The Geneva Option

by Adam LeBor

  The commander took in the scene, laughed, and put the money in his pockets. “Very nice, sister. Let’s see what else you have up there,” he said, taking Herve’s mother’s hand to lead her away. Herve caught her eye. She shook her head, her eyes imploring him not to intervene.

  Grace suddenly started running up the road toward the UN checkpoint. Everyone turned to watch her, her pink flip-flops making small slapping sounds on the tarmac road. The boy soldier turned to aim at her as she drew nearer to the French peacekeepers. Herve’s mother let out a howl of anguish.

  The commander eased the boy soldier’s gun down. “Don’t waste bullets.”

  Several peacekeepers had now come out to see what was happening, alerted by the commotion down the road. They held cups of coffee and sandwiches, wondering what was interrupting their breakfast. Grace kept going, sprinting toward the men. Several of the peacekeepers clapped and shouted encouragement, until she ran straight into the legs of one of the UN troops. He laughed and picked up the little girl. Herve’s mother started crying. Herve smiled. Whatever was about to happen to him, at least his little sister was safe.

  The peacekeeper pulled something from his pocket and showed it to Grace. She nodded enthusiastically, pulled the wrapper off, and started to eat, smiling happily, the chocolate smeared across her face. The peacekeeper turned to one of the other UN troops and asked something. He shook his head decisively. The first peacekeeper saluted, hoisted Grace up onto his shoulders, and started walking back down the road—back toward the ECLF checkpoint.

  Twenty-Six

  Yael walked briskly along the narrow wooden walkway that ran through the Place des Nations, taking care not to slip on the wet planks. It was just after 5:35 a.m., and Geneva’s international quarter was waking up under a slowly lightening gray sky and thin drizzle. She pulled her leather jacket tighter around her, huddling in her purple scarf as a gust of cold, wet wind blew across the square. Despite its grand name—inspired by the Palais des Nations, the United Nations Geneva headquarters that stood on the plaza’s north side—the Place des Nations was not very impressive.

  The intersection at the Avenue de France, one of the city’s main traffic arteries, was surrounded by flat-fronted, 1960s-style office buildings. A bare concrete piazza and scrubby, unkempt park, which turned to a sea of mud whenever it rained, stood in the middle. Even so, this was the important real estate in Geneva, a prized address for aid and development organizations and the UN’s myriad satellite organizations. Even at this hour the road was crowded with early-morning commuters, the headlights of their cars reflecting white and yellow in the oil-smeared puddles.

  Yael gingerly walked past a large slab of dark gray granite that faced out onto the Avenue de France, toward the UN headquarters. “Bosna i Hercegovina 1992–1995. Srebrenica 11. Juli 1995” was painted on the front in gold letters, a mute reminder of the UN’s culpability in the massacre. Yael had been there when the memorial had been unveiled. It was not much of a commemoration for the lives of eight thousand people, she had thought then and still did now. More useful, perhaps, would be a banner asking, “Where were you on that day?” with a display of the photographs of the numerous UN officials and peacekeepers, including Fareed Hussein, who had been on holiday as the Serbs pounded the UN safe area. Who did not think it necessary to return to their desks until its fall was inevitable. Who somehow had ensured that no air strikes took place against the Bosnian Serbs.

  Any sense of personal responsibility for that catastrophe was in short supply, but there was no lack of the sentimental symbolism so beloved of the UN. A large-caliber howitzer stood nearby, mounted on four steel legs, slowly rusting in the damp air. The gun’s barrel was twisted into a knot, and a large metal wheel was hanging off the tip. The memory of being escorted out of the UN building in New York flashed into her mind, together with the giant pistol sculpture, with its barrel twisted into a knot. Except now, she thought ironically, it seemed that the UN, or part of it, was in the weapons distribution—not abolition—business.

