Yael picked up her smartphone and followed him to the edge of the garden. The breeze had turned cold and she watched him shiver. “Yes,” she said. “She has been drugged, but she has not been harmed. Abdullah, please believe me, we had nothing to do with this. We will get your wife out as soon as we can.”

  “My wife,” said Gul, his voice heavy with irony. “My wife is dead. She was killed in the bombing with two of my children.” Gul lit a cigarette. “All I have left is my daughter.”

  Yael started with surprise. “But....”

  “They lied to you. Samira is fifteen years old. You know why they are doing this?”

  Yael shook her head.

  Gul fixed his gaze on her, his eyes like green lasers. He stepped away. “Imagine, a modern, enlightened Islam in Afghanistan, where children and women are educated and the people enjoy human rights. What do you think they will say in the Pentagon and in Langley when they learn that their budgets are to be slashed because peace and stability are coming to Afghanistan? They will not say, hurrah for Abdullah Gul, we do not need any more drone strikes or spies or satellites or safe houses or bombs or electric cattle prods or secret bases at Bagram airbase to keep prisoners in dog kennels and send them across the border to Uzbekistan to be boiled alive. And even if the CIA and the Pentagon wanted peace in Afghanistan, their paymasters would never allow it.”

  “You are wrong,” said Yael. “American politicians want the troops to come home. The date is set—2014.”

  Gul laughed. “The politicians. The politicians are irrelevant. What matters are the corporations. It is common knowledge that the war on drugs is lost. Even presidents and prime ministers in Central America are calling for drugs to be legalized. This is only a matter of time. You cannot imagine how much money these companies will make. The corporations have been planning for this for decades. There is a German conglomerate, called KZX. A giant firm, with branches all over the world. Have you heard of it?”

  Yael nodded. Her shoulder began to throb again.

  Gul continued, “KZX has excellent contacts with the Taliban. KZX managers and Taliban leaders regularly meet in Dubai. They were here, in Istanbul, last week, at the conference with the Taliban, the one organized by the Americans. There was a tall man, with white-blond hair, he always wore a grey suit. German, or Austrian. He was in charge. KZX is negotiating to buy the poppy harvest. For now the drugs will be processed and sold illegally on the streets. But in the future, once they are legalized, KZX will be in prime position. Not this year, or next, but soon. KZX doesn't want our farmers growing wheat or apricots or forming cooperatives. Neither do Langley and the Pentagon. They want war. KZX wants heroin. Afghanistan can supply both, but not if I am there.”

  Yael processed what Gul had said. A tall man with white blond hair. German or Austrian. It all made perfect sense. She said, “This is not over, Abdullah. Nothing is over as long as you are alive. But you know that even if the Turks let you go, the Americans will find you.”

  She leaned forward and searched Gul's face. She saw sadness and regret, but also a kind of determination. “And Samira?” he asked. “Can you guarantee her safety?”

  “I cannot,” said Yael. “But this can,” she continued, holding up her smartphone. “The footage of Samira and your cousin has been has been cut into hundreds of clips. Each clip is backed up to a network of secure servers, with military-level encryption. Nobody can delete them. Not even Langley. I can splice the videos together and upload them to YouTube in a few seconds.”

  She paused. “The blowback will last longer.”

  Gul dropped his cigarette underfoot and twisted the butt into the ground. He stepped forward as if to walk to his room and start packing immediately. “OK.”

  “Abdullah, please, wait,” said Yael. “There is something else.”

  She turned to look at Youssef. He was slowly tapping his feet to the sound of the Sufi chanting that floated through the garden. He caught her eye and inclined his head, almost imperceptibly.

  Yael spoke quietly to Gul, for some time. He smiled, for the first time that day.

  Mystery Surrounds Syrian Rebels’ Claim to be Holding US Prisoner

  By Rod Krieger

  BEIRUT – US officials refused to confirm or deny claims by Syrian rebels that they are holding an alleged CIA agent. The militants claim to have captured an American national, but have not yet released any identifying details about the hostage.

