The Geneva Option (27 page)

Thirty

Y
ael closed her eyes and concentrated as hard as she could, summoning the memories with every one of her senses: the hotel's crisp cotton bedsheets smooth against her back, the pillow firm under her bottom, the taste of the champagne chilling in the ice bucket, the sound of his voice whispering in her ear, the smell of his lemon cologne.

The door opened and Mahesh Kapoor walked in. The storage room in the basement was small and empty. The walls and floor were bare gray concrete. One narrow, high window looked out onto the sidewalk. Yael sat in the middle, her ankles tied to a chair with nylon ropes, her hands bound behind her.

Kapoor walked over to her and slowly stroked her head—a familiar heavy, black, old-fashioned cell phone in his hand. “Yael, Yael. What are we to do with you? And this?” he said, his voice full of regret, picking up a strand of her hair. “You know I always loved your long hair.”

Yael said, “It will grow back.”

Kapoor shook his head sadly. “I don't think so. Not this time.”

“Where is Jasna?”

Kapoor smiled. “In a better place than you are.”

Yael's eyes opened wide in alarm. “You didn't—”

“Of course not,” Kapoor interrupted, frowning. She is being questioned by the UN police, after which she will be handed over to the Swiss authorities.”

“And Olivia?” She looked straight at him. “Why did you kill her?”

He stepped back, puzzled. “I didn't kill her. I don't know what you are talking about.”

Yael wriggled on the chair, moving her hands. She felt the rope around her right wrist slip slightly. “Olivia was my friend. She was so happy to have met someone. She was already half in love with you. And what a horrible way to die.”

Kapoor looked genuinely confused. “I really don't know what you mean. The preliminary findings of the UN investigation point toward suicide. She was lonely, she had no family, she knew that big changes were coming at the SG's office, and she would probably not be part of them. It was true that we had met a couple of times for dinner. But that was for work. She built a fantasy around that. It was very sad.”

He walked back to the chair and lifted Yael's chin with the antenna of the cell phone. Yael flinched. “Don't worry. It's not switched on. Yet. But if there is a killer in this room, I don't think it's me.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Yael as she carefully slid her wrists back and forth. She could feel the rope slackening further. If she could bend her index finger and squeeze it under the knot she might be able to undo it.

“Kandahar,” Kapoor said confidently. “And Sharif Iqbal, your translator.”

Yael willed herself to be strong now. Her personal life and her past
did not matter
. Getting out of here with what she had learned
did
. Because Kapoor knew exactly what he was doing. They had discussed what happened in Kandahar for hours in the bedroom of the UN Millennium Hotel, over and over again. He knew every detail: that one night, cold, lonely, and frightened in a village controlled by the Taliban, Yael had climbed into Sharif's tent and into his sleeping bag. Sharif had immediately fallen in love with her, announced their forthcoming wedding to his family, and had started making preparations until Yael had gently explained that she could not marry him.

Sharif had been devastated. His father was furious. Sharif had begged her to go through with the ceremony just for form's sake, and then she could go back to Kabul or New York or wherever she wanted and they need never see each other again. She could still see him—his eyes as green as emeralds, glistening with tears—pleading with her to spare him and his family the humiliation. She only had to pretend for an evening.

Just one evening, for the sake of his and the family's honor. “Then, Miss Yael, you will be free,” she could still hear him saying. “Miss Yael, I am begging you, do not do this to us. You will be gone soon, but we have to live here.”

That was six years ago, when she was full of certainty, self-righteousness, and politically correct ideas about women's rights and the need to modernize Afghanistan. She refused to go through with the wedding, although she easily could have. Sharif disappeared and she and Joe-Don returned to Kandahar. There, several days later, one of her contacts in the Taliban told her that Sharif had gone through the martyrdom ceremony and had planned to target the bazaar just before Friday prayers, when the Old City would be the most crowded.

Yael looked Kapoor in the eye. “I didn't kill Sharif.”

He held her gaze. “No, you did not. You didn't have the courage to pull the trigger. But you arranged it.”

“Yes, I did. I told the people who needed to know that he was wired with enough explosives to blow half the bazaar sky high. I told them where and when he would approach the city. There was no other way. I saved dozens of lives.”

Kapoor walked nearer to her. “None of which would ever have been at risk if you had not seduced a naïve young man with no experience with women at all, let alone Western ones. Just because you were lonely and scared. You used your status and your power for your own selfish pleasure with no thought of how it would turn his life upside down.”

Kapoor was completely correct. “I know. And there is not a day goes by that I don't think about that and live with the consequences.”

“And then you took a life, didn't you? One growing inside you.”

She forced herself to feel no emotions. “Yes, I did that as well. Sharif's child.”

Her right index finger was almost free. “But I have never pushed anyone off a balcony thirty-eight floors up.”

“And neither have I.”

