by Adam LeBor
Menachem Stein nodded. “I am impressed. I didn’t know you were a fan of Rumi.” The leather binding creaked as he gently opened the book.
“Careful, now,” said Clairborne, “that’s five hundred years old.”
The work by Persia’s most famous poet had pride of place in Clairborne’s office library. It was displayed full on, flanked by other works on the Middle East in Arabic, Farsi, German, and English that had been tracked down by Clairborne’s international network of antiquarian booksellers.
Stein slowly closed the book and returned it to its shelf. He looked around, his surprise showing on his face. Clairborne was used to Stein’s reaction, as the rare visitors allowed into his office were often taken aback by the understated furnishings. He was never sure quite what they expected—a Confederate flag, perhaps, a poster advertising a lynching, or a piped recording of a rendition of “Dixie”—but not this. The dark floor of Vermont oak was covered with an enormous Persian rug, woven for the royal court. A pattern of roses and jasmine flowers swirled around the center medallion. The walls were covered with wooden paneling from the same forest as the flooring. Clairborne’s heavy, old-fashioned desk once belonged to Richard Nixon, before he became president. Apart from the framed photographs of Clairborne with three presidents and Eugene Packard, the only sign of ego was the P and G monogram on the wooden humidor.
Clairborne gestured to Stein to sit next to him in one of the two leather armchairs in the corner. “What can I get you, Menachem? Coffee, water, both, something stronger? I have an excellent bourbon, from a boutique distillery in Kentucky. Something to smoke?” Clairborne asked.
“Thank you. Nothing. I’m fine.”
No, you are not, Clairborne wanted to say. The last time he had seen the chairman of Efrat Global Solutions, barely a month ago, they had been hunting on his estate in West Virginia. Five hundred acres of prime farmland and forest, with a twelve-room lodge. Stein had shot several ducks out of the sky, but Clairborne none. Most incredibly of all, Stein had actually lowered the barrel of Clairborne’s gun when he was about to take a shot, just to emphasize his point.
Clairborne did not like Stein. He was no fan of Israel or Israelis, and thought the Palestinians had a rough deal. But there was no money to be made in Palestine. However, although he felt no warmth toward Stein, Clairborne did admire him. Stein, like Clairborne, was a survivor. EGS had been deeply implicated in the coltan scandal when, less than a year ago, two of its most senior officials had been arrested in Congo while handing out arms to a Hutu militia so its members could trigger a new genocide. Stein himself barely escaped an Interpol warrant.
That scandal, like several others, had not affected EGS’s share price or its contracts. In fact, it only seemed to boost their value. EGS was the largest private military contractor in the world, its headquarters five minutes’ walk from Capitol Hill. For Stein, like Clairborne, the instability in the Middle East had been very good for business. Despite the Israeli connection, EGS had just signed a multi-billion-dollar contract to train the Emirates’ new military and paramilitary forces.
Stein sat down next to Clairborne. Stein was in his early sixties, dressed casually in jeans, Timberland boots, and a white shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. He had close-cropped silver hair, which highlighted the most remarkable thing about him: his eyes. One blue and one gray, they had the intensity of lasers.
Normally they unsettled Clairborne. But today he had ammunition.
“Let’s get down to business, Menachem. The car bomb in DC. That was your responsibility. It would have been a damn useful backdrop to the Reykjavik meeting. Blood and shrapnel, a few yards from the White House. A trail of terror from Tehran to Pennsylvania Avenue. What happened?”
Stein frowned, tapped his fingers on the armchair. “I am not sure. Everything was in place. You saw what the cops found. There was no reason for anyone to be suspicious of the vehicle. A gray Ford. But someone made a call, alerted the cops.”
“Does EGS have a leak?”
Stein shook his head. “Impossible. Maybe the leak is at your end, Clarence.”
“Out of the question. I am the only one who knew about it.”
“Really? What about your friend? Packard the preacher? He was here yesterday, I believe.” Stein patted the arm of the chair. “Sitting here, I am sure, calling down fire and brimstone.”
