly watching the comings and goings when a face grabbed his attention. He looked familiar. Was it him? Yes, it was—Brad DeWayne, a political adviser, temporarily reassigned from the State Department to Erin Rembaugh, the head of the UN’s Department of Political Affairs. Joe-Don would recognize DeWayne’s shiny, bald head, large ears, and purposeful lope anywhere. What was he doing in Geneva?
The door opened and Joe-Don looked up expectantly as Henri Bernard walked in. In his late sixties, Bernard’s tall figure was dressed in a perfectly cut gray suit, white shirt, and striped red tie. His silver hair and pink skin were freshly barbered and smelled of No. 74 Victorian Lime Cologne, which he had couriered every week from St. James’s in London. Bernard was the embodiment of elegant prosperity.
“Monsieur Smith, my sincere apologies for the delay,” the banker said, as he opened the door to his office.
Joe-Don said nothing, picked up his messenger bag, and followed Bernard into his room, where a much larger Picasso was mounted on the wall behind his desk. Bernard’s desk was empty apart from a humidor and a penholder. He reached into a drawer and took out a slim leather folder. “You have everything you need. Some more coffee perhaps?”