“Heshi . . . can I ask you a personal question?” Yael held his gaze, her eyes wide with curiosity, her mouth slightly open. He nodded.

“Did you . . . like Olivia?”

He shrugged. “She was quite interesting company, but she was nothing much to look at. Even with all the money she spent on clothes.” He walked around to the back of the chair and yanked the ropes much tighter. “Sorry. A good try though.”

Yael grabbed his fingers. “But you did like me, Heshi, when we were together. Didn't you? It was not just an office thing? It meant something?” she said, rubbing her fingers up and down against his.

He squeezed her hand, let it go, and stood at her side, gently stroking her neck. “Yael, what a question. Of course it did. I will always treasure our time together. It will be the most wonderful memorial of you—although, unfortunately, a private one.”

His fingers were warm and dry on her neck as they slid up and down, caressing her skin behind her ear, where she loved to be touched. Yael closed her eyes and sighed, willing herself back into the double room at the Millennium Hotel, and her excited anticipation as she readied herself for him.

She opened her eyes. Her breath was thick in her throat now, her nipples stiffening against her shirt. Mahesh was staring at the outlines of her breasts, straining against the soft fabric. “Look what you are doing to me. Heshi . . . please. Kiss me. Kiss me like you used to,” she pleaded, her voice thick and husky.

Yael willed Kapoor closer, sensing his arousal. She opened her mouth wider, breathing faster, her tongue between her lips, feeling the wetness between her legs. She leaned toward him, her face raised in supplication. “Heshi, please, nobody made me come like you did . . .”

Kapoor smiled as though the compliment was no less than his due and moved his head toward hers.

T
he fashion and celebrity journalists jumped out of their seats and ran toward the front as Hobo walked in, wearing a long purple African robe and a matching turban. He shook hands with Fareed Hussein and Reinhardt Daintner and kissed Lucy Tremlett on both cheeks. Tremlett walked around the front desk and stood next to Hobo, and held his hand. The room erupted in a blaze of camera flashes as dozens of photographers and television camera crews surged forward, elbowing each other out of the way.

The first mud bomb hit Henrik Schneidermann on the side of the head. He looked puzzled, shocked, then fearful to discover that he was drenched with thick yellow sludge. The second smacked into Fareed Hussein's shoulder, and the third landed on the desk in front of Reinhardt Daintner, covering his gray silk suit with muck.

Sami and Jonathan turned to look up at the balcony, from where the bombs were coming. The African journalists were not just journalists, it seemed. They lowered a long banner: “Stop the Coltan Plundering: African Resources for African People.”

There were a dozen of them leaning over the balcony shouting and raining down projectiles. The camera crews and photographers turned simultaneously and directed their lenses toward the upper floor. Hussein and Daintner cowered under the table. Hobo and Lucy Tremlett rushed toward the door. As they opened it a mud bomb exploded over their heads, spattering them with the thick goo.

Sami and Jonathan looked up toward the balcony. A pretty young Indian woman held a megaphone, shouting, “If you want coltan, then here it is. Dig it out like the miners do.”

She took careful aim at Fareed Hussein and lobbed a mud bomb under the table. It hit a leg and burst over the secretary-general. UN police officers were now rushing into the Council Chamber and the balcony.

Sami and Jonathan watched as two UN policemen grabbed the young woman and frog-marched her away.

Sami turned to Jonathan. “Isn't she . . .”

Jonathan nodded. “She certainly is.”

They both grinned and high-fived. “
Story
.”

Thirty-One

Y
ael jerked backed and slammed her forehead into the bridge of Kapoor's nose. She felt the bone splinter with a loud crack. He collapsed on the floor, blood gushing from his nostrils, the black handset tumbling from his hands. He sat up, spat out a gout of blood, wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, and scrabbled for the handset.

Yael twisted herself sideways and flipped the chair over, landing on top of him. The chair sank into his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. His hand was under her face and she turned her head to the side, took the flesh in her mouth, and bit as hard as she could until her teeth pierced his skin.

He screamed in agony and tried to push her away. She slid off his prone body and hit the floor, gasping in pain as the weight of her body forced the chair legs onto her limbs.

Kapoor grabbed the handset and stood up, fumbling with the buttons. He walked toward her, swaying on his feet, blood running from his nose to his mouth to his shirt.

He raised the handset like a dagger, the prong pointing at her face.

The door opened.

Yael heard a muffled pop.

Kapoor flew back against the wall and slid to the floor.

His face was contorted in pain, and there was more blood, this time streaming between his fingers, which were clamped to his leg. The handset fell to the floor.

Yael felt the chair rising as she was righted.

The gunman kneeled on the floor behind her and untied her hands and legs. He took her arm and led her toward the door.

“Thanks. But what about . . .” she asked, turning toward Kapoor, who was now shivering and turning gray, his teeth chattering.

