The Geneva Option: A Yael Azoulay Novel (Yael Azoulay Series)
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A gripping thriller of international espionage, The Geneva Option by Adam LeBor pits a sexy, young UN staffer against a brutal conspiracy to control Africa’s natural resources.
Yael Azoulay does the United Nations’ dirty work. Sent by the UN’s Secretary General to eastern Congo to negotiate with Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, a Hutu warlord wanted for genocide, she offers a deal: surrender to the UN tribunal, in exchange for a short sentence and a return to politics.
The plan is to bring stability to the region so the West can exploit the region’s mineral wealth. But Yael soon realizes that the UN is prepared to turn a blind eye to mass murder.
Yael finds herself on the run, hunted by the world’s intelligence and law enforcement agencies—and haunted by her past—ultimately learning that salvation means not just saving other’s lives but confronting her own inner demons.
Written by Adam LeBor, a high-profile foreign correspondent and critically acclaimed investigative journalist, The Geneva Option takes readers on a nonstop journey through the secret corridors of international power.
with the telltale lilt of the Austrian capital. HUSSEIN: But this . . . event goes against every founding principle of the UN. REMBAUGH: [her voice cold and hard] Mr. Secretary-General, as you well know, there is a precedent for this. Srebrenica. You agreed that the Dutch peacekeepers would not defend the enclave. The Bosnian Serbs were allowed to capture Srebrenica in exchange for signing up to the Dayton Peace Accords. HUSSEIN: [anguished] Capture the town, yes. Not massacre every man and
But they know, as we do, that for now, Congo’s institutions are still undeveloped. Goma is 1,600 kilometers from the capital, Kinshasa, in a volatile border area. The roads are poor, government control is weak. The government recognizes that it needs help, and we are there to provide it. There can be no development or aid work without safety and security. We have already been using KZX’s communication capabilities to provide the UN with real-time intelligence about events on the ground in Central
something papery and fresh. At first Joe-Don could not place it. Then he realized it was the smell of money itself. Monsieur Director’s assistant, a tall young man in his twenties with dark-blond hair, even remembered how he took his coffee: black with sugar. He also brought him a tray of newspapers and magazines to read while he waited. Joe-Don flicked through that week’s edition of the Economist, which carried a lengthy report on the turmoil at the UN. Fareed Hussein’s position was looking
nor too slow, past the restaurant with no name and a large sign for “Kronenbourg 1664” beer, past the Indian-owned convenience store that sold the sandwiches she and Joe-Don had been existing on, and into the Place des Grottes, a good place, she thought, for some dry-cleaning—not of clothes, but people. The Place des Grottes was a pedestrian precinct, the roads passing through it blocked off by small concrete bollards, with a retractable post in the middle in case the emergency services needed to
anticipation as she readied herself for him. She opened her eyes. Her breath was thick in her throat now, her nipples stiffening against her shirt. Mahesh was staring at the outlines of her breasts, straining against the soft fabric. “Look what you are doing to me. Heshi . . . please. Kiss me. Kiss me like you used to,” she pleaded, her voice thick and husky. Yael willed Kapoor closer, sensing his arousal. She opened her mouth wider, breathing faster, her tongue between her lips, feeling the