The Washington Stratagem (10 page)

Yael turned away from the river and walked into the park for a couple of minutes, picking her way through the trees along a narrow muddy path. The sound of traffic faded away, replaced by the trilling and cooing of birds. The sun had broken through now. The leaves, still wet with morning dew, sparkled in the light. She sat on a heavy branch that had fallen to the ground and leaned back against a tree. Two sparrows landed nearby, chirping happily before they suddenly took off in unison, soaring upward, into the trees.

She is lying on her back, on a narrow metal bed, naked apart from a green hospital smock. The room is white, spotless. The doctor is a woman in her forties, with a kind face
.

The IV needle slips easily into her arm. She feels the speculum slide inside her, the metal cold against her skin
.

Yael closed her eyes, held her head in her hands, and let the tears flow.

The gray Post-it note was tiny, barely the size of a stamp. Sami might have missed it if it hadn’t been stuck to the handle of the door to his office. He peeled it off and read the handwritten message: “Your dinner is on the table.” He checked the door again, carefully, in case there were any more mini missives. He felt excited and guilty—very guilty. Excited, because he had finally made the front page above the fold, with a story across six columns. “UN Envoy in Mystery Visit to Millennium Hotel” was that day’s lead—and the newspaper had an exclusive on Najwa’s CCTV footage, which was now the most-watched film in the history of the newspaper’s website. Sami’s editors were ecstatic.

His telephone had been ringing nonstop all morning. Jonathan Beaufort, the veteran UN correspondent for the
Times
of London had called him at 6:00 a.m. to try and get more details. Beaufort, the doyen of the UN press corps, was Sami’s greatest rival. He had covered the organization for more than twenty years, had seen several SGs come and go, and had an unrivalled network of contacts. Beaufort was usually a day or so ahead of the rest of the press pack, except for Sami. It was already one o’clock in the afternoon in London, and Beaufort’s editors were demanding a follow-up. Sami had eventually agreed to meet him today in the Delegates Dining Room for lunch. The DDR, as it was known, was Sami’s favorite restaurant in the New York headquarters, renowned for the quality of its gossip and intrigue as much as for its food and spectacular views over the East River.

Guilty, because he knew he had hurt someone who cared about him. Someone smart, beautiful, and brave, who seemed—to his amazement—to be attracted to him. Sami had barely slept that night and not only because of the telephone calls from his relatives scattered across the Arab world who had been thrilled to see him on Al Jazeera. He turned the sequence of events over and over in his head, wondering if he had made the right move in choosing his career over his personal life. And not for the first time. He had burned her, again, and knew that this time there would be no going back. But nobody had forced him to, and so now he would have to live with the consequences.

Sami was thirty-five years old. He had joined the Gray Lady as a trainee a decade ago, fresh from Columbia University’s postgraduate journalism program. His parents were incredulous when he’d managed to win a job at the country’s most important newspaper with no personal connections or bribes. Even now, when he offered his thick white business card, embossed with his name and title of “United Nations Correspondent,” he still felt the same frisson as on his first day. This was his third staff position, after covering Congress in Washington, DC, and a brief stint at Parliament in London. He had enjoyed London but was still mystified by the Brits. Their love of understatement and the passive conditional, and their inability to say anything directly made them impossible to decode. How did so many of them manage to do so well in New York? There were no such communication problems at the UN. The Secretariat was a hive of diplomatic maneuvering, insider information, and international intrigue, handily located a twenty-minute walk from his apartment.