The gunman smiled dismissively. “Low-caliber flesh wound. We have already called an ambulance.”

“Please, just check him. We will be in a lot of trouble if he dies. And I need to get the blood back in my hands and feet before I can walk,” said Yael, wiggling her feet and rubbing her legs as the waves of pins and needles coursed through her limbs.

She moved nearer the black handset, which was lying on the floor.

The gunman sighed and walked over to Kapoor. He looked him up and down and rummaged in his pocket. He took out an army-issue field dressing, ripped the cover off, lifted Kapoor's hand from his wound, placed the dressing against the bullet, and put Kapoor's hand back on it. “Keep pressing. You'll live. Lots of blood but no real danger. Like I said, help is already on its way.”

He turned to Yael. “We really need to get out of here. Joe-Don is waiting.”

He walked to the door, Yael following behind him. It was funny the things you noticed in these situations, she thought. The gunman was completely bald and she had never seen anyone whose ears stuck out as much as his.

Y
ael sat back in the battered Peugeot sedan as it cruised along the Avenue de France down to the Quai Wilson. They had left the Palais des Nations by an obscure delivery entrance that she had not known existed, but other than that, everything looked normal. The Iranian and African demonstrators were still gathered under the broken chair, the fountains on the Place des Nations were spraying merrily, the sky was gray and overcast, and it had started to rain. So much had happened that it was hard to believe that it was still only noon.

There were three of them in the car: the driver and the bald man in the front, Yael in the back. They would take her down to the Jetée des Pâquis, the bald man explained. The Jetée stretched out into the lake from the Quai Wilson, not far from the Place Jean-Marteau. Yael watched the thin drizzle run down the car windows. The Place Jean-Marteau where someone had shot the man sitting next to Joe-Don with a sniper rifle, she thought, her unease growing. The bald man turned around as he talked to her, all smiles and reassurance. A boat would be waiting for her at the end of the
jetée
, by the lighthouse, he explained. It would pick her up and take her to a safe house on the other side of the lake, where Joe-Don was waiting. His breath smelled sour, of coffee and stale tobacco.

It was not exactly the plan she had agreed to with Joe-Don. He said he would be waiting somewhere on the Place des Nations and that she should call him as soon as she was out of the building. They were supposed to go to the Jetée des Pâquis together, where
he
would have a boat ready. He was supposed to take her to the safe house, not meet her there. But the best-laid plans never worked out precisely as they should. Neither of them had factored in Charles Bonnet or Mahesh Kapoor.

She looked through the car window at the lake as they turned onto the Quai Wilson. The right side of the road was lined with grandiose apartment blocks and shops. A wide cycle and pedestrian path reached from the left edge of the road to the lakeside, which was protected by a low wall. A thick mist rose above the water, spilling out onto the road. The gray art nouveau streetlights that were spread along the shore suddenly lit up. Many of the cars now had their headlights on as well. A motorcyclist on a red Yamaha trail bike drove in the middle of the road, a hundred yards behind them, keeping pace with the flow of traffic. The rain was falling harder now but everything looked normal.

But who was this bald guy? He had rescued her, certainly, and he knew the rendezvous point. Yet Joe-Don had not mentioned him at all, and they had spent hours going over the plan and its permutations. And where was Joe-Don? Yael slid nearer the door, rubbing her wrists and ankles, feigning exhaustion.

She could see the Jetée des Pâquis in the distance, a long and thin spit curving out into the water. Down the middle ran a concrete path to the white tower at the tip overlooking the lake. The mist was quite thick now, and the car kept a steady pace with the traffic. Yael slowly pulled on the door handle. It was locked. Could mean something, could mean nothing. It was quite an old car, old enough not to have childproof locks. She watched the windshield wipers swish back and forth. The skies suddenly opened, unleashing a torrent of water, sloshing over the sidewalk, the road, and across the windshield.

“Where is Joe-Don?” she asked the bald man.

“I told you, he is waiting for us in the safe house. On the other side of the lake,” he replied, turning around again. He smiled as he spoke but his deep-set gray eyes were expressionless.

She took out her mobile telephone. The bald man shook his head.

“No mobile calls, please. For your own security,” he said, turning around and holding out his hand for her handset, his shoulder holster hanging from his left armpit.

Yael suddenly knew she was in extreme danger. Her left hand curled around the stun-gun handset in her coat pocket. She pressed the button on the side to set the charge.

She sat back, braced herself against the car seat, and kicked the driver in the back of his head as hard as she could.

He flew forward, and his face smashed into the steering wheel. The Peugeot skidded across the center of the road into the oncoming traffic, its tires screeching in protest. It smashed into an oncoming BMW, sent it flying across the road, and spun around 360 degrees, triggering a cacophony of outraged honking. The force of the impact threw Yael backward hard against the seat. The Peugeot's windows shattered, raining glass shards down on her.

