The Geneva Option (26 page)

“I told you we were in the wrong place,” said Najwa.

“No, darling, we are not,” said Jonathan.

He held a rolled-up copy of yesterday's
International Herald Tribune
with Sami's story on the front page. “Nice work,” he said, tapping the newspaper.

“Thanks. You did a good piece on EGS. Who's talking in the DPKO?”

Jonathan looked at Sami with amusement. “Sami, my dear old mate and esteemed colleague. As far as I remember, I offered to trade leads for a copy of the Goma memo. You declined.” He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his head, baffled at the ways of the world. “A
New York Times
exclusive, your very words. And I still tipped you off about the 42nd Street presser. So I think the
New York Times
account at the moment at the Beaufort sources bank has slipped into the red. But . . . I got a good run in the paper, so I'm feeling generous today. My original offer still stands: a copy of the Goma memo and lunch at the Delegates Dining Room. On you.”

Sami smiled. The story had moved so far on by now it would be churlish to refuse. “It's a deal. I've got it scanned. I will e-mail it to you.”

Jonathan leaned forward and whispered. “Good. You didn't hear this from me, but Quentin Braithwaite is in eastern Congo—and he is really pissed off. What . . . ?” asked Jonathan, seeing the look of alarm on Sami's face.

“I think your photographer is about to cause a diplomatic incident,” he said, pointing at Dave, who was now just two feet from the priceless artifact.

Jonathan shouted at him to watch out. The photographer stopped and looked around, realization dawning on his face. He mopped his brow and held a hand up in supplication.

Jonathan laughed. “Even I could not get that one through on expenses. But we had better get our questions in early today. We are going to be seriously outnumbered.”

Twenty-Eight

Y
ael tried to put her emotions aside as she walked into the Council Chamber. She felt curiously pleased to see familiar faces, somehow even felt reassured that Sami, Jonathan Beaufort, and Najwa were here. Their presence was a reminder that several extremely able reporters were also on the trail of KZX and the Bonnet Group. But it was a bittersweet encounter, reminding her of her old life and of her growing feelings for Sami before his story wrecked her life.

Yael stopped and looked around at the familiar surroundings. The Council Chamber was not the largest room in the Palais des Nations—that honor was held by the Assembly Hall, which could hold two thousand people. But it was an elegant and atmospheric space that retained a powerful sense of history. The dropped ceiling and the cream stone walls at the rear and the sides were lined with giant frescoes donated by the Second Spanish Republic in the 1930s. They showed the themes so beloved of the United Nations: toiling laborers, scientists, artists, and more gun barrels. A balcony curved around the width of the room. Long before Rwanda and Srebrenica, the League of Nations had struggled in this very room to save Abyssinia, as Ethiopia was then known, while the country was pounded by Mussolini's air force, its inhabitants bombed and gassed. Haile Selassie, Ethiopia's emperor himself, had come here to plead for help—in vain.

Jasna paused in the middle of the chamber, standing in front of the salmon-pink curtains that extended almost from the floor to the ceiling. She looked at Yael, interrupting her reverie. “You know those journalists outside?”

Yael smiled wryly. “In another life.”

“And you want it back?”

“I don't know,” said Yael. She walked over to Jasna and stood next to her, playing with the curtain. “I want to sleep in my own bed.”

“With the curly-haired boy? He could be quite handsome if he smartened himself up.”

Yael flushed. “Is it that obvious?”

Jasna smiled kindly. “Let's get to work.”

The UN-KZX Institute for International Development was spread out over six rooms in the east wing of the Palais. During the 1930s they had housed the financial department of the League of Nations. Until recently they were home to the Geneva office of the Organizing Committee of the Week of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples Affected by Global Warming. The committee's members had gladly agreed for themselves, their families, and their workplaces to be relocated to New York at the UN's expense to make way for the new institute.

Yael left Jasna at the elevator and walked down the corridor on her own to the director's office at the end. The plan was that Jasna, who had a good reason to be in the area this early, would wait by the elevator and cover her, pretending to check the state of the place, while she kept watch on the elevator and the nearby staircase. Meanwhile, Yael would search the office. Jasna had given her the key.

