The Washington Stratagem (15 page)

Jones, however, seemed completely unperturbed as he rode the rise and fall of the waves. Then he suddenly turned around, scanning the passenger deck. Yael instantly dropped her head, absorbed in the
New York Times
crossword. She could see, out of the corner of her eyes, that he was walking toward the stairs to the lower deck. She was about to stand up and follow him when a plump woman in her early thirties sat down next to her.

“One day,” her instructor tells her, “you will be on a mission, maybe in a foreign country. You will meet someone you know
—by pure chance, in a hotel, an elevator, or an airport. The world is much smaller than we think. They will say your name. You may be far from home, in danger, so happy to see a friendly face.”

“And what do I do?” she asks
.

“You learn to lie. Or you die.”

They had harvested her life and given her a list of people, places, and times. College friends gathering in a café, former army comrades having a reunion, even her childhood sweetheart on his way home from work
.

She had appeared as instructed, made sure she was seen at each place. None of her friends knew she was coming; all were pleased to see her
—at first
.

She passed every test: shrugged off their greetings, stayed stone-faced at their protestations, walked away from their pleas. Most were puzzled; a couple became angry. Several believed her, and apologized for their mistake, for bothering her. The power of it thrilled and terrified her
.

Her instructors are pleased. She has done very well, and the exercise is over. She is free for the rest of the day. She calls her favorite cousin, Sarah, and arranges to meet at a café on Dizengoff Street
.

“Yael?” the woman sitting down next to her asked.

Yael said nothing.

The woman peered around and stared into Yael’s face. “I thought it was you,” she said delightedly, her Bronx accent cutting through the rumble of the boat’s motors. “What are you doing here?”

The buzz of conversation in the pressroom faded away as Henrik Schneidermann walked in, flanked by Roxana Voiculescu holding the printouts of the day’s briefing notes. Many of the UN press corps were genuine journalists, but their numbers were leavened with a good number of spies whose reports were much appreciated by their bosses but certainly never published. Several correspondents, Schneidermann knew, reported both for their declared media and to their national intelligence service. Some “correspondents” had never written a news story, nor would they know how to, because they were not journalists but relatives of diplomats at the various missions to the UN who wanted an easy way to get a US visa.

Usually, a few dozen journalists at most turned up for Schneidermann’s weekly briefings. A good turnout was around one hundred. Today, there were more than double that. It seemed to Schneidermann that every accredited reporter was here, rows of them, staring at him as though he were about to announce the second coming. The UN rumor mill had been working overtime during the last couple of days: Yael Azoulay was about to be stripped of her legal immunity and arrested in connection with the death of Jean-Pierre Hakizimani; the Swiss authorities had demanded her extradition because she’d drowned someone, possibly an American, in Lake Geneva; Fareed Hussein was in the hospital after suffering a heart attack; the Istanbul Summit was about to be canceled; Caroline Masters had organized a coup.

The back of the room and the sides were filled with television crews: Schneidermann counted familiar faces from the BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, Reuters, Russia Today, and Associated Press, as well as teams from Japan, Brazil, Pakistan, India, and South Africa. A platoon of microphones, their thick tangle of black cables trailing onto the floor, stood on the long wooden desk in front of his lectern. The camera operators fussed over their headphones, checked their sound readings, and peered through their viewfinders, while their correspondents subtly jostled each other, trying to ensure that they had a better position than the competition. Najwa al-Sameera and her crew were in pole position, at the front of the room on the right-hand side.

Sami Boustani, Schneidermann saw, was in his customary place, leaning on the wall toward the back of the room, looking strangely preoccupied. Sami rarely asked questions at the press briefing. He had no taste for grandstanding, and also did not want to reveal even a hint of his interests for fear of alerting the competition to a potential story. Instead he usually arranged to see Schneidermann privately.

The UN spokesman stood at his lectern, its beige wood emblazoned with the UN emblem, against a backdrop of dark blue fabric. His slim, angular microphone pointed upward on a metal rod. Roxana walked down the rows of chairs, handing out that day’s printed briefing: a one-page biography of Caroline Masters and the usual summaries of resolutions passed by the UN’s numerous committees.

