by Adam LeBor
Yael knew the world lived, operated, in shades of gray. Hussein might be obsessed with the UN’s neutrality, which had helped cause catastrophes in Rwanda and Srebrenica. But without that neutrality the organization would not be allowed into war zones to do its humanitarian work. And that same neutrality had given her a life of great excitement and fulfillment. Hussein had plucked Yael from the thousands of people working in the Secretariat Building and made her his personal envoy, giving her a career that she could never have even dreamed of.
She had seen, firsthand and up close, the reality of realpolitik; how the superpowers, even Western ones, quickly sacrificed their principles for political advantage, human rights for corporate profits. And she too had facilitated, even sped up that process. She had helped killers walk free, baptized warlords as statesmen, transformed insurgent groups into governments. She had sacrificed justice for peace, but she slept easily. Wars had been stopped, ceasefires held, countless lives had been saved. Like all human constructs, the UN was imperfect, but she had spent a decade of her life working for a good and right cause: saving lives. There were no perfect answers, only compromises. Each carried a price. The means may be imperfect, but the important point was the end that was achieved. And for all Hussein’s public insistence on the UN’s impartiality, he had many times let her bend the rules to achieve a greater moral good. Just as long as there was no e-mail or paper trail back to his office.
Hussein’s office walls were covered with signed photographs of him with presidents, prime ministers, actors, and film stars. Yael saw there was a new photograph, of Hussein standing with an attractive woman in her early fifties, on the shores of Lake Geneva. The elegantly dressed woman wore a brightly patterned green and black headscarf: Shireen Kermanzade, the new reformist president of Iran. The matter of “the utmost confidentiality” that Hussein had mentioned was surely related to Akerman’s mission to Istanbul and Iran.
Hussein’s phone rang. He glanced at the number, then at Yael, who gestured at him to take the call. The comfortable chair, the warm office, the smell of coffee were all pleasant and welcome rewards after that morning’s weather and the hassle of getting into the building. Perhaps she should back off Hussein a little. It would be shocking to have a sniper kill someone at your front door, and it was natural for the SG to be preoccupied, even nervous. The next bullet could very well be aimed at him. But still, CNN. David.
Yael sat back and closed her eyes for a moment, replaying her memory of Roger Richardson’s report last night. It was entirely possible that there had been some kind of deal, one that had gone terribly wrong. Deep inside her, Yael believed—knew—that Hussein’s obsession with the UN’s neutrality had played a role in her brother’s death. The question was, how much of one? Yael worked at the UN because she believed in its ideals. But more than that, she wanted know why her brother had died at the hands of Jean-Pierre Hakizimani’s militiamen and who was personally responsible for allowing the UN workers to be slaughtered. And once she had those answers she wanted those guilty to face justice. Even if they included her boss.
Her phone beeped. A text message had arrived. It was only six words long, but she read it and reread it until the words became a blur.
19
As Roxana Voiculescu walked into the press room, Najwa watched her with a mix of amusement and admiration. The SG’s spokeswoman took her place behind the pale wooden lectern and surveyed the assembled reporters. Her expression was pensive and determined, befitting someone who witnessed a murder the previous night and who had herself been shot at. She wore a black Prada jacket and matching below-the-knee skirt that emphasized her shapely figure, a gray blouse, and gray Louboutins with red soles and modest heels. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore just a touch of mascara to emphasize her blue-gray eyes.
Yet despite Roxana’s somber appearance, Najwa sensed an undercurrent of something—satisfaction, perhaps even triumph—in her posture and her eyes. The bullet that smashed into the SG’s door had anointed her. There could be no more whispers about her skills, suitability, or experience: she had risked her life for the UN.
Soon after Roxana had succeeded Schneidermann, she had invited Najwa, Sami, Jonathan Beaufort, and several other correspondents from major media and news agencies to what she called a “getting to know you dinner” in the SG’s private dining room. It had been a strange evening, as Roxana had rebuffed the journalists’ questions apart from the most anodyne, but with charm and skill had extracted all sorts of personal information from many of the reporters present, all of whom, except for Najwa, were male. Only Sami and Jonathan Beaufort had resisted Roxana’s alcohol-fueled charm offensive.