If anyone appeared, Jasna would delay him or her as long as possible with questions about cleaning and office maintenance for the new setup, and she would surreptitiously send Yael a text from her mobile phone in her coat pocket. Yael would immediately leave. Even if the institute's staff came in as early as 8:00 a.m.—which in her experience with the UN was highly unlikely—Yael should have well over an hour to find the evidence. And most of them would probably be at the press conference, basking in the media limelight, not in their offices.

That was the theory, assuming she was in the right city to start with. Yael could still hear Hakizimani's answer when she had asked him if the war plan would be directed from the UN's New York headquarters. “Of course not,” he had sneered. “Why do you think they have set up the development institute? There are too many journalists poking around the UN in New York, but who cares about those endless meetings in Switzerland? Nobody.”

He could have been lying, Yael supposed, but it was unlikely. She could spot liars, and she remembered the pleasure he had taken in telling her what he knew. Something as secret and complicated as this, involving the UN secretary-general, the DPA, KZX, the Bonnet Group, and, she guessed, Efrat Global Solutions, must be set out in detail somewhere. Probably only three or four people would be cleared to see the master plan. But it had to exist, because otherwise it would be impossible to coordinate so many different actors spread across three continents on a precise timetable. The plan would almost certainly not be on a networked computer or a machine with access to the Internet. It might be on an encrypted document stored on an “air-gapped”—stand-alone—machine, or a data stick. It was also possible that it did not even exist in electronic form because any digital version would be a security risk. Maybe there would only be a hard copy on paper.

The rest of her life hinged on the next hour, she realized. If she brought out the evidence of the conspiracy, she would be a heroine. If she did not and were caught, she would be arrested and extradited back to New York to stand trial for the murder of Hakizimani—not to mention all the other stuff about traveling on a dead woman's passport—and would spend the rest of her life in prison. She felt the walls of the corridor closing in on her as she walked toward the director's office. The voice in her head was back. It spoke each time she went on a mission. Incredulous and laughing at her arrogance, it was talking now, a familiar monologue. Look at you, it said: a wastrel, hardly any friends, estranged from your mother, cut off from your father, no man, no children, a nomad who doesn't even know what country to call home, an orphan in all but name. Who are you to think you can do
anything
?

She knew not to argue back. Instead she stopped for a moment and leaned back against the wall, emptying her mind, clenching and unclenching her fists, and slowing her breathing. The voice grew tired and small and then faded away.

Yael slipped the key in the office lock. She took the key out and carefully pushed the dark, heavy wood panel. The door smoothly opened and she gingerly looked inside. It was a large and elegant office, the kind of workplace she would like to have herself, with a highly polished wooden floor and huge windows looking out on the park and Lake Geneva. A Persian silk carpet with an intricate peacock pattern hung on the wall. The office had obviously been newly decorated. It smelled of paint and coffee from the machine bubbling in the corner.

A tall, well-built man with a soldier's posture was standing at the window with his back to her, reading a document. He turned around and looked Yael up and down.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle
. I am the director here. How can I help you?” asked Charles Bonnet.

Y
ael betrayed nothing of the shock she felt at the sight of the Frenchman. Not only was the office not empty, but its sole occupant was someone with whom she had worked for years, someone who knew her face, voice, and mannerisms. But she also knew Bonnet. She smiled engagingly, holding his gaze. Under his
savoir-faire
she sensed suspicion, alarm, defensiveness, and strong sexual interest.

She was wearing slim-cut jeans, knee-high boots, and a tight black polo shirt under her new leather jacket, and she could feel his eyes roaming up and down her body. Yael slowly walked toward him, breathing in, making sure to raise her breasts as she pointed at his desk. It was a heavy, old-fashioned wooden thing that doubtless dated back to the League of Nations itself, with two small chests of drawers on either side and a large green square of baize in the middle. The desk was empty apart from a legal pad and a brass penholder filled with pens emblazoned with the KZX and UN logos.

Yael pointed at the penholder and gestured at the notepad as if to say, “May I?”

Bonnet frowned at first, then nodded, watching her now with amusement and growing interest, she sensed. Whatever this was about, she imagined him thinking, she was no threat.

Yael wrote on the paper:

My name is Claudia Lopez. I work for Tip-Top Office Services. We clean this part of the Palais. This is a beautiful office. You must be very important. I am mute. Sorry.

