The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

  “Where’s Quentin Braithwaite?” asked Sami. “Shouldn’t he be here? He is the special envoy for the Istanbul Summit.”

  Roxana smiled beatifically. “Quentin was delayed. We found such a backlog of things that still needed doing before Caroline could take over, so it was thought best that he stay behind to sort them out.”

  “You must miss Henrik,” said Sami.

  Roxana looked puzzled for a moment, then quickly recovered. Her face turned grave. “Yes, yes, of course. A terrible loss to the UN,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

  “Will there be a memorial service for him?” asked Sami.

  The airplane suddenly lurched, hitting mild turbulence. Roxana grabbed the seat-back to steady herself. “Not as far as I know. When do you need me to get back to you on that?”

  Sami stared at her, momentarily nonplussed. “Uh, it’s not for a story. It’s just if there is some kind of service, we would like to go.”

  “I’ll let you know once I find out. Do let me know if you need anything else,” Roxana said, before moving down the aisle.

  Najwa waited until Roxana was several rows away before she burst out laughing. “When do you need me to get back to you on that, Sami?” Najwa dropped her voice a key to imitate Roxana’s husky tone. “Maybe you could take Roxana for some more cocktails, once we get to Istanbul. See what else she has in her handbag.”

  “Or maybe you could take her dancing.”

  Najwa drank some more champagne, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a very good idea. Shall we have another glass?”

  “Not for me. It’s two o’clock in the morning New York time. We will have to work tomorrow. I’m not sure I should be here, let alone be drinking champagne.”

  Najwa looked puzzled. “Why not? Everyone else is. You have traveled with the SG lots of times.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know what a corporate jamboree this would be. I thought the Turkish government would provide the plane. I’m not allowed to accept gifts from companies.”

  Sami took out the menu for the in-flight meals and began reading. “The KZX Corporation welcomes the UN press corps on board and is happy to provide hospitality for the flight from New York to Istanbul… a five-course dinner, with a different wine for each course, as well as champagne and cognacs. New American cuisine, French, or Turkish.” He slid the menu back into the seat-back pocket and picked up the black and silver leather messenger bag on the floor in front of him. “Look at this, you wouldn’t even know it was a corporate freebie,” he said, pointing at the lower right-hand corner, where the letters KZX were subtly embossed in the leather. Sami opened the bag. “An iPad Air, an iPhone 6, a leather portfolio with artisan writing paper and a Montblanc pen with a ten-gigabyte USB stick. All engraved with our names. There’s at least three thousand dollars’ worth of stuff here.” Sami took out the Montblanc pen and turned it around in his hand, enjoying its perfect balance and symmetry. The black lacquer coating gleamed under the cabin lights. Sami checked the end. “They even spelled my name right. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you, I am glad you like our gifts,” said a voice overhead. Sami and Najwa looked up to see a tall, rake-thin man standing by their seats, his shoulders slightly stooped.

  Even five hours into a transatlantic flight Reinhardt Daintner displayed his customary elegance. The communications director of the KZX Corporation was wearing his trademark gray silk suit, white shirt, and slim black knitted tie. So pale he was a near-albino, Daintner had a widow’s peak of white hair with equally white eyebrows and near translucent lips. Perhaps because of his unusual looks, Daintner had a powerful charisma, which he usually deployed to good effect.

  Daintner leaned forward. “We hope they will help you to do your job even better. Especially after our recent misunderstandings.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Daintner,” said Sami. “What mis-understandings?”

  Najwa turned to watch as Sami spoke, relishing the coming exchange.

  A faint trace of a frown flitted across Daintner’s face. “Good morning to both of you. The misunderstandings in your reports on the planned KZX–Bonnet Group Goma Development Zone. A series of articles and a documentary film, if I recall. But that’s all in the past now. Let bygones be bygones.”

  Sami put the pen back in its box and the box into the messenger bag. “Mr. Daintner, I am in an uncomfortable position here, because it seems we are traveling on your ticket. But we didn’t misunderstand anything. Our reporting was accurate and fair.”

  Daintner inclined his head. “Let’s agree to differ, Mr. Boustani, on the definition of ‘fair.’ But this is neither the time nor the place to rehash last year’s news. You and Ms. al-Sameera, all the UN press corps, are our most welcome guests.”