  Mahmoud Hassan, a spokesman for the Syrian People’s Armed Revolutionary Fraction, a previously unknown far-left group, said: “The American spy is held under our protective custody while we decide his fate. He will be put on trial soon. If he is found guilty, we will reveal his identity. The sentence will then be carried out according to revolutionary law.”

  The SPARF claims to be based in Ayn al-Arab, on the Syrian-Turkish frontier, which has been the site of heavy fighting recently between rebel and government forces. A recent investigation by the New York Times revealed how US intelligence agencies were supplying weapons to Syrian rebels via Turkey, much of them passing through Ayn al-Arab.

  A Turkish security official, who spoke on condition that his name not be used as he was not authorized to speak on-the-record, said an American diplomat based in Istanbul had been reported missing two days ago when he failed to turn up for work. The Turkish official had no information about the man's identity. The CIA, the State Department and the White House all refused to comment. A spokesman for the US embassy in Ankara said all embassy staff were accounted for.

  A low resolution video clip emailed yesterday to the New York Times, viewed by this reporter, showed a hooded man standing naked from the waist up, with his legs in manacles, in a windowless room. A dog was freely running around the space, barking. There appeared to be a skin discoloring of some kind on the man's neck but the poor quality of the footage prevented detailed analysis. The email, which was sent from a website providing temporary disposable email addresses, could not be traced. The video clip could not be independently verified.

  (end)

  Continue reading for an excerpt from Adam LeBor’s first Yael Azoulay novel

  The Geneva Option

  Available now in trade paperback and e-book

  Yael Azoulay does the United Nations’ dirty work by cutting deals that most of us never hear about. Equally at home in the caves of Afghanistan, the slums of Gaza, or corporate boardrooms all across the world, Yael believes the ends justify the means . . . until she’s pushed way beyond her breaking point.

  When Yael is assigned to eastern Congo to negotiate with Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, a Hutu warlord wanted for genocide, she offers him a generous plea bargain. Thanks to Congo’s abundance of a valuable mineral used in computer and cell phone production, her number one priority is maintaining regional stability. But when she discovers that Hakizimani is linked to the death of the person she loved the most—and that the UN is prepared to sanction mass murder—Yael soon realizes that salvation means not just saving others’ lives but confronting her own inner demons.

  Spanning New York City, Africa, and Switzerland, The Geneva Option is the first in a series of gripping conspiracy thrillers, a tour de force of international espionage and intrigue.

  Prologue

  The wind rose and fell through the airshaft, roaring so loudly it seemed the building was breathing.

  Olivia de Souza held her right hand out over the void. Her fingers were steady as she felt the draft rush up against her palm, whisking the smoke from her cigarette away. She loved the still of the early morning, standing on the narrow maintenance balcony, staring into the darkness below, where dust and secrets gathered. The United Nations secretary-general’s staff meeting started in two hours, at 9:00 a.m. Until then, this was her special time, shared with no one.

  But today her sanctuary on the 38th floor brought her no peace. She picked a sliver of rust off the railing, flicked it over the edge, and watched it vanish, her lips pressed tight with worry. She had sat up half the night, lighting one cigarette after another and staring into the gray haze as she turned things over and over in her mind. She had to talk to somebody, but there was only one person she could trust—a colleague, perhaps even a friend now, who was on mission but due back tomorrow. She could wait one more day.

  Like many middle-aged women working in the Secretariat building, Olivia was a UN widow. After twenty years she was still addicted to the adrenaline rush, the glamour, and proximity to power, and all for the cause of humanity’s greater good. She would have liked to have been a diplomat herself and, of course, to have had a family of her own. But there were few enough opportunities for an orphan from the slums of Managua. She had made her choices and a good life for herself. Even her detractors, the ones who whispered to each other that the world’s most powerful diplomat should have his affairs arranged by someone more, as they said, “presentable,” than a short, dark, Nicaraguan spinster, admitted she was loyal, dedicated, and supremely efficient.

