The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(50)
The SG normally took pride in his office, showing off the view even to his regular visitors. But not today. Yael glanced at Hussein. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin had a grayish pall. He was walking with a slight stoop. “Fareed, are you sure you’re OK?”
“Physically, yes. I’m fine. But I’m very shaken. It’s such a tragic waste. And at such an incredibly sensitive time. Frank was a very talented diplomat. He will be much missed.”
As they spoke, Yael suddenly realized what the second fragrance was. A few days earlier she had stopped by Bloomingdales on her way home. A sales assistant at the perfume counter had sprayed Zest, “for the busy urban woman,” on Yael’s wrist. Why was the SG wearing, or carrying a trace of, a woman’s fragrance on his skin? His wife, Zeinab, had not been seen in New York, let alone the building, for months. After Sami reported that she held shares in Geneva Holdings, a company in Kinshasa that was connected to the coltan scandal, Zeinab had returned to Pakistan to “take care of pressing family matters.”
But Yael had more important questions on her mind than lingering perfumes. Firstly, what did Fareed know about the Rwanda deal that Roger Richardson had discussed on CNN last night? And secondly, why had she not been informed of Akerman’s mission to Istanbul—or his meeting last night with the SG, especially as Roxana had been there?
And this was more important than a usual turf war. The SG had already sent her to persuade Clarence Clairborne to stop trading with the Revolutionary Guard. How could she deal with Clairborne if other UN officials were parleying with interested parties behind her back?
There was no point protesting or demanding an answer. Providing an opening for Hussein would likely prove more productive than a direct attack. Once they had discussed Iran, and he hopefully felt more at ease, then she could ask about the CNN report.
“Perhaps I can help fill the gap. I’m up to speed on Iran,” said Yael.
“Come, let’s sit down,” said Hussein as he guided her across the room, thus buying himself a few seconds. She sensed him instantly calculating permutations and their probable cost-benefit ratios, and watched him carefully as she waited for his reply.
Apart perhaps from the White House, few organizations were defined by a hierarchy as finely delineated as that of the UN. After twelve years at the UN, Yael was completely attuned to the coded messages of inclusion and exclusion. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the SG’s inner sanctum. Hussein had evolved his own system for processing guests and visitors, the precisely calibrated nuances of which were discussed across the building with the kind of fervor usually reserved for fans dissecting a recent football game.
Those not in favor would be left to stand in front of the SG’s giant black desk, made from environmentally certified Brazilian hardwood. Most visitors were seated in front of the SG, on a very comfortable chair with a seat exactly three inches lower than his. For those with something to offer, the real question was: sofa or armchair?
The sofa stood against one sidewall of the office. The SG liked to sit there and pose for photographs with visiting statesmen because it created a faux atmosphere of intimacy. Only the SG’s most prized confidants were invited to the corner where three leather armchairs clustered around a low table, and Hussein made the drinks himself. Yael usually met with the SG there, as the coffee machine sighed and oozed occasional puffs of steam, gently flavored with the SG’s own special blend of fair-trade Ethiopian beans. There was also a white china teapot for those who did not drink coffee, and even a jar of tea for Yael, a powerful blend of Kenyan and Assam nicknamed “builders’ brew” after the British tea she had come to love while living in London. It was a unique and much-envied privilege.
Hussein was apologetic as he sat down on one of the leather armchairs and beckoned her to sit next to him. “Forgive me if I am somewhat out of sorts this morning. Frank Akerman was a dear friend as well as a fine colleague. We had known each other for many years.” He sat back and closed his eyes for a moment, before he looked at Yael. “There is something I need to discuss with you, a matter of the utmost sensitivity. But before that, my dear Yael, we should speak about last night.”
Yael kept her face expressionless. Hussein could talk his way out of a speeding ticket if he was caught driving at one hundred miles an hour. Still, part of her always enjoyed his performances. Sometimes she even learned something from the veteran arch-manipulator. The contrition gambit, she guessed. Admit responsibility. Explain the problems. Finally, throw yourself on his or her mercy.
A second later she felt the SG’s fingers on the back of her hand, as he began to speak. “It all happened so quickly that there was simply no time to keep you informed. It’s my fault entirely. I saw Akerman’s work as complementing your substantial achievements. I had intended to bring you and Frank together as soon as possible. Ideally, this evening. But now that won’t be possible. And I am sorry for that.”
She smiled. Just as she had predicted, but still a bravura performance—especially as it was not clear whether the SG was sorry that Akerman was dead or that Yael had not met with the Dutchman. Yael was used to Hussein talking his way out of difficult spots. She would allow him this mea culpa but was still determined to get the information she needed. But she would let him run a bit first. “Apology accepted. So where do we go from here? Any news from the FBI? Or the OGAs?”