The Geneva Option

by Adam LeBor

  Rembaugh shook her head and loudly muttered, “Amateur.”

  “Thank you, that will do,” said Daintner. He looked at Bonnet. “You were tasked with a very simple operation. To get Gardiner’s cameras.”

  “We have them,” said the Frenchman.

  Daintner’s nostrils flared and his face turned beet red. “But we don’t have his telephone and we also have a potential murder investigation,” he shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. “Thanks to your total incompetence. Your instructions were to crash the bike and take his gear. Knock him out if need be. But not to try and kill him. Now we will have the police crawling all over this disaster.”

  Daintner turned to Erin Rembaugh. “And you, madame? What am I paying you and your colleagues for? How do you explain the press conference on 42nd Street? The Rwandan ambassador herself, announcing to the whole world the plan for Goma. You understand the consequences for you all if there are any more mistakes like this? We have a leak. It’s your job to plug it. And Azoulay—how did she manage to kill Hakizimani and escape? I want her caught. Now.”

  Rembaugh leaned forward, her tone conciliatory, her hands in the air, palms out in supplication. “Reinhardt, I understand your anger and frustration. But these are temporary setbacks. The injuries of the photographer are regrettable,” she continued, looking at Bonnet, “but in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential. There is nothing to link any of this to KZX and our plan for the Goma Development Zone. Nothing at all. In fact, we can turn this to our advantage. The press conference played right into our hands. The Goma camp is now completely surrounded by UN peacekeepers. The UN has shown itself to be responsive, focused, and proactive. Nobody can doubt our commitment to protecting the camp’s residents—and building them a better future in the Development Zone. It is a perfect alibi.”

  Daintner looked doubtful. Rembaugh picked up a remote control on the table. “May I?” she asked, her voice deferential. Daintner nodded. She pressed a button and all six screens came to life. “I took the liberty of arranging for the CNN lunchtime news to be recorded.”

  The screen showed Mick Dickson, a veteran CNN war correspondent, standing at the gate of the Goma camp. Dickson looked relaxed, and was dressed in T-shirt and chinos. Two white UN armored personnel carriers were parked on either side of the entrance. Swedish peacekeepers wearing wraparound sunglasses manned the two heavy machine guns on top of each vehicle, scanning the horizon. UN attack helicopters took off and landed in the distance, disgorging more peacekeepers. Walls of sandbags protected the outer perimeter. Long concrete blocks were laid in a zigzag pattern on the approach road, forcing approaching vehicles to slow down. A line of cars was backed up as the peacekeepers inspected every car.

  Dickson was interviewing a UN official, an attractive young woman with long, light-brown hair, dressed in a notably close-fitting safari jacket. He asked, “What can you tell us about the unprecedented claims yesterday by the Rwandan ambassador that a massacre was about to take place here?”

  She smiled knowingly. “I think what’s important, Mick, is that the UN acted immediately, even though the secretary-general and the Security Council were not presented with any evidence at all. As soon as Ambassador Munyakarana raised her concerns, the secretary-general ordered the department of peacekeeping to deploy reinforcements. As you can see,” she said, gesturing at the armored vehicles, sandbags, checkpoints, and helicopters, “Goma is now the best protected refugee camp in the world.”

  She paused while three open-topped trucks, each carrying twenty Nigerian peacekeepers, drove slowly up the entrance road and through the gate, sending up clouds of dust. Dickson asked, “How will all this affect the planned UN-KZX Goma Development Zone?”

  “Not at all, Mick. Everything is going ahead on schedule. The UN and KZX will be working extremely closely. Once we have both assessed the actual threat level, we plan for KZX’s security department to coordinate fully with our peacekeepers, and then gradually assume more responsibilities. Always, of course, under our direction and in full consultation with the Congolese government.”

  The correspondent nodded and the camera moved toward him. “Thank you. That was Roxana Voiculescu, spokeswoman for the UN. We also have Hakim Yundala, the head of the UN’s Department of Safety and Security, here. Mr. Yundala, you have just arrived, I understand.”

