The Washington Stratagem
Page 34
Joe-Don appeared by the corner of the church. He looked at Yael. She smiled at him, to say that everything was under control. Joe-Don nodded and returned to wait with Braithwaite.
“Can I get a copy of this?” said Yael as she handed Sami his mobile telephone back.
“I’ll think about that.”
“Please do. So what’s next?” Yael asked. She also had a video clip of Cyrus Jones, filmed after their fight on the Staten Island Ferry, uploaded via Shredbox to a secure, encrypted server, although she was not about to share that with Sami. At least not now.
Sami slipped his phone into his trouser pocket. “Keep on digging, I guess. Meanwhile, I’m relocating.”
“Is Yuri finally giving you a bigger office? Or are you moving in with Najwa?”
Sami smiled. “Yes and no. I’ve been promoted. I’m heading up a new investigative unit.”
“Oh,” said Yael. “So you will be leaving….”
Sami shook his head. “No. We will still be based in the Secretariat Building. There’s too much at the UN now for me to cover on my own. KZX, Prometheus, Isis Franklin, the attempt on President Freshwater, Schneidermann. There will be another reporter working with me. She’s also a Columbia graduate. She has just joined the newspaper. She knows you.”
She.
“Who?” asked Yael.
“Colette Moreau. Do you remember her?”
Yael did. Chic, petite, Parisian, a line of male students queuing up to help with her assignments.
“It was nice to see you,” Sami said, turning to go. “Please keep the Cyrus Jones stuff between us.”
“I will, but…”
“But what?”
The words were out of Yael’s mouth before she could stop them. “You owe me dinner.”
Yael slid into the taxi, switched off the small television screen mounted on the partition behind the driver’s compartment, and pulled her new dress—not quite Versace, but black and short enough—back down over her legs. The driver, a voluble Sikh in a purple turban who talked nonstop on his hands-free telephone, seemed to think he was in a rally, weaving and dodging through the traffic as he drove up Eighty-First Street. He turned right onto Broadway, tires squealing. Yael was about to tap on the window and ask him to slow down, but instead she decided to enjoy the ride.
Manhattan shone in the early-evening light, the granite façades of Upper West Side apartment blocks still varnished by the afternoon’s spring showers. The taxi stopped at a traffic light at Seventy-Ninth Street. Yael opened the window. A bearded white Rastafarian was standing on the corner, playing a funked-up saxophone version of “All Blues,” his dreadlocks flying. Two elderly Jewish ladies, both dressed in smart two-piece suits, their silver hair immaculately coiffed, stood gossiping outside a new pastry shop, exchanging pictures of their grandchildren. Yael looked at the window of La Caridad. The diner was already filling up for supper. The elderly Cuban man was still sitting in the corner, reading El Diario la Prensa, as though he had not moved since she had last had breakfast there with Joe-Don. It was hard to believe that had been barely a fortnight ago.
Yael took out a small compact from her purse and checked her makeup in the mirror: hair up, a dusting of blusher, medium-thick mascara, and bright red lipstick. A little more femme fatale than usual, she thought, turning her head from side to side, and why not?
Pleased with her new look, excited to be heading downtown on a date, she did not notice the black Mitsubishi SUV with tinted windows pull in behind the taxi, six cars away. She slipped the compact back into her purse and took out a postcard. It had arrived that morning and was blank, apart from her address and a Turkish stamp. The front was a picture of a catamaran doing a racing turn on the sea, one rudder almost out of the water, the top of the other still visible.
Yael smiled, put the card back inside her purse, and checked her watch. It was 6:30 p.m. It would take at least forty minutes to get downtown and cross over to the Lower East Side, but she was on time, even allowing for rush-hour traffic. The lights changed and the taxi driver roared down Broadway.
She suddenly looked around the taxi. Where was the wine—a forty-dollar bottle of Puligny-Montrachet? She definitely had it when she left the apartment. She had stopped to say hello to the new doorman, she remembered. She must have put it down and left it in the lobby.
As if on cue her mobile telephone rang. Yael looked at the number—it was the lobby of her building.
“Ms. Azoulay, excuse me for bothering you,” said a voice with a soft Southern Californian accent, “but I have your wine here. I’m sorry. My bad. I should have checked when I called the taxi for you. Will you come back for it? I can come out to the corner at Riverside and meet you.”
