The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

  Sami was thirty-five years old. He had joined the Gray Lady as a trainee a decade ago, fresh from Columbia University’s postgraduate journalism program. His parents were incredulous when he’d managed to win a job at the country’s most important newspaper with no personal connections or bribes. Even now, when he offered his thick white business card, embossed with his name and title of “United Nations Correspondent,” he still felt the same frisson as on his first day. This was his third staff position, after covering Congress in Washington, DC, and a brief stint at Parliament in London. He had enjoyed London but was still mystified by the Brits. Their love of understatement and the passive conditional, and their inability to say anything directly made them impossible to decode. How did so many of them manage to do so well in New York? There were no such communication problems at the UN. The Secretariat was a hive of diplomatic maneuvering, insider information, and international intrigue, handily located a twenty-minute walk from his apartment.

  Sami’s contacts usually either worked for the UN itself, or one of the dozens of diplomatic missions nearby. Often there was no need to even leave the building because all the information needed for an article could be gleaned in its bars, cafés, and long, narrow corridors. The main question when dealing with contacts and sources was not so much the information they had, but the basis on which it could be reported. Sami was not naive enough to think that diplomats and UN officials told him things because of their commitment to freedom of information. His sources almost always had an agenda. There were four levels of attribution. On the record, meaning the source could be named, was usually the least useful. Nobody, apart from official department spokesmen and women, wanted to be reported as having any views or opinions on anything, and even official spokespeople were careful to be as anodyne as possible. If the conversation was going well, he pushed for a “UN official with knowledge of the issue,” which narrowed the field but was still sufficiently anonymous. If that didn’t work, Sami could usually persuade the source to be a “UN official,” which, he argued, was adequate camouflage, as around sixty thousand people worked for the UN across the world. Otherwise, he settled for “deep background,” which meant the information could be used but not attributed to anyone. Whatever their basis, the conversations were still worth having and all added nuance and texture to Sami’s understanding. The really sharp operators knew how to play the system backward and kill a story. When Sami heard the words “I am going to tell you this but you cannot use it,” he stopped the conversation—because to carry on would prevent him using that information if he heard it from another source.

  Despite its repeated impotence, most recently in Syria, the UN was still the center of international negotiations, and the SG the world’s most influential diplomat, especially during times of crisis. Decisions made by the Security Council had the force of international law. Every one of the 192 member states expended much time and energy trying to find out what those decisions might involve. Information, not money, was the building’s most valuable currency. It could be—and was—bought and sold, traded and swapped. The mere sight of two diplomats from hostile countries attending the same reception could trigger speculative cables back to foreign ministries, pontificating about a potential reconciliation.

  The very geography of the UN complex lent itself to intrigue. Those who wanted to be seen talking together gathered in the Delegates Lounge, a long, wide space on the ground floor of the General Assembly building, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto First Avenue. A small raised bar at the far end, up a flight of stairs, offered a little more privacy. Away from the see-and-be-seen places were several obscure cafés and coffee bars in the bowels of the buildings. Each floor of the Secretariat Building had a small maintenance balcony that looked out over the building’s inner airshaft, reached by a door from the main corridor. Until recently, these had also been popular places for confidential assignations. However, the murder of Olivia de Souza had reduced their appeal. Any invitation to meet on a balcony immediately prompted morbid quips about writing wills or buying a parachute.

  Almost everybody wanted to talk to the New York Times, and most of his sources were just a few minutes’ walk or an elevator ride away from the door of his office in the press complex in the Secretariat Building. Some contacts wanted to be wined and dined in nearby gourmet restaurants; others enjoyed a conspiratorial huddle on a little-known back staircase. He had once felt someone slide a folded piece of paper into his jacket pocket in a crowded elevator. It was an expenses claim from the assistant secretary-general for public affairs: $39,000 for a trip to the UN headquarters in Geneva with his research assistant. The resulting story had set off a firestorm and promises of reform. Six weeks later the man had been promoted to department head, taking his “assistant” with him.

