Yael walked to the front of the line in the security tent and showed her UN identity card to the uniformed security officer. “The SG is expecting me. We have a meeting at ten thirty,” she explained politely.
The security officer, a middle-aged man with olive skin, a thick mustache, and a heavy paunch, handed Yael’s card back without looking at it. His Velcro name tag said “Nero.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We are on the highest state of alert.” Nero’s voice was gruff, almost hoarse. He did not sound very sorry. “There is no way to speed up the security procedure. Please take your place in the line. Thank you for your help today.”
Yael did not feel especially helpful. She looked at her watch. It was 9:45 a.m. She had passed through the main entrance on East Forty-Second and First Avenue more than a quarter of an hour ago. The walk from there, through the open courtyard, to the door of the General Assembly Building usually took a minute or so. There was sometimes a short wait for the elevators, especially to the thirty-eighth floor, but she should have been in her office by now, with plenty of time to get to the SG’s suite a few doors away.
Instead she had been standing in a queue for a metal detector in a freezing, shaky tent in the middle of the courtyard for fifteen minutes, waiting to go through the same procedure she had just completed at the UN’s main entrance. She was cold, wet, pissed, and unsettled. Who had taken the photographs of her and Eli? The same person, or group, who had been inside her apartment? Generally she did not like to jump queues and use her connections with the SG just for convenience’s sake. But at this rate she would miss her meeting with him, and that would likely be it for the rest of the day, at least. Last night’s CNN report was still echoing through her head. If anyone would know the details of the deal that may have resulted in her brother’s death, it would be Fareed.
Thunder rumbled, echoing over the East River. Yael shivered. The weather had not improved, drops of water the size of hard candies gushing through the pavement and gutters, drumming on the canvas walls of the security tent as the wind pulled the walls in and out like a pair of giant bellows.
Helicopters clattered overhead; NYPD checkpoints sealed off FDR Drive, the highway running up Manhattan’s east side, five blocks above and below the UN complex, causing a mile-long backup as they checked the papers and the vehicles of anyone wanting to enter the area. Police launches cruised up and down the East River. The Queensboro Bridge at East Fifty-Ninth Street was closed, causing massive traffic jams deep into Queens. Even the cable car to Roosevelt Island had been shut down.
To slow approaching traffic the NYPD had set up concrete blocks in a zigzag pattern along First Avenue, while officers on foot frisked everyone walking by the Secretariat Building or waiting to enter it. Local radio stations broadcast a continuous alert, strongly advising locals to avoid the whole midtown area, especially on the East Side, unless they had “urgent and necessary business” there. Queues at the visitor’s entrance security tent on First Avenue and East Forty-Third reached down almost two blocks.
Yael had traveled on the subway, taking the 1 to Times Square, and then a bus to the corner of East Forty-Second Street and First Avenue. She wore a poncho and rubber boots, and carried an umbrella, but even that was insufficient protection for the short walk from the bus stop and the wait to pass through security. Her damp jeans were cold against her legs. Her blouse stuck to her lower back, where the rain had somehow found a path inside. She stood aside, took out her phone, and called Fareed Hussein on his private number, one shared with just a handful of people. No answer. She stared at the screen as if to force him to pick up. Nothing happened. He hadn’t taken her call last night, either. In the chaotic aftermath of the shooting, that was understandable, but why not now? Where was he? Yael tried Grace Olewanda, his secretary. Grace, a lively Congolese woman, was usually an ally, always willing to find a few minutes for Yael in the SG’s schedule. Her number was busy. Again. Yael waited a minute and hit redial. This time Grace picked up, and Yael quickly explained her situation. A few seconds after they hung up, the phone on the desk rang. The desk security officer, a stocky African-American woman in her early forties, looked around the tent until she saw Yael, then she nodded and put the handset down, beckoning her forward.
Yael emptied her pockets into a plastic tray, dropped her purse onto the conveyor belt, and stepped through the metal detector. The light flashed green. She handed her identity card to Nero. Clearly unhappy that she had pulled rank on him, he checked her name against a list, her face against a computerized database on his tablet computer, drawing out the process as long as he could. Yael knew most of the security staff, but she had never seen him before. She gathered her possessions from the plastic tray and he handed her identity card back, then she walked through into the entrance foyer of the Secretariat Building, down the long, glass-walled corridor that overlooked First Avenue, and over to the elevators. A sign announced that, due to the security situation, there were no direct elevators to the thirty-eighth floor. All staff and visitors had to go to the thirty-seventh floor, pass through a further security check, and then be escorted to the SG’s office. The new procedure added a further delay.
She was walking to the elevator bank when she saw Roger Richardson striding across the foyer in a drenched fawn double-breasted mackintosh. She waved to him. He smiled, walked over to her. They both instinctively stepped aside, away from the crowd, chatting about the appalling weather as they walked toward the glass wall that looked out over First Avenue.
They stopped there. Yael waited as the CNN correspondent took off his round, tortoiseshell spectacles and wiped the rain off. “I don’t have any more, Yael,” Richardson said. “There was supposedly a deal. But who, what, when, where, why, I’m still working on it. You heard everything I know.”
Yael nodded, slowly. “Of course. Look, I know you cannot reveal your source. But is there … someone I could I ask for more information?”
Richardson smiled, put his now clean spectacles back on. “Not much happens here without Fareed knowing about it.”
*
Najwa stared at Sami’s printout. Yael Azoulay was clearly recognizable, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. In a white T-shirt and loose blue cotton trousers, she knelt down next to an Arab boy in a large open area. Warning signs nearby were written in Hebrew and Arabic. The boy looked to be in his early teens. He wore badly fitting jeans, a T-shirt, and over that a khaki vest with six front pockets. Each was filled with light brown blocks, from which a series of linked wires extended.
She said, “Talk me through it, again. When did you get this?”
“At eight thirty last night. It was from ‘afriend99@gmail.com.’ I have a friend who works at Google, so I checked and it’s fake. They have no record of any such account or e-mail address.”
“So we are probably dealing with a government intelligence service.”
Sami nodded. “Considering where the photo was taken, I don’t think we need to look very far.”
“I agree.” Najwa looked down at the printout again. “She looks much younger. Very determined. But kind of satisfied as well.”
“She should do. She did a good job. The bomb was defused.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I remember the incident. It was fourteen years ago. We were already here, but all our relatives in Gaza were talking about it. There was some media coverage in the US as well, although nothing mentioned Yael.”
“How old was he?”
“Fourteen. He was mentally handicapped. Islamic Jihad got hold of him. They kidnapped him, set him up.”
“OK, so we have some nice background for a feature. ‘The secret past of the SG’s negotiator.’ How she talked down a suicide bomber and saved dozens of lives.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “But why is someone sending you this?”
“I’ll get to that. Actually, it’s not such a heartwarming story. The problem is what happened next. The boy disappeared. The Israelis took him. They had a couple of minutes together and then he was taken away. His mother was hysterical. She never saw him again.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Najwa.
Sami looked away and shook his head, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “Because he was my cousin.”
*
Twenty minutes later, once again composed and professional, Sami escorted Najwa into the New York Times’ new United Nations bureau. The old office had been a musty, cramped cell, barely ten feet by ten, with cables sagging from the roof, leaking ceiling tiles, and a cracked window that overlooked an airshaft. Sami’s rickety desk was always piled high with papers next to a heavy, old-fashioned computer monitor that took up most of the space. There was only one chair, and usually Najwa needed to clear away various half-eaten donuts, cookies, and sandwich crusts before she could find a place to sit on Sami’s desk.
The new United Nations bureau of the New York Times appeared to have been transplanted directly from an office furniture showroom. It was pristine, clean, and light. A pair of light gray wooden desks stood in the center of a room at least four times the size of the old office, its large windows overlooking First Avenue. Two LED flat-screen monitors stood back-to-back on top of the desks, cables all but invisible, Apple brushed-aluminum keyboards in front of them. One wall was lined with graphite-colored metal filing cabinets that matched the two $1,000 Mirra office chairs in front of each desk. Najwa knew they cost $1,000 as she had just ordered six for her bureau. Two flat-screen televisions were attached to the wall, one showing BBC World News and the other, she was glad to see, tuned to Al-Jazeera America. A top-of-the-line Nespresso machine stood on top of one of the cabinets. There was even a bowl of fresh fruit.
But the most noticeable addition was the young woman sitting in front of her computer screen. She carried on typing as Sami and Najwa walked in. “Hi. I have some more on Frank Akerman,” she said, without looking up, “he was … hold on a second … something at the Dutch ministry of … I’ve got it …” She closed her document and turned around in her chair to see Sami accompanied by Najwa. “Oh,” she said, startled for a moment. She glanced at Sami, as if waiting for instructions.
“Hold that for a moment. Collette, this is Najwa al-Sameera.”
