The Washington Stratagem (43 page)

Yael turned to Hussein. “I’ll see you later in the office,” she said, and walked around the corner of the church to wait for Joe-Don and Quentin Braithwaite. She pulled out her iPhone and flicked through Sami’s story again. At least something good had come out of Istanbul. New homes for five thousand orphans. An impressive result for a few minutes’ work. And Sami was doing well, she thought. He had not yet made the Iranian connection, that Prometheus was sending millions of dollars to Nuristan Holdings, a company owned by the Revolutionary Guard, or perhaps did not have enough information to go into print, but that, she was sure, would come. She could certainly speed up the process, and tell him much more about Iran, Efrat Global Solutions, and Menachem Stein—if she chose to. For now, she would think about it.

Joe-Don and Quentin Braithwaite emerged from inside the church, blinking in the sunlight. They shook hands and exchanged a few words with Hussein and Roxana and walked over to Yael.

“Drink? Lunch? Both?” asked Joe-Don.

“Both, I think,” said Yael, straightening the lapel of Joe-Don’s creased suit, which had been the height of fashion in 1979.

Yael looked at Roxana, her facial expression solemn but cordial as she shook hands with the French chief of mission to the UN. “That girl’s going places.”

“She certainly is. Forty-four blocks south and four avenues east,” said Braithwaite dryly. He glanced at his watch. “In about twenty minutes, once the last mourner has been glad-handed.”

Yael thought for a moment, calculating the location. “Are you sure?” Her voice was disbelieving. “He’s got almost forty years on her.”

“Trust me. When was the last time you saw Zeinab?” asked Braithwaite. “Hussein’s wife hasn’t been around for months, since the scandal about her coltan shares. The SG’s booked an executive suite at the Millennium Hotel, in the name of Mr. Patel.”

Absurdly, part of her felt jealous. Not because she wanted to have sex with the SG. She certainly did not. But she knew, from personal experience, that an office romance in the hothouse claustrophobic atmosphere of the UN brought a rapid, almost dizzying intimacy. Fareed was always attracted to pretty things. She knew he was lonely, with his wife away and his daughter estranged. Roxana was a more dangerous adversary than Yael had realized. Which did not bode well for Yael’s quest to find out more about the death of her brother.

“We can check ourselves, if you want,” said Joe-Don. He turned to Yael. “I believe you know your way around that place,” he said. His voice was deadpan, but his eyes were smiling.

Yael blushed. Did Joe-Don mean her mission posing as Sharon Mantello, or her affair a few years ago with Mahesh Kapoor? Best not to ask, she decided.

“Hack alert at five o’clock,” said Braithwaite, looking over Yael’s shoulder.

Yael turned to see Sami walk toward her.

Sami nodded at Joe-Don and Quentin, then looked at Yael. “Can I have a minute?” he asked.

“One,” said Yael.

“Please excuse us,” Sami said to Joe-Don and Quentin as he guided Yael to a quieter spot, around the corner, at the side of the church.

Yael leaned against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “What do you want?”

“You need to see this,” said Sami as he passed Yael a photocopied sheet of plain paper, with that day’s date.

Dear Fareed,

It is with great regret that I hereby announce my resignation from the United Nations. It has been an honor and a privilege to serve and I wish the organization every success in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Caroline Masters

Yael quickly read the letter. “So what? She’s gone. Good riddance. I already read your story. I don’t have any comment or insight for you. Is there anything else?”

Sami handed her another photocopied sheet.

Yael glanced down. Two words were written on it: “More follows.”

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It arrived with the DVD of you in the Millennium Hotel,” said Sami.

Something about the letters looked familiar to Yael. Then she realized—in both printouts the letter
r
was missing its horizontal spar.

She reached inside her purse. The envelope was still there. She opened it and took out a sheet of paper. It showed three photographs: one of the Staten Island Ferry terminal and two of Cyrus Jones. The letters spelled out a date in April and a time. The letter
r
in
April
was missing its horizontal spar.