  Sami opened the door, and the smell of warm, stale food hit him. His desk was covered in a mess of yellow rice, sultanas, and pieces of chicken. His computer monitor was streaked with thick white yogurt, slivers of cucumber, and shreds of fresh mint that had congealed in a puddle underneath. His chair was covered with a soft brown mess. He quickly stepped toward it and sniffed, relieved to discover that the dark slop dripping onto the floor was the remains of a chocolate mousse. An empty bottle of Taittinger champagne had rolled into one corner, a bottle of Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc into another.

  Sami picked his way through a pool of liquid on the floor that stank of alcohol. At first, his keyboard, at least, seemed to have escaped. But when he looked closer, it was dripping. He picked it up and tipped it sideways. A thin trickle of white wine ran out onto the floor.

  The door opened and Najwa appeared. She was about to speak until she took in the scene in front of her.

  “She said she was going to make maqluba,” said Sami, his voice wry as he tilted the dripping keyboard.

  Najwa could not stop laughing. “And she did. Wallah. She is really pissed at you.”

  Sami put the keyboard down, the wine still seeping from the corner. He looked for somewhere to sit in the chaos, but gave up. “I wonder why.”

  Najwa walked over to his desk and poked about in the mess. She extracted a small strip of brown bark and sniffed it. “Fresh cinnamon. You missed a great meal.”

  “I didn’t miss anything. It’s here. All over the office.” He shook his head, as though trying to convince himself. “It’s better like this. It would never work.”

  Najwa dropped the cinnamon in the trash can. “No. It would not. It’s very simple. You are a reporter. It’s your job to report. You cannot date your sources or the people you write about. If you don’t like it, then get another job.”

  “I don’t want another job. I’m good at this one,” said Sami, as he traced a pattern in the yellow puddle of wine on his desk.

  “Yes, you are. So let’s clear this mess up.”

  6

  Yael swerved as the man’s fist flew at her.

  She parried the blow with her right hand, smacking his knuckles away with an open palm, and countered with a fast left hook. He jumped away from her punch.

  She jabbed again with her left and then again with her right, her palm stinging from the impact. He blocked her; she dodged and punched. Her vision narrowed, her breathing rasped in her throat, and the sweat flew from her head like a fine spray.

  The pounding bass of Eminem’s “Rap God” filled the space, his voice raw and angry, the thumping beat pumping up the flow of her adrenaline. All thoughts of wrecked dates, doomed romances, and meals cooked but uneaten were gone, burned away in the fierce concentration of the fight. Her body was on fire, her focus total, her eyes locked not on her opponent’s face, but his upper chest, whose muscles signaled the movement his arms were about to make.

  The gym was large and well equipped, reserved for residents of her apartment block. Rows of television screens hung suspended from the ceiling. A giant air conditioner rattled and hummed. Much of the space was taken up with lines of running, rowing, and cycling machines.
There was a rack of weights in one corner, exercise balls in another, and a couple of benches. The floor of one corner was covered with blue exercise mats, now slippery with their sweat.

  She came back with a right hook, twisting her body around for extra power. His right arm flew up, blocked her arm just above her wrist. She winced from the impact. In the second that Yael was exposed, he jumped forward, bear-hugged her under her arms, and lifted her up.

  Yael had practiced Krav Maga—Hebrew for contact combat—for more than twenty years. Invented in the 1930s by Imre Lichtenfeld, a Hungarian Jewish boxer, as a means for Jews to defend themselves against Fascist attacks, Krav Maga was soon adopted by the Israeli army and numerous other military and law enforcement agencies. It is fast, effective, and dirty—at least compared to the formalities and etiquette of karate and kung fu. Most techniques consist of three or four moves: block, counterattack, disable the attacker, and leave the danger zone—all as quickly as possible. But the essence of Krav Maga, born out of the Holocaust, could be summed up in one word: fight. Yael practiced every day for at least half an hour, followed by half an hour of yoga. Yoga kept her flexible, calm, and centered. Krav Maga kept her alive.