“Hey, thanks, Michael; it’s no problem and not your fault. I’m on my way now.” Yael finished the call and leaned forward. “Can you turn around please, driver; I left something behind.”
“Whatever you say, lady.” The driver checked his mirror, switching lanes and turning sharp right at Seventy-Second Street, in front of a bus, triggering outraged hooting from the driver. The Mitsubishi followed the taxi, always staying at least three cars behind.
Yael was pleased that Michael had called. Raymondo, his predecessor in the lobby, had been a fixture of the building for decades. But his sudden death from a heart attack had left a vacancy. There had been a long discussion at the co-op board about Michael. Some of the residents had been opposed to giving the job to a homeless person, but Yael’s impassioned plea in his favor had swung it.
Michael had just moved into the apartment building’s service apartment. It was a tiny studio that looked onto a courtyard. Despite being cramped, everyone agreed it was still incomparably better than his previous lodgings—under the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Monument at Eighty-Ninth Street.
The taxi driver turned onto Riverside Drive and sped up toward the corner of West Eighty-First. Yael took out her mobile telephone. She wrote a quick text message.
On my way. Forgot the wine. This time let’s drink it.
With the message sent, she checked the video folder. That afternoon, she had downloaded the clip of Cyrus Jones lying on the floor of the washroom of the Staten Island Ferry from the secure server. The clip was there, safely encrypted. Would she share it with her dinner date? Perhaps. It mainly depended on how the evening went.
Her phone rang, showing a 510 area code. She took the call.
“You sound excited,” said Barbara.
“I’m going on a date, Mom.”
“About time. You’ll tell me all about him on the weekend. I land at LaGuardia on Friday at six p.m. It’s been too long.”
“It has.” Yael looked out the window. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.” The Mitsubishi SUV four cars behind looked familiar. Or was she just being paranoid? “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Not now. When I see you. But it involves your father.”
The mention of her father broke Yael’s mood. She turned around and glanced at the Mitsubishi again. Tinted windows. Her sixth sense was howling. There was definitely something wrong here.
“OK, Mom,” she said. “Can’t wait to see you. Gotta go.”
The taxi started to slow down as they approached the corner of Eighty-First Street. Yael could see Michael the doorman standing under the dark-green awning, holding her wine. She ended her call, leaned forward, and spoke to the driver. The wine, and dinner, would have to wait. Again. The driver smiled and nodded. Yael sat back and braced herself.
Two hundred and thirty miles away, Clarence Clairborne sat back in his office chair, a glass of bourbon in his hand, a cigar smoldering gently in the nearby ashtray. His computer screen showed Yael’s taxi doing a sudden and illegal U-turn on Riverside Drive, sailing past the Mitsubishi SUV that was now on the other side of the road. Clairborne frowned, reached over to his telephone, and punched in a number.
~
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Adam LeBor
Also by Adam LeBor
An invitation from the publisher
Author’s Note
My interest in the United Nations began in the early 1990s, when I covered the Yugoslav wars. That experience led to my nonfiction book Complicity with Evil: The United Nations in the Age of Modern Genocide, which examines the UN’s failures in Bosnia, Rwanda, and Darfur. I welcome feedback from readers and reply to every e-mail. Contact me at aleborwork@gmail.com or follow me on Facebook or Twitter: @adamlebor.
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Anthony Cheetham, Madeleine O’Shea and the rest of the excellent team at Head of Zeus for bringing the Yael Azoulay series to British readers.
In New York I am especially grateful to Hannah Wood at HarperCollins US. Her scrupulous attention to plot, character and narrative drive helped turn a first draft into a book. Thanks also to Claire Wachtel, who launched Yael, and to Matthew Patin and Julie Hersh for their eagle-eyed copy editing. A big shout-out goes to the team at William Morris Endeavor: in London, Elizabeth Sheinkman, Jo Rogers, Annemarie Blumenhagen, and Amy Fitzgerald; in Los Angeles, Anna DeRoy and Erin Conroy. In New York, Suzanne Gluck and Samantha Frank gave me valuable editorial feedback, and thanks also to Eve Atterman. On the television front, working with Lynda Obst, Rachel Abarbanell, and Stephen Schiff has been both a pleasure and an education.
