by Adam LeBor
“Is that part of the UN, or independent?”
“Absolutely independent. It’s backed by a group of businessmen from around the world who believe in anonymous philanthropy,” said Tremlett, nodding earnestly. “It brings child miners out and gives them a whole new life.”
“And what does Hobo think about all this?” asked Johnson. Hobo was the hottest rock star of the moment and Tremlett’s fiancé. Half-Nigerian, half-Chinese and six foot three, he had been hailed by the critics as the new Prince. Hobo had recently headlined a three-day charity rock festival in Berlin.
“He is totally supportive. Actually, it looks like he . . . no, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” said Tremlett, suddenly coy as she looked down at her shoes.
Johnson leaned forward. “Lucy, don’t be a tease. You know you want to tell us.”
The actress opened her eyes wide. “Well, all I can say is that he is really into this, and we are talking about what kind of role he could take. And I promise you, Trevor, once everything has been finalized, you will be first to know.”
Johnson squirmed in his chair excitedly, as though there was a small rodent in his trousers. “Brilliant, Lucy, brilliant. Let me introduce our second guest, who is going to tell us all about this incredibly exciting new project that is going to save countless lives.”
The camera panned to the pale man, who inclined his head graciously.
Johnson said, “He usually works behind the scenes. He is not a household name. You will find him at the most exclusive sessions at Davos, or in the salons of Berlin, London, and Washington, mixing with the world’s movers and shakers. And tonight he is here with us: Reinhardt Daintner of the KZX corporation.”
Yael put her glass down and listened carefully as Daintner spoke. She looked harder at the screen—it was one of the businessmen who had accompanied the SG to Goma a couple of weeks ago. Reinhardt Daintner was cordial and articulate as he explained that the United Nations had invited KZX to sponsor the UN Year of Africa in recognition of KZX’s outstanding work in aid and development and of its corporate social responsibility, the first time that a company had been “accorded such an honor,” as he put it.
Daintner outlined KZX’s plans for the biggest single aid project in history, focusing on the area around Goma. The plan, known as the UN-KZX Goma Development Zone, would be a landmark: the first joint UN–private sector aid project. The corporation would provide homes, housing, education for tens of thousands of refugees, and skills training so that they could become economically independent—a mini-city in all but name. The UN would provide the staff, the expertise, and experience.
Was he the voice on the sound file? Yael asked herself. No, she decided. No Viennese lilt. Yael knew Vienna well, having visited the UN headquarters there numerous times. He spoke with a distinct German-mid-Atlantic accent. Herr Daintner had worked hard to blend in at Davos and the salons of London and Washington.
He continued, explaining that, thanks to the UN, it seemed that there would finally be peace in Congo. This was a unique opportunity to bring stability to a land that had known so much war and bloodshed, he said. “Give a man a fish and you feed him once. Teach him how to fish and you feed him for life.”
Johnson nodded enthusiastically as Tremlett interrupted: “Teach a woman to fish and she will set up a training program to teach the other women in the village, and then a cooperative so they can sell the fish in the local market to raise money to build a school.”
“Exactly,” said Daintner. But even with the best will in the world, eastern Congo remained unstable, he continued. Which was why, in another first for the UN, KZX security guards, operating under a special UN mandate, would even protect the refugees from raids.
Yael put her glass down and listened intently. This was unprecedented.
“And what does the Congolese government say about that?” asked Johnson as he leaned forward, his face serious. “Especially after all the problems in Iraq with foreign contractors?”
Daintner lightly rocked back and forth in his chair, nodding sagely to signal his concern. “Sovereignty is a sensitive subject in Africa, and KZX absolutely understands that. We are in constant touch with the Congolese police and ministry of the interior and we are working with them. But they know, as we do, that for now, Congo’s institutions are still undeveloped. Goma is 1,600 kilometers from the capital, Kinshasa, in a volatile border area. The roads are poor, government control is weak. The government recognizes that it needs help, and we are there to provide it. There can be no development or aid work without safety and security. We have already been using KZX’s communication capabilities to provide the UN with real-time intelligence about events on the ground in Central Africa. But this is the ultimate expression of KZX’s corporate social responsibility: we are ready to place our own staff on the line.” The discussion went on until the show ended for the news.
Yael sat very still, trying to process the profound implications of what she had just heard. The UN had outsourced its intelligence gathering to a private company that was now going to provide security across conflict zones in the world’s most unstable and mineral-rich country. Why had she not heard anything about this before? She was just about to switch the television off when the screen showed the CNN studio in New York. The anchor said, “Now more on the United Nations. Let’s go straight to Roger Richardson at the New York headquarters.”
The UN correspondent, Roger Richardson, a tall, middle-aged man with a dry sense of humor, stood in front of the Secretariat building.
Olivia’s picture flashed up.
Richardson said, “The secretary-general’s spokesman has just announced that the UN police will handle the investigation into Olivia de Souza’s death on its own. The NYPD and the FBI will not be involved.”
Yael sat up very straight, alert and listening carefully.
“Is that usual practice?” the anchor asked.