  Another sculpture, a brown wooden chair, twelve yards high, stood in the center of the square. One of the chair legs was snapped off two thirds of the way up to symbolize the casualties caused by land mines and cluster bombs. The Broken Chair, as it was known, was a popular site for demonstrations, especially when the UN was in session and the world’s dictators came to Geneva to be courted and flattered. Even at this early hour, she saw the first demonstrators already gathering under the truncated leg. They were Iranian dissidents, many of them headscarved women. The three dozen protestors stood silently, holding large placards covered with gruesome photographs of scarred and broken limbs, the handiwork of the regime loyalists who interrogated their comrades in the basement of Tehran’s Evin Prison.

  Yael saw that another group was gathering on the other side of the chair, chatting with the Iranians. She crossed the road and wandered by to take a closer look. Some were European, but many were Africans, carrying banners and signs. “UN Stop Helping Coltan Plunderers,” read one. “KZX Stop Pillaging Congo,” read another. And a third, held by a smartly dressed young Indian woman, proclaimed, “Hypocrite Hussein: No to Goma KZX Zone.” The woman looked familiar. Yes, it was Rina, the SG’s daughter. Yael’s life had been turned upside down and inside out, but at least some things never changed, she thought, smiling to herself as she walked past the demonstrators and crossed the Avenue de la Paix to the front of the Palais des Nations.

  Yael stopped for a moment in front of the building. The Palais was as imposing as ever, far more so than the UN’s New York headquarters. The Secretariat building was scruffy, dilapidated, and showed its age. The Palais was decades older but was still smart, grandiose, and far more stylish. Built in the 1930s in a mix of art deco and modernist giganticism, clad in cream-colored granite, the UN’s Geneva headquarters was nearly two-thirds of a mile long. The approach road was lined on both sides by well-tended trees and rows of the member states’ flags, each mounted on a steel pole, topped with polished brass. The Palais was surrounded by vast manicured gardens and parks, all open to the public. Peacocks roamed the grounds, which extended all the way to the banks of Lake Geneva. The front of the building—most of the sidewalk—was now blocked off by two rows of stand-alone fences, and Yael barely had space to stand as she peered toward the façade.

  She suddenly felt an overwhelming nostalgia for her old life. She had been through here countless times, sitting next to Fareed Hussein in a long black Audi or Mercedes driven by a black-suited chauffeur, a pile of confidential briefing papers and reports from friendly intelligence agencies on her lap. Flanked by outriders at the front and back, blue flags over the headlights flapping in the wind, their motorcade would drive through the gateway, down the promenade past the trees, under the vast main archway, and into the Palais complex, escorting them straight into the company of the world’s most powerful leaders. She had loved it, of course, that feeling of being on the inside track, that she was one of the select, the elite who knew how the world really worked. She admitted, to herself at least, that she missed it all very much.

  And now she was back, although on a very different mission. She had considered, even discussed with Joe-Don, simply telling Sami Boustani everything she knew so far and blowing the story open. But apart from the sound file, it was mostly words, deductions, and suppositions. The recording might be enough, she guessed, to stop KZX and the Bonnet Group and bring down the SG. But even that was not certain. The sound file would be denounced as a fake, and a team of experts would be assembled to show how it was put together. Hussein and KZX would deny everything and brazen it out. And after a few days, as she herself had explained to Hakizimani, the media circus would move on.

  But even if the SG did have to resign, that would not be enough for her. Someone had sent the file to her and for a reason. There were always wheels within wheels at the UN. It was quite possible, even highly likely, that she was being used in s
ome complicated game, although for what purpose she could not fathom. So this was something she needed to do for herself. She wanted the proof of the plan for the war. And today she would get it. She had given more than a decade of her life to the UN. It would end on her terms, not theirs.

  Yael flexed her hands again, trying to stop the itching in her fingertips. Joe-Don had spent half an hour that morning carefully applying the fake fingerprints, and she was strictly forbidden to scratch them. A female voice interrupted her reverie. “Your papers, please, mademoiselle.” Yael turned to see a police officer holding her hand out. She was young, barely out of her teens, and skinny with straggly brown hair. An older male officer, tall and balding, stood watching nearby.

