Diplomatic Immunity by Grant Sutherland Read Free Book Online Page B

evidently took a Swissair flight to Geneva at the beginning of last week, spent three days there, then returned.
    Mike remarks that Geneva, as he remembers it, is a hell of a long way from Afghanistan.
    “Could have been a routine meeting,” I suggest.
    But Toshio, we both know, would have been working his butt off this past month just to prepare for the General Assembly session. Last week was not the time for a three-day meeting on the shores of Lake Geneva.
    Mike pushes the ticket aside. “What have you got?”
    When I show him the memos, he glances through them quickly. “Give it to me again,” he says, puzzled. “Hatanaka was special envoy to Afghanistan, right?”
    “He was with UNHCR till two years back.” That, I explain, was a large part of the reason he ended up as special envoy to Afghanistan: Afghanistan has one of the worst refugee problems in the world.
    “But it wasn’t his job, was it, refugees? Lookit this.” Mike flicks the memos. “Special envoy to Afghanistan? Where’d he find the time? The guy was doing everything but.”
    There was some talk, I remark absently, that Toshio might make a run at the UNHCR’s top job, high commissioner for refugees.
    A cynical weariness spreads over Mike’s face. “Ahh,” he says.
    “Come on. He wasn’t like that, Mike, this was a dedicated guy.” I gesture to the memos. “If he thought he could help, he helped.”
    “Dedicated.”
    “Dedicated,” I say.
    The desk offers up nothing more, so we turn and face the shelves. There are files, hundreds of them, not all of them labeled. Shaking his head, Mike goes out in search of Toshio’s secretary while I prop my ass against the desk and wait.
    The last time I saw Toshio alive was yesterday morning. He was leaning against these same shelves, arms crossed, one shoulder against the files, trying hard to look relaxed. Half a lifetime he’d spent in the U.S., and he still couldn’t manage the trick. The effort it cost him was visible in every stiff angle of his body; I never saw a man look less relaxed or more Japanese. Now my eyes run down the shelves to the tatami on the floor. And I have to blink away a sudden vision of Toshio’s corpse.
    A minute later Mike returns with Toshio’s secretary, Mei Tan, in tow.
    “So where’d he keep this report?” he asks her as they enter.
    Mei Tan looks relieved to see me. A Singaporean, she is something of an institution here on Floor Twenty-nine. She worked with my deputy, Gunther Franks, for years before promotion to Toshio’s office. Now she pushes her horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and tells us that she’s not sure about this. She says she would like some formal authority before allowing us into Mr. Hatanaka’s office.
    “We’re already in the goddamn office,” Mike mutters, going to the far side of the desk.
    Mei Tan turns to me. “You must speak with Mr. Hatanaka.”
    “What report?” I ask her.
    “Did he say for you to come in here?”
    “Listen,” Mike breaks in impatiently, but I raise a hand.
    “Mei Tan,” I say evenly, “we’re here because Patrick O’Conner sent us. If you need to call him to confirm that, go right ahead. We’ll wait.”
    She considers that. You can see that the idea of risking Patrick O’Conner’s wrath does not appeal. And when I volunteer to take full responsibility for this, she finally gives up. She shrugs and gestures to Mike.
    “I was telling him that Mr. Hatanaka was working on this report for the General Assembly. Like a five-year review. We’ve been working on it for months now. Is that what you’re looking for?”
    Mike and I exchange a glance. This could be something.
    “Let’s see it,” I say.
    Mei Tan takes down a box from a shelf and places it on the desk. “Officially it’s for the Secretary-General and some of the committees.”
    Which committees? Mike wants to know.
    The Third Committee, she tells him: Human Rights. And the Fifth Committee: UN Administrative and Budgetary