  Yundala nodded. “That’s right. I came straight out here, as soon as I heard that there was a potential threat. The refugees of course come first, but we must also be mindful of the many UN staff we have deployed here. Their safety is my responsibility.”

  Yundala gestured at the scene around him. “I think you can see that the Goma camp is now probably one of the safest places on earth. Nobody—nobody—can doubt our commitment to keeping it secure.”

  Rembaugh pressed a button and the screens turned black. She handed Daintner a sheet of paper. “I have prepared this press release. It can go out immediately if you approve it.”

  He scanned the paper and read out loud. “KZX welcomes the renewed commitment of the UN to the first UN–private sector development zone, announces a donation of one million euros to further improve the camp infrastructure, calls for the world’s major corporations to follow its lead in building a vital new strategic partnership between the public and private sector, blah, blah. Very good. Send it.”

  He looked up at Rembaugh. “Where is Fareed Hussein?” he demanded.

  “Six doors away, in his suite at the Hotel Beau Rivage, giving his speech for the opening of our institute a final polish.”

  Daintner nodded and turned to the second man at the table. He was in his midsixties, still slim, tanned, and fit-looking. He had a military bearing, close-cropped steel-gray hair, and deep lines around his eyes, one of which was blue and the other brown. He had sat silently throughout the exchange as he watched and noted the ebb and flow of power around the table.

  Daintner asked, “General, what do you think?”

  Menachem Stein reached for the coffee and poured himself a cup. “The incident with the photographer was poorly handled, but in any project as complicated as ours there will be mishaps along the way,” he said, with the trace of an Israeli accent in his American-inflected English.

  He paused as he carefully selected six different canapés from the trays on the table. “The key point is to keep unexpected events and their consequences under control. And Erin has handled the press conference very well. That event came as a surprise to all of us, and shows we have a leak somewhere. That needs to be dealt with. But in the short term she has turned a potential disaster to our advantage by allying the DPA with Braithwaite and the DPKO and supporting the reinforcements. It was excellent work,” he continued, turning to Rembaugh, who, to everyone’s silent amazement, blushed and looked down.

  “Hakim Yundala is also useful. We do need some African faces in front of the cameras. But the important thing is that we do not respond to events, but continue to set the pace and the agenda. We have to accelerate now and seize the initiative back. If everyone agrees, we go to level two tomorrow. Everything is in place in the field. I leave tonight,” Stein said, reaching for a sliver of smoked salmon on toast, garnished with Beluga caviar, and eating it in one bite.

  Reinhardt Daintner nodded first, the others quickly following his lead.

  Twenty-One

  As soon as he left the bank, Joe-Don spotted the watcher: male, in his forties, sallow-skinned, with short brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and a pencil mustache. He was wearing a white shirt and fawn trench coat. He stood in front of the nearby Chinese restaurant, reading the menu as though he were considering eating there, but was also subtly scanning the street in the reflection of the glass. The man, Joe-Don realized after a few seconds, looked familiar. He had seen him several times in the US UN mission on First Avenue. He was making no effort to hide, indeed seemed to want Joe-Don to notice him. So he must be a messenger.

&
nbsp; But any conversation would have to take place on Joe-Don’s terms. He slung his bag over his shoulder and checked the holster in the small of his back: the Glock 30 pistol was secure in its custom-made leather holder.

  He walked over to a taxi dropping off its passengers at the UNHCR headquarters, and slid in behind the driver, telling him to take him to the Place Jean-Marteau. The driver, a thankfully taciturn Genevoise, weaved skillfully through the back streets, avoiding the jam along the Avenue France. Twelve minutes later he deposited Joe-Don at a small, triangular piazza looking out onto the Quai Wilson, the main road running alongside the lake, which was crowded with rush-hour traffic. It was a very Swiss public space: each point of the triangle was delineated by a low, perfectly sculpted hedge and manicured lawns radiating out from a circle, in the center of which stood a bust of the writer Monsieur Marteau. There was not a piece of litter, cigarette butt, or scrawl of graffiti in sight.

