Free The Geneva Option by Adam LeBor

SG’s chief of staff. Yael looked at him, enjoying the presence of a friendly face. “I don’t think so, Mahesh. Not after that memo in the New York Times . The SG has made up his mind.”
    Mahesh walked closer. She smelled soap and chewing gum. “I will tell you something,” he said, smiling mischievously as he whispered in her ear. “Sometimes the SG needs to have his mind made up for him. This may be one of them.”
    He stepped back. “Now that is between the two of us. Our little secret,” he said, his fingers lightly brushing her arm as he left.
    The younger officer stepped forward. “Mr. Kapoor, we have to escort Ms. Azoulay from the building,” he said as he took hold of Yael’s arm.
    Mahesh instantly swiveled on his foot and turned to face him, taking the policeman’s hand away from Yael’s arm and dropping it. “Your orders are to escort Ms. Azoulay, officer. Not manhandle her,” Mahesh said indignantly. He rested his hand again on Yael’s arm. “Don’t worry, I am going to sort this out. You had better go now.”
    The officer looked at his elder counterpart, a question on his face. “Leave it,” the senior officer said. Yael thanked Mahesh and walked a few doors away to her office. The senior officer opened the door, which was unlocked, told her to wait outside, and directed the other to search the room. The younger policeman methodically and enthusiastically went through Yael’s shelves and desk drawers. He gathered up her battered UN rucksack, a pair of walkie-talkies, and a blue peacekeeper’s beret she had been given in Afghanistan.
    â€œCan I keep the beret?” she asked the senior officer.
    He shook his head.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œUN property, ma’am.” He gestured at Yael to go inside.
    She opened her filing cabinet. It had been emptied. “Where are my papers?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “UN property.”
    Yael reached for a DPKO coffee mug and looked again for the officer’s approval. He shook his head.
    â€œYes, I know,” said Yael as she put the mug back down on her desk.
    The policemen watched carefully as she gathered her personal belongings: photographs and postcards, two filigreed porcelain teacups from Kandahar, a bottle of throat-searing slivovitz she had picked up in the Balkans, a small Iraqi prayer rug, and several airport thrillers.
    The senior officer said, “Please turn your purse inside out and turn out your pockets onto your desk, ma’am.”
    â€œIs this really necessary?” Yael asked.
    â€œJust do as I ask, please, ma’am. Then we can all go about our business,” the policeman said. “Are you in possession of any items or information, confidential or otherwise, belonging or relating to the work of the United Nations or any of its subsidiary or allied organizations?”
    â€œNo. I am not,” said Yael.
    She pulled her bag inside out and emptied her trouser pockets as instructed: they yielded a set of keys to her apartment, a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights, a Zippo lighter, tissues, chewing gum, a wallet, a half-eaten apple, and her pen. The younger officer riffled through her possessions, trying the lighter, and looking through her wallet. Yael watched, her face expressionless as he picked up the pen.
    The officer weighed it in his hand. “Heavy,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a fountain pen. I like to write with ink,” said Yael.
    The young policeman looked at her disbelievingly.
    â€œGo ahead. Take a look.”
    He unscrewed the top. Black ink spurted out from the nib, staining his hand. He pulled a face and put the pen down. He nodded at Yael. “OK, they are all yours.”
    Yael said, “Yes. I know.”
    She put her things inside her shoulder bag. The policemen took her to the elevator.
    The door opened and a tall, ruddy-faced Englishman in a tweed jacket grinned at her for a second until