Free The Washington Stratagem by Adam LeBor Page B

calling her, but it was too embarrassing to admit he had not arrived yet. Instead she typed a quick thanks and sent it. She and Isis were due to have lunch soon anyway to dissect the evening, although Yael was starting to suspect that it would be a very short conversation.
    She looked at her watch again, promising herself it was the last time. It was 8:00 p.m. He was half an hour late, and not a word of apology. She walked into the lounge, sat down, and switched on the television news, pensive now. She went through the local channels first—there were no floods or fires on the subway—then checked CNN, Fox News, and the BBC. Manuel Garcia had unsettled her. Her number was restricted. Apart from UN colleagues, and Isis, only Sami had it. How had Al Jazeera got it?
    Yael changed channels to Al Jazeera. The screen showed a scene of carnage in Afghanistan. The blackened wreckage of a car was scattered across the dirt road: melted, burnt lumps of metal, shreds of upholstery, a section of steering wheel. Three twisted, charred figures lay by a nearby drainage ditch.
    Najwa’s voice said, “Afghan officials have reacted with fury to the refusal of US authorities to investigate after a car traveling to the UN compound in Kandahar was hit in a drone strike in January this year. Four civilians were killed, all members of the same family, including a two-year-old boy. The boy, Babur Hamid, was taken to a US military hospital with severe burns but never regained consciousness and died the next day. Thus far, no US official has been called to account for any civilian deaths caused by drone strikes. The Afghan president has demanded to see the so-called Black File, the classified record of all drone strikes, including operational planning and debriefings. A US government spokesman expressed regret at the loss of life, but said he was unable to comment on matters of national security.”
    Najwa continued talking. “Coming up next… a Millennium mystery. What is Yael Azoulay, the secret envoy for the United Nations, doing in a New York hotel apparently posing as an escort? Stay with us, after the break.”
    Yael sat transfixed, all thought of her dinner date gone. She walked over to the ice bucket, poured herself a large glass of white wine, and sat down again in front of the television. A series of advertisements—investments in Qatar, Rolex watches, holidays in Oman—dragged on.
    Eventually the program returned to the studio.
    The video footage showed a slim woman wearing a cap and wraparound raincoat walking down a hotel corridor. The film stopped. The camera angle switched around.
    Yael’s face filled the screen.
    Clarence Clairborne sat back, screwed his eyes closed, and breathed deeply. He tried to remember his private prayer session with Eugene Packard early that morning and the strength it had given him, but all he could think of was his Emmy, and her, what was the word… partner .
    The two of them, together. Waking up together. Going to sleep together. The things they did at night before they went to sleep. He shook his head to make the visions go away and opened his eyes. He looked at the telephone on his desk, dreading what he knew was about to come. What was the matter with him? He was a confidant of presidents, an A-list DC power broker, a regular on the Forbes rich list.
    Clairborne held out his fingers. They trembled slightly. Was he nervous because of the call he was going to make, or because of his visitor yesterday? How much did they really know?
    He willed himself to pick up the handset. It slid out from his palm and landed with a crash on the wooden edge of his desk. He placed it back in the holder and took a fresh monogrammed handkerchief from the pile in the drawer of his desk. He first wiped his forehead, then his meaty palms, one after the other, sat back, and closed his eyes.
    He is lying on his bunk at Da Nang Air Base, an envelope in his hand. The air is thick and humid, heavy with the stink of fuel, the