  Yael leaned back and drove her thumbs forward, straight at his eyes. There was no defense against this move. The body instantly dropped back, the reflex to save eyesight hardwired into the human brain.

  He let her go.

  Eminem faded away as the track ended.

  They stepped apart and bumped fists, panting as the sweat poured off them.

  “Feel better now?” asked Joe-Don Pabst as he handed Yael a pint bottle of Poland Spring mineral water and a towel.

  She wiped her face with the towel and quickly emptied the bottle. Her heart was racing; her muscles ached; her arms, wrists, and palms were red with the impact of smacking away Joe-Don’s punches.

  She looked at the clock on the wall—it was nine o’clock in the morning. Her half-hour private session was over. Someone was already knocking at the door.

  Yael smiled. “Yes. Much.”

  “You did what?” asked Joe-Don forty-five minutes later, his voice disbelieving, his fork suspended in midair over a plate of eggs and bacon.

  Yael briskly explained, for the second time, the fate of most of the dinner she had cooked for her and Sami.

  “When did you go?”

  “This morning, around dawn. I couldn’t sleep. I also gave some of the food to a homeless guy but I still feel kind of guilty. It was a terrible waste,” said Yael.

  The waitress appeared and placed three plates in front of Yael. The first held a large tortilla, still steaming from the pan, the second was filled with brown lima beans, and the third held a tomato and onion salad.

  Joe-Don looked at the food. “Are you going to eat all of that?”

  Yael nodded. “You can help me,” she said, slicing off a chunk of the tortilla and offering it to Joe-Don.

  He shook his head. “It’s all yours.”

  They were sitting in La Caridad on the corner of Broadway and West Seventy-Eighth Street, a few blocks from Yael’s apartment. Apart from an elderly Cuban man in one corner, nursing a cup of coffee and reading that day’s edition of El Diario la Prensa, a Spanish-language daily newspaper, the restaurant was almost deserted. The early-morning crowd had gone home and it was too early for lunch. One of the last Chinese Cuban diners in New York, and still a mainstay of the Upper West Side, La Caridad was Yael’s regular breakfast spot.

  Yael sprinkled chili sauce over the beans and tortilla, speared a forkful of beans, and raised it to her mouth. “Sure you don’t want some?” she asked. Clean, showered, dressed in fresh clothes, she was suddenly ravenous. A run, her sparring with Joe-Don, then half an hour of yoga while Joe-Don went for a walk in Riverside Park had triggered a ferocious appetite. The food revived her quickly. She smiled, half-laughed at a memory from last night—at least, she thought, she had gone down fighting.

  “What’s so funny?’ asked Joe-Don.

  “I called Al Jazeera after the story went out. I asked for Sami, said I had some new information for him. He was still in the studio. They put me through. I said, ‘Hello, this is Sharon Mantello. I hear you have some footage of me.’”

  Joe-Don laughed. “And he said?”

  “Nothing. I changed my accent but he knew it was me. I could sense it. I asked him if he burned all his sources. Then I hung up.”

  She looked out the window. An old man was slowly making his way across Broadway with the aid of a Zimmer frame. A young mother was pushing a twin baby carriage around the corner, down Seventy-Eighth Street. A policeman with an impressive paunch was chatting with the owner of a stall, half a block long, selling secondhand books. An everyday spring morning on the Upper West Side. If she thought hard enough, she could still see her father, mother, sister, Noa, and brother, David, all walking through the door here for their Saturday-morning brunch treat.

  Yael’s mobile telephone suddenly trilled and vibrated. She checked the incoming number: a 510 area code—Berkeley, California. She looked at the telephone for a couple of seconds as it gently shook.

  Joe-Don glanced at the screen. “It’s your mom. Take it.”

