Free The Geneva Option by Adam LeBor Page A

he registered the scene in front of him. Colonel Quentin Braithwaite was now under-secretary-general, or chief, of the DPKO. He purposefully cultivated the mien of a public schoolboy about to put jam in his housemaster’s shoes. In fact, he was one of the most adroit UN operators Yael knew, and she liked and admired him. The British army officer had served in Bosnia, Kashmir, and Afghanistan. He was the undeclared leader of the UN’s interventionist faction, who thought that a fleet of attack helicopters and several companies of well-armed peacekeepers would quickly teach most troublesome warlords the error of their ways.
    Braithwaite looked at Yael, and at the two policemen, taking in the situation. She saw surprise and then anger flicker in his pale blue eyes.
    The DPKO chief nodded at Yael. “We’ll talk as soon as I find out what’s going on.”
    Yael thanked Braithwaite. To her amazement, the Englishman stepped forward and hugged her. He smelled of lime cologne. “Don’t worry. We are going to sort all this out,” he said as he walked down the corridor.
    The DPKO chief turned as he entered the SG’s anteroom. “Call me, Yael. Anytime,” he bellowed.
    Yael stepped into the elevator, the policemen on either side of her. It seemed to stop on every floor. As soon as the door opened, the lively babble from those waiting outside immediately ceased. Numerous colleagues from the DPA and DPKO with whom Yael had worked got in as the elevator made its way downstairs. One or two greeted her warily but most fell silent as soon as they saw the policemen and quickly edged away. A space soon appeared around her as though she had a contagious disease, which, in UN terms, she did. None asked her what was going on or if she needed any help.
    Leila, an Egyptian secretary from the Department of Information, got in on the 14th floor. Yael had recently spent an evening with Leila advising her how to fend off the advances of her Brazilian boss and keep her job. Leila had promised to cook her an Egyptian dinner in return. She said nothing to Yael but stood staring at her with her mouth open, until Yael put a finger under her chin and gently pressed upward. Leila closed her mouth and turned bright red. Thanh, a new junior assistant at the DPKO, got in on the 8th floor. Still young, in her early twenties, and finding her way at the UN, Thanh Ly was French-Vietnamese and head-turningly beautiful. Her desk was a magnet for the male members of the department. Yael had several times rescued her from their attentions.
    Thanh walked straight over to Yael. She took Yael’s hand and squeezed it.
    â€œCan I help?” she asked.
    Yael shook her head. “No, but thanks for asking,” she replied, and meant it.
    Eventually the elevator reached the ground floor and the policemen escorted her past the newsagent and candy store, through the turnstiles, and into the public lobby. It was crowded with tourists and visitors waiting for their passes at the security desk. Almost everyone turned to look at the spectacle of Yael and her escorts. The policemen walked her through an exhibition of gruesome photographs commemorating the Rwandan genocide. A large banner proclaimed “Never Again,” and a floor-to-ceiling poster for a charity called Africa Child Rescue displayed a photograph of near-naked children laboring in a mine. A bank of flat-screen televisions covering most of a wall showed Fareed Hussein nodding gravely as he was interviewed by UN television, and promising that the UN had learned the lessons of the 1990s. Africa Child Rescue, he intoned, was a new initiative, a unique program that would be at the heart of the UN’s Year of Africa, combining the resources and dynamism of the corporate world with the knowledge and experience of the UN.
    They stopped at the security tent. The chubby senior officer patted her down slowly, drawing out the process as long as he could. The young officer