Sami’s contacts usually either worked for the UN itself, or one of the dozens of diplomatic missions nearby. Often there was no need to even leave the building because all the information needed for an article could be gleaned in its bars, cafés, and long, narrow corridors. The main question when dealing with contacts and sources was not so much the information they had, but the basis on which it could be reported. Sami was not naive enough to think that diplomats and UN officials told him things because of their commitment to freedom of information. His sources almost always had an agenda. There were four levels of attribution. On the record, meaning the source could be named, was usually the least useful. Nobody, apart from official department spokesmen and women, wanted to be reported as having any views or opinions on anything, and even official spokespeople were careful to be as anodyne as possible. If the conversation was going well, he pushed for a “UN official with knowledge of the issue,” which narrowed the field but was still sufficiently anonymous. If that didn’t work, Sami could usually persuade the source to be a “UN official,” which, he argued, was adequate camouflage, as around sixty thousand people worked for the UN across the world. Otherwise, he settled for “deep background,” which meant the information could be used but not attributed to anyone. Whatever their basis, the conversations were still worth having and all added nuance and texture to Sami’s understanding. The really sharp operators knew how to play the system backward and kill a story. When Sami heard the words “I am going to tell you this but you cannot use it,” he stopped the conversation—because to carry on would prevent him using that information if he heard it from another source.

Despite its repeated impotence, most recently in Syria, the UN was still the center of international negotiations, and the SG the world’s most influential diplomat, especially during times of crisis. Decisions made by the Security Council had the force of international law. Every one of the 192 member states expended much time and energy trying to find out what those decisions might involve. Information, not money, was the building’s most valuable currency. It could be—and was—bought and sold, traded and swapped. The mere sight of two diplomats from hostile countries attending the same reception could trigger speculative cables back to foreign ministries, pontificating about a potential reconciliation.

The very geography of the UN complex lent itself to intrigue. Those who wanted to be seen talking together gathered in the Delegates Lounge, a long, wide space on the ground floor of the General Assembly building, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto First Avenue. A small raised bar at the far end, up a flight of stairs, offered a little more privacy. Away from the see-and-be-seen places were several obscure cafés and coffee bars in the bowels of the buildings. Each floor of the Secretariat Building had a small maintenance balcony that looked out over the building’s inner airshaft, reached by a door from the main corridor. Until recently, these had also been popular places for confidential assignations. However, the murder of Olivia de Souza had reduced their appeal. Any invitation to meet on a balcony immediately prompted morbid quips about writing wills or buying a parachute.

Almost everybody wanted to talk to the
New York Times
, and most of his sources were just a few minutes’ walk or an elevator ride away from the door of his office in the press complex in the Secretariat Building. Some contacts wanted to be wined and dined in nearby gourmet restaurants; others enjoyed a conspiratorial huddle on a little-known back staircase. He had once felt someone slide a folded piece of paper into his jacket pocket in a crowded elevator. It was an expenses claim from the assistant secretary-general for public affairs: $39,000 for a trip to the UN headquarters in Geneva with his research assistant. The resulting story had set off a firestorm and promises of reform. Six weeks later the man had been promoted to department head, taking his “assistant” with him.

Sami opened the door, and the smell of warm, stale food hit him. His desk was covered in a mess of yellow rice, sultanas, and pieces of chicken. His computer monitor was streaked with thick white yogurt, slivers of cucumber, and shreds of fresh mint that had congealed in a puddle underneath. His chair was covered with a soft brown mess. He quickly stepped toward it and sniffed, relieved to discover that the dark slop dripping onto the floor was the remains of a chocolate mousse. An empty bottle of Taittinger champagne had rolled into one corner, a bottle of Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc into another.

Sami picked his way through a pool of liquid on the floor that stank of alcohol. At first, his keyboard, at least, seemed to have escaped. But when he looked closer, it was dripping. He picked it up and tipped it sideways. A thin trickle of white wine ran out onto the floor.

The door opened and Najwa appeared. She was about to speak until she took in the scene in front of her.

“She said she was going to make maqluba,” said Sami, his voice wry as he tilted the dripping keyboard.

Najwa could not stop laughing. “And she did.
Wallah
. She is really pissed at you.”

Sami put the keyboard down, the wine still seeping from the corner. He looked for somewhere to sit in the chaos, but gave up. “I wonder why.”

Najwa walked over to his desk and poked about in the mess. She extracted a small strip of brown bark and sniffed it. “Fresh cinnamon. You missed a great meal.”

