The Geneva Option (12 page)

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

T
here 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.”

“Thanks for the drink. It was really fun. Let's do it again soon,” Roxana said, her voice brisk and businesslike now, before giving him a chaste peck on the cheek.

“Anytime,” he said, wondering why he bothered to repeat the lie. He watched her walk over to the bar and greet a dark-haired man in his late twenties with an enthusiastic kiss on the mouth. Sami sat back down and slowly stirred his drink, the air in the booth still charged with Roxana's energy. He was a liar—the story about dissatisfaction with Schneidermann was a complete fiction—and a thief. But he had the envelope.

Y
ael put the sticky paper back on the table. She sat back and watched a tugboat chugging along the Hudson river, the reflection of its lights glimmering on the waves. They were mocking her now, telling her they were watching, had been inside her flat. But Yael did not feel scared. She had Joe-Don and she had something else. She picked up a quarter from the table, reached under her chair, and levered up a loose strip of parquet floor. The wood came away easily to reveal a narrow, deep cavity. She pulled out a small, heavy package wrapped in oilcloth. She unraveled the covering and weighed the pistol in her hand: an M9, US Army standard issue. Safety catch on, one round chambered.

Yael stood with her feet apart and her legs slightly bowed, held the pistol in both hands, and sighted on an imaginary enemy. No, she was not scared, but she was angry, with a cold rage that coursed through her. Memories of Olivia ran through her head: laughing so loudly at Le Perigord that the maître d' had asked them, as politely as possible, to please be quieter; sharing a pack of throat-searing Lebanese cigarettes on the balcony on the 38th floor; swapping gossip about Charles Bonnet's latest “intern,” every one of whom looked like a model from
Vogue
. They had killed her friend, and now she would take her revenge, not just for Olivia, but for David—indeed for all the other victims sacrificed, with her help, on the holy altar of realpolitik.

Yael put the gun down. She needed to be calm and smart, not hyped up and lashing out. She plugged her iPod into the speaker stand and Van Morrison's “Sweet Thing” filled the room. She switched off the light, poured herself some more red wine, lit a scented candle, and sat on her bed. She drank most of the glass just a little too fast, and the walls began to soften and blur. Van Morrison's throaty voice soared and fell, and she felt the familiar, welcome sliding. She lay back, smoking contemplatively, staring at the gray wisps as they rose toward the cracked paint on the ceiling. She pulled slowly on the gold hoop high on the side of her right ear and closed her eyes. The pain was mild at first. Waves of red and gold swirled and exploded, vanished and dissolved.

She was dancing on a snow-capped mountain, the earth cold and hard beneath her feet, the sky a sheet of solid turquoise, and the air so pure it hurt to breathe; she was sitting astride him, drenched with sweat, his body wiry beneath her as she shuddered in her orgasm. She twisted the hoop harder until she gasped with the pain, and she could see his face as though he were in the room with her: the handsomest man in Kandahar, in Afghanistan, in the whole world—skin the color of milky coffee, eyes like green laser beams, and a smile that made her knees wobble.

She rocked and gasped, the pain and pleasure fusing as the music coursed through her body. He beckoned her toward him, his eyes locked onto hers, and the hunger surged through her. He smelled of cinnamon and dust, coffee and sunshine, and his body was warm and hard. A hand slid between her legs, her back arched, and the pleasure rippled up and down; he was above her, he was inside her, and the wave built and built until it broke and she shuddered and moaned.

The music stopped and Yael lay still for a while, the sadness lighter but no less poignant. Her eyes were wet, she realized, and she wiped them dry. She glanced over at her shoulder bag on the kitchen table. A cream envelope was sticking out of the side pocket, addressed to her by hand, with no return address. She had picked the letter up from the doorman when she returned home. Yael opened the envelope. The letter inside was written in a flowing, elegant hand on thick paper; the script looked familiar. She scanned the letter: “My dear Yael,” it began.

S
ami took a long swig from the bottle of Brooklyn Lager and switched off his television at the end of the CNN 9:00 p.m. news show. He looked around his studio apartment on 9th Street in the East Village. It was cramped, dark, and musty. Sami had lived there for nearly two years but still had not properly unpacked his stuff. Half the room was filled with boxes of books and papers, many of them spilling out on to the floor. He kept telling himself that this was only a temporary accommodation, not worth sorting out. But at $1,500 a month it was supercheap by Manhattan standards, mainly because it belonged to his uncle, who had not used it since the 1980s. The walls were a faded cream, the floor covered with an orange acrylic carpet, and the hot water spat brown in the bathroom, but the most depressing thing was the twin bed in the corner. How could he bring a girl back here?