Yael handed the note to Bonnet. He quickly read it and smiled at her with the grin that he imagined was boyishly charming. For a moment she almost wished she were back in the DPKO operations room, refusing yet another dinner invitation. Another part of her was quelling her rising fear that Bonnet would recognize her. But the only thing that could give her away was her voice. People saw what they wanted to: the trick, as any magician could tell you, was to keep the audience plausibly diverted. The silk handkerchiefs that materialized from behind an ear, the coin in a palm—they had either been there all the time or hidden in plain view. As long as Bonnet was interested in Claudia Lopez, and he seemed to be, Yael Azoulay should be safe. But how was she going to get the war plan now? And where was it?

Bonnet walked around behind his desk and sat down. He put the document he was holding on the green baize square. Yael quickly read the heading: “Report on the Panel of Experts on the Illegal Exploitation of Natural Resources and Other Forms of Wealth of the Democratic Republic of Congo.” It was the document that she had read on the airplane from Paris to Kinshasa when she had flown out to meet Hakizimani. Bonnet saw her glance at the report. He put it in the right-hand drawer of his desk and turned the key in the lock. He then slid the paper on which Yael had written toward him, took out a pen and wrote,
There is no need to apologize. Would you like some coffee?

Yael down sat on the edge of his desk, pulled the paper toward her, and wrote
, I can hear fine. You can talk to me, but I cannot reply. And yes please.

Bonnet walked over to the coffee machine and poured two cups. He walked back toward her, holding a cup of coffee balanced on a saucer in each hand, and smiled at her.

“I am sorry we don't have any British builder's tea,” he said.

Twenty-Nine

E
very seat in the Council Chamber was taken, and the journalists were two or three deep in the balcony. Najwa and her Al-Jazeera crew had secured a place in the center of the front row, but they were surrounded by Fashion TV, MTV, and a crew from the Trevor Johnson show at CNN. The other serious news channels had been banished to the back rows and the side of the hall. Sami and Jonathan sat two rows back, next to a feature writer from Italian
Vogue
who was utterly absorbed in texting her friends.

A giant banner emblazoned with “UN Year of Africa” and the UN and KZX logos stretched along the wall behind them. Many of the reporters were opening a small wooden box stamped “sustainable hardwood” that had been placed on every journalist's seat. In addition to brochures and press releases about the UN-KZX institute, it contained a silver UN-KZX pen, an iPhone 5, a signed DVD of Lucy Tremlett's film about Queen Elizabeth I, a Tag Heuer watch—also marked with the UN-KZX logo, albeit more discreetly—and two signed copies of Fareed Hussein's memoir,
My Journey for Peace
.

Henrik Schneidermann had appeared half an hour before the conference started and asked for all questions to be submitted in writing. He then handed out a long and detailed form that had been specially printed for the occasion—a departure from the usual UN practice. The celebrity reporters complied. The vociferous protests of the specialist UN correspondents had been ignored. Sami, Jonathan, Najwa, and several others had briefly discussed a boycott of the event, until it was clear that nothing would make Schneidermann happier.

They and their colleagues had submitted detailed questions about events in Goma and the web of connections between KZX, the Bonnet Group, and the UN. There was particular interest in Jonathan Beaufort's story in the
Times
of London about the EGS contractors.

Jonathan handed the forms to Schneidermann. He flicked through them and added them to his folder, ostentatiously putting them at the bottom of the pile.

The spokesman looked at the reporters, barely able to keep the triumph out of his eyes. “I will forward your questions to the SG. But as you can see, this is a very crowded event, and we will give priority to reporters who are new to the UN.”

“And who have absolutely no idea what to ask,” snapped Najwa.

Y
ael stepped forward and kicked Bonnet's right wrist as hard as she could. The cup and saucer flew into the air, showering his face, neck, and chest with the scalding liquid. He dropped the cup in his left hand. It smashed into pieces on the wooden floor, hurling coffee up the side of the desk, drenching his shoes and trousers. The Frenchman yelped in pain, frantically rubbing his face and shaking his feet. He lunged at her, the front of his white shirt now wet and brown.

Yael stepped aside and grabbed Bonnet's right arm, using his momentum to pull him forward and spin him sideways. He swung wildly at her with his left hand, but she dodged it and slammed him into the edge of the desk. She stepped back and punched him hard in the side of his neck. He doubled over and she briskly banged his forehead down on the baize. There was a loud thud and the Frenchman collapsed, sliding down the front of the desk onto the floor.