  Yael reached into her jacket and handed over Claudia’s passport. The policewoman flicked through it. She stared at the photograph and then back at Yael. “You are out early, mademoiselle. What is the purpose of your visit to Geneva? Why are you standing here by the entrance to the United Nations?”

  “Because somewhere in that building is proof of a plot by UN and State Department officials, KZX, and the Bonnet Group to trigger a war across Africa, so that they can take over the world’s supply of coltan,” she had an overwhelming urge to reply. “Once I have the details I will hand them to the New York Times because I like its UN correspondent. I thought he liked me, but he is only interested in what information I can provide, sadly. After that you can arrest me and extradite me to New York where I killed a man, although he deserved it.”

  Yael smiled cordially at the policewoman. “I am a student. I just arrived and am a little jet-lagged. I woke up early and thought I would come and see the UN and go for a walk in the park. Are there really peacocks there?”

  The policewoman nodded gravely and handed Yael her passport back. “Yes, a few. It’s part of the city’s agreement with the UN. But, mademoiselle, please be careful today. There is a big demonstration planned, and there will be many dignitaries here. The protest has been permitted, but there will be a very heavy police presence. So please keep your papers with you and stay away from any trouble. Enjoy your stay in Geneva.”

  Yael thanked her, and turned left along the Avenue de la Paix, following the curve of the road toward the visitors’ entrance. The lights were on in the Russian mission nearby, and she watched a large Mercedes emerge from the enormous gate, its passenger invisible behind tinted windows. Jasna was waiting for her outside the visitor’s entrance. This was less grand than the main gate, but the side view of the Palais’ high walls was still impressive. A narrow island topped with grass stood in between the entry and exit access roads. The UN police sat in a large black and steel cubicle just behind the island, checking the papers of incoming drivers. Even at this early hour the vehicles were lined up waiting to be checked.

  Jasna took Yael’s arm as they walked past the cars and toward the pedestrian entrance on the side of the building. “Sleep well, draga?” she asked.

  Yael shook her head. “No. He snores.”

  “I know. Like a tractor,” she said, laughing as they walked inside.

  Visitors to the UN building in New York had to pass through a tent. The Palais visitors’ entrance still had a sense of solidity and grandeur: the foyer was wide and spacious with large windows, a high ceiling, and well-polished floor. Long blue banners spanned the length of each wall announcing the UN Year of Africa, each with the KZX logo displayed as large as the UN’s own symbol. The visitors’ security area stood in the center, next to an X-ray screening machine and walk-through metal detector. UN police sat inside the island, behind a pale wooden wall, checking the CCTV monitors that covered the inside and the outside of the complex.

  A tall, suntanned UN policeman with carefully barbered gray hair, even features, and lively hazel eyes sat behind the reception desk in his blue uniform. His nametag, one end of which was not properly attached to the Velcro fastener on his shirt, said “Robertson.” He was still a handsome man and clearly knew it as he smiled at Jasna flirtatiously.

  “We’re in luck,” she murmured to Yael as they walked over to him.

  “Hello, darling. New recruit?” the policeman asked with a strong Australian accent.

  “Draga, where have you been? I’ve missed you. This is Claudia. She is going to be working with me,” said Jasna as she gave him her UN pass. “I’m showing her around this morning, before it all gets too crazy.”

  The policeman gave Jasna’s ID a cursory glance. “Yup, big day today. Now, darling, when are you going to cook me that Serbian dinner you keep promising? I’ve got just the bottle of Australian red to go with it,” he said, still holding on to Jasna’s ID and smiling at her.

  Jasna smiled back and reached for her plastic pass, her eyes open wide with promise. “Soon. Very soon. I promise. Once Claudia has started work and can take some of the pressure off.”

  “Just tell me when and where. I will be there,” said Robertson as he let go of the ID. He turned to Yael. “Where are you from, Claudia?”

  “Costa Rica.”

