The Geneva Option (23 page)
Stella nodded, several chins wobbling at once. “Welcome to the Black Cat, Claudia. Now
draga
, you let me know if you need anything,” she said, and wandered off into the crowd.
Yael drank some more of her coffee. She sensed that Stella, like Jasna, did not seem entirely convinced by Yael's new identity. Yael flicked through the rest of the newspaper to keep herself occupied. A story out of Washington, DC, outlined the growing political split between President Freshwater and Marc Rosenheim, the secretary of state. Rosenheim was the guest of honor at the launch of “America First,” a new isolationist lobbying organization that was supposedly funded by a reclusive mining billionaire based in Des Moines, Iowa. The reporter quoted several government sources who said the standoff was crippling government business and could not understand why the president did not simply let Rosenheim go.
The door opened and Yael glanced up. A woman who looked like Jasna walked in, together with an older man wearing a felt hat, a long brown overcoat, dark glasses, and a white cane. Yael looked at her again, for longer. It
was
Jasna. What was she doing here? And who was the blind man? Maybe the Black Cat was the local Balkan-émigrés hangout, which seemed quite possible. The bar was getting crowded with large, ebullient men in shiny sports suits. The Boban MarkoviÄ Orchestra had replaced Billie Holiday, the
slivovitz
flowed, and the party was kicking off nicely.
Jasna waved to Stella and smiled as she guided the blind man over to Yael, with a hand on his arm. Yael jumped up, trying to cover her surprise, and pulled out a chair for him. He handed her a copy of
Genève Soir
, the city's evening newspaper.
Joe-Don said, “We have a problem.”
T
he air split open with a loud crack of thunder, and the school hall lit up again for an instant. It was lightning, Herve realized, his knees wobbly with relief. He managed to squeeze off three more shots before he put the camera back in his trouser pocket, the sweat pouring off him.
Baptiste and Lucien started clapping and the men joined in, shouting and cheering. Nodula stood up and held up his hand for silence. “We will make sure that any true and genuine Hutu will be able to defend himself and his family when the cockroaches attack. But first, he must show his loyalty, that he knows the Hutu Ten Commandments.”
Nodula was no longer nervous, but confident and in command. “Who can tell me the first commandment? The one that tells us who is a traitor? Jean-Luc? I am sure that you do not want to be a traitor. I am sure . . . my friend, that you want revenge, for your daughter.”
Jean-Luc stood up, shaking as he spoke. “Anyone who marries, befriends, or employs a Tutsi is a traitor.”
Stephan nodded, a smile playing on his lips, and walked over to the large wooden crates wrapped in plastic. He took out a hunting knife and slashed at the wrapping, ripping it off and throwing it aside.
He jammed the knife into the lid of the wooden crate, levered it open, and took out an AK-47 assault rifle, still shiny with grease.
Nodula started clapping again, triggering a wave of applause. “Tell me, Jean-Luc, the second Hutu commandment.”
Jean-Luc looked at Stephan, then back at the deputy mayor. “Anyone makes a business partnership with a Tutsi, lends him money, or helps him with any kind of favors is a
traitor
.”
Nodula nodded, satisfied. “And the third and fourth?”
Jean-Luc said, his voice stronger now. “All government positions must be majority Hutu. The armed forces must be exclusively Hutu.”
Nodula clapped enthusiastically, triggering another wave of applause. Stephan levered open the ammunition box, took a banana-shaped cartridge, and handed the gun and ammunition to Jean-Luc. He swiftly clicked the cartridge into place, weighing the weapon in his hands with satisfaction.
Nodula stood up and walked over to Evelyn's father. “How do we defend ourselves, Jean-Luc?” he asked softly.
“Hutu power!” he replied.
“How do we defend ourselves?” Nodula asked again, louder.
“Hutu power!” said Jean-Luc, his voice strong and confident.
The men in the hall echoed his answer, looking at one another and nodding determinedly.
“You know what has to be done, Jean-Luc,” said Stephan, his voice soft and reassuring. “You made a mistake. You married a Tutsi. That's OK. People make mistakes. We are all human. The question is how do we make amends for those mistakes? How do we prove ourselves? You must prove yourself, Jean-Luc. Prove that you are not a traitor. Purge the evil. Cleanse your family of the cockroaches.”
Jean-Luc swallowed hard and gripped the AK-47 so tightly that his fingers paled. “All of them?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Stephan nodded. “Every single one.”
Nodula, Lucien, and Baptiste began to rhythmically bang the table.
Jean-Luc led the chorus of “Hutu power, Hutu power,” raising and lowering the gun above his head, in time with the chant.
The cry resounded around the room, rising and falling, echoing across the village and far out into the forest. The man with the bushy eyebrows smiled and sat silently, the contempt flickering on his face as the men lined up excitedly to receive their guns and ammunition. Nobody noticed as Herve slipped away.
