The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

  Yael sat back and let the tension drain out of her. Her left shoulder was throbbing again, fueled by the vibrations of the train. She slipped her hand inside her blouse and traced the edge of the small circular scar with her thumb. The hard flesh was puckered and knotted. She pressed down on the scar. Jagged pinpricks of pain shot out in all directions. She winced and closed her eyes for several seconds, thinking through the events of the day so far.

  Yael had enjoyed a minor triumph, getting rid of the two men following her. But this assignment made her uneasy, she admitted to herself. She had never operated on a mission whose target was based in the United States. She had faced down killers from Kabul to Kinshasa, brokered deals with warlords and militiamen across the world’s conflict zones. But Clairborne exuded a different kind of menace, the absolute confidence of those who ran the secret fifty-first state of the most powerful country in the world: the military-intelligence industrial complex. The warlords’ fiefdoms were small, usually extending to the next village or checkpoint. Clairborne’s reach, she knew, stretched around the world, and certainly to her home in Manhattan.

  She sat up, opened her eyes, unwrapped the dark chocolate, and broke off a segment. Clairborne’s threat had been quite open, which meant he felt confident. This was a game of poker, with extremely high stakes. Clairborne might accede to her request or he might refuse. They both knew that, if Yael followed up on her implied threat to release the information she had about the Prometheus Group’s connections with Tehran, there would be blowback for both her and the United Nations. After reading the Daily Beast story about Hussein’s health, which had immediately been picked up by the media around the world, she realized that her roof, indeed that of the whole United Nations, might be less able to resist one of Clairborne’s tornadoes than she had believed.

  The media reports about the SG’s blackouts were a mystery. Fareed Hussein had certainly never fainted near Yael, nor had he ever seemed to be about to pass out. He was overweight, a legacy of the endless rounds of diplomatic lunches and dinners, but otherwise in good shape for a man in his early seventies. His eyes still shone with the true believer’s evangelical zeal, his shoulders were upright, and his skin glowed with its usual mahogany sheen. After he had passed Yael the file on the Prometheus Group at their briefing, he had hugged her. She could still smell his coconut hair lotion.

  In fact, Hussein was if anything newly energized by the planning for the upcoming Istanbul Summit. Today was Monday. The summit was due to start a week from Thursday, in ten days’ time. It would be the crowning glory of the SG’s career: the world’s most ambitious peace conference yet, dedicated to sorting out the bloody chaos in Syria, the perpetual instability in Egypt, and the running sore of the Israel-Palestine conflict. The presidents of all the major powers had agreed to attend and to twist the arms of their client states as hard as they could to reach an agreement on the three interlinked conflicts—thanks in part to the many days Yael had spent negotiating with the P5’s UN missions and foreign ministries, making it clear that the rise of radical Islam threatened all of their interests.

  She sat deep in thought, as the train trundled on to Philadelphia. When she actually looked back over the planning for the summit, however, there had been several unexplained cancellations at surprisingly short notice. Hussein had not turned up for important meetings, claiming scheduling conflicts or an immediate crisis that needed his attention. His place had been taken by the deputy SG, an American diplomat named Caroline Masters. Hussein had also missed the receptions celebrating several countries’ national days, including that of his homeland, India. That had triggered fevered gossip across the Secretariat Building and the nearby diplomatic missions. So was there something going on? Perhaps the SG really was ill, but was exceptionally skilled at disguising it. That she could understand.

  The UN’s New York headquarters was a cross between the court of the Borgias and the last days of the Roman Empire. Part of her relished the challenge of operating across thirty-eight floors of intrigue, conspiracy, backbiting, and betrayal. Another part longed for normality. Especially when she thought of her friend Olivia de Souza. Olivia had met a horrible death, pushed off a balcony on the thirty-eighth floor that looked out over the UN headquarters’ airshaft. Mahesh Kapoor, who had served for years as Fareed Hussein’s chief of staff, was now serving a life sentence for Olivia’s murder. Somehow, Yael’s personal history with Kapoor had stayed out of the media coverage. But there was no guarantee whatsoever that it would not leak in the future.

