metadata?” asked Sami.
“Nothing.”
“No date, time, and make of camera? It should be embedded in the video file.”
Najwa ran the cursor over the video file’s properties. Every field was empty. “Stripped out. But a note came with the disc.”
She handed a sheet of folded paper to Sami. There were two words, “More follows.” The phrase dated back to the era when news stories were typed up over several sheets of copy paper. “More follows” indicated that the article ran onto another sheet. The letter r was malformed, missing its horizontal spar.
Sami nodded and stared back at the screen. “Run the clip again, please.”
The screen filled with the woman walking down the corridor. Sami stared, then pressed the pause button after a few seconds. The picture froze. He scratched his head. “I know where that is. I need to call my news desk. Is this another joint production?”
Sami reached for the play button to watch the end of the clip.
Najwa grabbed his hand before he could press down. “That depends,” she said, gripping his wrist.
“On what?”
Najwa smiled sweetly. “You.”
Sami looked wary. “You have the video file. I don’t.”
“But you have information about someone we are both very interested in. Information that you have not shared, habibi.”
“I told you everything that I could confirm. It’s all in our program.”
Najwa closed the video window on her screen. She looked at Sami, still holding his wrist. “Everything you could confirm. And the rest?”
“There is nothing else,” he said indignantly.
Najwa released his hand. “OK.”
She picked up the telephone on her desk. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Sami, turning away. Najwa dialed the switchboard. “Can I speak to the Washington Post bureau, please?”
Sami instantly leaned forward and pressed the button on the handset cradle.
Najwa looked at him expectantly, still holding the handset. “Yes?”
Sami said, “There is more.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Najwa. For you.”
Najwa put the telephone back down. “We can get the story on the eight o’clock news tonight. I will give you the clip, exclusively, for the Times website. But Sami…”
“What?”
“We go in hard this time. No more protecting her because you are dating her…”
“Let’s get to work,” said Sami, before Najwa could finish her sentence, already hating himself.
Thirty floors above the Al Jazeera office, Yael leaned forward and put Braithwaite’s folder down on the coffee table. The information the folder contained, while shocking, did not surprise her, especially after Clairborne’s performance. Suddenly a wave of tiredness hit her. The sun had set, blanketing the UN headquarters in darkness. She had got up at dawn to catch an early train to Washington, DC; confronted one of the most powerful men in America; been threatened, followed; spent another four hours getting back to the UN; and now this. She watched a police helicopter sweep by, its searchlight cutting through the dusk as it followed the path of the river, flying so close that its blades rattled the office windows.
Yael briefly squeezed her eyes closed, only half-listening as Hussein outlined the implications of the information in Braithwaite’s dossier for the UN, and by implication, for the SG’s career. Who was this man, the eighth secretary-general of the United Nations? A refugee turned multimillionaire; a self-proclaimed champion of the poor and downtrodden who adored luxury and celebrities; a fighter for peace who had stopped the UN intervening in so many wars. What did he want? What drove him?
Yael knew the facts of the SG’s biography so well she could recite them on demand. Born in Delhi in 1940, Fareed Hussein was the son of a Muslim father and Hindu mother. His father, Ahmad, had owned a private bank. The Husseins were a mainstay of the city’s business and social elite, with a wide network of friends and business partners among Hindus and Muslims,
“Nothing.”
“No date, time, and make of camera? It should be embedded in the video file.”
Najwa ran the cursor over the video file’s properties. Every field was empty. “Stripped out. But a note came with the disc.”
She handed a sheet of folded paper to Sami. There were two words, “More follows.” The phrase dated back to the era when news stories were typed up over several sheets of copy paper. “More follows” indicated that the article ran onto another sheet. The letter r was malformed, missing its horizontal spar.
Sami nodded and stared back at the screen. “Run the clip again, please.”
The screen filled with the woman walking down the corridor. Sami stared, then pressed the pause button after a few seconds. The picture froze. He scratched his head. “I know where that is. I need to call my news desk. Is this another joint production?”
Sami reached for the play button to watch the end of the clip.
Najwa grabbed his hand before he could press down. “That depends,” she said, gripping his wrist.
“On what?”
Najwa smiled sweetly. “You.”
Sami looked wary. “You have the video file. I don’t.”
“But you have information about someone we are both very interested in. Information that you have not shared, habibi.”
“I told you everything that I could confirm. It’s all in our program.”
Najwa closed the video window on her screen. She looked at Sami, still holding his wrist. “Everything you could confirm. And the rest?”
“There is nothing else,” he said indignantly.
Najwa released his hand. “OK.”
She picked up the telephone on her desk. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Sami, turning away. Najwa dialed the switchboard. “Can I speak to the Washington Post bureau, please?”
Sami instantly leaned forward and pressed the button on the handset cradle.
Najwa looked at him expectantly, still holding the handset. “Yes?”
Sami said, “There is more.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Najwa. For you.”
Najwa put the telephone back down. “We can get the story on the eight o’clock news tonight. I will give you the clip, exclusively, for the Times website. But Sami…”
“What?”
“We go in hard this time. No more protecting her because you are dating her…”
“Let’s get to work,” said Sami, before Najwa could finish her sentence, already hating himself.
Thirty floors above the Al Jazeera office, Yael leaned forward and put Braithwaite’s folder down on the coffee table. The information the folder contained, while shocking, did not surprise her, especially after Clairborne’s performance. Suddenly a wave of tiredness hit her. The sun had set, blanketing the UN headquarters in darkness. She had got up at dawn to catch an early train to Washington, DC; confronted one of the most powerful men in America; been threatened, followed; spent another four hours getting back to the UN; and now this. She watched a police helicopter sweep by, its searchlight cutting through the dusk as it followed the path of the river, flying so close that its blades rattled the office windows.
Yael briefly squeezed her eyes closed, only half-listening as Hussein outlined the implications of the information in Braithwaite’s dossier for the UN, and by implication, for the SG’s career. Who was this man, the eighth secretary-general of the United Nations? A refugee turned multimillionaire; a self-proclaimed champion of the poor and downtrodden who adored luxury and celebrities; a fighter for peace who had stopped the UN intervening in so many wars. What did he want? What drove him?
Yael knew the facts of the SG’s biography so well she could recite them on demand. Born in Delhi in 1940, Fareed Hussein was the son of a Muslim father and Hindu mother. His father, Ahmad, had owned a private bank. The Husseins were a mainstay of the city’s business and social elite, with a wide network of friends and business partners among Hindus and Muslims,
Similar Books