I am grateful to my friends Clive Rumbold and Paulina Bren, who read early drafts of this book and provided much-appreciated feedback and advice. Many thanks to Dan Bilefsky, who edited Sami Boustani’s articles, excised Britishisms, and ensured that Sami’s copy kept to the rules of the New York Times stylebook. Once again, “Z” proved a most valuable guide to the dark side of American politics. Ruth Gruber gave me some useful pointers about Israelis and Palestinians. In Britain, Peter Jenkins kindly invited me to join a course on surveillance run by his company, ISS Training Ltd. (www.intelsecurity.co.uk), where I learned much about this most subtle of arts. Peter also gave me a copy of his excellent book, Surveillance Tradecraft. In Istanbul, Andrew Finkel, author of Turkey: What Everyone Needs to Know, read the manuscript, generously shared his insight, and corrected minor errors. Andrew also introduced me to Monica Fritz, who took me on an insider’s tour of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, including a memorable stroll on the roof. Tesekkür ederim!
Val McDermid and Andrew Taylor were inspiring tutors at an Arvon Foundation course on crime writing. Peter Savodnik’s article on Astara in The Atlantic was a small masterpiece. Carne Ross, of Independent Diplomat, was always insightful. Matthew Thomas, a sharp-eyed reader, gave me some welcome feedback. My fellow thriller writer Matthew Dunn has been generous with his praise. Joshua Freeman was welcome company on a day trip to Staten Island. The Donme: Jewish Converts, Muslim Revolutionaries and Secular Turks, by Marc David Baer, was both fascinating and informative.
Thanks, as ever, to my hosts in New York: Peter Green, Bob Green, and Babette Audant. In Budapest, Csaba Szikra introduced me to Krav Maga. Marton Pinter and Bence Bagi honed my rudimentary skills, while Zsolt Kelemen was always an encouraging sparring partner. Liora Seboek corrected my Hebrew grammar. Justin Leighton, Roger Boyes, Annika Savill, Sam Loewenberg, and Lutz Kleveman helped keep me on track. Donna Vivian Landon-Jimenez shared her expertise about Spain. Thanks most of all, of course, to my family.
About The Washington Stratagem
A LONE AGENT. AN UNIMAGINABLE CONSPIRACY.
UN covert negotiator Yael Azoulay went rogue in Geneva and nearly lost her life. Her physical wounds are healed, but she will never be able to forget what happened.
Now back in New York, Yael uncovers a chilling conspiracy whose end game is a devastating new war in the Middle East. But as Yael draws closer to the truth, she is forced to confront the ghosts of her past.
As the few certainties of her life begin to crumble around her, a terrifying truth is laid bare: Yael has enormously powerful enemies who neither forgive, nor forget.
Reviews
‘Gripping And Atmospheric’
Charles Cumming
‘Who knew the United Nations could be so exciting? Murder, intrigue and a beguiling protagonist make Adam LeBor’s international thriller a gripping and enticing read.’
Guardian
‘LeBor writes with the scrupulous focus of the journalist... the world he creates is driven by the sharp edge of reality.’
Alan Furst
About Adam LeBor
ADAM LEBOR lives in Budapest and writes for The Economist, the New York Times, Monocle, Newsweek, the Daily Beast, and numerous other publications. He is the author of a number of non fiction books, including Hitler’s Secret Bankers, which was shortlisted for the Orwell Prize.
Follow him on Twitter: @adamlebor or visit his website: www.adamlebor.com
Also by Adam LeBor
FICTION
The Geneva Option
The Budapest Protocol
NON FICTION
Tower of Basel
The Believers
Complicity with Evil
City of Oranges
Milosevic: A Biography
Surviving Hitler (with Roger Boyes)
Hitler’s Secret Bankers
A Heart Turned East
A Letter from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
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HeadofZeusBooks
The story starts here.
First published in the US in 2014 by Bourbon Street Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, New York.
First published in the UK in 2015 by Head of Zeus Ltd.
Copyright © Adam LeBor, 2014
The moral right of Adam LeBor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PBO): 9781784970277
ISBN (E): 9781784970260
Head of Zeus Ltd
Clerkenwell House
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London EC1R 0HT
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part 1: Washington, DC, and New York
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part 2: Istanbul
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Ch
apter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About The Washington Stratagem
Reviews
About Adam LeBor
Also by Adam LeBor
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright