The Washington Stratagem (3 page)

Yael declined his offer of coffee or tea and placed her mobile telephone on the side table between the chairs. She sensed him watching her, like a lion scoping a nearby zebra, and quickly deciding that this young woman from an organization he despised posed no threat. He had marked his territory. Now it was her turn. A blue light at the bottom of her phone blinked repeatedly.

“Please switch off the microphones and cameras, Mr. Clairborne.”

Clairborne looked at the phone, and back at her. “This room is swept twice a day, Ms. Azoulay.”

Yael nodded. “It’s not intruders’ mikes that I’m worried about.”

Clairborne smiled, amused. “You have to watch your back in this town, Ms. Azoulay. You never know what might end up on YouTube.”

Yael sat back and said nothing. The silence stretched out. Clairborne gave her a long look, as though reassessing his initial judgment. He stood up, walked over to the telephone on his desk, and punched a series of numbers into the keypad. The blue light on Yael’s phone went out, replaced by a green one.

“Thank you,” said Yael, as Clairborne returned and sat down.

“You know the rules,” replied Clairborne, gesturing at her phone.

Yael nodded. She slid out her mobile’s battery and SIM card and laid the pieces of the telephone on the table. “So do you.”

Clairborne did the same. He offered Yael a glass of water. She nodded and he poured them both one. He emptied the glass in one draft and looked at her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice now cool and businesslike.

Yael explained what she wanted, slowly and in detail. Clairborne watched her as she spoke, his wide, doughy face impassive.

She had prepared for this meeting for a week. Her briefing notes were an inch thick. They included a detailed history of the Prometheus Group, biographies of its key personnel and directors, and flowcharts showing Prometheus’s reach into each US government department and the firm’s contact official there. There were multiple lines in and out of the major departments, including Commerce, Treasury, Labor, Justice, Transportation, the Federal Reserve, and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and fewer connections into smaller departments such as Food Safety. The Pentagon had four separate pages, one each for army, navy, air force, and procurement. Yael had read the notes several times in New York, and again on the train that morning. She had been briefed verbally on Prometheus’s connections to the United States’ intelligence agencies, by her UN colleague Quentin Braithwaite, a former British army officer. Prometheus, Braithwaite had explained, was especially well connected to a new US government covert agency that operated off the books. Braithwaite had forbidden Yael from taking any notes at his briefing. Nor was she to discuss or mention this new agency on the telephone or in any electronic communications, no matter how well encrypted.

Clairborne was silent for several seconds. “Ms. Azoulay, I really have no idea what you are talking about.”

Yael took a sip of her water before she spoke. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. The Iranian regime is under sanctions. It is illegal for American firms to do business with Iran, whether directly or through foreign-based subsidiaries. It is especially illegal for American firms to do business with the Revolutionary Guard, which as you surely know, has been designated a terrorist organization.”

Clairborne shrugged, his eyebrows raised, his hands open and forward in the universal declaration of innocence. “Indeed it has. But I have no idea why you are sitting here telling me that. I am sorry, Ms. Azoulay, that you seem to have had a wasted trip. If there is anything else we can help you with, anything at all…”

“You should know, Mr. Clairborne,” said Yael, holding his gaze, “that President Freshwater is taking a strong personal interest in this matter.”

Renee Freshwater, the first female president of the United States, had been in office for three years. As the most liberal Democrat to ever hold office, her election had provoked fury among Republicans. She had started her career in the State Department, where she had been one of the most outspoken advocates for intervention during the genocide in Rwanda in 1994. She had risen up the ranks to serve as the United States ambassador to the United Nations, from where she had been appointed secretary of state. Once in office, Freshwater had twisted Congress’s arm to force through reforms on labor law, immigration, and banking regulation, enraging Wall Street. But it was her decision to sign up the United States to the International Criminal Court that had sent her conservative opponents into a frenzy. Based in The Hague, the Dutch seat of government, the court had been set up in the wake of the genocides in Rwanda and Bosnia, with the aim of preventing future mass slaughters. Freshwater had now agreed to the theoretical possibility that American citizens could be extradited to The Hague for war crimes or crimes against humanity. This, her opponents had pledged, would never happen. The Republicans declared all-out war on her administration, aided behind the scenes by numerous right-wing Democrats who wanted Freshwater out, to be replaced by one of their own.