  “OK, Costa Rica, your passport you give to me, the fingers of your right hand you place here,” he said, sliding a small machine with a glass plate on the cover toward here.

  Yael handed her passport to the policeman and placed her fingers on the glass. Her heart started thumping.

  The machine clicked and flashed. The policeman moved the machine back and looked at the results. He shook his head. The thumping became a pounding.

  Robertson frowned. “This new technology. Supposed to make life easier, but just makes everything more complicated. It’s showing a problem with the results. It cannot read your fingerprints and check them against the database. Dunno why.”

  The policeman looked up at her. “You are not a terrorist, are you, Claudia?” he asked. “Or a radical political activist or anarchist?” His voice was light and friendly, but Yael saw that his eyes were alert and his posture changed. He was sitting up straight, focused, and now watching her with interest. What was the problem?

  “Michael, what a question,” said Jasna before Yael had a chance to answer. “Of course not. She is a student.”

  The policeman looked at Yael again, clearly torn between his crush on Jasna and the machine’s rejection of Yael’s fingerprints. “Try to keep still. Maybe you moved.”

  Claudia did as he bid. She stood completely still and slowed her breathing down. The machine clicked and flashed again. The policeman looked down at the results. He nodded, satisfied. “OK, that’s fine. Just one more thing. Then I can give you your pass. The SG is here today, as I am sure you know, with lots of VIPs and dignitaries. So there is an extra security check. All visitors have to undergo retinal identification. The iris scans will be checked against our database. Should only take a few minutes. If the system is working, that is. We tried it this morning and it took half an hour. So you might have to wait for a while.”

  Yael nodded, her stomach churning, her heart racing again. This was a disaster. A total disaster. It was over before she stepped inside the place. They knew there would be a passport and fingerprint check and had prepared for those. But Joe-Don had said nothing about a retina check. There was no way to fake a retina scan, even with her brown contact lenses. All of her biometric details were stored on the UN database. Her real identity would flash up instantly.

  Robertson immediately sensed her unease. “Is there a problem, Claudia?” he asked, his voice decidedly less friendly.

  Jasna leaned forward before Yael could answer. “Michael . . . we should be in and out in an hour, long before the VIPs get here. I can vouch for Claudia. The problem is that she has an appointment with the police at 9:00 a.m. to sort out her residence and work permit. You know how long they take to arrange. If she misses that it could be months before she gets another. And then I won’t have anyone to help me run the company, which takes up all my time, and then I won’t see my kitchen for months . . .�
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  The policeman gave Jasna a wry look. “I don’t know, we are under strict instructions. All those VIPs . . .” he said, his voice trailing off. Yael sensed him softening.

  “Draga, how long have we known each other?” asked Jasna, looking him in the eye and smiling promisingly.

  “Years. I’ve lost count.”

  Jasna nodded regretfully. “So many wasted years. Then it is about time that we got to know each other a little better, wouldn’t you say? How about Sunday,” she said, pushing the end of his nametag back into place, her finger lingering on his chest.

  Robertson looked at Yael, at Jasna, and back at Yael for several long seconds. “Sunday it is, darling,” he said, waving them through.

  Twenty-Seven

  Herve watched incredulously as the Dutch peacekeeper put Grace down. She ran to her mother, who instantly picked her up, held her as tight as she could, and started sobbing. The UN soldier was a sergeant in his midtwenties—broad-shouldered and fit-looking with blue eyes, a shaved head, and a nametag that read “Van Dijk.” He shook hands enthusiastically with the Tutsi commander as they exchanged greetings.

  “One of yours, I think,” the peacekeeper said, gesturing at the little girl, who was watching wide-eyed from her mother’s shoulder.

  “That’s right,” said the ECLF commander as he laughed and slapped the Dutchman’s back.

  “Monsieur, please, can’t you help us?” asked Herve.

  Van Dijk looked at him as though he had asked for a loan of ten thousand euros. He shrugged. “How?”

  “We were trying to get to the UN Goma camp. We are nearly there.”