The Washington Stratagem

by Adam LeBor

  “That should be enough,” replied Yael as she walked forward. “You guarantee my authority? That anything I agree with her on will be acted on?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Reardon. “Just get the antidote.”

  “In writing!” shouted Isis, her face set and determined again. “I want it in writing.”

  “There’s no time for this bullshit!” yelled Reardon.

  Isis turned to Freshwater, now unconscious. “Five minutes.”

  Reardon gestured at the Secret Service agents. “Someone give me a pen and paper.”

  The paper and pen were thrust into Reardon’s hand.

  He quickly wrote:

  By the power vested in me as the ranking US official I hereby authorize Yael Azoulay to negotiate with Isis Franklin for the antidote—any agreement reached will be honored.

  Dave Reardon

  He handed the paper to Isis. She read it and handed it back. “Date and place.”

  He scrawled the date and “Istanbul,” then pushed the paper at Isis, his face murderous.

  Isis nodded. “OK.”

  “Undo her handcuffs,” said Yael.

  Reardon gestured for the two agents to stand aside. One freed Isis, barely able to control her anger.

  Yael sat down on the bench and beckoned for Isis to sit next to her. Reardon moved forward.

  Yael shook her head. He stepped away, his fury almost tangible.

  Yael held Isis’s hand, their heads almost touching.

  Isis shook her head, protested.

  Yael looked at her, and took her other hand. Yael continued speaking for a long minute.

  Isis began to cry softly. Yael nodded.

  Isis stood up, walked over to the tree in the courtyard, and pointed at a spot in its base, her whole body shaking.

  “Go, go, go!” shouted Reardon, as the Secret Service agents leapt forward.

  27

  TURMOIL CONTINUES AT UNITED NATIONS

  * * *

  Fareed Hussein Returns, Deputy Resigns, Detained US Diplomat “Used UN Connections” to Adopt Afghan Child

  * * *

  By SAMI BOUSTANI

  UNITED NATIONS—Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations, returned to his post Monday after being absent for almost two weeks on medical leave. Mr. Hussein, who had been suffering from fainting fits, declared himself “fully recovered.”

  At the same time Caroline Masters, the deputy secretary-general, resigned. As acting secretary-general in Mr. Hussein’s absence, Ms. Masters had taken charge of the Istanbul Summit, the global gathering last week aimed at resolving the crises in Syria, Egypt, and between Israel and the Palestinians. The summit was postponed after Isis Franklin, the head of public diplomacy at the US mission to the UN, was arrested by Turkish authorities a week ago. She is currently being held on charges of attempted murder. She is accused of trying to poison President Freshwater. Secret Service agents were able to administer the antidote for the poison in time, after a dramatic intervention by senior UN official Yael Azoulay, who persuaded Ms. Franklin to reveal the location of the antidote.

  Ms. Azoulay narrowly escaped serious injury herself after a rooftop chase at Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, during which Eli Harrari, the new chief of staff at the Israeli mission to the UN, was shot in the hand. Ms. Azoulay, a former covert negotiator for Fareed Hussein, was demoted by Ms. Masters and placed in charge of the Trusteeship Council, a largely defunct arm of the organization. It is unclear why Ms. Azoulay was in Istanbul. Neither Ms. Azoulay nor the Israeli mission to the UN responded to requests for comment by telephone and e-mail.

  Internal UN documents obtained by the New York Times show that Ms. Franklin used her UN connections to try and adopt a two-year-old orphan from Afghanistan. Ms. Franklin, an ambitious career diplomat, had previously worked for USAID in Kandahar, Afghanistan, running literacy programs and had also served in Sarajevo and Montevideo. She is divorced and has no children. Babur Hamid, the child whom Ms. Franklin planned to adopt, was killed earlier this year, along with three of his relatives, in a US drone strike. The family was en route to the UN headquarters in Kandahar, where Ms. Franklin was serving; she had planned to take charge of the child. The drone strike has been described by US officials as a “tragic mistake,” but no investigation has taken place and no officials have been held to account.