J
oe-Don and Yael were sitting in Stella's office on the first floor above the bar. The room smelled of the familiar cocktail of perfume, coffee, and cigarette smoke, but it was also exuberantly pink: the walls were dark pink, the carpet a lighter shade, and the doors a pale strawberry. Stella's fat black cat sat comfortably on Yael's lap, purring loudly. A television was switched on in the corner, tuned to the local news channel, with the volume turned down. The thumping bass of the gypsy music carried through the floorboards, together with the faint echoes of shouts and laughter. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky and two glasses sat on the desk, next to a thermos of coffee.
Joe-Don poured himself and Yael two small whiskies, and they clinked glasses. He took a tiny sip. Yael swallowed half the drink in one go. She closed her eyes with pleasure as the alcohol burst inside her like a warmth bomb.
Joe-Don tapped the front of the
Genève Soir
: “Slow down. That's your ration for tonight.”
The newspaper's front page showed a large photograph of Joe-Don in his blond wig and glasses under the headline, “
Armé et Extrémement Dangereux.
” Members of the public were not to make contact with him, but to report his whereabouts to the police immediately, the report said, with an account of how a “
hautement tueur professionelle
” had killed “
un diplomate Américain
” with a single shot in the middle of the rush hour.
Yael sat back, digesting what she had read. “My God. One shot? Why didn't they shoot at you as well?”
“I am the bait. It's you they are after.”
Yael sat back, digesting this news. “Who was the American diplomat?”
“Patrick Whiteman. A gift from Langley to watch our backs. He should have had someone to watch his back. More specifically, his front.”
Yael put her hand on his. “Are you OK?”
Joe-Don nodded slowly. “I'm fine.” She watched as he picked up his drink and took a sip. His hand was rock-steady.
The growing sense of unease Yael had had since they arrived in Geneva now curdled into fear. Langley. Snipers. An American diplomat shot dead in broad daylight. But she and Joe-Don had been in life-threatening situations before. Yael knew not to persist; Joe-Don would share what information he thought necessary when he thought it necessary. The shooting explained why Joe-Don was dressed as an elderly blind man. But what was the Jasna connection?
“Now listen up. This is our security situation, and it is not good,” Joe-Don said, his voice deadly serious, interrupting her thoughts. “We are hiding in a brothel in the red-light district of Geneva, with a hit team, the Geneva police department, and the city's media on our tail. What do you have to tell me?”
“A blue flag over every coltan mine,” said Yael.
Joe-Don looked puzzled.
Yael leaned forward, her voice animated. “It's simple once you think it through. KZX and the Bonnet Group plan to merge. KZX is going into the electronics business, making mobile telephones, laptops, and tablet computers. For that they need coltan. The Bonnet Group is the biggest mining company in Africa, especially in Congo. But they need to take control of the territoryâcomplete control. The Goma Development Zone is the pilot project. It sets a precedent and establishes a beachhead. The key point is that the UNâHussein actuallyâhas agreed that KZX security staff will be allowed to control the perimeters and entry and exit. Once they control the territory and access to it they control everything. It will be a KZX colony. Of course Quentin Braithwaite is completely opposed to this. So they need to get rid of him. You know about the plan for Hutus wearing UN uniforms to kill five hundred people at the Goma camp in order to discredit the DPKO. That didn't work because someone leaked it. But they will think of something else.”
Joe-Don listened carefully as she spoke. “So what now?”
Yael looked down and stroked the cat. The soft warmth of the animal against her was curiously comforting. “When I was in Goma, Hakizimani asked me if I knew Menachem Stein.”
Joe-Don put his glass down, completely alert now. “And you said?”
“No, of course. But this would fit his M.O. Perfectly. And Olivia wrote in her letter that Stein had been calling Fareed Hussein on his private line. I am sure that is why she was killed, because she knew that the UN was secretly working with Efrat Global Solutions. You remember what EGS did in Brazil in Amazonia?”
Joe-Don nodded. “Peaceful protests by the indigenous people against ranchers and loggers get international attention. EGS steps in to âhelp'âhelp being weapons and basic military training. A few ranchers and loggers get shot. The federal police and the army move the indigenous people out, the loggers and ranchers move in, and Americans can still eat their hamburgers.”
“Exactly. Maybe there is a similar plan for central Africa. EGS arms the Hutus against the Tutsis and the Tutsis against the Hutus. Burn some villages, kill the women and children. Congo explodes. The UN sends peacekeepers. KZX is there to help, as a good corporate citizen,” Yael said, looking down. The cat turned around on her lap so she could scratch his expansive stomach. “The deaths mount up, Fareed Hussein explains how the UN's resources are overstretched and KZX has offered to take on some security duties. Maybe even with EGS. The UN troops are redeployed to some other crisis zone. The Goma Development Zone becomes the Eastern Congo Development Zone becomes the Great Lakes Development Zone and on and on. And there you have it, a blue flag over every coltan mine.”