Clairborne was about to ask how Stein knew about Packard, but immediately realized there was no point. EGS obviously had the Prometheus Group under surveillance. If he had done the same to EGS, he might know more about why the car bomb failed to detonate. “Packard does not know operational details,” said Clairborne. “And even though the bomb did not go off, at least we have laid a trail back to Tehran. What about the girl?”
Stein looked at his watch. “Meeting with the SG by now. He will give her the Reykjavik assignment.”
“I’ll miss her once she’s gone. She’s a firecracker.”
Stein smiled. “Yes. She is.”
18
The SG was waiting for Yael by the elevator, a rare honor. They briefly hugged, his soft belly pushing against her for a couple of seconds. She could smell his coconut hair lotion. There was the hint of new aftershave or cologne as well. It was light and floral for a male fragrance, but somehow familiar.
They stepped apart. Hussein stood in front of Yael, his hands resting lightly around hers. “Thank you so much for your calls last night. That meant a lot to me.”
“Of course. I was so worried about you.” Her next question, as to why he had not picked up and actually spoken to her, was left hanging in the air.
Every successful politician and diplomat had the ability to make the person they were with feel like they were the center of the universe, even if only for a few seconds, but Hussein’s skill in drawing in his companion was unrivaled. Yael had experienced every weapon in his charm armory, and while that knowledge blunted their efficiency, it did not neutralize them. Their relationship was complex and intense, but was laced through with genuine mutual affection. Each found in the other something missing from their personal lives. Hussein kept one hand on Yael’s upper arm as he escorted her through to his office. The warmth of his palm was still curiously comforting.
Grace Olewanda looked up as Yael and the SG stepped into the anteroom where she worked. Yael mouthed the word “Thanks.” Grace nodded and mouthed “Anytime” in reply as Yael and the SG walked through into his suite.
Even in a city that prized real estate like no other, and rewarded its power brokers accordingly, the office of the secretary-general of the United Nations stood out for its size and views. It took up most of the length of the thirty-eighth floor of the Secretariat Building, and all of its width. The front windows looked out over First Avenue and the East Forties, steel-and-glass canyons of office blocks and apartment buildings. The rear view took in the East River and the shoreline of Queens with its giant billboard advertising Pepsi Cola. The side windows showcased First Avenue and Roosevelt Island—a narrow strip of land just off the Manhattan side of the East River—and the Queensboro Bridge with the cable-car service that connected the two.
The SG normally took pride in his office, showing off the view even to his regular visitors. But not today. Yael glanced at Hussein. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin had a grayish pall. He was walking with a slight stoop. “Fareed, are you sure you’re OK?”
“Physically, yes. I’m fine. But I’m very shaken. It’s such a tragic waste. And at such an incredibly sensitive time. Frank was a very talented diplomat. He will be much missed.”
As they spoke, Yael suddenly realized what the second fragrance was. A few days earlier she had stopped by Bloomingdales on her way home. A sales assistant at the perfume counter had sprayed Zest, “for the busy urban woman,” on Yael’s wrist. Why was the SG wearing, or carrying a trace of, a woman’s fragrance on his skin? His wife, Zeinab, had not been seen in New York, let alone the building, for months. After Sami reported
that she held shares in Geneva Holdings, a company in Kinshasa that was connected to the coltan scandal, Zeinab had returned to Pakistan to “take care of pressing family matters.”
But Yael had more important questions on her mind than lingering perfumes. Firstly, what did Fareed know about the Rwanda deal that Roger Richardson had discussed on CNN last night? And secondly, why had she not been informed of Akerman’s mission to Istanbul—or his meeting last night with the SG, especially as Roxana had been there?
And this was more important than a usual turf war. The SG had already sent her to persuade Clarence Clairborne to stop trading with the Revolutionary Guard. How could she deal with Clairborne if other UN officials were parleying with interested parties behind her back?
There was no point protesting or demanding an answer. Providing an opening for Hussein would likely prove more productive than a direct attack. Once they had discussed Iran, and he hopefully felt more at ease, then she could ask about the CNN report.