  Negotiations with Turkey over Ms. Franklin’s extradition are continuing, said a senior US official who was not authorized to speak on the record to journalists. President Freshwater is recovering well, and is expected to be back at work next week, said a spokesman for the White House. Both Republican and Democrat leaders have pledged to speed a new bill through Congress allowing fast-track adoptions for five thousand orphans from conflict zones, including Afghanistan and Syria, by American families.

  Ms. Masters’s resignation will raise questions about the push by some UN officials for closer cooperation with corporations. Ms. Masters is widely seen as the architect of a controversial policy by which the UN will increasingly outsource services to the private sector. Confidential UN e-mails newly obtained by the New York Times reveal that as early as a year ago, Ms. Masters was negotiating a pilot scheme with Clarence Clairborne, chairman and owner of the Prometheus Group, to supply security services for the Istanbul Summit. The e-mails detail how, behind the scenes, Prometheus was working with Efrat Global Solutions (EGS), the world’s largest private military contractor, which is owned by Menachem Stein.

  If successful, the scheme, referred to in the e-mails as the “Washington Stratagem,” would pave the way for a wholesale privatization of UN security and potentially, international peacekeeping, a market worth billions of dollars annually. Mr. Stein was named by German prosecutors as a potential co-conspirator in last year’s coltan scandal. EGS, the KZX Corporation, and the Bonnet Group attempted to take control of global supplies of the mineral, which is vital for the manufacture of mobile telephones and computers.

  KZX supplied the transport and accommodation for members of the New York–based UN press corps, who traveled to Istanbul for the ill-fated summit, including the New York Times (the New York Times has made a donation to charity equivalent to the estimated cost of the flight). Earlier this month German authorities dropped all charges against three senior KZX executives and Mr. Stein. All charges have also been dropped against Joe-Don Pabst and Quentin Braithwaite, two senior UN officials who were arrested on their way to the Istanbul Summit.

  Roxana Voiculescu, the newly appointed spokeswoman for Fareed Hussein, declined to answer a series of questions submitted by the New York Times on the relationship between Ms. Masters, the Prometheus Group, Efrat Global Solutions, and the KZX Corporation, and the reasons for the arrest of Mr. Pabst and Mr. Braithwaite. In a written statement Ms. Voiculescu said that all these matters were under investigation, as was the death of her predecessor, Henrik Schneidermann. Spokesmen for all three companies declined to return repeated telephone calls or reply to written questions by e-mail.

  Mr. Hussein is likely to survive the revelations about his role in the collapse of Srebrenica and the death of three hundred civilians who were forced from the UN base there, reportedly under his direct orders, said a US official who asked not to be named as he was not authorized to speak on the record. “Nothing has been proved and Bosnia was twenty years ago. The P5 need Fareed as much as he needs them.”

  Yael stepped out of Saint Ignatius Loyola Church and into the warmth of a sunny April afternoon. The sky was a pale blue, studded with fluffy white clouds. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, and the road was filled with the surging tide of Manhattan’s lunchtime traffic. Police officers stood on every corner, their radios crackling. More than two hundred of Henrik Schneidermann’s colleagues had attended his memorial service, as well as several dozen diplomats and most of the press corps, including Sami Boustani, Najwa al-Sameera, and Jonathan Beaufort. The service had been poignant and moving. Fareed Hussein had spoken eloquently and movingly about Schneidermann
’s commitment to the ideals of the United Nations and the tragic loss of a life cut short. Roxana Voiculescu had also paid a touching tribute to her former colleague. The most notable absence was that of Caroline Masters.

  The SG and his new spokeswoman were now standing in front of the church, on the corner of East Eighty-Fourth Street and Park Avenue, in the bright sunshine. There was a queue in front of Yael, and she waited as Hussein and Roxana greeted the mourners one by one. They both worked the crowd with impressive professionalism, shaking hands, making eye contact for several seconds, occasionally hugging the person in front of them before moving on to the next in line. Hussein looked imposing in his black Nehru jacket, black silk collarless shirt, and trousers. Roxana had splashed out, Yael saw, on a new Prada two-piece trouser suit, which she wore with a plain gray blouse and matching black and gray Christian Louboutin shoes. Her hugs, Yael noted with amusement, seemed to be confined to those of the rank of assistant secretary-general and above.