Collette Moreau stood up and extended a graceful, well-manicured hand. “What a pleasure to meet you in person,” she said, her smile revealing two rows of even white teeth and a dimple on the right side of her mouth.
“Thanks. And welcome aboard. When did you start?” asked Najwa. Collette’s grip was warm, dry, and just firm enough to be assertive without being aggressive.
Collette let go of Najwa’s hand and looked at her watch. “Fifty-eight minutes ago. At nine o’clock. Are you OK? That must have been terrifying last night.”
“I’m fine. The gunman wasn’t aiming at me.”
“What a story. Do you think they were trying to kill the SG? Or Roxana?”
Najwa shook her head as the two women stepped apart. “No. He wanted to kill Frank Akerman, and he did. It was a single shot at the SG’s door. He wanted to scare him and Roxana.”
“Then it worked. The SG arrived here in a convoy of armored vehicles this morning. I’m one of your biggest fans, by the way.”
“Thanks,” said Najwa, as she rapidly reappraised Sami’s new deputy. She had expected a wide-eyed newbie, one step up from an intern, overawed to be working for the New York Times and mixing with the titans of the UN press corps. She did not anticipate this sleek, efficient vision of Parisian chic wearing Chanel pumps and a Rado watch. Collette Moreau was young, petite, and fizzing with energy. She had wide brown eyes, a bob of thick, mahogany-colored hair, carefully groomed eyebrows, a subtle dusting of makeup, and a French accent that Najwa knew every man in the building would find cute. Her fitted white blouse and tight blue tapered slacks highlighted her almost boyish figure. Najwa was bursting to ask Collette what she had discovered about Akerman. But this was Sami’s colleague, and Sami’s territory. He had first rights. And it was never a good idea to look too eager.
Sami looked at both women, both of whom were waiting for him to tell Collette to share what she had found out. “Come,” he said to Najwa, a mischievous smile on his face. “Tour time.”
She flashed him an angry glance, but had no choice other than to go along with the game. “Mabrouk, Sami. It’s beautiful. Like moving from a prison cell to a five-star suite. But I thought you were going to move into the office next to our bureau. It’s been empty for ages.”
“This is what they came up with. I took it while the offer was still open.”
Najwa paused before she spoke. “How, exactly, did you do that? The Financial Times and the Times of London are still stuck in their poky holes. Who was here before?”
“Healthwire. The agency in Paris that Henrik Schneidermann worked for before he became the SG’s spokesman. They closed their operation, so this space freed up. Complete with their furniture and computers.”
She thought for a moment before she replied. “Sure, but there was a long queue ahead of you. And you already had an office, even if it was a dump.”
Sami shrugged. “Add it to the list of UN mysteries. I’m not complaining.”
Collette was sitting back down and tapping away again at her keyboard as she stared at her screen. But Najwa could see from her posture, straight and alert, that she was listening hard to every word.
Najwa’s phone beeped. She scrolled through the messages until she found the latest arrival, which she read quickly. “Just in time for the presser with Roxana. From our Sarajevo bureau.” She glanced up to see Sami staring hungrily at her phone. She inclined her head toward Collette, as if to say, You know what to do.
Sami turned to Collette. “What did you get on Akerman?”
Collette spun around, with a printout in her hand. “Captain Frank Akerman. Dutch Military intelligence, 1992 to 1994. Liaison officer with UNPROFOR, the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia. He was also an UNMO.”
UNMO stood for United Nations military observer. UNMOs were, in essence, licensed spies who could cross back and forth across front lines in conflict zones where the UN had a presence. They used their privileged UN status to gather information for the Department of Peacekeeping, and UNMO reports were a treasure trove of military intelligence, recording highly coveted data like troop numbers and deployments, weapons capability, and command structures. Everyone understood that the UNMOs’ reports would soon find their way to the defense and intelligence services of those countries who had an interest, or troops deployed, in the conflict zone.
“And then?” asked Sami.
Collette said, “Trail goes cold. I’m working on it.”
“It just heated up,” said Najwa as she handed her phone to Sami.
*
Clarence Clairborne watched his visitor lift the antique volume off the bookshelf and slowly open it. Despite the prodigious amount of bourbon he had drunk yesterday, he felt relaxed and refreshed. Clairborne always slept well after a visit from Eugene Packard. The doubts, the nagging voices in his head, all were quelled by the pastor’s certainty. He was doing the right thing, for himself, for Prometheus, and, most of all, for America. For this was God’s work, even if it demanded some curious allies, like the man currently in his office.
