by Adam LeBor
And then something really terrible happened: three days ago, Evelyn, one of his school friends, had been found bloodied and half-conscious in the road, with her clothes torn to shreds. She had been taken to the hospital at the UN camp and had still not come home. Herve had known Evelyn since his childhood. Sometimes at night they would sit on the schoolyard steps, on the edge of the forest. They talked for hours, her leg resting gently against his, listening to the cicadas and imagining how it would be to study in Paris. Evelyn’s father was a Hutu. Hermione, her mother, was a Tutsi. Herve liked her very much. The only way out of this mess, Hermione always said, was for Hutus and Tutsis to marry each other and make a new race: the human race.
The sixty or so men of the village were gathered in the school hall, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The benches and desks had been moved to the right-hand side to clear a space. François Nodula, the mayor, sat on a chair behind a folding table—the Europeans on his left, Baptiste and Lucien on his right. François was actually the deputy mayor. Everyone knew that the real mayor was Herve’s father, but he had been killed in a car accident last year. A hit-and-run, they called it. The police had come, asked a few questions, taken a few notes, and he had never heard from them again. Now Herve was the man of the house, his mother had told him, and he had to help look after her and his brother and sisters. He tried his best, although he missed his father intensely. His mother said it would get easier with time, but it did not, not really.
Herve and the other boys leaned on the wall at the back of the school hall. The building was made of raw cinder blocks and the roof of tin sheets. It was raining hard, a heavy African downpour, and the raindrops drummed on the metal. The air was wet and thick, and he could smell the forest. Herve tried to think what his father would do if he were still alive. Watch and listen, he had always told him. Gather information and think hard before you make any decision. Then even if you make the wrong one, at least you thought it through and did your best. So that is what he would do, Herve thought, suddenly feeling comforted.
He felt the weight of his digital camera in his pocket. It was his proudest possession. Kristina, a friendly Swiss aid worker at the Goma camp, gave it to him last month. He had spent hours learning how to use it. The pictures he liked the most were the ones he snapped surreptitiously. With her encouragement, he had taught himself how to hold the camera in his hand and snap street scenes and passersby without anyone noticing. Kristina said he showed real talent at this and promised to put some of his pictures on the Internet.
Nodula was speaking, introducing his “honored guests.” Nodula was short, fat, and getting noticeably fatter. The whole village admired his new car, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. Herve wanted to ask him how he could afford to run it on a deputy mayor’s salary of eighty dollars a month, but his mother had looked frightened when he mentioned it and absolutely forbade him from ever bringing up the subject. Tonight Nodula was even more pompous than usual. Herve noticed that he kept looking at the long wooden boxes covered in plastic wrapping from the UNHCR, the refugee agency, that were piled up on the other side of the hall. The downpour was turning into a thunderstorm now as the skies opened. The rain sounded as though there were drummers on the roof.
Stephan stood up. “Thank you, Mayor Nodula. It’s good to be back here. But I bring bad news and good news for you tonight, my friends.”
The men shifted nervously on the rough concrete floor. Herve slowly put his hand in his pocket and brought the camera out, shielding it with his fingers.
“Your daughter, your beautiful daughter,” said Stephan, his head downcast. “I am sorry to tell you, she will not be coming home. The doctors could not save her.”
An angry muttering filled the room as the men turned to each other. Herve watched as a thin man in his thirties, wearing thick black-framed glasses taped together at the bridge, howled in despair and started sobbing. It was Jean-Luc, Evelyn’s father. Herve felt his eyes fill with tears, but he forced himself to put his anguish aside. There was, he knew, a reason why the men of the village had been gathered here tonight. He would mourn his friend in his own time.
Stephan walked over to Jean-Luc and laid his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t cry, my good friend,” he said, shaking his head. “Tears cannot bring Evelyn back. Nothing can. But we can give meaning to her sacrifice.”
Nodula nodded emphatically.