Richardson shook his head. “No, it’s not. Especially in a high-profile case like this. The UN is international territory, and legally not part of the United States. So the NYPD and the FBI have no jurisdiction here. The UN police is more of a public-order force, to keep everything running smoothly and deal with security, rather than an investigative organization. But previously, when someone died in the building either the NYPD or the FBI was called in because they have a proper forensics division. So this is unusual.”
“Are you hearing that this tragedy was a suicide, or are there suspicions of foul play?”
He frowned. “UN sources are suggesting that she killed herself, so that’s why there is no need to bring in outside agencies. But it’s puzzling. Olivia was known as a cheerful, dedicated employee and colleague here.”
The screen switched back to the studio. The anchor said, “And we have some other intriguing news from the UN today, Richard?”
Olivia’s picture was replaced by Yael’s UN passport photograph.
Yael turned the volume up as the studio anchor interviewed the correspondent.
“Richard, who is Yael Azoulay?”
He nodded. “Until this morning she was the secretary-general’s special envoy to crisis zones. The New York Times reported today that she has brokered a secret deal with Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, a Rwandan who is wanted on charges of genocide for the mass slaughter in 1994. But this morning she was let go and escorted from the building by the UN police.”
“What kind of deal?”
“To surrender to the UN tribunal and disband his militia for a reduced sentence.”
The anchor nodded sagely. “The usual murky UN trade-off. Why was she let go?”
Roger frowned, as though he too had been wondering about this all day. “Well, we are hearing from UN sources that she leaked the deal with Hakizimani to the New York Times.”
“And did she?”
“We don’t know. She has never spoken to the press. And the
Times isn’t talking. But UN sources are insistent that she leaked both the agreement and her memo criticizing it.”
Yael threw her shoe at the screen. The screen wobbled and the camera returned to the studio.
The anchor said, “Thanks, Richard. And now, Congo’s big cleanup. Goma struggles to cope with a volcano eruption spewing lava over a city that was already covered in it.”
Yael pressed the Off button. She picked up the tiny ball of paper on the table. She had found the paper embedded in a gobbet of chewing gum and stuck to the door frame, exactly where she had left it, when she came home.
Twelve
There seemed to be no escape from Roxana Voiculescu’s sky-blue eyes, and Sami was surprised to find that he was an increasingly willing prisoner. Roxana was smart, funny, attractive, and tall, with long chestnut hair, a degree in journalism from Bucharest University, and a postgraduate diploma in development studies from Oxford. They were sitting at a small corner table in Grad, an upscale vodka bar on the corner of East 10th Street and Second Avenue, watching the door for celebrities during happy hour. Page Six had just run a huge list of star patrons caught downing cocktails at the long brushed-steel bar and enjoying the faux-Moscow 1950s décor of bare wooden floors, Soviet posters, and utilitarian furniture dubbed “Retro-Irony” by the column, but none seemed to be in attendance so early in the day.
Roxana, a rare friendly face in the spokesman’s office, had been flirting with Sami for several weeks, asking when he would take her for a drink, or show her some New York nightlife. Sami usually avoided such invitations from female UN officials, believing, correctly, they were only issued because of his position at the Times. There was a thin line between a professional relationship with UN staff and becoming too familiar—although with most of Schneidermann’s people there was little danger of that. Roxana seemed different, though, and was always friendly and chatty. But Sami was not a big drinker and was always worried he would blurt out something stupid or, even worse, something important, while under the influence.
After the fiasco with Yael that morning, however, he was happy for the attention. What harm could there be in a couple of drinks with a UN contact, he asked himself when Roxana had called, virtually demanding he meet her that evening? None, he decided. The Gray Lady could buy them both a couple of vodka cocktails.
“Over there, at the bar, tall guy in a white shirt, navy suit, and blue tie, ” said Roxana as she stirred her vodka and tonic with the straw, her eyes holding his as she spoke. “Brown hair, cheekbones, pencil mustache. It’s Johnny Depp in disguise. Definitely.”
Roxana’s Chanel handbag sat on the table next to her. The bag was half-open and Sami could see the top edge of a blue envelope inside. Sami looked over to the bar and laughed. The vodka was kicking in nicely. He felt confident and relaxed. “Sure. Johnny’s got a great makeup artist. Check out the Brooks Brothers outfit. Maybe he is rehearsing on Wall Street for his next role. Why don’t you go and ask him?”
Roxana was easy company. It was a pleasant change to be answering questions instead of asking them. Sami realized after half an hour or so that she had extracted his entire life story: his family’s arrival in the United States, the difficult early years settling in, university, his worries about his remaining relatives in Gaza, and his work with the New York Times. She wanted to know all about how he had got his job as UN correspondent and was incredulous that he had simply applied for the advertised opening, with no help from any contacts on the inside. For his part, Sami had found out very little about Roxana, except that she was thirty-two, born in Bucharest, and her father was Romania’s finance minister. She had joined Schneidermann’s office as an intern two years earlier and had quickly risen to be his deputy, although Schneidermann had not let her take any morning briefings so far. Roxana claimed to be terrified at the prospect of dealing with the UN press corps, which Sami found hard to believe.
