by Adam LeBor
“What was the woman like?”
“Fifties, maybe. Short brown hair. Blue wraparound coat.”
“She knows you’re here. I was followed here, on the tramway. She was at the Manhattan terminal. There were two of them, her and a younger one. The younger one got on the tramway with me. So did Joe-Don.”
Francine smiled for the first time since Najwa arrived. “Joe-Don? He’s here?”
Najwa nodded. “Somewhere. I’m not sure exactly where, or why, but yes.”
“Then don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. In any case my friends will look after me. Now you should go.” Francine stood up and shook Najwa’s hand. Her grip was light, almost delicate, so as not to push the small object in her palm any harder into Najwa’s.
*
“Let’s walk,” said Yael.
Rina Hussein fell into step next to her as they headed toward the promenade. Yael sensed Rina watching her, suspicious and wary. A row of benches stretched along the seafront, wooden slats on iron frames with no backs. There the two women sat down, facing the sea. The Statue of Liberty was visible in the distance. Giant wooden breakwaters, each the size of several tree trunks, stood in front of a metal fence. A Coast Guard launch flew by, white spray in its wake. Yael opened her mouth to speak, but for once the words would not come.
What was she scared of? Finding the truth about how and why her brother died? She had sought it for years, telling herself it was the one reason why she stayed at the UN and, especially, why she continued to work for Fareed Hussein. One reason, perhaps, but not the only one. The SG had chosen Yael from the mass of ambitious UN employees, made her his protégé. She knew of numerous occasions when Hussein had watched her back, sometimes even gone out on a limb. Knew too, that there was a limit to his patronage. He had sacked her during the coltan scandal, tried to blame her in part for the mess. But when the SG had welcomed her back, made the right kind of reassuring noises, she had returned willingly. Part of her, she sometimes thought, was still the dutiful daughter helping with office duties; the teenager on the firing range, seeking her father’s approval.
But what if, as she sometimes suspected, the trail that connected the SG with David’s death led to tawdry sacrifice and betrayal—and betrayal by Hussein? How could she carry on working at the United Nations? She could not. She told herself that she would bring Hussein, and anyone else responsible, to justice. But if she left the UN, what would she do? Many of her contemporaries were married, settled with a family. She told herself that she too wanted love, domesticity, stability. But did she, did she really? Or did she prefer the dark thrill of touching evil? Either way, she certainly would like a friend. Olivia de Souza was dead. So was Isis Franklin. At least Rina Hussein was still alive, and making contact.
Yael went into work mode, put her emotions aside. There was a job to be done here. The first priority was to get the truth about Rina’s text message and David. She knew that until she broke off contact, Rina had enjoyed their time together. That was the way in to the conversation.
Yael turned to Rina. “It was fun hanging out, you know. I don’t have a lot of friends. I would have been happy to see you even if your father had not sent me.”
Rina looked confused. “I know. Me too. But I wasn’t sure what you wanted. Whether you were really interested in meeting me, or I was just another mission.”
“It started as a mission. But one I was glad to take and enjoyed very much.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Rina, I’m really glad to see you again. We can meet whenever you like. But …” Yael paused. “Your text message …”
Rina stiffened. She turned to Yael. “It’s true. I wouldn’t make up something like that. Roger Richardson was correct. There was a deal in Rwanda, and it went wrong. But it was all my father’s idea.”
Yael nodded, focused now. “Go on.”
“But the journalists will never be able to prove it. My father has pulled out all the crucial records from the archives detailing his involvement in Rwanda and Srebrenica.”
“How do you know?”
Rina pulled her beret down hard around her ears. “Because I checked the archives. According to the official record, the documents were never there, they never even existed. But they do. I have read them. I found them in his office at home, years ago, before he became SG, when he was still at Peacekeeping.”
Yael stared out to sea.
The wind was blowing harder now, sending the waves crashing against the wooden breakwaters. Yael shivered. “Where are they now?”
“In the residence, I think. He would not leave them in the office.”
Yael thought quickly. How could she get to them, and ideally for long enough to make a copy? Fareed would never release the papers to her willingly. It would have to be a trade-off, in exchange for something he valued more than his career, his name, his legacy. An idea began to form in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, appalled at herself. Yes, she would use her nascent friendship with Rina to get the truth about David. But when had she become this kind of monster? All that talk about how she had enjoyed Rina’s company. And now she was about to manipulate this vulnerable woman in the most cynical way possible.
What other option was there?
Yael opened her eyes and looked at Rina, her face softer now. “He wants to see you. He’s lonely, especially since your mother went back to Pakistan.”
Rina swallowed before she spoke. “I miss him too sometimes. He wasn’t much of a father. I always though he barely noticed me. I always thought he wanted a son, instead. But there was only me.”
“He notices you now,” said Yael. “Especially at demonstrations. And on Twitter.”
Rina laughed. “Good.”
“You know it would be the end of everything if the documents were released. His reputation, his legacy …”
Rina frowned, “I’m not so sure. He’s survived this far. He’s Teflon-coated.”
“Maybe you are right.” Yael nodded slowly. She turned to look at Rina. The strident, self-righteous activist was gone, replaced by a young, uncertain woman who missed her father. Yael knew that feeling. She ignored the rising feeling of self-disgust and tried to sound thoughtful, reasonable, as she spoke. “It would certainly clear the air once they were out. Exorcise the ghosts.”
“Yes. It would. That needs to happen.”
Yael moved a little closer. “And once he retires he would have much more time for you.”
“Would he really?” She turned to Yael, her voice eager. “What do you think? You know him, how his mind works.”
Yael steeled herself. This was the moment. It was horrible, awful, but it had to be done. At least it was for a good cause. It might even work out in the end. Fareed and Rina would be reconciled. Yael would finally have someone to hang out with. Happy ever after. Anyone would do the same to find out why their brother had died. Wouldn’t they? But Rina had to get there herself—all she needed was a little guidance.
Yael put her hand on Rina’s arm. Rina flinched, very slightly, her nerves drawn tight, then relaxed. She smiled at Yael.
Yael said, “Your dad is a diplomat. He makes deals. Offer him something he wants to release the documents. What does he want, more than anything?”
Rina drew her arm away and tightened the belt of her coat, her fingers twisting the fabric. “His daughter back.”
*
Najwa sat at her desk at home, scanning her e-mail. There was nothing new in her inbox except a confirmation from Sami that he would be over later. She could use the company. As a journalist she was excited to be on the trail of a major story—and this was major, of that she had no doubt. Two deaths, an innocent woman and her son driven from their home, a surveillance team on her, and Joe-Don with a gun on the Roosevelt Island Tramway were proof of that. But as a woman, one living alone in a large, anonymous city, Najwa was also nervous. She was poking a snake, and so far she had no means of cutting off its head. She was also using up her favor
bank: Obtaining the CCTV coverage of Schneidermann and the man with the gloves at the Fifty-Ninth Street subway station had cost her much of her capital with her NYPD contact. The download may well have triggered an alarm there.
She glanced again—unnecessarily, she knew—at her front door. It was locked, bolted, and made of steel. She checked her watch: three thirty. She had stayed talking to Francine for about twenty minutes, then taken a cab home across the Queensboro Bridge, then along FDR Drive before turning down East Twenty-First and into Irving Place, where she lived. Had she been followed? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think so. There had been a black SUV with tinted windows behind her as her taxi pulled away and headed toward the bridge. She had scribbled down the number plate: EXW 2575. But when she looked around as they crossed over the river, the car had disappeared.
Najwa reached inside her purse and took out her black leather personal organizer. She had tucked Francine’s USB stick inside the back pocket. She flipped the cover open when a photograph fell out. It showed two young girls at a beach, both in their early teens, on a beach. Najwa stared at the photograph for several seconds, kissed the second girl in the picture, and put it down on her desk. She took out the USB stick and placed it next to the photograph. Whatever Francine had given her, it could wait for a little while.
