by Adam LeBor
Yael glanced at her bodyguard, her eyes flicking to the paramedic then back at Joe-Don. Joe-Don was also staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Yael’s unease deepened, but she needed first to understand what was happening here.
Yael watched as Hussein ended his phone call and turned to gaze at the paramedic. The two men knew each other, that was obvious. There was tension on the SG’s face, but no fear. Then suddenly, Yael knew what he was going to say.
Hussein smiled. “Hello, Armin.”
The paramedic turned to Yael. “Miss Azoulay, you are in no danger at all. I am in your family’s debt. Your brother saved my life. You and your bodyguard are free to leave.”
“Thanks. But I’ll stay,” Yael said.
“As you wish.” Kapitanovic reached inside his pocket, took out a blue UN laissez-passer, and handed it to Hussein. “Your atonement is finished.”
Hussein took the booklet, flicked through the pages. “I don’t think so. But I hope yours is.”
Yael watched closely, remembering now more detail of both what she had read and the accompanying rumors that swirled around the UN building. Armin Kapitanovic, a young Bosnian man, had escaped from Srebrenica to Belgrade with her brother David’s help. A few months later, he crossed the front lines and returned to the besieged enclave. He became a legendary sniper and led raiding parties out of the enclave behind the Serb lines. Kapitanovic survived the fall of the town, but lost his family. His father and brother had taken refuge on the UN base but were forced out by Frank Akerman and the Dutch officers, taken away, and killed by the Bosnian Serbs. His mother hanged herself soon afterward. Then Armin Kapitanovic disappeared.
Sometime in the late 1990s, a few years after the Bosnian war was over, a man called Rifaat al-Bosni had joined the United Nations. He worked with refugees in Kosovo, Chechnya, Iraq, and Afghanistan. In each place that he had been posted, the most brutal militia leaders had been found murdered, often killed with a single shot from a long distance. That much was known. The identity of the sniper was not. Each death triggered a flurry of gossip and speculation. Some said that al-Bosni was the killer. There were even whispers that al-Bosni was really Armin Kapitanovic, the legendary sniper of Srebrenica. Many wondered how al-Bosni had found employment at the UN, but the questions faded away once it was made clear that he had high-level protection on the thirty-eighth floor. Soon after the Syrian war started, al-Bosni disappeared.
Over the years Yael had often wondered what happened to Kapitanovic, even made a few inquiries. But they led nowhere. Now she knew.
She turned to the Bosnian. “The UN forced your family out of the Dutch base at Srebrenica. They all died. Then you went to work for Fareed?”
Kapitanovic said, “I wanted to save lives. He gave me the means and the opportunity.”
In her exhaustion, Yael struggled to process what she was seeing and hearing. Kapitanovic was al-Bosni, OK. But had Kapitanovic/al-Bosni also been the sniper, the killer of warlords? “The means and the opportunity to do what?”
“To remove bad men.”
The SG weighed the laissez-passer in his hand. “It was off-the-books. Nobody knew about it, and there was nothing in writing. It was highly effective. Our humanitarian programs’ efficiency always soared after a visit from Armin. Local warlords suddenly became so much more cooperative. Aid convoys passed easily through checkpoints. Many more lives were saved. Rough justice is sometimes the best we can do.”
“Exactly,” said Kapitanovic as he swiftly reached underneath the gurney and held a Browning pistol to Hussein’s head. “Now it’s my family’s turn.”
Joe-Don looked at Yael. His shoulders were tensed, his mouth locked tight. Armin Kapitanovic was al-Bosni. She blinked three times, code for wait. Joe-Don inclined his head, almost imperceptibly. Yael knew Joe-Don was unhappy, but he trusted her and would not intervene. And he still had his Glock in the holster against the small of his back.
Hussein glanced sideways at the muzzle of the gun. “Before you pull the trigger, Armin, at least let me say my piece.”
The Bosnian nodded.