Joe-Don sat silently for several seconds before he spoke. “Not with President Freshwater in office. If Congo becomes a bloodbath, she will push for US troops to intervene.”
Yael leaned forward to take the coffee. “Which is why, I guess, there is all this talk now of impeaching her.” The cat meowed indignantly and leapt off her lap. Yael had something else she wanted to ask. She had been intrigued by Joe-Don and Jasna's body language when they walked in to the bar.
Yael looked at Joe-Don and sipped her coffee. “So how do you know Jasna?”
“We met in Yugoslavia during the war,” said Joe-Don, his voice bland.
Yael nodded slowly, a smile playing on her lips. “You know each other well?”
“Well enough,” said Joe-Don, looking into his whisky and swirling the amber liquid around, his craggy face suddenly softening.
Yael looked at him carefully. “You are blushing. I've never seen you blush before. Well, well . . .”
He looked up at her, a mixture of nostalgia and regret in his eyes. “Love in the war zone. It happens. But she was married, and I am not the domestic type. David introduced us. He brought her and her kids across the front lines in his UN Jeep, together with two other families. You were there, in the Hotel Hyatt in Belgrade.”
A memory flashed through her mind, as intense as if it had happened yesterday. She was sixteen years old and watching CNN in the hotel room when the concierge called to say her brother had arrived. She took the elevator downstairs into the wide, modern foyer with the glass front and revolving door. It was crowded with the usual mix of aid workers, journalists, UN officials, and large, watchful men who sat there all day smoking and drinking coffee. David had just pulled up in front of the hotel. His car was covered in mud and the windows were filthy. She ran out to see him. She put her finger in a small hole in the door by the driver's seat. There was another one under the window and two more over the wheel arch. One window was missing completely, apart from the jagged shards still in the door. Three women emerged from the Jeep, followed by six children and two teenagers. David climbed out of the car, another toddler in his arms. A powerful, familiar longing pulled inside her. Yes, she had been to Belgrade.
She sipped her whisky, slower this time. “And Stella?”
“She is Jasna's cousin. You know what that means in the Balkans. We are part of the family now. Stella also rents out rooms by the hour as I am sure you have noticed. The local police chief is one of her regular clients. Apparently he likes to go to bed with three or four girls at once. Must be quite a party. He is due in later. So we are unlikely to be raided, at least tonight.”
Yael nodded thoughtfully. Obviously Joe-Don had helped Jasna get her cleaning contracts with the UN.
“Do you also know Stella well?” she asked lightly, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Joe-Don tried not to smile. He shook his head. “No. Now stop prying.”
“OK. But, seriously, if you knew Jasna for twenty years, and you knew she would help, then why did I have to pretend to be Claudia Lopez?”
Joe-Don stared hard at her. “Because you are Claudia Lopez, and if you don't believe it nobody else will. This is as serious as it gets. A man was shot dead next to me a few hours ago by a professional sniper. A rogue unit of State Department intelligence officers are on our trail. Erin Rembaugh and Marc Rosenheim are trying to bring down President Freshwater. These people don't want to talk to you. They want to kill you. So you had better remember thatâand who you areâ tomorrow morning. Especially if you run into any trouble. When is your birthday, Claudia?”
“February 2, 1978.”
“Mother's maiden name?”
“Gomez. Maria Gomez.”
“She must miss you.”
“No. She passed away five years ago. But my father, Rodrigo does, and so does my little sister, Albertine.”
Joe-Don looked up at the television and turned the volume up. The reporter, an excitable brunette in her twenties, was standing in front of the manicured hedge at the Place Jean-Marteau. The square had been sealed off with police tape. Armed officers stood on each corner and sirens wailed in the background. The screen showed the same picture of Joe-Don in his dark-blond wig and tortoiseshell glasses, then switched back to the crime scene. The reporter continued breathlessly that such a murder was unprecedented in Geneva.
The report was interrupted by an urgent news flash. A picture of President Freshwater flashed up on the screen. Joe-Don immediately changed channels to CNN. The news banner along the bottom of the screen announced, “President Freshwater's husband, Jorge, killed in a skiing accident . . . more follows as it comes in . . .” The channel's White House correspondent, a veteran reporter in his sixties, was standing outside the White House talking to the camera. “All we know at this stage is that the president's husband was killed this afternoon while skiing off-piste in Aspen. It seems that there was something wrong with one of his bindings, and he lost control and hit a tree.'