  The happy laughter of a young boy interrupted her reverie. Yael watched a man in his thirties walk down the center of the carriage, holding the hand of his son. The man was tall, dark haired, and quite handsome, the boy wide-eyed with excitement to be traveling on a train with his daddy. They sat down nearby and she could hear the father listing all the exciting things they would do in New York together. The boy saw her watching, smiled, and waved, his fingers sticky with the candy bar he was eating. A father, a child, a simple family trip. The boy was about five, she estimated. She counted five years backward. Five years ago, this month, in fact. She could still smell the antiseptic and the starch on the nurses’ uniforms.

  Yael smiled back at the boy, her face belying the feelings surging up inside her. There was no point fighting them. She closed her eyes, let the emotions wash over her, and then carefully put them away in the box in her head that she opened rarely, but which had lately seemed to be frequently bursting open of its own accord.

  Yael looked out the window, at the fields and distant buildings as the train sped toward Philadelphia. She wiped her eyes and put her phone back in her bag, her hand shaking only slightly.

  3

  The office of the secretary-general of the United Nations never failed to impress visitors. It extended across the entire width of the thirty-eighth floor of the Secretariat Building, and along most of its length. The front windows, facing out over First Avenue and the east mid-forties, showcased a densely packed grid of skyscrapers and soaring apartment buildings. On a clear day you could see all the way through the city, down East Forty-First Street to Twelfth Avenue and the Hudson River. The back windows looked over the East River, the shoreline of Queens, and its giant billboard advertising Pepsi-Cola, while the side view took in First Avenue all the way up to the Queensboro Bridge.

  The Secretariat Building was built in the early 1950s. The thirty-nine-story modernist skyscraper was the centerpiece of an eighteen-acre complex that was physically in the United States, but legally in international territory. The UN had its own security service and fire department, and issued its own stamps. The NYPD and the FBI had no jurisdiction there, although criminals were usually handed over to the local law enforcement agencies because the UN had no court or prison. The complex also included the General Assembly building, where member states gathered, a conference building, and a library named for Dag Hammarskjöld, the second UN secretary-general.

  There were several grades of hospitality in the SG’s suite. Those out of favor were not offered any kind of chair and were left to stand. Everyday visitors were seated in front of the giant black desk, made from environmentally certified Brazilian hardwood, on a chair just a couple of inches lower than the SG’s own. More prized guests shared space with the SG on his sofa at the side of the office. The most valued confidants and VIPs were invited to the leather armchairs in the corner, a cozy nook with its own small table. The walls of the suite were covered with numerous photographs of Hussein shaking hands with current and former presidents and prime ministers, mainly of the P5, plus a legion of pop stars and Hollywood actors. Hussein was notorious for his love of glamour and celebrities. They were usually happy to reciprocate.

  The SG led Yael to the corner space and gestured for her to sit down. The nook felt surprisingly cozy. The lighting was soft, matching the dusk outside as the sun slowly set over the city. The coffee machine wheezed and sighed, scenting the room with the SG’s special blend of Ethiopian fair-tra
de arabica beans. A white china teapot stood next to a plate covered with a small mountain of muffins and cookies. Yael smiled with surprise and pleasure when she saw who was already sitting there.

  Quentin Braithwaite stood up to greet Yael. She quickly glanced sideways at the SG. He had already sat down, absorbed in his papers. She mouthed the word “Baku” to Braithwaite as though asking a question. Braithwaite shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  The SG put his papers down and poured drinks: coffee for himself and Braithwaite, and tea for Yael. Hussein had recently commissioned a special blend for her, a mix of strong Assam and Kenyan, which he kept in a large jar labeled “Builder’s Brew.” Yael was more amused than touched by the SG’s newfound solicitousness. Hussein rarely did anything without calculating the cost-benefit ratio to his own position at the UN.

