The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(80)
Bonnet raised his champagne glass in response. “Bon soir, Yael. Let’s celebrate my freedom. And the independence of the American judicial system.”
Yael did not reply.
“You will let me finish my drink this time?” He tilted his glass forward as if to clink it against hers.
She stepped back, holding her drink close to her chest. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Your behavior. And level of contrition.”
“Contrition.” Bonnet gave a thin smile. “I am, what do you Americans say, ‘processing’ recent events. My lawyer advised me that I could sue, both my accuser Thanh Ly and the authorities. What do you think?”
“I think you don’t want to know what I think.”
He nodded. “No, I probably do not.” He sipped his drink, was silent for several seconds before he continued. “May I speak frankly?”
“Please do.”
“Yes, strings were pulled. And yes, my behavior was appalling. But I have paid a high price. Deserved, of course. But still …” He glanced upward as the overhead roar of a helicopter drowned out his voice, waited until it faded. “My wife has left me. I am a sex offender. I cannot see my children. There is a restraining order against me. I have lost my job. I am informed, through unofficial channels, that I have a fortnight to sort out my affairs, and then I must leave the United States. My UN career is over. So is my social life. I have been here an hour. You are the first person to talk to me.”
She looked around. Bonnet was right. The reception was packed but there was nobody within ten feet of the Frenchman. Yael looked him up and down. The mahogany permatan had been replaced by a prison pallor. Bonnet’s mane of dark, wavy hair was now a short crop, shot through with gray. His blue pin-striped suit, handmade on Savile Row, sagged on him and his shirt collar was loose around his neck. Its edge was covered with a light dusting of the face powder he used to disguise the scars of childhood acne. But even after spending most of a year inside the American penal system, much of it in isolation, his posture remained that of a former Foreign Legionnaire.
She did not believe for a moment that the sexual assault case against Bonnet had genuinely collapsed. He might appear repentant, but he was still a sexual predator. Nevertheless, she needed to talk to him. And talking to bad men was what she was good at. Especially when one held the key—or part of it—to her brother’s death.
Yael lowered her glass and stepped slightly closer. “I am sorry, Charles, that things turned out like this,” she said sympathetically.
Bonnet looked back warily at her, his expression one part relief because someone was talking to him and another part a rapid calibration of why. A phone ringing cut through the buzz of the party. He reached into his pocket, and saw his screen was flashing. “Please excuse me for a second.”
She nodded, and looked around her as he stepped away. The giant marquee covered most of the large open space in front of the steps ascending to the university library. Its light blue walls, the color of both the university and the UN, were subtly emblazoned with the UN symbol, Columbia’s emblem of a crown, and the letters KZX. Outside the air had turned chilly, but every few yards a standing space heater radiated warmth. The air smelled lightly of food and perfume. Waiters circulated with silver trays of drinks and bottles of champagne. White-jacketed chefs wheeled out steel trays of appetizers and enormous bowls of salad to add to the buffet being set up against the far wall, their barked instructions cutting through the buzz of conversation and background music. Fustat, a six piece Arab-African band, played in the corner of the marquee. Yael caught the eye of the vocalist, a plump twenty-something with wild black curly hair, and they exchanged smiles. Exactly two weeks ago she had watched Fustat play at Zone and danced with Najwa. But Yael did not think she would be dancing tonight.
The invitation had specified a starting time of seven o’clock, but it was now 8 p.m. and guests were still lined up three-deep on the red-tiled pathway leading from the university’s entrance on Broadway to the marquee. Security was intense. Invitees had to pass through two metal detectors, one at the entrance to the campus on Broadway and the second in front of the marquee, before they were hand-frisked. The thoroughfare had been sealed off to traffic ten blocks north, and also south, of the subway station at West 110th Street. Snipers had set up nests on the roofs of the library and every building nearby. Police checkpoints ringed the campus. Helicopters swooped and banked above. Every side street was packed with police cars and vans.
Despite the queues, body frisks, and scans—or perhaps because of them—the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. This Saturday night in Manhattan, the KZX-UN reception was the event. There was nothing the city loved more than money and glamour, and here there was plenty of both. Yael saw Fareed Hussein deep in conversation with Lucy Tremlett, the British actress and UN ambassador. Tremlett had brought along several A-list Hollywood friends, each of whom was trailed by several paparazzi. In one corner the editors of Vogue and Newsweek huddled together conspiratorially. In another stood several regal-looking elderly ladies, the queens of New York philanthropy, wearing either Chanel or Balenciaga.
A few yards away, Jonathan Beaufort was making what looked like a play for Collette Moreau, summoning the waiter for more champagne. Roxana was standing too close to the mayor, who was trying not to be distracted by the amount of cleavage her deep scoop-necked blue silk dress displayed as they talked. Roger Richardson was bringing a glass of champagne for Grace Olewanda, the SG’s secretary, resplendent in her green and gold traditional African outfit. Philippe, the Al-Jazeera cameraman, was filming Najwa as she interviewed the governor of New York. Yael felt a flicker of jealousy at seeing Sami Boustani, looking sharp in his black linen suit, ensconced with the blond correspondent for Russia Today, who was nodding enthusiastically at whatever he had to say. Yael caught Sami’s eye and mouthed the word later. He nodded, not very enthusiastically, then turned back to his companion. But what did she expect, after standing him up two nights ago—and Eli’s e-mail?