Schneidermann leaned forward. He felt calm and in control. Even his stomach had stopped growling. He tapped the microphone and the last murmurs faded away. Dozens of expectant faces looked back at him as he began to speak.

“As many of you know, the secretary-general has not been well lately. The SG is now on sick leave. Some of his responsibilities will be divided up between the undersecretaries-general, the department heads. But the main burden of his workload will be assumed by Caroline Masters, the deputy secretary-general. The regrettable cause of Ms. Masters’s promotion notwithstanding, the UN management board is pleased to confirm her appointment as acting secretary-general.”

The journalists looked at each other, nodding. It had been worth turning up today. Caroline Masters was a major story. The print reporters started scribbling, the radio journalists checked their sound levels, peering at the readings on the dials. Some of the television correspondents anxiously looked at their cameramen, fearful that their crews might be missing Schneidermann’s announcement. Najwa had no such worries. She leaned against the wall, holding her mobile telephone. The instant Schneidermann had finished his sentence she pressed the “tweet this” button on her phone screen. Najwa had already written the short message announcing Masters’s appointment and had just needed Schneidermann’s confirmation.

A tall, languid Englishman, wearing creased jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a brown corduroy jacket immediately stood up.

Schneidermann nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, Jonathan,” he asked.

Beaufort intentionally paused for several seconds, combing his blond hair back with his fingers as the tension rose in the room. He looked puzzled as he spoke. “Henrik, if the SG is sick, then why was he playing tennis this morning?”

Schneidermann smiled, his voice confident and friendly. “I have no information on the SG’s sporting activity this morning, or any other morning. His daily routine, before he comes to work, is his own affair—”

Beaufort interrupted, his voice indignant. “The SG is the world’s most important diplomat. His health is a matter of legitimate public interest. His health is everyone’s affair—”

Schneidermann jumped in. “Jonathan, if you would
please
let me finish my sentence. Of course his health is a matter of public interest. And I have told you. He is now on sick leave. But the precise details of his medical condition are a matter for his doctors. I am sure you understand, Jonathan, that those details should remain confidential. Even though he is a public figure, as a human being he deserves the same privileges as any patient.”

Beaufort looked puzzled. Where was the Schneidermann of old, brusque and irritable? When had he learned to bat back press inquiries so smoothly, making the questioner seem ill-mannered and intrusive? He switched topics. “Who decided that Caroline Masters should take over the SG’s role? What kind of consultation has there been on this, and how long do you expect her to fill the position?”

Schneidermann had an almost overwhelming urge to reply,
Caroline Masters’s appointment is a complete mystery to me. I don’t believe that Fareed is really sick, I am still trying to work out how she got the job
,
and I am sure that nothing good will come of this
. Instead he said: “As Fareed’s deputy, Caroline was the obvious candidate. All the members of the Security Council were in agreement.”

Beaufort looked doubtful. “Even the Iranians?”

Iran had just started a two-year term as one of ten nonpermanent members of the Security Council. Schneidermann nodded. “As I said, all fifteen members of the Security Council were in agreement, both the P5 and the nonpermanent members. Thank you, Jonathan, and now, I am sure some of your colleagues have questions.”

“Why has Yael Azoulay been demoted?” demanded Najwa. “Is it because of our report and the article in the
New York Times
today?”

Schneidermann leaned forward, a pleasant smile on his lips. “Najwa, let me assure you and your colleagues that Ms. Azoulay has not been demoted. She has been
promoted
. She now holds the rank of assistant secretary-general, which as you all know, is only one level below that of department head. There is no mystery about this. It is all there, in print, on the briefing note you have been handed by Roxana.”

Najwa looked down at the sheet of paper and snorted derisively. “Assistant secretary-general in charge of the Trusteeship Council, which has met precisely three times this century.”

Every eye in the room was on Schneidermann’s duel with Najwa. He swallowed, then rallied. “Many of the problems the world faces nowadays, from Syria to Somalia, relate back to the dissolution of the former colonial empires. We think Yael’s unique skill set will prove immensely beneficial.”

