The Geneva Option

by Adam LeBor

  The peacekeeper looked Herve up and down disdainfully. He pulled out a tin of cheroots and lit up, offering one to the commander and lighting it for him. “Keep it,” the Dutchman said. The Tutsi smiled appreciatively and slipped the tin into his pocket. An engine noise rumbled in the distance, deep and low.

  Van Dijk turned back to Herve. “The camp is closed. Orders. No more to be admitted. Don’t worry. You are in good hands here.”

  Herve shook his head, his voice pleading. “Please, monsieur, these men are threatening us. Can’t you see?”

  The peacekeeper turned, taking in the sight of Herve and Evelyn’s family, surrounded by ECLF soldiers pointing their guns at them. He shrugged. “Security checks. This is a war zone,” he said as the engine noise grew louder. “I told you. The camp is closed. Those are our orders.”

  “Monsieur, I beg you, at least take the children,” Herve asked.

  The Dutchman dropped the cheroot on the ground, his lips pursed in distaste. “Stop whining.”

  The ECLF commander gestured at Violetta and Hermione. “Do you want the women?” he asked Van Dijk.

  The Dutchman shook his head. “No. Too old.”

  The peacekeeper turned on his feet to see two white UN armored personnel carriers speeding toward them. One parked in front of the checkpoint, juddering back and forth as it halted. The other lurched off the road and turned in a tight circle so that it was facing the checkpoint from behind, sending up clouds of red dust. A peacekeeper stood in the turret of each APC, training a heavy machine gun on the scene. The door of the first vehicle opened and a ruddy-faced, red-haired Englishman in a UN uniform jumped out.

  The Dutch peacekeeper immediately snapped to attention and saluted.

  Quentin Braithwaite walked over to the ECLF commander, who returned his salute. Braithwaite ignored the Dutch soldier and looked at the militiaman with contempt. The ECLF commander stared at him uncomprehendingly. What was this about? The UN had access to satellite intelligence and had its own military observers on the ground. The peacekeepers knew that the ECLF was active in the area, of course, but several packets of uncut diamonds handed to local UN commanders and a ready supply of local girls for the UN troops had so far ensured that the ECLF could operate with complete freedom.

  “Do you know what a .50-caliber machine gun does to the human body?” Braithwaite asked.

  The commander nodded nervously.

  “Excellent, because there are two of them pointed at you as we speak,” said Braithwaite, holding his hand out.

  The militiaman looked right and left at the APCs. The machine gunners stared at him impassively. He reached in his pocket and handed Grace’s banknotes and the families’ papers to Braithwaite.

  “Good start. Now your men—I won’t call them soldiers—are going to surrender their weapons. Aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” said the commander, shaking.

  Braithwaite snapped: “All guns under the APC tracks.”

  The commander looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s very simple. Your men will put all their weapons under the tracks of the armored personnel carrier.”

  “But then we will not be able to defend ourselves.”

  Braithwaite looked up at the machine gunner in the first APC. He unlocked the weapon with a loud click and chambered a round.

  “No safety on the .50. Once he pulls the trigger, that’s it,” said Braithwaite.

  “Put your guns under the APC, quickly,” the commander shouted at his troops, in a vain attempt to assert some authority.

  Braithwaite watched as they slid the weapons under the tracks. He nodded. “Now tell your men to pick up these good people’s clothes and other possessions and hand them back.”

  The ECLF commander did as he was ordered. Herve and the others watched in amazement as the soldiers gave them their clothes back. Braithwaite nodded with satisfaction and then gestured to Herve and the two families to come toward him. He opened the door of the APC, standing over them as they clambered in, the children chattering excitedly.

  Van Dijk looked at him inquiringly.

  Braithwaite said, “Give me your pistol.”

  The Dutch peacekeeper looked shocked.

  Braithwaite said, “Are you deaf, man?”

  Van Dijk handed him his weapon, his eyes darting back and forth from Braithwaite to the UN checkpoint.