Three things about Roxana in particular interested Najwa. Roxana was obsessed with Yael Azoulay. She spent much of the dinner trying to dig out any scraps of gossip or information about the SG’s special envoy, and had repeatedly circled the conversation back to an altercation in Geneva, when Yael had drowned her would-be killer, and the incident at the Millennium Hotel, when Yael had posed as an escort to gain entry to the suite occupied by Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, who was later found dead. Roxana’s steer was not very subtle, especially because these events were already known and so regarded as old news. The second was the rumor that, despite an age difference of more than forty years, she had quickly forged a very close connection indeed with Fareed Hussein. And third, how could Roxana afford $2,000 shoes and a Patek Philippe watch? UN salaries were generous, but not that abundant.
Najwa looked up and down the press room. She had never seen it so crowded. Most of those present were genuine reporters, but there were a good number whose by-line never appeared because they either reported to their national intelligence services or were relatives of UN diplomats and used accreditation to obtain an American visa. Usually a few dozen journalists turned up for Roxana’s daily briefings, lately sometimes even less now the novelty of having an attractive new spokesperson had worn off. But today there was barely space to step inside the room, let alone gain a seat. The electric undercurrent of excitement and anticipation underneath the whispered gossip was palpable.
Reporters stood in huddles, some hunched over their cell phones, tapping away, others expounding complicated theories as to who shot Frank Akerman and why. One strand of thinking had it as an attempted hit on the SG that went wrong; another, that Akerman had somehow uncovered Iranian nuclear secrets and paid the ultimate price. The correspondents from Reuters, Associated Press, and Bloomberg Business News were standing together and they waved at Najwa, but she did not stop to chat. Jonathan Beaufort, she saw, was deep in conversation with the new bureau chief for Russia Today, a long-legged blond who was rumored to be a niece of the head of Gazprom, the Russian state energy company. Beaufort beckoned Najwa over, but she declined. She needed to stay focused for what was coming.
Television crews lined the sides and the back of the room, their halogen lights making the space even warmer than usual. More cameramen and news photographers were standing at the front, the harsh light glinting off their lenses. Maria, Najwa’s producer, had already staked out a prime position in the center of the front row. The table in front of Roxana’s lectern was thick with black cables and microphones adorned with network logos. Najwa counted ABC, CNN, BBC, Reuters, Russia Today, Associated Press, and Nigerian, Turkish, and Japanese crews, along with Xinhua, the Chinese state news agency. Even Vice, a hipster network not usually known for its interest in the United Nations, had sent a crew.
Roxana nodded at the sound technician at the side of the room. The reporters quickly fell silent, glancing at each other expectantly before staring at the SG’s spokeswoman.
“I have a short statement about the tragic events of last night, but as this is an ongoing police investigation I will not be taking questions, so as not to prejudice the legal proceedings.”
Najwa watched, amused, as the room filled with outraged muttering. She checked her phone. The screen showed the profile of @najwaun. The tweet
had already been written; the link to the video clip, just uploaded onto Al-Jazeera’s website, added. She looked up as Jonathan Beaufort raised his arm and started to shout a question, his stentorian voice cutting through the complaining journalists. “This is absurd. A UN official was shot dead by the SG’s residence last night. A sniper was taking potshots at the door, and you won’t take questions?”
A half smile played on Roxana’s mouth. “One shot at the door, actually, Jonathan. I’m very pressed for time today. So if you don’t stop shouting and waving your arms around and sit down, I won’t be able to read the statement. Which for technical reasons won’t be on the website for several hours. You might like to consider the interests of your colleagues and their deadlines.”
Beaufort sat down, his face crimson with anger.