“Yes, we made another mistake. Another bargain that went wrong. Srebrenica was an irritant, a tiny island of government territory in a Bosnian Serb sea. Everyone knew the war was over. America was pressing us, Britain, France, Germany. Tidy it up. Let Srebrenica go. Give it to the Serbs. Then we can sign the peace deal, the fighting will stop and the refugees can go home. That’s why Akerman was toasting the Bosnian Serbs. Not because he liked them. He didn’t. Because we all thought it was the end of the war.”
Kapitanovic pushed the muzzle against the SG’s head. “The prisoners? The eight thousand men and boys. My father. My brother.”
Hussein grimaced as he spoke. “There was a deal. It went wrong. They were supposed to be held for a few days, then released.”
Kapitanovic’s voice rose in anger. “It took days to kill them all. Days when you sat in your office, drinking coffee, sending memos. Why didn’t you do something?”
Yael judged the distance between her hand and the gun. She caught Joe-Don’s eye. He was also taking the measure. They both knew it would be a very risky move to go for a grab. Kapitanovic’s finger was on the trigger. The safety catch was off. But more than that, she wanted to hear what Hussein had to say. Kapitanovic was asking the same questions that she had stored up over the years. Hussein had always dodged answering, fobbed her off with platitudes. But now he could not.
The SG continued talking. “Armin, I am truly sorry for your loss. But I work for the UN. We don’t have an air force. We try and keep the peace. We do our best. We kept Srebrenica alive through three years of siege. But sometimes we fail. We don’t fight wars. You must ask that question in Washington, Paris, London. We didn’t know what was happening. Dutchbat had pulled out. So had the military observers. Ask the P5. They knew what was happening, much better than we did. We found out later that there was a satellite feed, to the CIA station in Vienna. They were watching in real time. Men standing, waiting. Men, dead, on the ground. Diggers. Bulldozers. Raised earth. Ask the Americans. They knew. And they did nothing.”
Yael saw the pressure of the gun against Hussein’s head ease slightly before Kapitanovic spoke. “You have could screamed, shouted, held a press conference, demanded a meeting with the White House, an emergency session of the Security Council. Done something. Anything.”
“Yes. I could have. But I didn’t. And I will live with that for the rest of my life.”
Yael looked at Kapitanovic. His face was fixed, determined, but the Browning was trembling. She slowly reached for the pistol.
Kapitanovic knocked her hand away with the muzzle of the gun. “I told you, Miss Azoulay. You are in no danger here. But please don’t interfere.”
Yael ignored the pain in her hand, slowly moved it back toward the gun, her right palm turned upward. She glanced through the front and rear windshields. The police cars were still bracketing the ambulance. No other vehicles were in sight. Armin was operating alone. She shot a look at the driver. He seemed completely unperturbed, kept a steady pace. Something about him …
Joe-Don’s voice broke the silence. “That was a nice shot in Kandahar, Armin. A moving target at what, seven hundred yards?”
Kapitanovic started with surprise. “Eight.”
Yael looked from one man to the other, momentarily puzzled. Then she understood. Sharif.
Yael gazed at Kapitanovic, kept her eyes on his. “You took a life to save many lives then, Armin. But there has been enough killing today. Give me the gun.”
Kapitanovic’s hand trembled. He started to speak but no words came.
Yael reached for the muzzle, guided it away. This time the Bosnian did not resist. Kapitanovic handed the Browning to Yael. She passed it to Joe-Don. He immediately slid the magazine out of the stock, checked under the gurney for more concealed weapons. There were none.
Fareed looked at Yael, thanking her with his eyes. He turned to Kapitanovic. “Th
ere was nothing you could have done. Akerman was determined to clear the peacekeepers’ base.”
“On whose orders?”
“Nobody’s. Nobody was giving orders. It was complete chaos. Akerman seized control. Everything happened so fast. All our systems collapsed.”
“But you didn’t stop him.”
“No,” said Hussein. “I did not.”
Kapitanovic turned away, tears flowing down his face.
The driver turned around at the sound. “I hate to interrupt your reunion, but we are almost there.”
Yael’s stomach flipped over. She got up and walked through the back of the ambulance to the driver’s seat. He turned around to look at her. She lifted off his baseball cap and then removed his sunglasses, barely managing to control her quivering fingers.
