The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(82)

“The UN workers were to be taken hostage, then rescued by French peacekeepers.”

“But why? In exchange for what?”

“You will have to ask Fareed that. Or whoever was giving him orders.”

“And you did what?”

Bonnet shrugged. “What I had to. What I was told to do. Like a good soldier. Or peacekeeper. We know when not to intervene. Which, then, was most of the time.” He took another drag and watched the smoke trail into the air. Yael stayed silent.

“I …” he swallowed, trying to get the words out. He closed his eyes, and exhaled hard. The words came in a torrent. “I liaised with the Tutsis. With Hakizimani. The UN staff’s captor.” He swallowed again, paused. “Their murderer.”

For a second Yael was back in the Millennium Hotel, listening to Hakizimani.

“You tell your SG this. If he starts altering the terms now, I will personally ensure that our communications in 1994 and subsequent years are leaked to the press.”

*

“So you handed them over to be killed,” she said, surprising herself at how calm she remained.

“Not intentionally. They were supposed to be hostages. They were to be held for a day or two, then released.”

“But why? What was the point? What were the terms?”

Bonnet shrugged. “I don’t know. Really. I’m telling you the truth. Ask Fareed. Or the P5. I was just the facilitator. There was always a danger, of course, we knew that. We took a gamble. We lost. They were casualties of war. What do the Americans say? Collateral damage. Nine deaths among hundreds of thousands. It was chaos, we had no means of stopping it. It was not my fault. So I tell myself. Sometimes I even believe it. Whose fault was it? Everybody’s. Nobody’s.” He paused, turned to face her. “But you, Yael, you know all about secret deals.”

Yael bristled. “I have never handed over anybody to be killed.”

Bonnet laughed, a brittle sound. “Please. We are having an adult conversation, are we not? How many killers have you let walk free on Fareed’s orders? Killers who later continued their slaughter. How many warlords have escaped justice because the P5 or the global corporations decided it would be inconvenient to call them to account? And then got you to do the dirty work.”

She did not reply. She looked at the ground. Bonnet’s questions were precisely the ones she had been asking herself lately. She did not like the answers.

He paused, and looked at his cigarette. “You said you knew one of them. Which one?”

“David. David Weiss.”

“How? You were what then, fifteen, sixteen years old? How does a teenage girl living in London know an American aid worker in Kigali? I remember the boy. He was good-looking. Green eyes, like yours.” He stared at Yael. “Like yours …” A slow realization dawned across his face. “Of course. So that’s why you dig so hard. David Weiss was your …”

There was no point in lying. “Brother.”

Bonnet looked away, clearly shocked. “I had no idea. I am sorry.”

“So am I. You lost a gamble. They lost their lives.” Anger and regret curdled inside her. Had the man sitting next to her acted differently, shown some courage, not followed instructions, her brother might still be alive. But there was no point attacking him now. Especially when she needed more information. “I have another question.”

“Go ahead,” said Bonnet.

“What were you doing when you were seconded to the Prometheus Group from the DPKO?”

His weary cynicism evaporated. He suddenly looked alarmed. “How on earth did you …”

“An old version of the UN website. It must have been posted by mistake. It was taken down, but it’s still out there in cyberspace, if you know where to look.”

Bonnet dropped his cigarette on the ground. “I always admired you. Really, it’s not just a Frenchman’s flattery, although it would have been nice if that had worked.” He crushed the butt with his shoe. “But be warned. You are poking a hornet’s nest. Nobody has your back. Fareed will throw you overboard in a second.”

From here, Yael could see out over the campus’s gardens, the carefully trimmed hedges; the grand stairs to the library entrance with its row of columns; even right across Broadway, to the apartment blocks that overlooked the thoroughfare. For a moment she thought she saw something or someone moving on a roof, a glint of light, a reflection on glass. Night was falling but there was still plenty of illumination from the streetlights, shops, and apartment windows. She glanced back. Nothing. It must have been a shadow.

Yael had enjoyed her time at Columbia, worked hard for her master’s. But her real education had started at the Department of Peacekeeping. Would Fareed “throw her overboard”? He had done so once already. But now their lives were more entangled than ever. She was about to reply when a movement in the distance caught her eye. She looked out again across Broadway, to the roof of the apartment block. Not one, but two people. Her heart sped up. She knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Time slowed, almost stopped.

Yael glanced at Bonnet.

A red dot appeared on his chest.

Collateral damage.

She glanced again at the roof of the apartment building.

A photograph of Bonnet with his African wife and their son and daughter.