“I didn’t miss anything. It’s here. All over the office.” He shook his head, as though trying to convince himself. “It’s better like this. It would never work.”

Najwa dropped the cinnamon in the trash can. “No. It would not. It’s very simple. You are a reporter. It’s your job to report. You cannot date your sources or the people you write about. If you don’t like it, then get another job.”

“I don’t want another job. I’m good at this one,” said Sami, as he traced a pattern in the yellow puddle of wine on his desk.

“Yes, you are. So let’s clear this mess up.”

Yael swerved as the man’s fist flew at her.

She parried the blow with her right hand, smacking his knuckles away with an open palm, and countered with a fast left hook. He jumped away from her punch.

She jabbed again with her left and then again with her right, her palm stinging from the impact. He blocked her; she dodged and punched. Her vision narrowed, her breathing rasped in her throat, and the sweat flew from her head like a fine spray.

The pounding bass of Eminem’s “Rap God” filled the space, his voice raw and angry, the thumping beat pumping up the flow of her adrenaline. All thoughts of wrecked dates, doomed romances, and meals cooked but uneaten were gone, burned away in the fierce concentration of the fight. Her body was on fire, her focus total, her eyes locked not on her opponent’s face, but his upper chest, whose muscles signaled the movement his arms were about to make.

The gym was large and well equipped, reserved for residents of her apartment block. Rows of television screens hung suspended from the ceiling. A giant air conditioner rattled and hummed. Much of the space was taken up with lines of running, rowing, and cycling machines. There was a rack of weights in one corner, exercise balls in another, and a couple of benches. The floor of one corner was covered with blue exercise mats, now slippery with their sweat.

She came back with a right hook, twisting her body around for extra power. His right arm flew up, blocked her arm just above her wrist. She winced from the impact. In the second that Yael was exposed, he jumped forward, bear-hugged her under her arms, and lifted her up.

Yael had practiced Krav Maga—Hebrew for
contact combat
—for more than twenty years. Invented in the 1930s by Imre Lichtenfeld, a Hungarian Jewish boxer, as a means for Jews to defend themselves against Fascist attacks, Krav Maga was soon adopted by the Israeli army and numerous other military and law enforcement agencies. It is fast, effective, and dirty—at least compared to the formalities and etiquette of karate and kung fu. Most techniques consist of three or four moves: block, counterattack, disable the attacker, and leave the danger zone—all as quickly as possible. But the essence of Krav Maga, born out of the Holocaust, could be summed up in one word:
fight
. Yael practiced every day for at least half an hour, followed by half an hour of yoga. Yoga kept her flexible, calm, and centered. Krav Maga kept her alive.

Yael leaned back and drove her thumbs forward, straight at his eyes. There was no defense against this move. The body instantly dropped back, the reflex to save eyesight hardwired into the human brain.

He let her go.

Eminem faded away as the track ended.

They stepped apart and bumped fists, panting as the sweat poured off them.

“Feel better now?” asked Joe-Don Pabst as he handed Yael a pint bottle of Poland Spring mineral water and a towel.

She wiped her face with the towel and quickly emptied the bottle. Her heart was racing; her muscles ached; her arms, wrists, and palms were red with the impact of smacking away Joe-Don’s punches.

She looked at the clock on the wall—it was nine o’clock in the morning. Her half-hour private session was over. Someone was already knocking at the door.

Yael smiled. “Yes. Much.”

“You did what?” asked Joe-Don forty-five minutes later, his voice disbelieving, his fork suspended in midair over a plate of eggs and bacon.

Yael briskly explained, for the second time, the fate of most of the dinner she had cooked for her and Sami.

“When did you go?”

“This morning, around dawn. I couldn’t sleep. I also gave some of the food to a homeless guy but I still feel kind of guilty. It was a terrible waste,” said Yael.

The waitress appeared and placed three plates in front of Yael. The first held a large tortilla, still steaming from the pan, the second was filled with brown lima beans, and the third held a tomato and onion salad.

Joe-Don looked at the food. “Are you going to eat all of that?”