Yael bent down and put him in the recovery position. She checked his throat was clear, took off his necktie, tied his wrists behind his back, and walked over to the window. A thick cord was hanging down the sides of the heavy old-fashioned curtains. She yanked hard and they came away in her hand.

She walked back to Bonnet. He was pale but breathing regularly. She bound his wrists with one curtain cord and his ankles with the other and quickly went through his pockets and found his mobile telephone. She took out the SIM card, slipped it into her jeans, dropped the handset into the coffee jug, and ripped the desk telephone cable out of the wall.

She locked the door, paused for a second, and checked her mobile telephone, the heavy old-fashioned handset that she had brought from Geneva. No alarm had sounded, and nothing from Jasna. But clearly she did not have long.

The key was still in the office drawer. She opened it, took out the document Bonnet had been holding, and read the top page again. Why had he locked this away? The UN report on the exploitation of Congo's natural resources was unclassified and freely available on the Internet. Anyone could download it.

She put the report on top of the desk and rummaged though the contents of the drawer: a brochure for an escort agency, leaflets for several of Geneva's Michelin-starred restaurants, an advertisement for a spa hotel on the French border promising “luxury, discretion, and rooms available for the afternoon,” a leasing agreement for a Mercedes V8 convertible, and a photograph of Bonnet with his African wife and their two very photogenic children.

The sight of Bonnet's family triggered a pang of guilt. She leaned under the desk and checked the Frenchman. He was awake and moaning softly, looking around, trying to understand what had happened to him. He tried to sit up but gave up and sank back down to the floor.

Bonnet's eyes followed Yael as she stood up and walked over to the coffee machine. She could use the telephone that Joe-Don had given her to threaten Bonnet, but what if he also had a heart condition? She did not want another death on her conscience. Instead she picked up the coffee jug and stood over him.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I didn't. I guessed. But I knew you would turn up sooner or later. And there is a small hole on your right upper earlobe where your earring used to be. Plus, cleaners do not usually wear Balenciaga leather jackets.”

“Where is the plan?” she asked.

Bonnet coughed and tried to speak. “Plan for what? There is no plan. Only what you see here. An aid and development institute.”

“I will try again. Where is the plan?” she said, letting the coffee drip out onto the floor.

Bonnet shook his head, his eyes wide with anger and, she sensed, an undercurrent of nervousness, and not just because he was lying prone and scalded. “You are going to spend the rest of your life in prison,
ma chère
Yael. I always said that your conscience would be the end of you. Why can't you just do your job, like everyone else?”

“It's not me who is going to prison. You are, for murdering Olivia.”

The Frenchman looked outraged. He shifted position, trying to get more comfortable. “I did not kill her. Why would I do that?”

“Because she knew about Efrat Global Solutions and Menachem Stein. You, the SG, and Erin Rembaugh are secretly working with the world's biggest private army to take over eastern Congo.”

Bonnet shrugged. “So what if we are? I did not kill Olivia. I have never killed a woman in my life.”

He was telling the truth, Yael sensed. “But you don't mind if thousands of women and children die along the way to help the Bonnet Group's profits?”

Bonnet laughed cynically. “Please spare me your sanctimonious moralizing, Yael. You are no better than me. How many murderers and warlords have you helped stay in power when the P5 and Fareed Hussein told you to? How many bags full of dollars and euros have you arranged to be delivered for the ‘greater good'? What is the difference between EGS, an army for sale, and member states sending their peacekeepers to further their political and economic interests? None whatsoever. At least EGS is open about what it does. Five million people have died in Congo. It is the world's worst humanitarian catastrophe, with no sign of ending. How many troops has President Freshwater sent to Goma and Kinshasa? Tell me, how many?”

Yael did not reply.

Bonnet said, “Exactly. Not one. They are all in Iraq and Afghanistan, securing oil supplies and gas pipelines. We are doing exactly the same as everyone else. The only difference is that we are better organized.”

She sat down nearby, out of reach if he lunged at her, still holding the coffee jug. “Where is the plan?”

Bonnet said nothing.

Yael steeled herself, forcing herself to think of what was now at stake in the room. “Tell me where the plan is. Or I will empty this over you.”

Bonnet coughed again. “There . . . is . . . no . . . plan.”