Sami looked at Yael and at the paper she was holding. “I shared,” he said.

She handed Sami the paper. “Same printer.”

Sami nodded. His eyes opened wide when he saw the photographs. “You know this guy?”

“You could say that,” said Yael. “Do you?”

Sami did not answer. He took out his mobile telephone and scrolled through the menu until he found the video clip he was looking for. “This is strictly between us. I need your word on that,” said Sami.

“Sure. Scout’s honor,” said Yael, her voice sarcastic.

Sami shook his head and made to put his phone away. “Forget it.”

“OK, OK. You have my word.”

“I’m serious,” said Sami, his voice tight. “I need to trust you on this.”

Yael unfolded her arms. “You can.”

Sami pressed play. The video showed Cyrus Jones and another man inside Sami’s apartment. It appeared to have been shot by a stationary camera, a few yards away. Yael watched Jones threaten to expose Sami as having lied on his immigration forms, accuse him of having terrorist connections through his family, and produce a series of photographs that could not be clearly seen.

“Cyrus Jones,” said Yael. “He’s dead.”

“I know. But his friend isn’t. Neither are the people who sent him, or took the photographs.”

“Photographs of what?” asked Yael.

Sami looked at her for a long moment. He made his decision. “Gaza. I went to Gaza with my mother. We have relatives there.”

She stares at Eli. “How about if you write a letter to the family of the boy at the Gaza checkpoint, explaining what happened? He would be, what, in his late twenties now?”

“How did you film Jones and the other guy?” Yael asked, careful not reveal that she already knew about Sami’s connection to Gaza.

Sami said, “I made them wait outside before they came into my apartment. I set up my laptop on the other side of the room and used the camera.”

“Is there a terrorist connection?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

“No. There is not.”

Yael looked at Sami. He was wearing a well-cut black suit, white shirt, and black silk tie. His hair was trimmed and he was clean shaven. His black eyes held her gaze. He was a bastard, she told herself, who had burned her twice. A bastard who looked stylish, cool, and confident, the
New York Times
reporter who knows there is much more to report, who is going to get the scoop. And he was a good liar.

Joe-Don appeared by the corner of the church. He looked at Yael. She smiled at him, to say that everything was under control. Joe-Don nodded and returned to wait with Braithwaite.

“Can I get a copy of this?” said Yael as she handed Sami his mobile telephone back.

“I’ll think about that.”

“Please do. So what’s next?” Yael asked. She also had a video clip of Cyrus Jones, filmed after their fight on the Staten Island Ferry, uploaded via Shredbox to a secure, encrypted server, although she was not about to share that with Sami. At least not now.

Sami slipped his phone into his trouser pocket. “Keep on digging, I guess. Meanwhile, I’m relocating.”

“Is Yuri finally giving you a bigger office? Or are you moving in with Najwa?”

Sami smiled. “Yes and no. I’ve been promoted. I’m heading up a new investigative unit.”

“Oh,” said Yael. “So you will be leaving….”

Sami shook his head. “No. We will still be based in the Secretariat Building. There’s too much at the UN now for me to cover on my own. KZX, Prometheus, Isis Franklin, the attempt on President Freshwater, Schneidermann. There will be another reporter working with me. She’s also a Columbia graduate. She has just joined the newspaper. She knows you.”

She
.

“Who?” asked Yael.

“Colette Moreau. Do you remember her?”

Yael did. Chic, petite, Parisian, a line of male students queuing up to help with her assignments.

“It was nice to see you,” Sami said, turning to go. “Please keep the Cyrus Jones stuff between us.”

“I will, but…”

“But what?”

The words were out of Yael’s mouth before she could stop them. “You owe me dinner.”