She snapped back, “Like posing as a hooker under a false name in the Millennium Hotel?”

Schneidermann looked puzzled. “Meaning?”

Najwa said, “I hope you watch Al Jazeera. You certainly read the
New York Times
. You saw Sami’s piece.”

“I did. And I saw your report, Najwa.”

“Great. So what is the UN’s response?”

Schneidermann had been expecting this of course, either from Sami or Najwa. He had discussed with Caroline Masters how to respond to Najwa’s report and Sami’s article about Yael. Masters had instructed him to say that Yael’s private life was her own affair, meaning: hang her out to dry. When Schneidermann had argued strongly against this because it would be an unfair smear, Masters had looked him in the eye and reminded him that there was no evidence that Yael was on official UN business at the hotel, which was in fact true. Schneidermann had tried a different tack. Such an answer, he said, would trigger questions as to why, if there were such questions over Yael’s judgment and personal life, she had been promoted to assistant secretary-general. But Masters had dismissed his concerns, and he understood why. The press corps would sense that the UN was distancing itself from Yael, and so pursue her and the hotel story with even greater vigor. Eventually the pressure on Yael would become unbearable, her position untenable, and Masters could force her to resign. And by then, if Yael did go public with her knowledge of the UN’s secret deals and maneuvers, her revelations would be dismissed as the fantasies of an embittered ex-employee.

Schneidermann kept his face composed. “All I can say at this stage is that we are seeking further information.”

Najwa stared at him, her voice indignant. “We are also seeking further information, Henrik. Who was inside the room? Was this official UN business? If so, can we have some details please? If not, then what was Yael Azoulay doing there? Why were there two security guards outside the door? Who were these security guards and who did they work for?”

“We are seeking further information,” Schneidermann repeated beatifically. “You can quote me. That’s it on that subject.”

Najwa rolled her eyes and sat down.

“Any other questions? The Economic and Social Council meeting this afternoon looks like it could be especially interesting….” He looked around with a practiced air of faux expectation. The only UN council meeting that ever produced any news was the Security Council, which was not meeting today.

Murat Yilmaz stood up and raised his hand. Yilmaz, the correspondent for Anadolu, the Turkish state news agency, was a gray-haired, portly man in his late fifties, with deep lines around his brown eyes. Courteous and friendly, a bon vivant who took full advantage of New York’s restaurants, Yilmaz had been posted to the UN for over a decade. Like his homeland, Yilmaz cultivated good relations with all sides, including the Americans, Saudis, Iranians, and Israelis. Schneidermann was certain that if he was not an actual spy, he was feeding information to the Milli I·stihbarat Teşkilatı, the Turkish intelligence service.

“Thank you, Henrik. Regrettably, I must pass on your kind offer,” he said in his rich baritone, provoking gentle laughter, “but I would like to ask about the forthcoming Istanbul Summit. As you know, the UN, the P5, and of course Turkey itself have invested enormous time, effort, and resources. Fareed Hussein has said that a successful summit will be his legacy to the organization. How will this be affected by the appointment of Caroline Masters?”

Schneidermann nodded. “As you can see from the biography which my colleague Roxana has distributed, Acting SG Masters has herself been closely involved with the planning for the summit. She has been fully briefed by SG Hussein. We do not anticipate any delays or difficulties.”

“So everything is going ahead as planned? The summit will open in eight days, next Thursday? It will still deal with Israel-Palestine, Syria, and Egypt? President Freshwater will attend, together with the presidents of Russia, China, France, and the British prime minister?”

“Yes, Murat, absolutely. And your own honored president as well. We should have more details for you in the next few days.”

Yilmaz finished scribbling his notes and sat back down.

Schneidermann allowed himself to relax a little. The SG’s health, Yael Azoulay, the summit, and Masters’s appointment were covered. A few more questions followed on Iran, Syria, and a new World Health Organization program to eliminate polio before the journalists began to file out of the room, volubly complaining that they had learned almost nothing about why Masters had been appointed or the latest developments in the Yael Azoulay saga.