  Joe-Don sat down on one of the pristine green benches, holding the Glock in his coat pocket in his right hand, and looked out over the water. The Jet d’Eau, the city’s landmark fountain, suddenly erupted, shooting water more than a hundred meters into the air. An enormous, white two-deck yacht with a two-man helicopter on its upper deck cruised past, its wake sending ripples that almost reached the shore. The sun was setting, the sky blazed orange behind the mountains on the other side of the lake, and the water shimmered indigo and purple. The breeze was fresh and pleasant, and he could feel the warmth of the day as it faded. A scene, he thought, of perfect tranquillity. Perhaps he would retire here soon. He would sail his boat, count his money, give some away, go walking in the mountains. He could even set up his own think tank: The Institute for How the World Really Works.

  Three minutes later a taxi pulled over on the other side of the square. The man in the fawn trench coat got out, casually walked over to where Joe-Don was sitting on the bench, and sat down next to him.

  Joe-Don lifted his hand and gently pressed the muzzle of the Glock through his coat against the man’s left side. He asked, “How many more of you are there?”

  The man smiled and looked straight ahead, his voice calm. “None.”

  Joe-Don pushed the gun hard against him, twisting the muzzle.

  He stopped smiling and gasped in pain. “Really. Nobody. We want to talk. That’s all. Why do you think you and the girl are still alive?”

  Joe-Don looked him in the eye. “How do I know you?”

  “Patrick Whiteman. Deputy chief of research at the US UN mission. Started a month ago. You know my boss, Chuck O’Connor.”

  “Nice cover, Patrick. For?”

  “Langley.”

  Joe-Don spoke low and urgently. “Tell them to back off. Leave us alone. Or the New York Times will be running a series on the CIA’s black-ops squad running wild in Manhattan, killing UN secretaries.”

  Whiteman shook his head. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. We are not killing anybody in New York. Not this time. They sent me to watch your back. I’m on your side.”

  “Prove it,” said Joe-Don.

  Whiteman spoke confidently. “Wilson Smith and Claudia Lopez are staying in room 506 at the Hotel Imperial on Place des Grottes, above a Turkish kebab house, up the hill, a few blocks from the central train station. The owner sits in the lobby wearing a white vest, feeding his pit bull prime cuts of meat, and watching sports on the large and very loud flat-screen television. The hotel smells of cleaning fluid, stale grease from the kebab shop, and cigarette smoke. You have a twin bedroom with an en-suite grimy bathroom paid for in cash, for a week, in advance. Fifteen hundred Swiss francs, plus another thousand to not produce your passports.”

  Whiteman’s account was completely accurate. Joe-Don moved the gun back but kept it resting against Whiteman’s side.

  The CIA man breathed out in relief. He leaned back and opened his raincoat to make himself more comfortable. “Thanks.”

  Joe-Don said, “Keep still. Who killed Olivia de Souza?”

  Whiteman shrugged. “We don’t know for certain. It’s pointing to someone in-house. Someone who knew her and who had a plausible reason to be in the building at seven in the morning.”

  “So who are you protecting us from?”

  Whiteman turned to Joe-Don as he spoke. “State Department intelligence. Erin Rembaugh, their in-house UN expert, is running the operation. And they don’t care about you. You can keep your money. They will double it if you go away or kill you if you get in the way. But they want the girl. She’s screwing up all their plans.”

  “Do they know where we are?”

  He shook his head. “No. But you don’t have much longer. A few hours maybe, until they find you. If we can, they can. Very good wig, by the way.”

  Joe-Don watched the rush-hour traffic for several seconds before he spoke. A blond woman drove by in a red BMW convertible with its roof down, her hair flying in the breeze. “All this excitement over a dead Rwandan warlord?”

  Whiteman laughed. “Of course not. Yael did the world a favor.”

  “Then what is this really about?”

  “Marc Rosenheim.”

  “The secretary of state? What is he doing?”

  “Bringing down President Freshwater. Or trying to.”

  “Why?”

  “The usual reason. Money.”

  “And Langley is going to stop him?”

  Whiteman smiled. “No. You are.”

  “And what if I don’t want to?”

