Free The Geneva Option by Adam LeBor Page B

put her bag through the X-ray machine and guided her through the metal detector. Finally, the policemen walked her past the hordes of gawking tourists, down the steps, through the black metal fence, and onto the sidewalk at First Avenue.
    â€œYou are now free to go, ma’am,” said the junior officer regretfully.
    Yael smiled. “Yes. I know. This is New York. You have no jurisdiction here.”
    â€œI’ll remember that on your next visit to the UN, ma’am,” he replied, stone-faced.
    Yael pointed at his hand. The policeman looked down at his palm, stained with ink from her fountain pen.
    â€œIt’s indelible. It doesn’t come off,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Ever.”
    His face twisted with anger, and he stepped toward her.
    Yael nodded. “Be my guest. Because if you take one step closer, officer, I will call the NYPD and have you charged with assault.”
    The senior officer put his hand on his colleague’s arm. “Leave it. We’re done,” he said, shaking his head as they walked back into the security tent.
    Yael stood still for a moment, her bravado evaporating as she tried to process what had happened to her. It was a crisp autumn day, the kind New York did well. A cold breeze blew in hard from the East River; the sun was shining in a bright blue sky dotted with white clouds. Sirens howled in the distance, traffic honked and stalled, and the air smelled of coffee and exhaust fumes. Everything looked exactly the same as usual. The giant sculpture of a revolver with a twisted barrel was perched on its plinth, the lines at the security tent snaked down to the pavement, and the flags of the member states were a blaze of color, flapping in the wind. The new American UN mission loomed over the corner of East 44th Street and First Avenue, its cream-colored concrete façade with no windows on the lower floors still fresh and shiny. But she knew nothing would ever be the same.
    Yael stepped off the sidewalk without looking. A tourist bus flew toward her, honking so loudly she jumped backward instinctively, her heart pounding as the bus thundered past. Yael shook her head, focused, and stepped into the road again, this time looking carefully as she crossed First Avenue. She turned left at the corner of 46th Street at the Turkish UN Mission, walked past the blue wooden fence around the empty lot that covered most of the block, and continued up First Avenue toward the Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza. The open space was a popular site for protests. A crowd of dozens of demonstrators was gathered, shouting and waving placards with graphic pictures of the Rwandan genocide. Two cops stood nearby chatting.
    A young Indian woman waving a megaphone stood behind a large banner that declared, “No deals with murderers: put Hakizimani on trial.” Her upper-class British accent sounded familiar. Yael went to take a closer look. After all, it was thanks to her that they were there at all.

Seven
    T he young Indian woman with the megaphone was, indeed, familiar. She was Rina, the only daughter of Fareed Hussein. Rina was enthusiastically leading the crowd in a chant: “African resources for Africa!” and “No more UN sellouts!” Rina Hussein was one of Yael’s rare failures. A year or so earlier the SG sent Yael on what he called “his most delicate mission”—to try to reconcile with his estranged daughter. The two young women quickly became close. Rina was great company: sharp, fast, and possessed of a dry wit. Yael did not have many friends and found herself drawn to Rina, who certainly seemed to enjoy her company. Yael kept procrastinating over the real reason for her meetings with the SG’s daughter, perhaps because she sensed the likely outcome. One evening, over dinner at a chic bistro in Harlem, Yael carefully raised the topic of Rina’s father and his wish to make contact. Rina said nothing. She simply picked up her bag and