  Braithwaite said, “You can walk back to base. When you get there, you will write a full report on this incident. I will read it so it will be accurate, and I will forward it to the Dutch Ministry of Defense. Then you will pack your bags and take the first plane to Kinshasa. From there you will travel to The Hague. You are a disgrace to this uniform and the UN mission. Now stand still.”

  The Dutchman flinched, waiting for what he knew was coming. Braithwaite grabbed the epaulet above his right shoulder and yanked it hard. The fabric ripped and the strip of cloth came away in his hands. Van Dijk stared out, rigid with shame and anger. Braithwaite grabbed the epaulet on his left shoulder and pulled so hard the Dutchman almost fell forward into the dust. Braithwaite handed both strips of cloth to the peacekeeper. “You can show that to your commander. Now get going,” he ordered, his voice full of contempt.

  Braithwaite watched for half a minute as the Dutchman walked up the road to the UN. Braithwaite followed the families into the armored vehicle and closed the door with a loud thunk. The APC’s engine coughed and emitted a large plume of exhaust fumes, and the vehicle moved forward over the guns, crushing them under its tracks like matchwood.

  Sami and Najwa sat in the lobby of the Council Chamber of the Palais des Nations, flicking through the media accreditation list for that morning’s joint UN-KZX Africa press conference. Clad in the same cream-colored stone as the façade of the building, the two-story-high entrance hall was airy and spacious. The sparse furnishings only accentuated the elegance of its 1930s design. “The Ascent of Man,” a giant triptych bas-relief by the sculptor Eric Gill, was mounted on the wall above the glass and metal door. The morning sun had temporarily defeated the clouds, and bright light poured in through the glass ceiling; the iron frame holding the sections of glass together reflected on the smooth, polished marble floor. Najwa’s camerawoman and sound engineer sat on an identical maroon leather sofa on the other side of the entrance, their heads resting against the walls, still half-asleep.

  They were more than two hours early—it was not yet 7:00 a.m., and the media event was not due to start until 9:00 in the Council Chamber. Najwa had insisted on being there first so that her camera crew could position themselves in the center of the front row of cameras. Sami put the press list down and sat back, his hands behind his head, staring at the glass ceiling and thinking. The American media, indeed most of the world’s, had been full of the news that President Freshwater’s husband had been killed in a skiing accident. The conspiracy-minded websites were asking how such a high-profile figure could be allowed to take to the slopes with faulty bindings. The right-wing media was calling up an endless stream of experts to testify to the danger of off-piste skiing, including a former American Olympic champion who was now confined to a wheelchair after he hit a tree in Aspen, Colorado.

  President Freshwater was now on compassionate leave. The United States was technically being run by the vice president, Horace Grosvenor, an ultraliberal former governor of California, who had been appointed as a sop to the party’s left fringe. Most analysts agreed that he was wildly out of his depth. Marc Rosenheim, the secretary of state, was having an excellent crisis, constantly appearing on television news channels, assuring voters that the White House was in safe hands, and making pronouncements on everything from the still-soaring national debt to the latest suicide bombings in Afghanistan.

  Sami suddenly remembered that he had not read the Times of London yet. Had Jonathan Beaufort dug up anything new? And he still owed him a
favor for the tip-off for the 42nd Street press conference. Sami opened his smartphone’s web browser and clicked on the Times app. There was indeed a story by Jonathan Beaufort, datelined New York: “Military Contractors Clash with Peacekeepers in Congo.” The article reported that an armored four-by-four SUV had refused to stop at a new UN checkpoint just outside the UN camp at Goma.

  Peacekeepers had opened fire on the vehicle’s tires. The car had skidded off the road and crashed. Nobody had been seriously hurt, but the vehicle had been carrying hundreds of rounds of ammunition and twelve crates of new AK-47s. The driver and passengers initially claimed to be aid workers and that the weapons were for their personal protection. Documents found in the car revealed that they were working for EGS. They had been arrested by the UN troops, treated for minor injuries, and were now being held at the UN military prison outside the capital, Kinshasa. The story was sourced to “peacekeeping officials,” which by UN standards was about as on the record as it got. A spokesman for EGS blamed the incident on a misunderstanding. The company had not been notified about the new checkpoint and had believed it to be manned by local militia members in stolen UN uniforms. Henrik Schneidermann, the SG’s spokesman, promised that the UN would launch an inquiry into the incident.