  A light switched on and off in one of the rooms nearby and she turned around to look. Who was wandering around the 38th floor at this time in the morning, she wondered. It must be one of the cleaners. Nobody else from the SG’s office came in this early. He had not continued his Korean predecessor’s habit of starting the workday at 8:00 a.m.

  The building itself was slowly waking up. Olivia shivered and pulled her coat around her as the heating system hissed and sputtered. The UN’s New York headquarters was of pensionable age and showing it. Condensation dripped off the inner windows, which were crusted with decades’ worth of dirt. The airshaft’s panels were peeling away, revealing gray slabs of asbestos underneath. The concrete was fissured with tiny cracks. The balcony gently vibrated as the service lift stopped and she stepped away from the edge. A notice on the low railing declared, “Maintenance Staff Only: Do Not Gather or Loiter.”

  She stifled a yawn and tried to put her worries aside, thinking instead about her dinner date last night, the second in a week, and how hopeful his eyes had looked as his hand slid across the table to hers. It had been a long time, such a very long time. He had asked her to keep their rendezvous secret for now, which made it even more romantic. What did he see in her when he could have his pick of his department, if not the building? He even promised to come to the Latino orphanage on 155th Street with her this weekend to help deliver toys and food. His fingers were long and slim, and it was all she could do not to grip them as hard as she could.

  The door to the balcony opened. Olivia turned, smiling with pleasure and surprise, her heart pounding at the sight of him.

  He stared at her, his eyes alive with excitement as he walked toward her. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She trembled like a teenager on a first date. “Me too.”

  “I am so happy to see you,” he said, his voice warm and reassuring. He moved closer, and she breathed in the familiar smell of his lemon cologne.

  Her smile wilted as she began to ask, “But how did you know I—”

  “Shhh,” he said, and she felt the latex glove hard against her lips.

  He slammed her against the railing, his hand clamped over her mouth. She jammed the burning cigarette end into the base of his neck. He gasped and gritted his teeth with the pain, knocking her hand away and trying to punch her in the stomach. She swerved sideways and the blow glanced off her rib cage as she flailed wildly at his face, raking her nails across the base of his neck, jabbing at his eyes.

  She kicked his shin, digging her heel into the bone and scraping it hard down his leg. He yelped in pain, swore, and she felt his grip loosen. She slipped out from under him and tried to grab the door but he snatched her arm again and held his hand flat against her face, pushing her hard against the railing with his body. He gripped her wrists together with one hand, grunting as he forced his weight on her and clamped her mouth and nose shut with his thumb and forefinger, twisting the cartilage, bending her backward at the waist. The metal bar of the railing dug into her spine and the pain lanced like knives through her.

  The sky spun, the walls rushed back and forth, and the terror soared inside her. She tried to cry out but she could barely breathe. He worked diligently until suddenly she was flying, and there was nothing left to fight against.

  Goma and New York

  ONE

  Yael Azoulay tapped her pencil on the cover of the blue plastic file and slid it across the coffee table. “Game over, Professor,” she said.

  Jean-Pierre Hakizimani smiled and picked up the bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label whisky. “And if I say otherwise?”

  Yael slowly shook her head. “There is no otherwise.”

  Hakizimani poured himself a generous measure and picked up the folder. He glanced at the United Nations logo on the cover and opened the file, flipping through the pages as though examining an essay by an especially tiresome student. He slowly tore the sheets into pieces, dropped the shreds into an overflowing ashtray, and reached for the heavy silver cigarette lighter on the table in front of him. He pressed the lighter gently and touched the flame to the scraps. The papers began to burn.