“Perhaps I can help fill the gap. I’m up to speed on Iran,” said Yael.
“Come, let’s sit down,” said Hussein as he guided her across the room, thus buying himself a few seconds. She sensed him instantly calculating permutations and their probable cost-benefit ratios, and watched him carefully as she waited for his reply.
Apart perhaps from the White House, few organizations were defined by a hierarchy as finely delineated as that of the UN. After twelve years at the UN, Yael was completely attuned to the coded messages of inclusion and exclusion. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the SG’s inner sanctum. Hussein had evolved his own system for processing guests and visitors, the precisely calibrated nuances of which were discussed across the building with the kind of fervor usually reserved for fans dissecting a recent football game.
Those not in favor would be left to stand in front of the SG’s giant black desk, made from environmentally certified Brazilian hardwood. Most visitors were seated in front of the SG, on a very comfortable chair with a seat exactly three inches lower than his. For those with something to offer, the real question was: sofa or armchair?
The sofa stood against one sidewall of the office. The SG liked to sit there and pose for photographs with visiting statesmen because it created a faux atmosphere of intimacy. Only the SG’s most prized confidants were invited to the corner where three leather armchairs clustered around a low table, and Hussein made the drinks himself. Yael usually met with the SG there, as the coffee machine sighed and oozed occasional puffs of steam, gently flavored with the SG’s own special blend of fair-trade Ethiopian beans. There was also a white china teapot for those who did not drink coffee, and even a jar of tea for Yael, a powerful blend of Kenyan and Assam nicknamed “builders’ brew” after the British tea she had come to love while living in London. It was a unique and much-envied privilege.
Hussein was apologetic as he sat down on one of the leather armchairs and beckoned her to sit next to him. “Forgive me if I am somewhat out of sorts this morning. Frank Akerman was a dear friend as well as a fine colleague. We had known each other for many years.” He sat back and closed his eyes for a moment, before he looked at Yael. “There is something I need to discuss with you, a matter of the utmost sensitivity. But before that, my dear Yael, we should speak about last night.”
Yael kept her face expressionless. Hussein could talk his way out of a speeding ticket if he was caught driving at one hundred miles an hour. Still, part of her always enjoyed his performances. Sometimes she even learned something from the veteran arch-manipulator. The contrition gambit, she guessed. Admit responsibility. Explain the problems. Finally, throw yourself on his or her mercy.
A second later she felt the SG’s fingers on the back of her hand, as he began to speak. “It all happened so quickly that there was simply no time to keep you informed. It’s my fault entirely. I saw Akerman’s work as complementing your substantial achievements. I had intended to bring you and Frank together as soon as possible. Ideally, this evening. But now that won’t be possible. And I am sorry for that.”
She smiled. Just as she had predicted, but still a bravura performance—especially as it was not clear whether the SG was sorry that Akerman was dead or that Yael had not met with the Dutchman. Yael was used to Hussein talking his way out of difficult spots. She would allow him this mea culpa but was still determined to get the information she needed. But she would let him run a bit first. “Apology accepted. So where do we go from here? Any news from the FBI? Or the OGAs?”
OGAs stood for other government agencies. In the singular, OGA was usually shorthand for the CIA. But there were likely to be many OGAs marking out their territory around Akerman’s death. As he was a high-ranking UN official with diplomatic immunity, the US Secret Service would also be involved, along with the UNDSS and, because the victim was a foreign national, the State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security. Those were just the official players. Behind the scenes, Yael knew Akerman’s Iranian connection would attract the interest of the NSA, the Department of Homeland Security, the Pentagon, and doubtless Cyrus Jones’s former employer, the Department of Deniable. It was all a recipe for ferocious bureaucratic infighting. Which was good news because the backbiting between the agencies would give her some useful room to maneuver.
“Yes, we’ll get to that,” Hussein said. “Meanwhile, would you like some tea?”
She nodded.