  Well done, Jonathan; that is interesting, thought Sami. But who were the “peacekeeping officials” that were talking? He turned to Najwa, who was still flicking through the media list, shaking her head.

  “Are you sure we are in the right place?” she asked. “Grazia, Hello!, Now, OK!, People, Star magazine, and who are the 3AM Girls?”

  “Gossip columnists for the Sun in London.”

  “And they are interested in the UN-KZX Goma Development Zone?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then what are all these celebrity magazines doing here?”

  “I don’t know. But take a look at this,” he said, handing Najwa his smartphone with the Times of London’s story open on the screen.

  Sami looked up just as two women walked down the lobby toward him and Najwa. One was handsome, in her fifties, blond, and smartly dressed, while the second was much younger, taller, and slimmer, with spiky black hair. She was attractive, but it was more than that. There was something about her that seemed familiar—in the way she walked or held herself, perhaps, or the set of her eyes above her nose and generous mouth. The younger woman had been watching him and Najwa, he sensed, but as soon as he looked at her she turned away.

  The two women walked past him and around the sofa and stopped in front of the door to the Council Chamber. The older one pushed hard on the large bronze handle but it did not move. Sami stood up to help. They stepped back as he gave the handle a hefty push and the heavy door gave way. The blond woman thanked him, but the younger one did not say anything and seemed curiously reluctant to meet his eye. Maybe she was just shy, he thought. Sami watched them walk into the Council Chamber while the door closed behind them. He was still wondering about the encounter when Najwa gently elbowed him in the side.

  “Very good story. I never liked EGS. And stop staring at girls, Sami. I told you I am going to introduce you to my cousin,” she said, handing Sami back his telephone. “Now look who is here,” she said enthusiastically, as a tall Englishman walked over.

  Najwa stood up to kiss Jonathan Beaufort on both cheeks. A bald, tubby photographer laden down with camera bags and telephoto lenses and a skinny young black-haired woman followed him, both talking loudly on their mobile telephones.

  Sami also stood up and the two men shook hands. “Good morning and welcome to the world of celebrity journalism,” said Beaufort, gesturing at the two others to come over. “This is Dave, our arts photographer, and Samantha, our contemporary-culture correspondent.” Samantha had a pierced nose and dreadlocks. She grinned and waved enthusiastically with one hand, still speaking on her mobile telephone. “Definitely, yeah, definitely,” she said, nodding decisively. “I’ve spoken to her people and they say we can have ten minutes, just the two of us. No copy approval, but they want to check any direct quotes, OK? I’ll tweet the headline as soon as I have it.”

  Dave’s head was already shiny with sweat. He shook hands, nodded, smiled tensely, and started checking his equipment. He pointed a camera with a lens the size of a small artillery shell at the front of the Council Chamber door, peered into the viewfinder, and began walking slowly backward.

  “Where’s your contemporary-culture correspondent, Sami?” Jonathan asked wryly.

  “I don’t know. Somewhere contemporary and cultural I guess,” said Sami. He watched, fascinated, as Dave advanced toward the centerpiece of the lobby, a blue, two-meter-high Japanese porcelain vase, with a white map of the world on an indigo background.

  “I told you we were in the wrong place,” said Najwa.

  “No, darling, we are not,” said Jonathan.

  He held a rolled-up copy of yesterday’s International Herald Tribune with Sami’s story on the front page. “Nice work,” he said, tapping the newspaper.

  “Thanks. You did a good piece on EGS. Who’s talking in the DPKO?”