  Yael’s turn came and she greeted Fareed. Hussein hugged her, holding her surprisingly tightly. His belly pressed against her and she smelled his coconut hair lotion. The familiar aroma was curiously comforting, a rare constant in her chaotic life. The SG stood back and looked at her, his hands warm on her forearms.

  “Welcome back, Yael. And well done. You saved the president’s life. That’s something to tell your grandchildren.”

  Yael smiled. “Thank you.”

  The SG looked like his old self again, confident, clear skinned, straight backed, loving being the center of attention, albeit at such a sad occasion. They exchanged a few words about Schneidermann. Beneath Hussein’s public front, Yael felt his guilt and regret. They both knew that Schneidermann had been murdered—murdered because the SG had wanted to pass the Prometheus file, with the details of the connection to Salim Massoud, to Sami. However, neither of them wanted to discuss that in public, or in front of Roxana. Yael sensed Roxana watching her interaction with Hussein with intense interest, weighing and analyzing every word of the conversation and watching their body language to try and gauge the extent of their relationship.

  Yael turned to Roxana. For a second she froze, unsure how to behave. Then she stepped toward Yael. The two women hugged for a second before Roxana stepped away, her body stiff and unresponding. Yael felt the turbulence of Roxana’s emotions. Irritation at Yael’s obvious closeness to the SG. Confusion—why was Yael so indestructible and how come she kept bouncing back? And nervousness—what kind of threat did she represent?

  The two women stepped apart. Roxana was staring at Yael, her realization that she would have to get rid of her written clearly on her face—until she suddenly remembered where she was. She gave Yael a broad smile.

  Good luck with that plan, Yael thought. She smiled back until she saw Roxana looking at the jacket of her Zara trouser suit, where the button was still missing.

  Roxana touched Yael’s cuff, her face the very picture of guileless assistance. “I know a wonderful seamstress if you need one. She could fix that in a couple of minutes. She has the buttons from all the chain stores.”

  “Thanks. I can do it myself,” Yael said, suddenly back in the foyer of the Prometheus Group. Chain stores. Now war was really declared. And she would definitely be asking for a wardrobe allowance.

  Yael turned to Hussein. “I’ll see you later in the office,” she said, and walked around the corner of the church to wait for Joe-Don and Quentin Braithwaite. She pulled out her iPhone and flicked through Sami’s story again. At least something good had come out of Istanbul. New homes for five thousand orphans. An impressive result for a few minutes’ work. And Sami was doing well, she thought. He had not yet made the Iranian connection, that Prometheus was sending millions of dollars to Nuristan Holdings, a company owned by the Revolutionary Guard, or perhaps did not have enough information to go into print, but that, she was sure, would come. She could certainly speed up the process, and tell him much more about Iran, Efrat Global Solutions, and Menachem Stein—if she chose to. For now, she would think about it.

  Joe-Don and Quentin Braithwaite emerged from inside the church, blinking in the sunlight. They shook hands and exchanged a few words with Hussein and Roxana and walked over to Yael.

  “Drink? Lunch? Both?” asked Joe-Don.

  “Both, I think,” said Yael, straightening the lapel of Joe-Don’s creased suit, which had been the height of fashion in 1979.

  Yael looked at Roxana, her facial expression solemn but cordial as she shook hands with the French chief of mission to the UN. “That girl’s going places.”

  “She certainly is. Forty-four blocks south and four avenues east,” said Braithwaite dryly. He glanced at his watch. “In about twenty minutes, once the last mourner has been glad-handed.”

  Yael thought for a moment, calculating the location. “Are you sure?” Her voice was disbelieving. “He’s got almost forty years on her.”

  “Trust me. When was the last time you saw Zeinab?” asked Braithwaite. “Hussein’s wife hasn’t been around for months, since the scandal about her coltan shares. The SG’s booked an executive suite at the Millennium Hotel, in the name of Mr. Patel.”

  Absurdly, part of her felt jealous. Not because she wanted to have sex with the SG. She certainly did not. But she knew, from personal experience, that an office romance in the hothouse claustrophobic atmosphere of the UN brought a rapid, almost dizzying intimacy. Fareed was always attracted to pretty things. She knew he was lonely, with his wife away and his daughter estranged. Roxana was a more dangerous adversary than Yael had realized. Which did not bode well for Yael’s quest to find out more about the death of her brother.