  Sami nodded. “Thank you. Please don’t think me churlish but my newspaper will be requesting a bill for this journey, Mr. Daintner.”

  Daintner shook his head. “It will not be forthcoming.”

  “In that case we will make an equivalent donation to charity.”

  “As you wish,” said Daintner.

  Sami was immune to Daintner’s smooth talk. Tired from the flight, and irritated at being bounced into a freebie—which he knew could have been avoided if he had bothered to check—he went on the attack. “Child coltan miners are a worthy cause, don’t you think? Children working in slave-labor conditions so that we may enjoy the latest smart-phones and tablets. Which reminds me,” said Sami as he reached for the messenger bag. “Again, don’t think me rude, but my newspaper’s policy strictly forbids me from accepting gifts. I am sure you can find a good home for these,” he continued, handing the bag to Daintner.

  “Do they really need to know?” asked Daintner, his smile taking on a somewhat fixed quality. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “They do.”

  Sami gently nudged Najwa with his elbow. She gave him a beseeching look. Sami stared at her, unblinking. Najwa opened her eyes even wider. Sami continued staring. Najwa sighed, reached down for her messenger bag, and handed it to Daintner. “Thank you, Reinhardt, but Al Jazeera has the same policy.”

  Najwa looked up to see Caroline Masters walking down the aisle. She looked tired, almost disheveled, as though she had just woken up. Her blouse was crumpled, there were dark circles around her eyes, and her skin looked dry and puffy. She stood close to Daintner as Najwa finished talking and greeted the two journalists.

  “What policy, Najwa?” Masters asked.

  “Freebies,” said Sami. “We are not allowed to accept them.”

  Masters glanced at Daintner, who was now holding the two messenger bags.

  Daintner said, “It’s really not a problem, Caroline. The New York Times and Al Jazeera don’t accept free gifts. We should have checked first.”

  “Really? Then why are you on this plane?” Masters asked, her irritation plain.

  “Because you didn’t tell us that it was going to be sponsored by a corporation. Otherwise we would have made our own way to Istanbul,” said Sami.

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Daintner shot Masters a look of alarm. Arguments with prominent journalists were not part of the KZX PR strategy for the summit.

  “Why would I?” said Sami. “It’s never happened before.”

  Masters registered Daintner’s look and lapsed back into cordial UN-speak. “Well, Sami, we will be making a number of changes over the next few months, many of them in conjunction with KZX, which is one of the UN’s most valued partners. And we look forward to a productive working relationship with you, with all the media, as the UN evolves to meet new challenges.”

  Daintner smiled at Sami and Najwa as he placed his hand on the small of Masters’s back. “We hope to be discussing those with you both at a later date. Enjoy the rest of the flight. We have an exciting week ahead, and now, if you will excuse us…” He turned around and gently guided Masters back up the aisle.

  Najwa waited for several seconds till Daintner and Masters were out of earshot, t
hen turned to Sami. “You owe me, habibi. An iPad, an iPhone 6, a Montblanc pen, and a leather messenger bag,” she said, counting on her fingers, her voice mock angry. “With my name engraved on each. This time in English and Arabic.”

  Sami reached over and tipped the last of her miniature bottle of champagne into his glass and swallowed it in one gulp. “Yeah, yeah. Did you see that body language? She looked at him before she spoke, like she was seeking permission. Daintner had his hand on her back. He ended the conversation when he wanted to.”

  “Welcome aboard KZX Airways.”

  “Do you really think they are an item?”

  “Yup. Speaking of loving couples… I hope you aren’t still jealous of my dance,” said Najwa, leaning closer to Sami, her full breast pressing against his arm.

  Sami smiled. “Hey, I got to walk her home.”

  “So you did. You abandoned me. I ended up dancing with that handsome Israeli guy. But all he wanted to talk about was Yael. What happened? Did you ditch the bodyguard?”

  “I was burgled. We spent the next two hours cleaning up the apartment.”

  “Burgled? I’m sorry. That sucks. What did they take?”

  “The only thing missing was the copy of the DVD that you made for me of the film clip of Yael in the Millennium Hotel.”