Roxana smiled at Sami. “Go and talk to Johnny Depp? I don’t know, Sami. My mother told me not to speak to strange men in bars.”
Sami picked up his drink and swirled the ice cubes in the clear liquid. “Be brave. Say you are doing it for a bet. I am sure he won’t mind. If you want to be a UN spokeswoman you have to learn to deal with strangers and unexpected situations.”
He paused for several seconds, glancing quickly at the edge of the blue envelope. Would it work? It was certainly worth trying. “You do want to be a spokeswoman?” he asked innocently. “Actually, no, I shouldn’t tell you this . . .”
Roxana sat up straight, suddenly totally focused. “Tell me what, Sami?”
Sami sipped his cocktail, drawing out the moment. “Well, I keep hearing that there is some dissatisfaction with Schneidermann on the 38th floor. That he is awkward socially, too confrontational, that he lacks the people skills a UN spokesperson needs. I have been . . . asked my opinion, about possible replacements.”
Roxana did not answer but stood up and walked briskly over to the bar.
Sami knew he had a few seconds at the most. He had just raised his hand over the top of her bag when she turned on her heel and walked back. He dropped his fingers and scratched the back of his head as nonchalantly as he could.
Thankfully Roxana was focused on her career prospects. “Who says that people are unhappy with Henrik?”
Sami shook his head. “I cannot reveal my sources, Roxana, you know that. But I don’t mind telling them that they should be looking for someone with a bit more . . . bar presence, maybe? Someone who can hold a room? Talk to strangers? The opinion of the New York Times still counts.”
Roxana gave him a searching look and walked straight up to the Johnny Depp look-alike. Sami guessed Roxana would speak to him for a few seconds and would then turn and wave. He whisked out the envelope, folded it in half, and jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Roxana did not wave but walked straight back and sat down next to him, closer than before.
“How did I do?” she asked.
“Brilliantly, it looked like from here. You seemed very confident. Is he Johnny Depp?”
“No, of course not,” said Roxana, laughing. “But he did offer to buy me a drink.” Her leg brushed against his again and rested against his thigh. Her knee was surprisingly bony, he noticed. “Do I get the New York Times seal of approval?”
Sami nodded determinedly. “Absolutely.”
They talked some more and Roxana seemed to hang on his every word, which was flattering despite how often she’d checked her watch in the last ten minutes. But when Roxana asked Sami how he got his stories and developed his contacts, the alarm bell finally went off in his head.
“We would have to know each other much better before I can reveal trade secrets,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Tell me about Schneidermann. What’s he like to work for?” Sami asked, smiling as he leaned in closer, the very picture of vodka-fueled camaraderie. He tried not to feel guilty. She should have closed her bag, he told himself.
Roxana moved nearer to him, as though she were about to reveal a great confidence.
“Very,” she began, pausing and stirring her drink, “Belgian.” She laughed. “But really, Sami, what is the secret of a good journalist? How do you persuade people to reveal their innermost confidences?”
She sat back and looked at him, her head tilted to the side. “Maybe it’s your big, soulful, brown eyes that draw them in. You look so innocent, a bit disorganized. But it’s all a trick. They want to help you. And then, before they even know it, they have confessed everything,” she said, raising her eyebrows mischievously.
Sami took out an ice cube from the dregs of his cocktail and sucked on it, forcing himself to sober up now. Roxana was much smarter than he had realized. The warm weight of her leg on his was having a definite effect, despite his best efforts.
He crunched the ice cube in his mouth. So let the duel begin, he thought. “Soulful eyes? Thanks, I like that. But it
’s too noisy to talk properly here, Roxana. I know a great French bistro three blocks away. We can trade UN secrets over a bottle of Bordeaux.”
“Sorry. Schneidermann is my boss, Sami. I cannot talk about him,” she said, her voice cooler now. “I thought this was a social occasion, not an interview. And I already have dinner plans.”
Sami saw that she was now intently watching the door. It opened and she immediately sat up and reached for her bag. She looked inside and her smile faded as she searched it thoroughly. She shook her head, all flirtatiousness now vanished.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sami, as nonchalantly as he could, feeling the folded blue envelope in his jeans pocket pressing against his backside.
“I’ve lost something. It must have fallen out . . .” She looked up and stared at Sami. “Have you seen an envelope, a blue envelope?” she asked, accusingly.
Sami shook his head. “Me? No. Nothing. Wait. I’ll have a look.” He got off the chair and began to search under the table, trying to ignore his feelings of guilt. After a minute or so of the pantomime hunt he stood up. “Nothing.”
Roxana looked almost indignant. The atmosphere was now distinctly chilly. She backed away, as though he had suddenly tried to kiss her. She looked at her watch, openly this time, and waved at someone at the bar. “Sami, I hope you don’t mind, but I told a friend I would meet him here. Tell me if you find an envelope.”
Sami nodded and stood up as she gathered her bag. “Sure.”