The driver’s eyes were startling. One blue and one brown.
“Hello, Aba,” said Yael.
*
Sami sat at the table in Kaldi, his laptop open in front of him. The place was jammed, the hum and buzz of excited conversations so loud he could barely concentrate. A television had been set up on the bar, showing Najwa standing outside the Harpa concert center, surrounded by other journalists who were shouting questions at her. She looked pale, extremely fatigued, and modestly triumphant.
He glanced at his story, which was already up on the New York Times website.
ELEVEN DIE IN ICELAND TERROR ATTACK
President Freshwater, Icelandic and Iranian counterparts, UN Secretary-General taken hostage, freed unharmed
By SAMI BOUSTANI
REYKJAVIK—At least eleven people were killed today after Iranian terrorists took the presidents of the United States, Iran, and Iceland hostage along with Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations. Six American Secret Service agents died, along with three Icelandic security agents, the president of Iceland’s spokesman and Salim Massoud, a senior Iranian official. Kent Maxwell, one of the Americans who was killed, appeared to be working with the Iranians.
The crisis ended when senior UN official Yael Azoulay managed to defuse a bomb that had been placed in the residence with just seconds to spare. The terrorist attack was broadcast live over the Internet by Najwa al-Sameera, the United Nations correspondent for Al-Jazeera, and two Icelandic journalists, Rafnhildur Eriksdottir and Ingilin Sjonsdottir, in part via a concealed microphone after the terrorists ordered the camera feed to be closed down.
Sami’s editors were demanding more of everything: more details, more color, more analysis. It was the story of the decade, if not a lifetime. And if he had not been inside the residence, at least he was here in Reykjavik. The concealed microphone he had given Najwa had worked perfectly. He had been able to listen in real time to everything that was happening. And Quentin Braithwaite, who had arrived in Reykjavik a few hours ago, was also proving most communicative about what had happened inside Bessastadir and what would likely happen next at the UN.
Sami was halfway through updating his story when he felt a presence behind him. He did not need to turn to know who it was. He knew her smell, the way the air vibrated around her, the sheer presence of her. The hum of conversation in the bar lessened as the revelers began to notice who had just walked in. Scattered applause sounded, swelling to a rolling crescendo.
Sami stood up, pulled Najwa toward him and held her tight. “Mabrouk,” he said. “You made it.”
She laughed, gently freed herself, grasped Sami’s hands. “So it seems.”
Someone thrust a bottle of champagne into his hand. He stared at her: her tousled hair, her crumpled clothes, her scuffed boots. Her brown eyes held his. The bar was completely silent now, with every eye in the room on the two reporters.
Sami had been dreaming about his next move for some time, but he had not anticipated an audience. After today, however, it didn’t matter.
The air turned thick between them.
He put the champagne down, pulled Najwa toward him.
She smiled, said, “But what about Y—”
Sami did not reply, only held her closer, felt her breasts crush against his chest, her hair in his hands, breathing in her musky smell, as her mouth opened to his.
37
A couple of hours later, Yael walked into the presidential suite of the Hilton Reykjavik Nordica. Roxana stood up as soon as she saw Yael and walked toward her, radiating enthusiasm.
“Yael, I’m so pleased to see you, it was amazing, incredible what you did today,” she exclaimed, air-kissing Yael on each cheek. “Well done.”
“Thanks,” said Yael, swiftly dodging an oncoming hug as she stepped away and scanned the room.
Roxana ignored Yael’s distancing, stepped closer and took her arm as she continued talking. “You saved Fareed’s life.”
“She did more than that,” said Hussein. He was seated at the end of the brown sofa at the far end of the suite. He smiled, stood up, and started to walk toward the two women.
“I know,” said Roxana. “We are all so proud of her. She is a hero.” Roxana lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Have you heard, there is a rumor that the White House wants to give a dinner in your honor? President Freshwater wants to say thanks. That’s twice you have saved her life.”
