The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(91)

Hussein returned to the sofa, switched on the flat-screen television and flipped through the news channels. Akerman’s death and the files that had gone missing from the UN archives were being discussed on the BBC, Euronews, CNN, MSNBC, every news channel that he tried. He put down the remote control, picked up the list of accredited journalists and flicked through it. Roxana had spent a good part of the flight over memorizing the names and faces of reporters that she would allow to ask a question. All of them were earnest environmental reporters, completely uninterested in Akerman, Bonnet, Srebrenica, and Rwanda. “This Icelandic reporter, Rafnhildur,” he asked. “Who is she? Does she have an agenda?”

Roxana shook her head. “I am as surprised as you are. I met with her first thing this morning at seven thirty, before breakfast. I suggested a softball question about the summit putting Iceland on the map that I guaranteed that you would answer. I hinted strongly that if it went well, she could have an exclusive interview with you at the end of today about the summit. She agreed!”

Hussein sank back on the sofa, exhaled slowly. Another summit, another bland, luxurious hotel room. There would not be many more, he sensed. His time on the thirty-eighth floor was coming to an end.

The murder of a UN official, his personal envoy, outside his front door, was a very clear message. He personally did not fear assassination. There was no point. It was impossible to completely protect a dignitary from a determined killer. But he did fear the destruction of everything for which he had worked, his good name and future legacy. Reykjavik was supposed to be the pinnacle of his career. The Istanbul Summit had failed. Its vast multilateral agenda—bringing peace across the Middle East—had always been overambitious. But Reykjavik, he knew, could work. A straightforward reconciliation between two enemies whose maneuvers threatened to bring the world to the brink of war, all under the aegis of the UN. A major step toward world peace. This was to be his legacy, not the catastrophes of his time as head of peacekeeping, but now events were spinning out of control. Maybe he should give Rafnhildur that interview. Just hand over the two documents, give her the scoop of a lifetime, then sit back and watch the deluge, ending this misery of uncertainty.

But the two documents were not the worst of it. They could probably be explained away; blame shifted onto his subordinates, the wavering P5, most of all, the member states’ pusillanimity. If the USA, Britain, France, any of the P5, had really wanted to prevent the genocides in Rwanda and at Srebrenica, they would have. A few battalions of ground troops in Kigali; a wave of air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs—these were all that was needed. Either way, the media storm would eventually pass. Two UN reports had officially exonerated him. The SG was supposed to execute policy, not make it—although the reality was different. The worst of it was the recording. The recording where he had discussed—permitted, authorized—the death of five hundred people. That could not be explained away. The recording at least, remained secret.

Meanwhile, he had to make a choice, a choice that could not be finessed, side-stepped, or delegated. It was his, and his alone.

Yael had told him of Rina’s offer—her demand—on the flight to Reykjavik. He had lost his brother. His wife had left him. His only child had disowned him. Even Yael had not been able to get Rina back—until now, when she would reconcile but only on her terms: release the two documents about Rwanda and Srebrenica. So which would he sacrifice? His good name or his daughter?

The choice, he sensed, was being made for him. The ghosts that haunted the thirty-eighth floor, the whole of the Secretariat Building, were coming to life. The Tutsi families slaughtered at the Hutu checkpoints, the Bosnian men and boys lined up in a field, they were all rolling down the corridors, calling his name, demanding a reckoning. But why here, of all places?

Hussein said, “An Icelandic political reporter is suddenly up to speed on the inner workings of the UN archive? Who prepped her?”

“James Beaufort, maybe. Or Najwa. I will find out,” said Roxana.

Hussein held his head in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I have done what I could. I will resign on our return to New York.”

“No, Fareed! You will not. You will stay in office, until you hear otherwise.”

He looked at her with amazement. “Who are you, to threaten me? And what with?”

Roxana took out a small blue digital recorder from her pocket and pressed play.

Charles Bonnet’s voice said, “We need at least five hundred. That will have maximum impact.”

Hussein heard himself reply. “No, no, that is unnecessary. It’s far too much. A couple of hundred at most would be sufficient for our purposes. Less would suffice. Even a few dozen.”

*

Yael surfaced slowly, rotating through her senses, one by one, focusing on keeping her breathing deep and even, her limbs soft and relaxed. She was sitting in a car being driven carefully, no sudden acceleration or stops. Nothing to draw the attention of the police. Her hands, tied together with a plastic cuff, rested on her lap. The thin band cut into her skin. She moved her feet, subtly, and realized they were unbound. Her fingers, too, responded.

There were two voices in the car, Eli’s and a woman’s. Yael opened her eyes a tiny fraction for a second. The car was a gray four-door Ford family sedan, well used, with sagging blue upholstery. A good choice, unobtrusive. The woman was driving. She had straw-blond hair and wore a black parka. Eli was sitting next to her, close enough to Yael that she could smell his Issey Miyake cologne.