President Freshwater’s husband, Eric, had been killed in a skiing accident, the full circumstances of which remained unclear, while on holiday in Aspen last year. The investigation, which was still ongoing, had not come up with a concrete explanation of why his bindings had suddenly failed, or why he had suddenly skied away from his family and gone off-piste. Many had expected Freshwater to resign. Instead she had renewed her onslaught on the corporate world with ever-increasing vigor, targeting military subcontractors and the outsourcing of intelligence to the commercial sector, especially focusing on the Prometheus Group. But Freshwater’s political honeymoon was long over, the sympathy engendered by the death of her husband evaporated. Her most recent bill, which would have brought all outsourced security functions—whether field operations or desk analysis—back under government control, had been thoroughly wrecked by Congress in a rare bipartisan filibuster. Freshwater’s plans for intervention in Syria were also quickly derailed.

Clairborne sat back, completely unfazed by the mention of the president’s name. “So what? Renee Dead-in-the-Water can bring another bill to Congress.” He brushed some imaginary fluff from his trousers. “Under whose authority are you here today, Ms. Azoulay?” he asked, the last trace of Southern bonhomie now gone.

“I represent Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations.”

Clairborne laughed. “How is Fareed? I just read that he’s not doing too well at the moment.”

“He’s fine. What matters to you is that he is mandated by the P5, the permanent five members of the Security Council. Including the United States, whose government has contracts with Prometheus worth one point two billion and which shares his concerns.”

Clairborne’s smile faded. He extracted a cigar from the box on his desk. He examined the tube of tobacco, probing it for firmness, before holding it up in front of him. “Well now, Ms. Azoulay. Why don’t you let me think about this. I will consult my board of directors and get back to you, just as soon as I can.”

“No,” said Yael.

Clairborne looked puzzled, as though he had never heard the word before. “Pardon?” He leaned forward as he spoke, his face set, his shoulders seeming to swell around him as he stared at Yael.

“You heard me, Mr. Clairborne. This ends today. Now. You cut your connection with Tehran.”

She watched Clairborne carefully. Yael read people: She knew the meaning of every eye movement, curl of the mouth, touch of the tongue to the teeth, dilated vein under the skin, subtle intake of breath or exhalation, tiny flicker of emotion across a face—the microsigns that to everyone else were imperceptible. She knew when someone was dissembling, when they were telling the truth, and even when they were perhaps subconsciously trying to tell the truth, albeit buried under a carapace of lies. Behind his belligerent exterior, Clairborne also had his ghosts. She remembered her briefing notes: “Despite his success, Clairborne remains insecure, haunted by the memory of his father, Stockwell, whose business empire collapsed almost overnight after he bounced a check. Stockwell had been running a pyramid scheme. He was arrested and sent to prison for fraud. His son visited him once and was profoundly traumatized by the experience. Stockwell later died in prison and his name is never mentioned.”

“And what if I refuse your… request?” asked Clairborne, turning the cigar over and over between his fingers.

Clairborne was playing for time, a classic ploy. The side of his mouth twitched twice, while a vein on the right side of his temple pulsed fast. She could feel him thinking, his mind racing as he asked himself,
How the hell did they find out…?

Yael said, “You should also know that the Department of Justice, the District of Columbia state attorney, and the FBI regard the Prometheus Group as an object of interest.”

“Is that a threat?”

Yael shook her head. “Of course not. Merely a statement of fact.”

“Ms. Azoulay, as I said, I will get back to you when I have considered your request. You have made a number of accusations here, very serious accusations, and I will need to consult my lawyers and other board members….”

“Mr. Clairborne, I am not accusing you of anything. I am merely bringing to you a request for your assistance with a sensitive matter that is of interest to a number of parties.”

Clairborne lumbered to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Azoulay. I will be in touch when I have some news for you.”

Time to strike, Yael thought. Her heart was thumping, but she was pleased to see her hand was steady.