Roxana began to speak. “At ten minutes past nine last night, Frank Akerman was brutally murdered as he stepped onto the pavement outside the door of the SG’s residence. We strongly condemn this cowardly killing of a dedicated UN official and public servant. UN officials must be free to carry out their duties without suffering threats or violence, or, in this case, murder. The Joint Terrorism Task Force, based at the New York Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is investigating the killing of Mr. Akerman. Please direct all your inquiries to their press office.”
“That’s it?” asked Beaufort.
Roxana smiled beatifically as she gathered her papers. “That’s it for today, Jonathan.”
The reporters looked at each other in amazement, their indignation tangible. Then came the eruption. A barrage of questions in a babel of languages resounded across the room. Roxana ignored it all and walked toward the door, her portfolio under her arm.
Najwa quickly reread her tweet, double-checked that the link was complete, and pressed the button. @najwaun had more than forty-eight thousand followers. She watched with satisfaction as just a few seconds later many of the journalists pulled out their phones, stared at them, then pressed down on their screens to watch the attached video. Najwa waited until the hubbub had died down and Roxana was almost out of the room. She walked up to the lectern, switched the microphone back on, and tapped it twice. The noise echoed around the room and the journalists looked at her, wondering what was happening now. Roxana spun on her heel and turned back to face Najwa, her face indignant.
Najwa said, “Thanks for the briefing. You might like to check your Twitter feed.”
*
An hour later Quentin Braithwaite greeted Najwa with a wry grin as he walked into McLaughlin’s. “Good morning. Or should I say mabrouk, congratulations? You’ve ruined Roxana’s day. Not to mention a number of people’s placid retirement,” he said, his blue eyes aglow with amusement. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. “I was wondering how long it would take you, or one of your colleagues, to find that video of Akerman.”
Najwa smiled. “Our Sarajevo bureau received an anonymous e-mail. After that it was easy.”
“It always is when you know where to look.”
“A little guidance goes a long way,” she said, watching Braithwaite’s face as she spoke.
“It does indeed,” he deadpanned.
Colonel Quentin Braithwaite was tall and sturdy with red hair, freckles, weathered cheeks, and a brisk manner. He wore his usual green tweed jacket with leather elbow patches over a white shirt whose collar was fraying slightly, and a striped university scarf. Braithwaite was the leader of the interventionist faction in the Department of Peacekeeping Operations. His world view had been shaped twenty years ago by his time as a peacekeeper in Bosnia, when his Warrior fighting vehicle had smashed its way through a Bosnian Serb checkpoint. A furious Fareed Hussein had denounced what he called a “reckless and foolhardy violation of the UN’s neutrality” and tried to get Braithwaite removed. But Britain and the United States had rebuffed Hussein’s lobbying and Braithwaite had later moved to a senior position at the DPKO.
Braithwaite sat back and looked around, taking in the smoke-stained walls, sniffing then exhaling. “Ah … nothing like the smell of yesterday’s beer in the morning. I’ve often walked past this place, but never been inside.” He paused for a moment to give Najwa a searching glance. “I wouldn’t have thought this was your natural habitat.”
She raised her eyebrows, a glimmer of a smile on her lips. “Precisely.”
The waiter ambled over, still wearing yesterday’s T-shirt. “Breakfast’s finished. Lunch service starts in an hour.”
“Thanks,” said Najwa. “We’ll just have coffee.”
Braithwaite waited until the waiter walked away. “How can I help? I seem to have plenty of time on my hands at the moment.”
Fareed Hussein had recently appointed Braithwaite to lead the UN’s Commission of Enquiry into the coltan scandal. The SG had been praised for appointing someone of principles and integrity to get to the bottom of the affair. But Braithwaite soon realized, as he was stalled and diverted at every move by the UN bureaucracy, that his appointment was a neat way of both marginalizing and neutralizing him.
“So I hear,” said Najwa, with a grin. “Which is why I brought you this.”
She reached inside her purse to retrieve the photograph she had found in the white envelope, and slid it across the table.