Stephan continued, turning to the other men in the room. “We have to make sure that your daughters are no longer raped and murdered by the cockroaches. That is why we are here—and we have brought what you need to make sure that you can defend yourselves,” he said, gesturing at the boxes at the side of the room.
Herve watched silently and slid his fingers over the camera, switching it on. Thunder suddenly exploded like shellfire, so loudly that even Stephan jumped. Herve lifted his fingers and gently pressed the shutter button. The room filled with light.
Herve felt sick with fear. He had left the flash on.
Intrigue Swirls Deeper at UN: German, French Firms Own Allied Africa Charity; Secretary-General’s Wife Has Stake
By Sami Boustani
GENEVA—Africa Child Rescue, the new charity at the heart of the United Nations Year of Africa, is majority owned by a company controlled by employees of the KZX Corporation and the Bonnet Group. Zeinab Hussein, the wife of Fareed Hussein, the United Nations secretary-general, and Hakim Yundala, the head of the United Nation’s internal security office, are the only minority shareholders, an investigation by the New York Times reveals.
Moabi Holdings Ltd. was registered in Kinshasa, the capital of Congo, last month. The firm’s majority shareholders are Claude Sambala, the deputy director of KZX’s Kinshasa subsidiary, and Bernard Lalola, the deputy director of the Bonnet Group’s Congo operation. The two each own 35 percent while Zeinab Hussein and Hakim Yundala each have 15 percent stakes.
The web of connections linking the French and German firms together with the most senior UN officials highlights the growing power of corporate influence on the world’s most powerful international body. KZX has poured millions of dollars into supporting the “Goma Development Zone” in eastern Congo, the first UN aid project to be sponsored by a corporation. Numerous senior UN officials are known to oppose the project, but Fareed Hussein has been outspoken in his support.
President Freshwater’s administration and Britain have expressed strong doubts, but China and France, who are also permanent members of the Security Council, have been vocal advocates of the new partnership. “The feeling in London and the White House is that the UN and business interests should be kept separate,” said one official who could not give his name because he was not authorized to speak on this subject on the record. “But Beijing and Paris think differently.” Russia, the other permanent member of the Security Council, has so far stayed on the sidelines. Whatever the United States and Britain would prefer, it seems corporate interests are binding themselves ever tighter to the UN.
Meanwhile, Mitchell Gardiner, a freelance photographer working on behalf of the New York Times, remains in a coma. Mr. Gardiner was attacked by unknown assailants after taking a series of photographs of Mr. Hussein boarding a private airplane owned by KZX (see facing page) at Teterboro Airport, together with Reinhardt Daintner, the company’s chief of corporate communications. Police have launched an investigation into attempted murder.
These are uncertain times for the UN. Earlier this week the Department of Peacekeeping Operations rushed hundreds of UN troops to the Goma refugee camp after unprecedented claims by Florence Munyakarana, the Rwandan ambassador to the United Nations, that a massacre was about to take place there. Tomorrow, Mr. Hussein is due to open the controversial new UN-KZX Institute for International Development in Geneva, which will be housed in the United Nations headquarters at the Palais des Nations.
An in-house investigation into the death of Olivia de Souza, Mr. Hussein’s former sec
retary, is still underway and headed by Hakim Yundala, head of the UN’s Department of Safety and Security. Ms. de Souza fell thirty-eight floors to her death earlier this month. The UN has refused to allow either the FBI or New York Police to investigate, although an increasing number of UN officials believe that she was murdered.
These latest revelations will further increase pressure on Mr. Hussein, whose term is due to end next summer and who is known to be seeking reelection . . .
Yael circled the paragraph about Fareed Hussein flying on KZX’s private jet. Her old boss was always a sucker for luxury, she thought as she sipped her coffee. But there were still so many unanswered questions. The rest of Sami’s article reported that Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, the Rwandan warlord wanted for genocide, was rumored to be in New York, but hadn’t been seen. Well, she could certainly help Sami with that, especially since the article’s dateline showed that Sami was in Geneva. Perhaps they would bump into each other at the opening of the UN-KZX Institute for International Development, she thought, feeling surprisingly buoyed at the prospect. Until she remembered that she was no longer Yael Azoulay.