Menachem Stein nodded. “I am impressed. I didn’t know you were a fan of Rumi.” The leather binding creaked as he gently opened the book.
“Careful, now,” said Clairborne, “that’s five hundred years old.”
The work by Persia’s most famous poet had pride of place in Clairborne’s office library. It was displayed full on, flanked by other works on the Middle East in Arabic, Farsi, German, and English that had been tracked down by Clairborne’s international network of antiquarian booksellers.
Stein slowly closed the book and returned it to its shelf. He looked around, his surprise showing on his face. Clairborne was used to Stein’s reaction, as the rare visitors allowed into his office were often taken aback by the understated furnishings. He was never sure quite what they expected—a Confederate flag, perhaps, a poster advertising a lynching, or a piped recording of a rendition of “Dixie”—but not this. The dark floor of Vermont oak was covered with an enormous Persian rug, woven for the royal court. A pattern of roses and jasmine flowers swirled around the center medallion. The walls were covered with wooden paneling from the same forest as the flooring. Clairborne’s heavy, old-fashioned desk once belonged to Richard Nixon, before he became president. Apart from the framed photographs of Clairborne with three presidents and Eugene Packard, the only sign of ego was the P and G monogram on the wooden humidor.
Clairborne gestured to Stein to sit next to him in one of the two leather armchairs in the corner. “What can I get you, Menachem? Coffee, water, both, something stronger? I have an excellent bourbon, from a boutique distillery in Kentucky. Something to smoke?” Clairborne asked.
“Thank you. Nothing. I’m fine.”
No, you are not, Clairborne wanted to say. The last time he had seen the chairman of Efrat Global Solutions, barely a month ago, they had been hunting on his estate in West Virginia. Five hundred acres of prime farmland and forest, with a twelve-room lodge. Stein had shot several ducks out of the sky, but Clairborne none. Most incredibly of all, Stein had actually lowered the barrel of Clairborne’s gun when he was about to take a shot, just to emphasize his point.
Clairborne did not like Stein. He was no fan of Israel or Israelis, and thought the Palestinians had a rough deal. But there was no money to be made in Palestine. However, although he felt no warmth toward Stein, Clairborne did admire him. Stein, like Clairborne, was a survivor. EGS had been deeply implicated in the coltan scandal when, less than a year ago, two of its most senior officials had been arrested in Congo while handing out arms to a Hutu militia so its members could trigger a new genocide. Stein himself barely escaped an Interpol warrant.
That scandal, like several others, had not affected EGS’s share price or its contracts. In fact, it only seemed to boost their value. EGS was the largest private military contractor in the world, its headquarters five minutes’ walk from Capitol Hill. For Stein, like Clairborne, the instability in the Middle East had been very good for business. Despite the Israeli connection, EGS had just signed a multi-billion-dollar contract to train the Emirates’ new military and paramilitary forces.
Stein sat down next to Clairborne. Stein was in his early sixties, dressed casually in jeans, Timberland boots, and a white shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. He had close-cropped silver hair, which highlighted the most remarkable thing about him: his eyes. One blue and one gray, they had the intensity of lasers.
Normally they unsettled Clairborne. But today he had ammunition.
“Let’s get down to business, Menachem. The car bomb in DC. That was your responsibility. It would have been a damn useful backdrop to the Reykjavik meeting. Blood and shrapnel, a few yards from the White House. A trail of terror from Tehran to Pennsylvania Avenue. What happened?”
Stein frowned, tapped his fingers on the armchair. “I am not sure. Everything was in place. You saw what the cops found. There was no reason for anyone to be suspicious of the vehicle. A gray Ford. But someone made a call, alerted the cops.”
“Does EGS have a leak?”
Stein shook his head. “Impossible. Maybe the leak is at your end, Clarence.”
“Out of the question. I am the only one who knew about it.”
“Really? What about your friend? Packard the preacher? He was here yesterday, I believe.” Stein patted the arm of the chair. “Sitting here, I am sure, calling down fire and brimstone.”
Clairborne was about to ask how Stein knew about Packard, but immediately realized there was no point. EGS obviously had the Prometheus Group under surveillance. If he had done the same to EGS, he might know more about why the car bomb failed to detonate. “Packard does not know operational details,” said Clairborne. “And even though the bomb did not go off, at least we have laid a trail back to Tehran. What about the girl?”
Stein looked at his watch. “Meeting with the SG by now. He will give her the Reykjavik assignment.”
“I’ll miss her once she’s gone. She’s a firecracker.”
Stein smiled. “Yes. She is.”