  “We can check ourselves, if you want,” said Joe-Don. He turned to Yael. “I believe you know your way around that place,” he said. His voice was deadpan, but his eyes were smiling.

  Yael blushed. Did Joe-Don mean her mission posing as Sharon Mantello, or her affair a few years ago with Mahesh Kapoor? Best not to ask, she decided.

  “Hack alert at five o’clock,” said Braithwaite, looking over Yael’s shoulder.

  Yael turned to see Sami walk toward her.

  Sami nodded at Joe-Don and Quentin, then looked at Yael. “Can I have a minute?” he asked.

  “One,” said Yael.

  “Please excuse us,” Sami said to Joe-Don and Quentin as he guided Yael to a quieter spot, around the corner, at the side of the church.

  Yael leaned against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “What do you want?”

  “You need to see this,” said Sami as he passed Yael a photocopied sheet of plain paper, with that day’s date.

  Dear Fareed,

  It is with great regret that I hereby announce my resignation from the United Nations. It has been an honor and a privilege to serve and I wish the organization every success in the future.

  Yours sincerely,

  Caroline Masters

  Yael quickly read the letter. “So what? She’s gone. Good riddance. I already read your story. I don’t have any comment or insight for you. Is there anything else?”

  Sami handed her another photocopied sheet.

  Yael glanced down. Two words were written on it: “More follows.”

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It arrived with the DVD of you in the Millennium Hotel,” said Sami.

  Something about the letters looked familiar to Yael. Then she realized—in both printouts the letter r was missing its horizontal spar.

  She reached inside her purse. The envelope was still there. She opened it and took out a sheet of paper. It showed three photographs: one of the Staten Island Ferry terminal and two of Cyrus Jones. The letters spelled out a date in April and a time. The letter r in April was missing its horizontal spar.

  Sami looked at Yael and at the paper she was holding. “I shared,” he said.

  She handed Sami the paper. “Same printer.”

  Sami nodded. His eyes opened wide when he saw the photographs. “You know
this guy?”

  “You could say that,” said Yael. “Do you?”

  Sami did not answer. He took out his mobile telephone and scrolled through the menu until he found the video clip he was looking for. “This is strictly between us. I need your word on that,” said Sami.

  “Sure. Scout’s honor,” said Yael, her voice sarcastic.

  Sami shook his head and made to put his phone away. “Forget it.”

  “OK, OK. You have my word.”

  “I’m serious,” said Sami, his voice tight. “I need to trust you on this.”

  Yael unfolded her arms. “You can.”

  Sami pressed play. The video showed Cyrus Jones and another man inside Sami’s apartment. It appeared to have been shot by a stationary camera, a few yards away. Yael watched Jones threaten to expose Sami as having lied on his immigration forms, accuse him of having terrorist connections through his family, and produce a series of photographs that could not be clearly seen.

  “Cyrus Jones,” said Yael. “He’s dead.”

  “I know. But his friend isn’t. Neither are the people who sent him, or took the photographs.”

  “Photographs of what?” asked Yael.

  Sami looked at her for a long moment. He made his decision. “Gaza. I went to Gaza with my mother. We have relatives there.”

  She stares at Eli. “How about if you write a letter to the family of the boy at the Gaza checkpoint, explaining what happened? He would be, what, in his late twenties now?”

  “How did you film Jones and the other guy?” Yael asked, careful not reveal that she already knew about Sami’s connection to Gaza.

  Sami said, “I made them wait outside before they came into my apartment. I set up my laptop on the other side of the room and used the camera.”

  “Is there a terrorist connection?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  “No. There is not.”

  Yael looked at Sami. He was wearing a well-cut black suit, white shirt, and black silk tie. His hair was trimmed and he was clean shaven. His black eyes held her gaze. He was a bastard, she told herself, who had burned her twice. A bastard who looked stylish, cool, and confident, the New York Times reporter who knows there is much more to report, who is going to get the scoop. And he was a good liar.