  Yael chewed her lip, unable to decide. After her parents divorced, Barbara had gone to live in San Francisco. David’s death, and the brutal manner of his slaying, triggered a nervous breakdown. Barbara eventually recovered, and in the process discovered, or realized, that she preferred women to men. She had moved in with her former therapist, and they now lived in Berkeley, where they owned an antiques shop. Yael was not estranged from her mother, but relations had been cool at best, usually confined to a telephone call every couple of months. Yael still felt that Barbara had abandoned her for David and Noa and that she unfairly blamed Yael for getting divorced. In return, Barbara had never forgiven her daughter for going to live with her father. It was a poor choice, thought Yael, for she had ended up with neither parent in her life. Recently, though, her mother had been in touch more often. They had started to e-mail each other more frequently. A couple of weeks earlier, on the twentieth anniversary of David’s death, Barbara had called Yael. She knew Yael would be thinking about her brother that day, she said, as Yael had been. Barbara said that she was planning a trip to New York soon. Yael had invited her to come and stay with her. Yael watched the phone trill, then let the call go to voice mail.

  Yael turned back to Joe-Don. “I will call her later.”

  “Will you?” he asked, his voice disbelieving. “You should make up. It’s been long enough.”

  “I will. I promise. Now let’s get back to work. Who filmed me, and how did Najwa and Sami get hold of the footage?” she asked, her voice rising in annoyance.

  Joe-Don frowned. “I don’t get it. Our hacker friend disabled the hotel’s CCTV system. The security manager agreed to an outage of twenty minutes. I called in a lot of favors to set that up. The hotel system was definitely down. And we timed everything to the minute.”

  “Someone hacked into the hotel’s CCTV system and set up their own feed. That’s a quite elaborate operation. And now my cover is blown for good,” Yael said, stabbing at her tortilla with her fork.

  “You knew that would happen sooner or later. I’m amazed it lasted this long, in the digital age. And you made a lot of enemies over the coltan scandal. It would help if we could get hold of a copy of the video. Then we could try and trace it back to the source,” said Joe-Don. He looked at Yael, a hopeful smile playing on his craggy face.

  Her body stiffened, the tines of her fork scraping across the plate. “No. No, no, and no. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to see him, hear about him, or be in the same building as him.”

  “Who said you have to talk to him? Just get the DVD.”

  “What if they e-mailed it? Or used Dropbox?”

  “They didn’t. My guy in the UN mailroom told me. It was a DVD. He saw Najwa open the envelope.”

  Yael put her fork down. “I’ll thi
nk about it.”

  Joe-Don put his hand on hers, his callous fingers rough against the skin of her hand. “I’m sorry. I let you down.”

  Yael squeezed his palm. “Never.”

  Joe-Don Pabst, a twenty-year veteran of the UN’s Department of Safety and Security, was Yael’s bodyguard. A taciturn US Special Forces veteran in his late fifties, Pabst had sloping shoulders and the physique of a boxer who, despite an outer layer that had softened with age, was still hard muscle at the core. Born in Minnesota, he had thick steel-gray hair that was cut close, and a pink, fleshy face. His almost simian build belied a subtle, nuanced intelligence and a sense for danger that had made him a legend at the UN. He had served in almost every war and crisis zone where the UN had a presence. His small blue eyes exuded the steady wariness of those who had seen combat and its human cost, as they continually scanned their surrounds, seeking and processing information about potential threats.

  Joe-Don passed her that day’s New York Times, with Sami’s story on the front page.

  “I’ve read it and watched the film. Several times. The video shows me walking down the corridor, then through the door of the room, then it stops. I guess that’s all they have. There’s nothing about Hakizimani or what actually happened.”

  “For now. It could still be coming.”

  Yael scowled. “Really?”

  “Absolutely. There shouldn’t be any sound or video from inside the room. We swept it cleaner than the Oval Office. But even if there isn’t, we may still have a problem. They have footage of you going in, so they presumably have footage of you leaving. And also of Hakizimani being wheeled out in a body bag.”

  Yael nodded. “Plus, they will have filmed you and Miguel rushing down the corridor to save me. How is Miguel, by the way?”

  “Miguel sends his regards. He is fine.”

  “Mmmm, isn’t he?”

  “I thought you were heartbroken about your dinner date.”