Yael slid into the taxi, switched off the small television screen mounted on the partition behind the driver’s compartment, and pulled her new dress—not quite Versace, but black and short enough—back down over her legs. The driver, a voluble Sikh in a purple turban who talked nonstop on his hands-free telephone, seemed to think he was in a rally, weaving and dodging through the traffic as he drove up Eighty-First Street. He turned right onto Broadway, tires squealing. Yael was about to tap on the window and ask him to slow down, but instead she decided to enjoy the ride.

Manhattan shone in the early-evening light, the granite façades of Upper West Side apartment blocks still varnished by the afternoon’s spring showers. The taxi stopped at a traffic light at Seventy-Ninth Street. Yael opened the window. A bearded white Rastafarian was standing on the corner, playing a funked-up saxophone version of “All Blues,” his dreadlocks flying. Two elderly Jewish ladies, both dressed in smart two-piece suits, their silver hair immaculately coiffed, stood gossiping outside a new pastry shop, exchanging pictures of their grandchildren. Yael looked at the window of La Caridad. The diner was already filling up for supper. The elderly Cuban man was still sitting in the corner, reading
El Diario la Prensa
, as though he had not moved since she had last had breakfast there with Joe-Don. It was hard to believe that had been barely a fortnight ago.

Yael took out a small compact from her purse and checked her makeup in the mirror: hair up, a dusting of blusher, medium-thick mascara, and bright red lipstick. A little more femme fatale than usual, she thought, turning her head from side to side, and why not?

Pleased with her new look, excited to be heading downtown on a date, she did not notice the black Mitsubishi SUV with tinted windows pull in behind the taxi, six cars away. She slipped the compact back into her purse and took out a postcard. It had arrived that morning and was blank, apart from her address and a Turkish stamp. The front was a picture of a catamaran doing a racing turn on the sea, one rudder almost out of the water, the top of the other still visible.

Yael smiled, put the card back inside her purse, and checked her watch. It was 6:30 p.m. It would take at least forty minutes to get downtown and cross over to the Lower East Side, but she was on time, even allowing for rush-hour traffic. The lights changed and the taxi driver roared down Broadway.

She suddenly looked around the taxi. Where was the wine—a forty-dollar bottle of Puligny-Montrachet? She definitely had it when she left the apartment. She had stopped to say hello to the new doorman, she remembered. She must have put it down and left it in the lobby.

As if on cue her mobile telephone rang. Yael looked at the number—it was the lobby of her building.

“Ms. Azoulay, excuse me for bothering you,” said a voice with a soft Southern Californian accent, “but I have your wine here. I’m sorry. My bad. I should have checked when I called the taxi for you. Will you come back for it? I can come out to the corner at Riverside and meet you.”

“Hey, thanks, Michael; it’s no problem and not your fault. I’m on my way now.” Yael finished the call and leaned forward. “Can you turn around please, driver; I left something behind.”

“Whatever you say, lady.” The driver checked his mirror, switching lanes and turning sharp right at Seventy-Second Street, in front of a bus, triggering outraged hooting from the driver. The Mitsubishi followed the taxi, always staying at least three cars behind.

Yael was pleased that Michael had called. Raymondo, his predecessor in the lobby, had been a fixture of the building for decades. But his sudden death from a heart attack had left a vacancy. There had been a long discussion at the co-op board about Michael. Some of the residents had been opposed to giving the job to a homeless person, but Yael’s impassioned plea in his favor had swung it.

Michael had just moved into the apartment building’s service apartment. It was a tiny studio that looked onto a courtyard. Despite being cramped, everyone agreed it was still incomparably better than his previous lodgings—under the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Monument at Eighty-Ninth Street.

The taxi driver turned onto Riverside Drive and sped up toward the corner of West Eighty-First. Yael took out her mobile telephone. She wrote a quick text message.

On my way. Forgot the wine. This time let’s drink it.

With the message sent, she checked the video folder. That afternoon, she had downloaded the clip of Cyrus Jones lying on the floor of the washroom of the Staten Island Ferry from the secure server. The clip was there, safely encrypted. Would she share it with her dinner date? Perhaps. It mainly depended on how the evening went.