The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(52)
Yael knew the world lived, operated, in shades of gray. Hussein might be obsessed with the UN’s neutrality, which had helped cause catastrophes in Rwanda and Srebrenica. But without that neutrality the organization would not be allowed into war zones to do its humanitarian work. And that same neutrality had given her a life of great excitement and fulfillment. Hussein had plucked Yael from the thousands of people working in the Secretariat Building and made her his personal envoy, giving her a career that she could never have even dreamed of.
She had seen, firsthand and up close, the reality of realpolitik; how the superpowers, even Western ones, quickly sacrificed their principles for political advantage, human rights for corporate profits. And she too had facilitated, even sped up that process. She had helped killers walk free, baptized warlords as statesmen, transformed insurgent groups into governments. She had sacrificed justice for peace, but she slept easily. Wars had been stopped, ceasefires held, countless lives had been saved. Like all human constructs, the UN was imperfect, but she had spent a decade of her life working for a good and right cause: saving lives. There were no perfect answers, only compromises. Each carried a price. The means may be imperfect, but the important point was the end that was achieved. And for all Hussein’s public insistence on the UN’s impartiality, he had many times let her bend the rules to achieve a greater moral good. Just as long as there was no e-mail or paper trail back to his office.
Hussein’s office walls were covered with signed photographs of him with presidents, prime ministers, actors, and film stars. Yael saw there was a new photograph, of Hussein standing with an attractive woman in her early fifties, on the shores of Lake Geneva. The elegantly dressed woman wore a brightly patterned green and black headscarf: Shireen Kermanzade, the new reformist president of Iran. The matter of “the utmost confidentiality” that Hussein had mentioned was surely related to Akerman’s mission to Istanbul and Iran.
Hussein’s phone rang. He glanced at the number, then at Yael, who gestured at him to take the call. The comfortable chair, the warm office, the smell of coffee were all pleasant and welcome rewards after that morning’s weather and the hassle of getting into the building. Perhaps she should back off Hussein a little. It would be shocking to have a sniper kill someone at your front door, and it was natural for the SG to be preoccupied, even nervous. The next bullet could very well be aimed at him. But still, CNN. David.
Yael sat back and closed her eyes for a moment, replaying her memory of Roger Richardson’s report last night. It was entirely possible that there had been some kind of deal, one that had gone terribly wrong. Deep inside her, Yael believed—knew—that Hussein’s obsession with the UN’s neutrality had played a role in her brother’s death. The question was, how much of one? Yael worked at the UN because she believed in its ideals. But more than that, she wanted know why her brother had died at the hands of Jean-Pierre Hakizimani’s militiamen and who was personally responsible for allowing the UN workers to be slaughtered. And once she had those answers she wanted those guilty to face justice. Even if they included her boss.
Her phone beeped. A text message had arrived. It was only six words long, but she read it and reread it until the words became a blur.
19
As Roxana Voiculescu walked into the press room, Najwa watched her with a mix of amusement and admiration. The SG’s spokeswoman took her place behind the pale wooden lectern and surveyed the assembled reporters. Her expression was pensive and determined, befitting someone who witnessed a murder the previous night and who had herself been shot at. She wore a black Prada jacket and matching below-the-knee skirt that emphasized her shapely figure, a gray blouse, and gray Louboutins with red soles and modest heels. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore just a touch of mascara to emphasize her blue-gray eyes.
Yet despite Roxana’s somber appearance, Najwa sensed an undercurrent of something—satisfaction, perhaps even triumph—in her posture and her eyes. The bullet that smashed into the SG’s door had anointed her. There could be no more whispers about her skills, suitability, or experience: she had risked her life for the UN.
Soon after Roxana had succeeded Schneidermann, she had invited Najwa, Sami, Jonathan Beaufort, and several other correspondents from major media and news agencies to what she called a “getting to know you dinner” in the SG’s private dining room. It had been a strange evening, as Roxana had rebuffed the journalists’ questions apart from the most anodyne, but with charm and skill had extracted all sorts of personal information from many of the reporters present, all of whom, except for Najwa, were male. Only Sami and Jonathan Beaufort had resisted Roxana’s alcohol-fueled charm offensive.
Three things about Roxana in particular interested Najwa. Roxana was obsessed with Yael Azoulay. She spent much of the dinner trying to dig out any scraps of gossip or information about the SG’s special envoy, and had repeatedly circled the conversation back to an altercation in Geneva, when Yael had drowned her would-be killer, and the incident at the Millennium Hotel, when Yael had posed as an escort to gain entry to the suite occupied by Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, who was later found dead. Roxana’s steer was not very subtle, especially because these events were already known and so regarded as old news. The second was the rumor that, despite an age difference of more than forty years, she had quickly forged a very close connection indeed with Fareed Hussein. And third, how could Roxana afford $2,000 shoes and a Patek Philippe watch? UN salaries were generous, but not that abundant.