She checked her watch: it was 9:30 p.m. She had been sitting here for two hours, waiting for Joe-Don. The last text had said, “B410,” —before ten o’clock—so it could be another half hour. But there were much worse places to be than the Black Cat—especially the Hotel Imperial.
The Black Cat stood on the corner of Rue des Pâquis and Rue de Zurich in one of the seediest parts of the city. Prostitutes lingered in the doorways of the now closed luxury-goods shops, while young North African men walked up and down, whispering their lists of drugs for sale. It was not exactly threatening—the Quai de Mont-Blanc on the lakeside and the five-star hotels were just a couple of blocks away—but as a young woman on her own, Yael was glad to be inside. The bar was dark but surprisingly cozy.
The walls were painted dark red, and the wooden chairs and tables looked like assorted flea-market and junk-shop finds. Billie Holiday crooned mournfully in the background. The people-watching was excellent. The two barmaids, who, Yael noticed, were liberally helping themselves to the stock, were now also singing along. There seemed to be rooms for rent by the hour upstairs, judging by the procession of men in business suits and women in very short skirts who passed through and disappeared up the stairs.
The owner came over to Yael’s table to introduce herself. She was pale and enormously fat with bright red hair. Her surprisingly slim fingers were topped with long pink nails studded with fake diamonds. She held a large balloon glass of red wine in one hand and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.
“All on your own, draga?” she asked. She reminded Yael of Jasna, and not just because she had a similar deep voice and accent. “I’m Stella,” she said, holding out her hand.
Yael shook hands, glancing enviously at Stella’s wine. Her grip was firm and confident. “I’m Claudia. I’m waiting for some friends.”
Stella nodded, several chins wobbling at once. “Welcome to the Black Cat, Claudia. Now draga, you let me know if you need anything,” she said, and wandered off into the crowd.
Yael drank some more of her coffee. She sensed that Stella, like Jasna, did not seem entirely convinced by Yael’s new identity. Yael flicked through the rest of the newspaper to keep herself occupied. A story out of Washington, DC, outlined the growing political split between President Freshwater and Marc Rosenheim, the secretary of state. Rosenheim was the guest of honor at the launch of “America First,” a new isolationist lobbying organization that was supposedly funded by a reclusive mining billionaire based in Des Moines, Iowa. The reporter quoted several government sources who said the standoff was crippling government business and could not understand why the president did not simply let Rosenheim go.
The door opened and Yael glanced up. A woman who looked like Jasna walked in, together with an older man wearing a felt hat, a long brown overcoat, dark glasses, and a white cane. Yael looked at her again, for longer. It was Jasna. What was she doing here? And who was the blind man? Maybe the Black Cat was the local Balkan-émigrés hangout, which seemed quite possible. The bar was getting crowded with large, ebullient men in shiny sports suits. The Boban Markovič Orchestra had replaced Billie Holiday, the slivovitz flowed, and the party was kicking off nicely.
Jasna waved to Stella and smiled as she guided the blind man over to Yael, with a hand on his arm. Yael jumped up, trying to cover her surprise, and pulled out a chair for him. He handed her a copy of Genève Soir, the city’s evening newspaper.
Joe-Don said, “We have a problem.”
Twenty-Four
The air split open with a loud crack of thunder, and the school hall lit up again for an instant. It was lightning, Herve realized, his knees wobbly with relief. He managed to squeeze off three more shots before he put the camera back in his trouser pocket, the sweat pouring off him.
Baptiste and Lucien started clapping and the men joined in, shouting and cheering. Nodula stood up and held up his hand for silence. “We will make sure that any true and genuine Hutu will be able to defend himself and his family when the cockroaches attack. But first, he must show his loyalty, that he knows the Hutu Ten Commandments.”