The SG’s press secretary was back on form, noted Yael. Her body language was confident and expansive, her hair sleek, her makeup lightly and skillfully applied, her Prada jacket and skirt pressed and spotless. Zest had gone, noted Yael, replaced by something much heavier and richer.
“No,” said Yael. “I hadn’t. But that’s not really my kind of thing. I don’t like being in the public eye.”
Roxana laid her hand on Yael’s arm as she spoke. Her blue-gray eyes were wide open, trusting, entreating—and hoping. “I completely understand.”
Yael smiled inside. Roxana was so predictable. First the empathy, then the attempt at manipulation. They both knew that after this afternoon Yael was untouchable, at least for the near future. Roxana would instantly be calculating the potential benefits for her career—which were considerable, if she played her cards right and could engineer, if not an alliance, at least a rapprochement with Yael. She and Yael worked for the same boss. All the good press and media coverage generated by Yael’s skill and heroism would boost the UN and the SG’s image, and so add to Roxana’s stature and prestige.
Roxana continued talking. “The last thing you want at the moment is to be the center of attention. But it would be such amazing publicity for the UN, and all the good work we do. At least think about it.”
“I will, when the invitation arrives. Meanwhile, I need to talk to Fareed.”
Roxana’s smile faded slightly as the SG stood in front of the two women. She looked puzzled for a moment. “Yael, I don’t remember, did we agree to meet here?”
“No,” said Yael. “We didn’t.”
Hussein said, “Roxana, leave Yael for now. She has just saved the world. The White House can wait. So can everyone else. We have things to talk about.”
Yael stepped back and looked at the SG. He was still paler than usual, but was no longer gray. He smiled at Yael, a genuine smile, full of warmth, as if to say, “I wondered when you would get here.”
Once she returned to the Hotel Borg Yael had taken a very long shower and ordered a large, medium-rare hamburger with a small bucket of french fries, which she ate with gusto. After that she had tried to rest for a while, but it was impossible. The questions that she had filed away for years—about Rwanda, about David, about why she continued to work at the UN—were spinning through her head, demanding answers. Tonight, she knew, she would get them. She got up, changed into clean jeans, a T-shirt, and a black turtleneck sweater and made her way to the Hilton.
Roxana watched warily, a half frown on her face, aware of the powerful emotional currents passing between Yael and the SG and wondering how to respond.
For a moment Yael was back on the thirty-eighth floor, the previous Friday morning. Was it really only three days ago that Roxan
a had, in effect, ordered her out of the SG’s offices and Fareed had acquiesced? Yes, it was, give or take a time zone or two. But they all knew that now Yael was the SG’s confidant, and Roxana the outsider.
Roxana, however, was not about to cede so easily. She gave Yael her best UN press officer smile, which showcased her white teeth and did not reach her eyes. “Yael, it’s fantastic to see you. But Fareed and I are in the middle of planning the press conference,” she glanced at her Patek Philippe watch, “in just over an hour, at ten o’clock tonight. How can I help?”
Yael glanced at Fareed. It was a clumsy gambit, and had no chance of success. The SG nodded, almost imperceptibly. She had not made any arrangement to see him but they both knew that their next conversation had been a very long while in the making. Roxana was right, Fareed owed Yael his life. The debt was about to be paid.
Yael said, “You can leave.”
Roxana looked confused, then indignant. She began to speak, her voice rising, “Yael, I don’t think you understand—”
“I understand perfectly. You asked how you can help. I just told you.”
Roxana looked at Hussein, expecting him to come to the rescue.
“Thank you Roxana,” said Hussein. “I will call you later.”
Roxana stepped back, her mouth open in amazement before she replied. “But Fareed, we have to—”
The SG smiled as he replied, but his voice was cold. “I said, later.”
Yael walked over to the floor to ceiling window that looked out over the harbor, feeling the weight of her iPhone in her jeans pocket. Reykjavik sparkled in the night, the apartment block windows a honeycomb of white and yellow, car headlights sweeping along the black tarmac roads, the harbor lights a rainbow of colors shimmering on the water. Mount Esja loomed in the darkness, a great brooding presence. She watched a fishing boat chug into port, its port and aft lights blinking.