“Please sit down, Mr. Clairborne,” she said.

Clairborne stared at her, his expression a mix of puzzlement and hostility.

Yael gestured at the armchair. He sat back down. Clairborne’s nickname was “the Bull.” Now she would be the matador. She opened her leather folio and slid the sheet of paper across the table.

Clairborne glanced at the paper quickly, then again, more slowly. He placed the paper on his lap and stared into space for several seconds, patting his hair, as if to check each strand was still in place before standing up and walking over to the photograph of Eugene Packard. He looked at the television evangelist for a full minute before returning to his seat. Clairborne sat down, closed his eyes, and gently rocked back and forth, the fingers of each hand resting on his temples as he silently and fluently mouthed the familiar words of prayer.

“Where did you get this?” he eventually asked.

“Keep it,” said Yael. “We have plenty of copies. Give it to your lawyer. You may need one soon. Once it is all over the Internet.”

Clairborne leaned back and suddenly laughed out loud, a deep rolling sound that came from inside his belly. “Are you shitting me? Do you want a job here, Ms. Azoulay?”

Yael shook her head. “No thanks. Your answer, please.”

The smile vanished from Clairborne’s face as quickly as it had appeared. Underneath the joshing, he was unused to losing—especially in his own office.

Clairborne slapped the arm of the leather chair. The noise sounded like a pistol shot. “This is blackmail. You have no right to come in here, to my office, to blackmail and threaten me.”

Yael stood her ground, now certain of her instincts. “Mr. Clairborne. I am not blackmailing you. I have made a request of you. Now I am merely showing you a piece of evidence that may assist you in making the right decision.”

She paused. Stockwell. “Decisions have consequences, Mr. Clairborne. A single bad move and the whole edifice can come crashing down. Bankruptcy. Prison.”

Clairborne stared at her, his eyes glacial, his body rigid with anger. “I think it’s time you left.”

Yael pushed harder. Angry people made mistakes. “It’s not me that you have to worry about. The president has got you by the balls, Mr. Clairborne. She is going to shut you down. You could be looking at ten to fifteen. I don’t think your VIP friends will be coming to visit you in jail.”

Clairborne’s fingers turned white as he gripped his armchair. He reared up, his nostrils flaring. “The president can go fuck herself. Which nowadays is her only option. We…”he said, suddenly stopping in midsentence.

He sat back down, closed his eyes for a few moments, and slowed his breathing. “Nice work, Ms. Azoulay.”

Yael watched him slide the end of the cigar into the cutter, suddenly the very picture of self-control.

“Are you familiar with the word
krysha
?” he asked.

“It’s Russian for
roof
.” The word was also mafia slang for protection, she knew.

Clairborne pressed down on the edge of the cutter. The blade slid through the packed tobacco. The end tumbled off like the head of an aristocrat guillotined in revolutionary Paris.

Yael watched the stub roll to the edge of the desk.

“Tornado season is coming soon, Ms. Azoulay,” said Clairborne. He flicked the stub into the nearby trash can. “Check your krysha.”

Najwa al-Sameera carefully picked up a half-full cup of cold coffee from the edge of Sami Boustani’s desk and placed it on a nearby filing cabinet; cleared a space among the piles of yellowing press releases, reports, drafts of future reports, and reports about reports; shifted the glossy UN magazines extolling the virtues of sustainability and conservation and the pile of used notebooks aside; dropped the last third of a stale iced doughnut in the trash can; and finally perched herself on the desk’s edge.

She considered the scene in front of her. The last time Najwa had seen the UN correspondent for the
New York Times
, he was dressed in his typical uniform of baggy jeans and untucked long-sleeved shirt worn over a T-shirt, his black curly hair was long and unkempt, and he needed a shave. As usual, he looked like a scruffy graduate student who had wandered into a seminar after a long night on the town. It was a successful guise; over the years Sami’s casual attire and apparently disorganized manner had deceived numerous UN officials and diplomats from around the world into giving away far more information than they had intended. But today he was wearing a pressed white shirt, a cream linen sports jacket, and blue chinos. His hair had been neatly styled and he was clean shaven.