*
Salim Massoud walked through the scuffed front door and glanced around the one-room studio: gray walls, a single bed that visibly sagged in the middle, a Formica coffee table, a threadbare sofa with a front almost shredded by a pet cat, the stink of garlic and ginger from the nearby restaurants in Chinatown, a whiff of drains and stale water from the tiny shower cubicle. Perfect for his needs. He sat down at the small kitchen table by the window and rifled through his canvas bag until he found a large brown envelope. He tipped the contents onto the table: a bundle of birthday cards, held together by a red elastic band. He carefully slid off the elastic band and opened the top card. Nothing was written inside, but there was a photograph of a thin, dark-haired young man, with hollow eyes and sallow skin, holding up that day’s issue of the New York Times.
Massoud put the photograph back inside the card and picked up another one. It was identical—“Happy Birthday to a Great Dad” emblazoned in garish writing on the cover and nothing written inside, but it contained a similar photograph of the same young man holding the New York Times, marked with the same date a year earlier. Massoud swallowed, slid the cards back into the envelope, and replaced it inside the bag.
He closed his eyes for several seconds then looked out the kitchen window. A sliver of the East River could be glimpsed between the gray walls of the Lower East Side apartment blocks. The landlord had shown no interest in his new tenant, only in the $800 Massoud had paid up front for a week and another $800 as a security deposit, which was how Massoud liked it. He took out a Canadian passport from his jacket pocket and flicked through the pages. There had been no questions at the border, a little-used land crossing, when Toronto-based businessman Parvez Marwan came back into the United States. Still, the passport was probably coming to the end of its useful life. In seventy-two hours the question would anyway be academic. His home country and the United States would be at war.
He opened his laptop and flicked through the Iranian news websites. The smiling, attractive face of Shireen Kermanzade looked out from almost every home page. In each she wore her trademark green and gold headscarf, pulled so far back from her forehead that several years ago she would have been arrested. In a lifetime spent within the darkest, innermost circles of the Iranian regime, Massoud had never known such a sense of betrayal. From the voters, certainly, but most of all from Kermanzade herself. The nuclear deal with the United States was a catastrophe. Not because of its terms, although these had been broken as soon as the ink was dry. The Israelis were right: Iran would get a bomb, sooner or later, and an accord with Washington would slow that process but not stop it. Luckily, the more Tel Aviv shouted, the less anyone listened.
No, the real cat
astrophe of the nuclear deal was the opening to the West that it brought. In exchange for the lifting of sanctions, Kermanzade had allowed outside inspectors into Iran’s most secret military and nuclear installations and had launched an unprecedented program of liberalization. Everything that his generation had fought, and died, for was crumbling. Western firms were opening “liaison” offices with local partners to help them penetrate a market of seventy-six million people, a majority of whom were under thirty-five and connected to the Internet. An Internet stripped of its controls, where students and activists now poured out their demands on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Demands for full democracy, human rights, civil freedoms. Demands that just a few months ago would have earned a session in the basement of Evin Prison, or even a noose on the end of a crane. The Basij, a motorcycle militia that had crushed the 2009 protests, was disbanded and its leaders arrested. Even members of the Revolutionary Guard were being investigated. It would not be long, Massoud knew, before his time came. He had no regrets, except his son.
Farzad had been missing for five years. Completely uninterested in politics, he had wanted only to do good. His value as a prisoner was solely as Salim Massoud’s son. Massoud had managed to trace his journey to Kabul, Bagram air base, a black-site prison in Romania, and then silence. Apart from the cards. Presumably he was being held somewhere in America. But the messengers, intermediaries, the Swiss diplomats and German businessmen who had contacted the Americans had all failed. No part of the government had any knowledge of Farzad Massoud or his whereabouts, or so they said. Clairborne too had failed to obtain any information. There was no demand, no request for a meeting. But someone, somewhere in the Great Satan knew. The message was clear enough: We are holding your son because we can. He could do nothing for his son. Until now.