Najwa turned to her computer and clicked on a JPEG file on her desktop, the JPEG sent by the unknown person communicating with her. The file opened to show a picture of a young Arab woman, a grown-up version of the second girl on the beach. As if on cue, a new window opened on her screen.
Najwa typed:
The window closed. Najwa sat back and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding, her stomach twisting. Having someone in her computer, someone who seemed to know her deepest family secret, was bad enough and it creeped her out. But more than that, she was now compromised. Again.
She reached for the packet of Marlboro Lights and Zippo lighter resting by her monitor and took out a cigarette. She sat still for a moment, her hand in the air. The cigarette tip was shaking. Then she lit up and took a deep drag, feeling the nicotine instantly kick in. Not a heavy smoker, Najwa usually only indulged at parties, after a good meal, or when she was stressed. Like now.
She watched the gray cloud float over the desk. Once again she had been forewarned. Forewarned digitally, in writing. The message window had instantly vanished, but she had no doubt that a record of the exchange lived on, somewhere in cyberspace or on a distant hard drive. She should alert the authorities so they could take the necessary precautions. But what could she tell them? That an unknown person had hacked her computer? That the last time he, or she, had been in communication, Najwa was told to head to the SG’s residence, arriving just as a gunman killed a senior UN official on the steps and left another bullet embedded in the front door frame? She would be questioned at length. Her life would be turned upside down and inside out. She would almost certainly be arrested. The Al-Jazeera connection and her Arab background would trigger a frenzy of terrorism accusations. She would be suspended from her job and likely lose her green card as well. Then what? She glanced again at the photograph of the two young girls on her desk. The guilt ebbed and faded, a slow tide inside her, but it never went away completely. Not that she wanted it to.
Or, she could keep quiet and hope for the best. The KZX reception was a grand-enough event that she could justify bringing Maria and Philippe along, especially as it might generate more leads on the coltan scandal and a follow-up to her and Sami’s documentary. But which did she value more? The life of an unknown potential victim? Or her career and comfortable existence?
A sharp pain shot through her fingertip. She was squeezing the USB stick so hard the metal corner was digging into her skin. Later, she told herself. She would decide later. First, she would see what was on Francine’s USB drive. She opened her air-gapped Toshiba laptop. Lines of code flew across the screen as it lumbered into life. She reached around the back and slid the USB drive into the port. A video file icon appeared. She clicked on it and a blurry image of Henrik Schneidermann filled the screen.
27
Renee Freshwater stood in front of the three tall, white-framed windows at the back of the Oval Office looking out over the Rose Garden. The rainbow palette of flowers glistened against lush greenery in the bright sunlight, still shiny after that morning’s spring shower. Twenty years ago, King Hussein of Jordan and Yitzhak Rabin had stood here and shaken hands, ending forty-six years of war. A full peace treaty had followed soon after. Although a comprehensive solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict seemed as distant as ever, the treaty had held.
The roses were in full bloom, a riot of pink with splashes of deep red, almost as dark as blood, next to the low manicured hedges. A breeze ruffled the white crabapple blossoms. Freshwater watched a flower tumble from a branch before the wind carried it off, dancing on the air currents. What would be her legacy? At first her nickname, Dead-in-the-Water, had been confined to the Beltway crowd of politicians and lobbyists, journalists and government officials that lived and worked in the capital. But it had soon spread out to the talk show hosts, the crazies that sent death threats every day by the thousand, the Twitter furies and the website creators whose pages showed her dark, almond eyes, strong cheekbones, and glossy black hair superimposed on a target.
She knew, of course, that the United States’ first female president, one from the left wing of the Democratic Party who was proud of her Native American roots, would not be universally loved. But nothing could have prepared her for the depth of hatred, the tidal wave of venom. It had been easier when Eric was still alive. God, she missed him. Their girls still cried most nights for their father and so did she, silently and alone. She had never felt so isolated, so vulnerable. The wolves were closing in, she knew, the most vicious of all from her own party. They scented blood and the feeding frenzy would soon start. But she would go down fighting, and not before she finished what she set out to do.