  Yael thanked the SG, taking in his appearance and demeanor as he poured her drink. He seemed in perfect health and as charming and attentive as ever, as indeed he had been since Yael’s return to work. But she remained wary of the SG and had promised herself not to get too close to him. Hussein had already shown that he would dump her like an empty soda can if need be. Yet despite—perhaps because of—their tangled history, Hussein still aroused powerful emotions in her. Part of her wanted to slam him against the wall. Yael knew that Hussein knew far more than he had admitted about the death of the person she had loved most in the world, which was one reason why she had returned to work at the UN. Yet something about Fareed Hussein still drew her to him. The SG’s voice, deep and sonorous, was curiously comforting. His hand, resting on her arm as he guided her across his office, had felt warm and dry. She was annoyed to realize that, even now, the other part of her still sought his praise and approval.

  The SG put his folder down, a signal that the meeting was beginning.

  “I know you and Quentin are old allies, Yael,” said Hussein, his voice only slightly barbed. “So you will be pleased to hear that Quentin is now on secondment to this office as special envoy for the Istanbul Summit, which is why he is joining us now.”

  Yael sipped her tea. She made sure not to let her surprise—and relief—show as she digested this news. Colonel Quentin Braithwaite was a tall, sturdy Englishman with red hair, striking blue eyes, a splash of freckles over a ruddy outdoors complexion, and a taste for tweed jackets with leather elbow patches. He was a jocular and genuinely engaging companion. Braithwaite was the unacknowledged leader of the UN’s interventionist faction, a firm believer that the best way to persuade errant warlords to cooperate was a brisk salvo from the guns of an attack helicopter. Fareed Hussein took a very different view. The two men were not allies. The previous year Braithwaite had caused fury on the thirty-eighth floor when he had ripped off the epaulettes of a Dutch peacekeeper for cowardice—until it turned out that the Dutch soldier had been part of a human-trafficking ring that reached from Congo to Europe. Almost alone among her UN peers, Braithwaite had stood by Yael during the coltan scandal. He had been appointed to oversee the commission of inquiry, which was moving at a glacial pace, thanks to Fareed’s maneuverings behind the scenes. But Braithwaite too was a deft operator. His recent appointment as special envoy for the Istanbul Summit made him the most senior UN official dealing with the gathering, other than the SG and Caroline Masters, Hussein’s deputy. This was good news indeed, Yael thought. Although not for Fareed; someone—the Brits, she guessed—must have twisted the SG’s arm behind the scenes to get Braithwaite this position.

  Hussein looked at Yael. “So, Washington. How did it go?”

  Yael opened her folder and took out her notes. “Clarence Clairborne is not our friend,” she said, her voice wry, before giving a brisk account of her meeting with the chairman and CEO of the Prometheus Group.

  “And President Freshwater? Did you mention her?” asked Hussein.

  Yael nodded. “I did. Clairborne almost spat when I said her name. Called her ‘President Dead-in-the-Water.’”

  “He might be right,” said Braithwaite.

  Yael remembered Clairborne’s crude dismissal of President Freshwater, that she could go “fuck herself.” And the way he had started a sentence with “we” before suddenly stopping himself from saying any more. That part, she decided, she would keep to herself for now and share with Braithwaite later.

  Yael sat back. Her shoulder was pulsing again. She closed her eyes for a moment, once again seeing Clairborne rigid with anger, gripping the armchair so hard his fingers had turned white. She opened her eyes to see the large photograph of Lucy Tremlett, a willowy blond English actress, still in the center of the facing wall. Hussein had appointed Tremlett an ambassador for UNICEF, the UN’s children’s fund. The photograph showed him standing with his arm around her at a refugee camp in Darfur, surrounded by barefoot African children, who were smiling with excitement. “Fareed, thanks for everything,” Tremlett had scrawled on the print in her big, loopy handwriting. “We are doing so much good.” But were they? Yael asked herself, her mind drifting away. Were they really?

  The SG’s voice cut into her reverie. “Yael, are you with us?”