  Najwa frowned. “That’s weird.”

  “So is this,” said Sami. He opened Saturday’s newspaper and went through the pages to the Metro section and the story about Cyrus Jones. He folded the newspaper over and handed it to Najwa. “Read this.”

  Najwa looked up when she finished the story, frowning in concentration. “A long purple birthmark on his neck. I remember something—”

  “Jones. Cyrus Jones. The American who was held by the jihadis in Syria. We watched the video on YouTube.”

  “And why are we interested in him?”

  “Jones came to see me, just before I got burgled. He and another guy. They said they were from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. But they weren’t.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Information about Yael.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Only things that were already public. What she used to do for the SG. The Trusteeship Council. Then he threatened to have my citizenship revoked.”

  Najwa looked at Sami, her eyes wide. “He did what? How?”

  Sami reached inside his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. “With these,” he said, handing her half a dozen photographs of himself and his mother in Gaza.

  The beggar was barely in her teens, still chubby from baby fat.

  Yael watched her from her window seat in Café Markiz, steam rising from her tea. The girl sat on the sidewalk in front of a trendy household-goods shop, her legs twisted, useless, underneath her body. Every few minutes she crawled back and forth along İstiklal Caddesi, holding a gray plastic bowl. Most of the shoppers ignored her. Occasionally a passerby dropped a coin in the bowl. Then the girl would look up, one milky eye swiveling sightlessly, as she mouthed her thanks.

  İstiklal Caddesi, Republic Avenue, was a wide pedestrianized street at the heart of the old European quarter of Beyoǧlu, once home to Greeks and Jews, Italians and Armenians. Most had now vanished, but their former homes and businesses remained. A century-old, mile-long eclectic architectural cocktail of nineteenth-century Ottoman, Oriental-tinged art nouveau, and modern buildings, the avenue was now the modern shopping center of Istanbul, home to Western-brand boutiques, modern cafés and restaurants, and several old-fashioned book and record shops. The narrow alleys running from the side led to hidden art nouveau apartment blocks and warrens of tiny shops and bars. The Tünel, the underground cable car leading to the Galata Bridge, marked one end of the avenue; Taksim Square, the favorite site for Istanbul’s protestors to battle the riot police, the other. A single-carriage old-fashioned wooden tram, painted red and white, trundled up the center of the thoroughfare.

  Yael reached inside her purse and took out a twenty-lira note, worth around ten dollars, to give to the girl when she left. She looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock on Monday morning. She had lost a day traveling because of the seven-hour time difference between Istanbul and New York. But now she felt refreshed, certainly more alert than when she had finally arrived in the city last night. Yael had stumbled into bed at eight o’clock and slept for twelve hours. She felt safe at the Hotel Fatima—no male planning to make life difficult for her would ever make it past the fearsome owner and manageress, who guarded the reception like a eunuch watching over a sultan’s harem.

  She sat back and adjusted her hijab, using her reflection in the café window. Yael wore hers tied around her head and knotted underneath, with the crown of her head showing. She had chosen a black and gold scarf, to coordinate with her new black hair and gold-rimmed glasses with plain lenses. She wore slim-cut black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a fitted cream safari-style jacket she had picked up on her previous trip here. If anything, she thought, she was dressed too modestly for this part of town. She was the only woman wearing a head scarf in Café Markiz. Markiz was an Istanbul landmark, an elegant, old-fashioned Parisian-style café. The wooden entrance and dark furniture set off the two giant art-nouveau-tiled murals on the main wall: each showed a creamy-skinned woman, her shoulders daringly exposed, surrounded by flowers and greenery, representing autumn and spring. Most of the other female customers were indistinguishable from their fashionable peers in London or New York, with their hair free and a hint or more of cleavage, gossiping excitedly or hunched over their smartphones.