She turned around to face her security chief. Dave Reardon was sitting on the edge of a plush, gold colored sofa, one of two matching pieces facing each other with a coffee table in between.
“Reykjavik. What do you think, Dave?”
Reardon glanced down at the sheaf of papers on his lap and pulled one to the top. “What I think, Madam President—what I know—is that the last time you asked my advice I told you not to go shopping in Istanbul. But you did, and you nearly died. Two days ago a car bomb was discovered a couple of hundred yards from the White House. Frank Akerman, the UN intermediary between you and the Iranian president, has been shot dead. The Internet is seething with death threats. You are surrounded by enemies, many of them pretending to be your friends. Some even sit in your cabinet. I think you should stay here. And move away from that window.”
Freshwater laughed uneasily. “You are joking? About the window?”
“For now, yes. But that too could change. And we still don’t know where Isis Franklin got the poison from, not for certain. But we have a lead.”
“To where?”
“Tehran.”
Reardon was one of the very few people that Freshwater trusted. He and the president had known each other for twenty years, were students together at Princeton. One night a group of drunken frat boys had encountered Freshwater walking back to her dormitory alone after a late session in the library. They had hustled her back behind some trees; she managed to punch one out, but was clearly outnumbered. Reardon happened to be walking past. What happened next had been hushed up by the authorities, despite the arrival of an ambulance and the subsequent expulsion of the fraternity members, but Freshwater was not bothered again.
A stocky, black ex-Marine, Reardon had served in Iraq and Afghanistan, reaching the rank of colonel. His time on the front lines had fine-tune
d his radar for threats and provided a network of useful contacts across America’s intelligence agencies. The latest he had heard regarding Renee Freshwater was not good. If he had his way, she would stay locked in a room till the end of her term. And then move to another country.
“Continue,” she said.
“Abbas Velavi, an Iranian dissident, died of a heart attack after a visit from an Iranian wearing black leather gloves like Isis Franklin’s. But there’s more.” Reardon flicked through his papers until he brought up a typewritten sheet marked TOP SECRET. “We think that Henrik Schneidermann, the UN secretary-general’s spokesman, was also murdered using the same method. There is CCTV footage of him at the Fifty-Ninth street subway station, helping up a man who appears to have slipped. A man wearing …”
She frowned, walked over to the facing sofa, and sat down opposite Reardon. A coffee pot and a tray of cookies stood between them on the low table. “I can guess. Black leather gloves.”
“So I think that you should stay here in DC, where I can look after you. But I don’t suppose you want to do that.”
Freshwater smiled. “I can’t hide, Dave, and you know it.”
She thought for a long moment. Presidents, she had soon discovered, were limited in what they could accomplish. Congress, lobbyists, the traditional media, social media, all had shackled her ambitions. But at least she could redecorate the Oval Office. She had made minimal changes: The heavy brown and cream drapes by the windows remained, as did the cream and white walls. But several paintings had gone, and on one wall a century-old tapestry showing the Native American tribes and their original homelands across North America, before they were forced into reservations, now hung. On the other was a portrait of Chief Red Cloud, one of the most adept Native American military commanders. Red Cloud had ambushed US army soldiers across Wyoming and Montana, but eventually made peace with them and lived to be eighty-eight. And she had kept the desk. Intricately carved, it was built from the timbers of The Resolute, a nineteenth-century British Arctic exploration ship. The Resolute had gone missing and was presumed lost until it was rescued by the captain of an American whaler. The recovery was well timed, as tensions were rising between United States and Britain. Diplomatic relations had been broken off, and ambassadors expelled, when a hawkish senator suddenly proposed that America refurbish The Resolute and return her to Britain as a gift. It worked. War was averted. Could Freshwater accomplish the same with Iran?