She knew he was lying. She poured some of the coffee on the floor. It crept toward Bonnet, steam rising.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” he said, his eyes darting to the UN report on the desk. And then she realized. Like the magician's handkerchief, it was hidden in plain sight.

Yael put the coffee jug back in the machine, then knelt down and checked the bindings on his hands and wrists. “Your first instinct once I leave will be to raise the alarm. Don't.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I am not where I want to be at 9:30 a.m., a sound file of your encounter in your office with Thanh will be e-mailed to the entire UN press corps. Even by your standards that was a new low, threatening her family. Thanh is a friend of mine. I gave her the recorder.”

Bonnet's face twisted in anger. “
Salope
,” he spat.

Yael smiled. “I'm in good company then.”

She turned and opened the door to leave.

A handsome Indian man with his hair gathered in a folded-back ponytail stood in the corridor, flanked by two heavyset, shaven-headed men in black suits.

“Hello, Yael,” said Mahesh Kapoor.

F
areed Hussein sat behind the long table in the front of the Council Chamber, flanked by Lucy Tremlett and Reinhardt Daintner, looking very satisfied at the rows of journalists and camera crews. Hussein had given a short speech, praising what he called the “new partnership in business and development that would be a model for the world.” Reinhardt Daintner said a few words, essentially repeating the same thing. Lucy Tremlett spoke passionately and articulately about her childhood on a council estate in south London ruled by violent gangs, and how education had showed her a new world. Education, she said, was the key to everything, so she was especially pleased to announce that the UN-KZX institute would be offering a hundred university scholarships to students from the developing world.

Because of the size of the room, any journalist wanting to ask a question needed a microphone. The desk microphones had been switched off, and there was one only cordless one for the press, controlled by Schneidermann. So far, almost every question had been directed at Lucy Tremlett, mostly about her film and acting career and relationship with Hobo. Schneidermann had studiously ignored the New York press corps and their colleagues, the UN reporters based in Geneva. He was bouncing around like a jack-in-the-box, clearly having the time of his life, dealing with journalists most of whom had no interest in politics. Eventually he allowed an African journalist, sitting toward the back, to ask a question. Najwa directed her camerawoman to turn around and film her.

The reporter was young, female, and determined not to be awed. “My name is Françoise Makimbo and I work for Central African News. Firstly, I would like to say that instead of buying us these expensive gifts—or perhaps I should say trying to buy us
with
them—it would have been far better to spend the money on grassroots aid and development. I will be donating mine to charity.” She held up the box and paused as applause rippled around the room.

Schneidermann frowned and shook his head. “What is your question?” he asked. “We are very tightly scheduled here and do not have time for comments. Only questions, please.”

Françoise nodded. “My question is what is the secretary-general's reaction to the report in the
New York Times
that his wife, Zeinab, has shares in Maobi Holdings, the company in Kinshasa that is managing the finances for the Year of Africa? And does he have any financial interest in this company?”

Schneidermann walked over to Fareed Hussein and whispered in his ear. The SG nodded. Schneidermann said, “We cannot comment on unsubstantiated articles. We are investigating these claims and will issue a statement once we are in possession of the facts.”

Sami and Jonathan looked at each other with an expression of weary familiarity. Beaufort then watched in exasperation as Schneidermann handed the microphone for the second time to his colleague Samantha, the contemporary-culture correspondent, who was sitting one row ahead of him. Samantha had started to ask Lucy Tremlett what her plans were for her next role. Jonathan stood up and walked over and took the microphone from her. She looked surprised but deferred to him, as the senior correspondent.

Jonathan said, “Can the secretary-general confirm the presence of Efrat Global Solutions in and around the Goma region? Can he tell us what he knows about their activities, and can he outline to us what measures the Department of Peacekeeping Operations is taking to secure the area against illegal arms distribution?”

Fareed Hussein looked puzzled and shrugged. Jonathan looked at the microphone and tapped it. Nothing. It had been switched off. Nobody had heard his question. He put the microphone down and repeated his question, cupping his hands and shouting as loudly as he could. The fashion and celebrity journalists looked at each other and began muttering angrily. The African journalists clapped.

Sami stood up. “This is ridiculous,” he declared as loudly as he could.

Jonathan shouted again. “Mr. Secretary-General, can you please answer the question,” he demanded as the door to the chamber opened. The room erupted as Hobo walked in.