  Her mission aside, Yael was happy to be back in Istanbul, a place where she always felt at home. Like her, Istanbul was a crossbreed, carrying the genes of both East and West, including, perhaps, some of hers. The Azoulays, she knew, had fled Spain in 1492, one among tens of thousands of Jewish families expelled by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. She still remembered the history lesson about the expulsion, and the teacher telling her how Ferdinand’s decision had been greeted with incredulity in the Ottoman court. “Do they call this man a wise king, who impoverishes his country so?” asked Sultan Bayezid II, who promptly dispatched a fleet of boats to bring the Jews to the Ottoman Empire. The Azoulays had finally settled in Baghdad. Yael liked to imagine her forefathers passing through Istanbul on the way, standing on the deck of the ship, watching the shore as it came into view, its harbor jammed with boats, its wharves echoing to a babel of languages, wondering how they would make a new life in a new land. Perhaps she should make a new life here too, far from the UN. She might meet someone, settle down, have a family, live normally. How hard could it be to learn Turkish, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Yael watches Yusuf finish his pide. His fingers are long and slender, his dark eyes, somewhere between brown and black, warm and intelligent. A lock of hair, so black it almost shines, falls over his forehead.

  Yusuf Çelmiz, senior operative in the Milli I·stihbarat Teşkilatı. Her accomplice in the rendition of Cyrus Jones. But could she trust Yusuf with what she now knew? The CIA, Mossad, MI6, even France’s DGSE had all reduced their information exchange with the MI·T, judging its new director to be too close to the Iranians. The truth was, whether or not she could trust Yusuf Çelmiz, she wanted to. In fact, she had to. Her other contacts had all been mysteriously busy, unavailable, or unreachable. But where was he? They were supposed to meet at Café Markiz at 9:30. Her new mobile telephone beeped—a text message had arrived. The phone was one of three cheap pay-as-you-go phones Yael had purchased that morning from a tiny shop in a back street of Sultanahmet. According to Turkish law, even pay-as-you-go mobile telephones must be officially registered in someone’s name, with proof of address. But an extra $200, in cash, had persuaded the owner that this time, the law could be ignored. In any case, she would only use each burner for a few hours, then dispose of it. The obsolete Nokia candy-bar model felt tiny in her hand. She could close her fingers around it. The sender’s number was blocked, but apart from
Yusuf, only one person had this number.

  Your disc is a master copy

  Yael smiled as she read the text. Beaker’s code was not very subtle. But then it didn’t need to be.

  She picked up the tulip-shaped glass and sipped her tea. It was strong and delicious, scented with cinnamon. Once she got home on Friday night, Yael had played the DVD she had stolen from Sami on her computer and watched herself at the Millennium Hotel. Like Sami and Najwa, Yael had looked for the metadata. Yael too found nothing. She had met Beaker on Saturday morning and handed him the DVD with a request to see if he could find out where the video file had been created. “A master copy,” she read again. And now she knew who had sent the DVD to Sami and Najwa.

  Sami and Najwa. Yael did a quick mental calculation: it was 10:00 a.m. in Istanbul, which meant it was 3:00 a.m. in New York. The Monday edition of the New York Times must be online by now. She rummaged in her bag for her iPhone and clicked on the newspaper’s app.

  FAREED HUSSEIN “ORDERED BOSNIANS FROM UN COMPOUND AT SREBRENICA,” INTERNAL DOCUMENTS REVEAL

  * * *

  Many Killed Soon After, Hussein Return to Post Now Judged Unlikely

  * * *

  By SAMI BOUSTANI, NAJWA AL-SAMEERA, Special to the New York Times

  UNITED NATIONS—Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations, personally ordered the handover of three hundred Bosnian Muslims who had taken refuge in the United Nations base at Srebrenica in July 1995 to the Bosnian Serbs, according to internal UN documents obtained by the New York Times. The women were put on trucks and sent across the front lines. The men, including several teenage boys, were shot soon after, their hands tied behind their backs.

  At the time, Mr. Hussein was serving as the head of the Department of Peacekeeping Operations. The leaked documents reveal that Dutch troops panicked and retreated to the UN base when promised air strikes failed to materialize. A group of some two hundred Bosnian Muslims, some of whom worked for the UN as translators and drivers, managed to flee to the UN base with their families. But they were forced out under Fareed Hussein’s orders, for fear that their presence would compromise the UN’s neutrality. Srebrenica was a UN-declared “safe haven.” About eight thousand Bosnian Muslim men and boys, taken prisoner by the Bosnian Serbs, were ultimately killed over several days in early July 1995.