Nodula was no longer nervous, but confident and in command. “Who can tell me the first commandment? The one that tells us who is a traitor? Jean-Luc? I am sure that you do not want to be a traitor. I am sure . . . my friend, that you want revenge, for your daughter.”
Jean-Luc stood up, shaking as he spoke. “Anyone who marries, befriends, or employs a Tutsi is a traitor.”
Stephan nodded, a smile playing on his lips, and walked over to the large wooden crates wrapped in plastic. He took out a hunting knife and slashed at the wrapping, ripping it off and throwing it aside.
He jammed the knife into the lid of the wooden crate, levered it open, and took out an AK-47 assault rifle, still shiny with grease.
Nodula started clapping again, triggering a wave of applause. “Tell me, Jean-Luc, the second Hutu commandment.”
Jean-Luc looked at Stephan, then back at the deputy mayor. “Anyone makes a business partnership with a Tutsi, lends him money, or helps him with any kind of favors is a traitor.”
Nodula nodded, satisfied. “And the third and fourth?”
Jean-Luc said, his voice stronger now. “All government positions must be majority Hutu. The armed forces must be exclusively Hutu.”
Nodula clapped enthusiastically, triggering another wave of applause. Stephan levered open the ammunition box, took a banana-shaped cartridge, and handed the gun and ammunition to Jean-Luc. He swiftly clicked the cartridge into place, weighing the weapon in his hands with satisfaction.
Nodula stood up and walked over to Evelyn’s father. “How do we defend ourselves, Jean-Luc?” he asked softly.
“Hutu power!” he replied.
“How do we defend ourselves?” Nodula asked again, louder.
“Hutu power!” said Jean-Luc, his voice strong and confident.
The men in the hall echoed his answer, looking at one another and nodding determinedly.
“You know what has to be done, Jean-Luc,” said Stephan, his voice soft and reassuring. “You made a mistake. You married a Tutsi. That’s OK. People make mistakes. We are all human. The question is how do we make amends for those mistakes? How do we prove ourselves? You must prove yourself, Jean-Luc. Prove that you are not a traitor. Purge the evil. Cleanse your family of the cockroaches.”
Jean-Luc swallowed hard and gripped the AK-47 so tightly that his fingers paled. “All of them?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Stephan nodded. “Every single one.”
Nodula, Lucien, and Baptiste began to rhythmically bang the table.
Jean-Luc led the chorus of “Hutu power, Hutu power,” raising and lowering the gun above his head, in time with the chant.
The cry resounded around the room,
rising and falling, echoing across the village and far out into the forest. The man with the bushy eyebrows smiled and sat silently, the contempt flickering on his face as the men lined up excitedly to receive their guns and ammunition. Nobody noticed as Herve slipped away.
Joe-Don and Yael were sitting in Stella’s office on the first floor above the bar. The room smelled of the familiar cocktail of perfume, coffee, and cigarette smoke, but it was also exuberantly pink: the walls were dark pink, the carpet a lighter shade, and the doors a pale strawberry. Stella’s fat black cat sat comfortably on Yael’s lap, purring loudly. A television was switched on in the corner, tuned to the local news channel, with the volume turned down. The thumping bass of the gypsy music carried through the floorboards, together with the faint echoes of shouts and laughter. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky and two glasses sat on the desk, next to a thermos of coffee.
Joe-Don poured himself and Yael two small whiskies, and they clinked glasses. He took a tiny sip. Yael swallowed half the drink in one go. She closed her eyes with pleasure as the alcohol burst inside her like a warmth bomb.
Joe-Don tapped the front of the Genève Soir: “Slow down. That’s your ration for tonight.”
The newspaper’s front page showed a large photograph of Joe-Don in his blond wig and glasses under the headline, “Armé et Extrémement Dangereux.” Members of the public were not to make contact with him, but to report his whereabouts to the police immediately, the report said, with an account of how a “hautement tueur professionelle” had killed “un diplomate Américain” with a single shot in the middle of the rush hour.
Yael sat back, digesting what she had read. “My God. One shot? Why didn’t they shoot at you as well?”