The bald man smashed against the right-side passenger window frame, bounced off the windshield, and slammed back into his seat. He shook his head, blinked several times, and reached for his gun.

Yael jumped forward and jabbed him in the neck with the stun gun. He roared in pain and fury, but the prong slipped against his shirt as the car continued sliding across the road.

He reared up and aimed a left hook at her head. She grabbed his wrist, pulled him toward her, and tried to punch him in the throat, but her fist only glanced off his neck.

The car bumped over the step that divided the road from the lakeside cycle path.

The bald man lunged at her again. She dodged sideways.

The car hit a tree, spun around again, skidded over the sodden sidewalk, slammed into the low stone wall at the edge of the lake, and finally stopped.

Yael felt her head smash into the door frame, and the world went black for several seconds. She opened her eyes and the bald man was reaching for her.

She pushed back and kicked him in the face, breaking his nose. He fell backward, blood trickling from his nostrils.

She yanked on the door handle and kicked the door with all her strength. It still would not open. She climbed through the shattered window, ignoring the pain as the slivers of broken glass ripped her clothes and cut into her skin.

Yael stumbled out of the car and sprinted across the sidewalk onto the
jetée
. It was several meters wide, flanked on one side by rocks and on the other by small boats that bobbed in the water. A metal balustrade ran down the middle. The sky had turned the color of gunmetal, the rain was pouring, and the wind was blowing in hard from the lake.

Yael was drenched in seconds as the wet gusts hit her. Sirens sounded in the distance. The concrete was wet and slippery underfoot. Her left leg slid out from under her, but she grabbed the metal handrail and rapidly corrected herself.

The bald man ran after her. She weaved from side to side, her breath raw in her throat, as the crack of the bullets echoed over the water. Her sodden clothes clung to her, slowing her down as she ran along the
jetée
, rock chips flying all around her.

The sirens wailed louder, and now she could hear the sound of a motorcycle engine. A few yards ahead was a staircase, one side of a short bridge that rose over the lake for ten meters or so. She ran up the stairs, taking three at a time, and dashed along the concrete and back down the stairs on the other side. She stepped off the side of the
jetée
. The water was only a meter deep but it was freezing, burning into her cuts and wounds with a cold fire.

Yael crouched under the bridge, shivering violently as she searched for a loose rock.

The bald man ran down the stairs. She looked up as he stopped in front of her and scanned the
jetée
ahead. Her hand closed around a large, smooth stone.

She jumped back onto the path behind him and slammed the rock into the side of his head. He pitched forward instantly, swinging his gun around as he fell. He fired several times.

Yael leapt sideways as the bullets smashed into the walkway. Suddenly she spun around as though lifted by a giant hand and landed facedown on the path, scraping her face along the rough concrete. The adrenaline was pumping so hard she was oblivious to the bullet that had hit her.

The bald man got up and staggered toward her, blood gushing from the cut in the side of his head and from his shattered nose. He wiped his face and raised the gun again.

Yael jumped to the right, grabbed the gun barrel, and yanked it sideways. The bullets hammered into the concrete, bouncing in every direction, sending a fresh spray of rock chips against her legs.

Yael whirled around and punched him in the throat.

He slammed his fist into her shoulder. She collapsed.

She fell to the floor, slid backward along the wet concrete, and kicked him as hard as she could in the back of his knee. He went down on top of her.

They rolled off the
jetée
into the water. He landed under her.

She sat up, clamped his pelvis between her legs, and forced his head down with both hands, ignoring the freezing cold and the agony consuming the whole left side of her body.

The water erupted around them. His feet thrashed and an arm reached for her, flailed wildly, and fell back.

The fury surged through her and her breathing turned harsh and ragged. She was sitting on David's shoulders, laughing as he strode through Central Park, and her fingers were steel talons.

A foot broke the surface, kicked up, and then sank.

She raised her head to the sky, taking in great gulps of air, the rain pouring down her face, the blood seeping red then pink from her shoulder as it ran down her arm into the water. Her legs were a vise.

The churning slowed. She felt her fingers digging into his flesh, his hands grasping at her clothes, gripping her jacket, and then falling away. The bald man kicked once, twice, feeble twitches now. The water calmed and became still.

Yael let go. She stood up and staggered out of the lake to see the motorcyclist maneuver his red Yamaha down the steps. The rider jumped off at the bottom, ignoring the spinning wheels and screaming engine.

He took in the sight of Yael: sodden, bloodied, wild-eyed. Police sirens howled loudly nearby. A helicopter flew low overhead, its blades sending waves across the water.

The bald man floated facedown in the lake. A crimson pool spread out at Yael's feet. She looked at her hands, staring at her fingers as though they belonged to someone else. She shivered violently and her legs began to shake.

Joe-Don took off his helmet and walked toward her.

“You took your time,” said Yael—and passed out.