As Hussein filled the kettle and prepared her drink, Yael looked around the familiar office, the familiar questions running through her head. What drove the seventh secretary-general of the United Nations? The more time Yael spent with him, the more she realized how little she really knew of him. Trying to pin down the SG was like trying to catch smoke. Hussein proclaimed himself a fighter for peace, yet he had done little to try and prevent the genocides in Rwanda and Srebrenica. He championed the poor and the underprivileged, but he also loved luxury and the company of celebrities. All of his visitors were given a signed copy of his memoir, My Journey for Peace. Recounting his life from his childhood in Delhi to the present day, it was littered with dropped names of former and present presidents and prime ministers, actors and actresses who had been schmoozed into sprinkling stardust onto a UN campaign. However, even Yael had to admit that the parts about his early years, where Hussein dropped his mask, were moving.
He had been born in India, in 1940, to a Hindu mother and Muslim father. Both sets of parents had frowned on the marriage but the young couple had threatened to elope, and eventually, their families surrendered. In the cosmopolitan world of pre-Partition Delhi, his father, Ahmad, was a prosperous financier. The clients of his small private bank were drawn from the city’s financial elite. In part because of his own experience, Ahmad insisted that the family home was always open to visitors, with no regard to race or religion. Fareed and his brother, Omar, were privately educated at a small British-run school modeled on Eton College, where Britain’s elite were educated. Hussein still affected an upper-class British accent and dropped slang expressions of the 1940s Raj into conversation, both traits he secretly nurtured by reading P.G. Wodehouse novels.
Partition destroyed the family’s cozy world. In that summer of 1947, hundreds of thousands of citizens were expelled, forced to flee from the homes where their families had lived for centuries. The streets ran with blood as fanatics on both sides descended into a frenzy, slaughtering in their quest for racial and ethnic purity. Families of mixed heritages were especially targeted, so Ahmad Hussein took his family to Switzerland. Fearful of what might be coming, he had already moved most of the family’s money out of the country, but they still lost the bank, the family home, the summer house in the mountains, and all their belongings other than those they could carry.
But the Hussein family’s greatest loss was not material. Amid the chaos of a Delhi railway station, Omar’s hand had been wrenched from his brother’s by a surging mob, and he was never seen or heard from again. There was a photograph of him on Fareed Hussei
n’s desk: a skinny six-year-old with a gap-toothed grin. Next to the picture of Omar was another frame, which held half of a post card of the Taj Mahal. A few months before Partition, already sensing that bad times were coming, Fareed bought the post card, summoned his younger brother to the terrace of their house, and tore the picture in two. Then he and Omar made a solemn promise to keep their halves for the rest of their lives, just in case they were ever separated. One late evening, a year or so ago, Yael had walked into Hussein’s office to find him staring at Omar’s photograph, tears coursing down his face.
After a decade in Zurich, Ahmad moved his family to London. Fareed studied at the London School of Economics, then worked as an investment banker in New York and Frankfurt. To all outward appearances, he was a successful financier. But he was still psychologically scarred by the events of Partition and wanted to make a difference. In 1991, his fortune made, he joined the UN High Commissioner for Refugees as finance director. His appointment raised eyebrows across the UN empire; no one doubted his business skills, but he had no experience in any kind of humanitarian or public policy organization. His opponents mocked him behind his back for his mannerisms. But, one by one, they were sidelined, sacked, or encouraged to resign. Hussein shook up the torpid world of the UN bureaucracy. He soon gained a reputation as a mover and a shaker, one whose charming exterior hid a determined, sometimes ruthless operator.
After two years at the UNHCR, Hussein shifted to the Department of Political Affairs. DPA officials worked closely with the superpowers to prepare the agenda of the Security Council, whose decisions had the force of international law. Hussein carved out a niche for himself as the go-between between the United States, Britain, and France on one side and Russia and China on the other. By 1992, there were so many peacekeeping operations that a dedicated department, separate from the DPA, was set up to oversee the Blue Helmets. Worried that this new Department of Peacekeeping Operations might take a more muscular approach, the P5 made sure that Hussein was appointed as its head. As Yugoslavia burned and the Hutu genocidaires stockpiled their machetes, Hussein’s foremost priority was to ensure that what he called the UN’s “sacred neutrality” was not damaged.