  Yael leaned forward, picked up the bottle and upended it over the ashtray. The flames smoked and sputtered. The tawny liquid slopped over the sides, the ash and cigarette ends swirling in the puddle as it spread over the table. The stink of alcohol filled the room. Yael put the whisky back down. She picked out a scrap—sodden, charred at the edges, and emblazoned with the logo of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. She placed it in front of him. She then extracted another piece from the wet mess on which Hakizimani’s photograph and the word “genocide” were clearly visible.

  “Shall I continue?” she asked.

  “What do you want?” he said, his voice bored.

  “You to stop.”

  “Stop what? Smoking cigarettes? Wasting my time in meetings like this?”

  Yael spoke clearly and methodically, as though to an errant child. The puddle had spread to the edge of the table and began to drip over the side, taking the ash and cigarette ends with it.

  “You stop killing Tutsis. You stop your raids into Rwanda. You disband the Rwandan Liberation Front, send your Hutu militiamen home, and close your bases in Congo. You sign a peace treaty with Rwanda and the new government here. You surrender to the UN tribunal.”

  Hakizimani laughed. “Absurd. Go back to New York or wherever you came from.”

  “Prison, or a life on the run, Professor. You choose.”

  “That does not sound like much of a choice,” he said.

  She pulled the chair close and looked into his eyes. They were a startling shade of turquoise. “It’s more than your victims had.”

  “That’s true,” he said, smiling.

  He raised his glass to her and proffered the bottle. What Yael wanted most of all was not whisky, but some fresh air. Even with the windows open, the presidential suite at the Hotel Goma smelled of bodies, stale tobacco smoke, and the half-eaten plate of goat curry sitting on the room-service trolley. The new Italian furniture was pockmarked with cigarette burns. The air conditioner rattled and shook to very little effect. The sweat ran in rivulets down her back and down her forehead, into her eyes. A fan stood on the floor, slowly churning the fumes.

  Yael wiped her face, nodded, and the president of the Rwandan Liberation Front passed her the bottle. She poured herself a small measure. She had read Hakizimani’s UN file so often that she knew every line by heart: born in 1955 to two schoolteachers, educated by Belgian nuns in a Catholic school in Kigali, a scholarship to the Sorbonne to study medicine, a master’s degree from Harvard, and then marriage to a daughter of Rwanda’s most powerful Hutu dynasty. This former chairman of the medical school at Kigali University in the Rwandan capital had once been marked out by London, Paris, and Washington, DC, as one of the new generation of African leaders, a generation that would lead the continent to stability, prosperity, and open markets for the world’s multinationals.

  By early 1994 Hakizimani was minister of health—until a car bomb in Kigali killed his wife and three children. He had decided to walk to work that day and lent them the car to go shopping. Tutsi extremists had been blamed, but nobody had ever been charged with the crime. The genocide started two weeks later, although the planeloads of machetes had been ordered from China long before. In three months the government’s militias had slaughtered 800,000 of their Tutsi countrymen, most of them by hand, along with any voices of Hutu moderation.

  Hakizimani was the ideologue of slaughter, the Goebbels of Rwanda, whose theory of “Hutu Power” demanded the complete extermination of the Tutsis. He had broadcast on the state station day after day, hour after hour, urging his compatriots to stamp on, squash, kill, and exterminate the “cockroaches.” He had even used his medical expertise to give instructions on how to slash the femoral artery in the upper thigh so that the Genocidaires could conserve their energy and dispatch their victims with a single blow.

  Hakizimani looked at Yael and shrugged. “Why would I surrender to anybody? I am quite safe here in Goma,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. “À votre santé.”

  Yael nodded. “Thank you. And to yours. For now, maybe, yes, you are safe in eastern Congo. But nothing is forever, especially in Africa. The new government will make sure of that.”

  He stared hard at her. “There are no elections due here for three years.”

  Yael held his gaze as she spoke, her legs resting against the brown leather bag on the floor between her feet. “There will be a new government in Congo in three months, Professor.”

  She paused and sipped her whisky. “It will not be your friend. ”

 

1 2 3 4