  Yael sat up straight and focused herself. “Sorry. Yes, of course.”

  “Did you show Clairborne the paper?” asked Braithwaite.

  Yael nodded. “Yes. I did. He was furious. But he wouldn’t back down, even when I said it might soon appear on the Internet. He threatened me; then he threw me out. On the surface he seems very confident.”

  “So the trip was a waste of your time,” said Hussein.

  Yael shook her head. “No. It was not. I learned something very valuable.”

  “What?” demanded the SG.

  “He was scared.”

  Hussein nodded. “Of course. He is scared of going to prison. His father died in prison.”

  Yael shook her head. “It was more than that. After I showed him the paper, he sat for at least a minute, praying to himself. As though he was caught up in something that was out of his control.”

  “He is,” said Braithwaite, reaching inside his briefcase. He pulled out two plain manila cardboard folders and handed one to the SG and one to Yael. “Read this.”

  “It’s not her,” said Sami, his shoulders hunched, his voice tight.

  Najwa rested her hand on his arm, but kindly, no longer the vamp of the Levant. “Sami, habibi, it is.”

  The Al Jazeera bureau was just a few yards away from Sami’s dank cubbyhole, but it seemed like a different world. The bright light of a spring Manhattan morning poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. One wall was covered with four giant television screens. They showed feeds from Al Jazeera Arabic service, Al Jazeera English, and the new Al Jazeera America service, while the fourth had the BBC World News channel playing. The furniture was sleek and modern, polished chrome and black leather, and the computers state-of-the-art with wafer-thin LED monitors. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white stills from the recent uprisings that had convulsed the Arab world. A jumble of plaques, metallic statuettes, and slabs of engraved plastic, Najwa’s awards for her reports and documentaries, covered most of one shelf.

  Sami and Najwa sat at her desk, watching the film playing on her computer monitor. A tray on the side table was piled high with pastries and fruit. Sami’s coffee was untouched. He had taken a single bite out of a chocolate muffin, but it had turned to dry crumbs in his mouth when the video started playing. Najwa’s producer, a taciturn but talented Spaniard named Maria, sat next to them, also watching, happy to let her star reporter run the show.

  Sami leaned back, staring at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly, conflicting emotions churning inside him. “But how… what…?” he stuttered, for once at a loss for words.

  “We have checked the footage, Sami. It’s real, the raw CCTV feed, not spliced or enhanced. It’s a hotel but we don’t know which one yet.”

  Sami nodded. He reached forward and pressed the play button again.

  The video clip started with a rear view of a slim w
oman walking down a long, narrow corridor. The walls were light brown, the carpet darker and patterned. She wore a wraparound raincoat and a fashionable military-style cap. She carried herself with poise and confidence on long, slim legs. There was no sound and the footage was clear and steady.

  Two stone-faced security guards stood outside the door of room 3017. A room service waiter walked down toward her, pushing a large trolley covered with used plates and glasses. The footage was sharp enough to see the name on his badge: “Miguel.” He mouthed something to the woman and smiled at her reply. She carried on toward 3017. The security guards instantly moved in front of her, blocking her path. They spoke and the woman presented her ID. The camera zoomed in on a driver’s license in the name of Sharon Mantello. She raised her arms and the taller security guard rapidly frisked her. She opened her bag. One of the security guards took out a heavy, old-fashioned mobile telephone. There was some discussion; then the woman took the mobile telephone back and placed it in her bag. The guards opened the door. The camera view flipped around to show the woman’s face.

  Sami pressed the pause button. “She doesn’t wear glasses.”

  “She does there,” replied Najwa. She passed him a printout. “We photoshopped the glasses out. There is no point arguing. It’s your girlfriend.”

  Sami picked up the sheet of paper and glanced at it. “I really wish you would stop calling her that,” he said, exhaling loudly.

  Najwa pressed the pause button again. The film showed the woman talking to the security guards, presumably trying to persuade them to let her into the room. One of the guards opened the door and she walked in. The door closed and the film stopped.