  “It’s a special request from the new director. She really hopes you can help us out on this. She’s a Freshwater appointee, as you know. A woman director of the CIA,” said Whiteman, shaking his head in wonder. “She wants a clean sweep. No more skeletons in the closet. Freedom of information, apologies for special renditions, the works. Her husband is from Honduras, so she’s very interested in Central America. Especially the 1980s.”

  Joe-Don said nothing. He watched the traffic on the Quai Wilson. It had stopped moving.

  Whiteman shook his head. “Bad times. Very bad. Madame Director is thinking about declassifying a new tranche of documents. They make pretty gruesome reading. The things we did . . .”

  Joe-Don stiffened almost imperceptibly. Whiteman turned to him, confident now. “We were wondering . . . did you ever testify to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Guatemala about your time there?”

  Joe-Don exhaled slowly. “OK.” He jammed the gun into Whiteman’s side again. “But why is Rosenheim moving now?”

  “Ow. Do you have to keep doing that?” Whiteman asked, as if Joe-Don had just broken wind in public. “So President Freshwater won’t be able to intervene.”

  “Where?”

  He looked at Joe-Don as though he were a simpleton. “Congo. You really don’t know what is going to happen there?”

  “Tell me,” demanded Joe-Don.

  Whiteman opened his mouth to answer but suddenly jerked backward, and the front of his shirt turned crimson.

  Sami and Najwa sat on the lakeside terrace bar of the Beau Rivage hotel talking quietly. It was a balmy autumn dusk that showcased the city at its best: the lights of the yachts glimmered like fireflies, the water rippled like gray silk, young couples strolled arm in arm over the bridge, and the apartment blocks and five-star hotels gleamed invitingly. But Sami took no pleasure in the surroundings. He had arrived that morning, having lost a day while he argued with the foreign editors about the cost of the trip. Eventually they had authorized it. He was jet-lagged and tired. He had barely slept on the airplane, seated in coach between a loud American businessman and his family, including a six-month-old baby that had cried most of the way. At least he had managed to finish the longer, investigative feature that he had promised his editors. Najwa had arrived a day earlier and had traveled business class, so she was rested and raring to go. She was staying at the Beau Rivage, and he was bo
oked into a drab business hotel on the other side of the bridge.

  But Sami’s malaise was more than just travel fatigue. He had felt increasingly unsettled over the last couple of days. He had the feeling that things had been moved around in his apartment, but it was always so untidy he could not be sure. An old contact of his, a former political counselor at the US mission to the UN, had called him yesterday out of the blue. They had not spoken for at least five years, but the diplomat was full of bonhomie, insisting that he take Sami for a steak dinner at his club and catch up on all the news. Sami had declined, saying he was traveling for the next few days and had let slip that he was going to Geneva. That was probably a mistake, although if the government really wanted to know his movements it would be easy enough to find out. Sometimes he felt like he was being watched.

  Last night, as Sami left his building and stepped up to the car that would take him to JFK, the hairs had actually stood up on the back of his neck. There was nothing concrete, just intuition. Or paranoia. Or both—someone had certainly removed Fareed Hussein’s itinerary from his locked desk drawer. And someone had organized extensive repairs to his office. As Henry Kissinger said, “The presence of paranoia does not disprove the existence of plots.” Yuri had telephoned him yesterday morning. It was the politest conversation Sami had ever had with the UN’s building manager. Yuri had apologized profusely about the misunderstanding, which he blamed on the confusion after the tragedy on the 38th floor—it seemed all the paperwork had indeed been authorized for his office renovation.

  There was more. Sami realized that he missed Yael: their coffees, her personal e-mails that somehow made him feel like he meant something to her, and the way that her hair fell into her eyes. He kept replaying in his head their last encounter on the steps of the UN entrance on First Avenue. Maybe he should have told her the e-mail address of whoever had sent him her Goma memo. It wasn’t like he knew the actual person. It could have been anybody. Why had he been so self-righteous? He could still hear Yael whispering in his ear, “Don’t ever call me again.” He had tried several times, and he had also written to her Gmail address. Her mobile was not just switched off but was registered as unavailable. She did not reply to his messages. Where was she?