  Jonathan looked at Sami with amusement. “Sami, my dear old mate and esteemed colleague. As far as I remember, I offered to trade leads for a copy of the Goma memo. You declined.” He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his head, baffled at the ways of the world. “A New York Times exclusive, your very words. And I still tipped you off about the 42nd Street presser. So I think the New York Times account at the moment at the Beaufort sources bank has slipped into the red. But . . . I got a good run in the paper, so I’m feeling generous today. My original offer still stands: a copy of the Goma memo and lunch at the Delegates Dining Room. On you.”

  Sami smiled. The story had moved so far on by now it would be churlish to refuse. “It’s a deal. I’ve got it scanned. I will e-mail it to you.”

  Jonathan leaned forward and whispered. “Good. You didn’t hear this from me, but Quentin Braithwaite is in eastern Congo—and he is really pissed off. What . . . ?” asked Jonathan, seeing the look of alarm on Sami’s face.

  “I think your photographer is about to cause a diplomatic incident,” he said, pointing at Dave, who was now just two feet from the priceless artifact.

  Jonathan shouted at him to watch out. The photographer stopped and looked around, realization dawning on his face. He mopped his brow and held a hand up in supplication.

  Jonathan laughed. “Even I could not get that one through on expenses. But we had better get our questions in early today. We are going to be seriously outnumbered.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Yael tried to put her emotions aside as she walked into the Council Chamber. She felt curiously pleased to see familiar faces, somehow even felt reassured that Sami, Jonathan Beaufort, and Najwa were here. Their presence was a reminder that several extremely able reporters were also on the trail of KZX and the Bonnet Group. But it was a bittersweet encounter, reminding her of her old life and of her growing feelings for Sami before his story wrecked her life.

  Yael stopped and looked around at the familiar surroundings. The Council Chamber was not the largest room in the Palais des Nations—that honor was held by the Assembly Hall, which could hold two thousand people. But it was an elegant and atmospheric space that retained a powerful sense of history. The dropped ceiling and the cream stone walls at the rear and the sides were lined with giant frescoes donated by the Second Spanish Republic in the 1930s. They showed the themes so beloved of the United Nations: toiling laborers, scientists, artists, and more gun barrels. A balcony curved around the width of the room. Long before Rwanda and Srebrenica, the League of Nations had struggled in this very room to save Abyssinia, as Ethiopia was then known, while the country was pounded by Mussolini’s air force, its inhabitants bombed and gassed. Haile Selassie, Ethiopia’s emperor himself, had come here to plead for help—in vain.

  Jasna paused in the middle of the
chamber, standing in front of the salmon-pink curtains that extended almost from the floor to the ceiling. She looked at Yael, interrupting her reverie. “You know those journalists outside?”

  Yael smiled wryly. “In another life.”

  “And you want it back?”

  “I don’t know,” said Yael. She walked over to Jasna and stood next to her, playing with the curtain. “I want to sleep in my own bed.”

  “With the curly-haired boy? He could be quite handsome if he smartened himself up.”

  Yael flushed. “Is it that obvious?”

  Jasna smiled kindly. “Let’s get to work.”

  The UN-KZX Institute for International Development was spread out over six rooms in the east wing of the Palais. During the 1930s they had housed the financial department of the League of Nations. Until recently they were home to the Geneva office of the Organizing Committee of the Week of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples Affected by Global Warming. The committee’s members had gladly agreed for themselves, their families, and their workplaces to be relocated to New York at the UN’s expense to make way for the new institute.

  Yael left Jasna at the elevator and walked down the corridor on her own to the director’s office at the end. The plan was that Jasna, who had a good reason to be in the area this early, would wait by the elevator and cover her, pretending to check the state of the place, while she kept watch on the elevator and the nearby staircase. Meanwhile, Yael would search the office. Jasna had given her the key.

  If anyone appeared, Jasna would delay him or her as long as possible with questions about cleaning and office maintenance for the new setup, and she would surreptitiously send Yael a text from her mobile phone in her coat pocket. Yael would immediately leave. Even if the institute’s staff came in as early as 8:00 a.m.—which in her experience with the UN was highly unlikely—Yael should have well over an hour to find the evidence. And most of them would probably be at the press conference, basking in the media limelight, not in their offices.