- -
- 100%
- +
She smiled at the attaché’s wife and felt a twinge of irony. Don’t envy me, she wanted to say. You have your family with you. What more could you want?
After walking through a metal detector, she proceeded unaccompanied down an open, colonnaded walkway toward the grand ballroom. She waited amid a milling crowd in the doorway for her turn to be announced.
Standing on tiptoe, she craned her neck to see. So much of her work took place in the glass-and-steel high-rise of the International Criminal Court that she often forgot the romantic ideals that had driven her career to this point. But here in the ornate palace, built by Andrew Carnegie with no regard for expense, she remembered that this was a job most people only dreamed of. She was Cinderella, but without the prince.
The majordomo, resplendent in palace livery, bent toward her to study her identity card. He was wired with an interpreter’s mike, a tiny coil into his ear. “Have you an escort, madame?”
“No,” Sophie said. “I’m by myself.” In this job, who had time for a prince?
“Madame Sophie Lindstrom Bellamy,” he proclaimed in ringing tones, “au Canada et aux États-Unis.”
From Canada and the United States—she had dual citizenship, thanks to her Canadian mother and American father. Although the U.S. wasn’t a member of the ICC, the rest of the world concurred with the need for a vehicle to prosecute war criminals, so it was as a Canadian citizen that Sophie served the court. Fixing a camera-ready smile on her lips, she entered the ballroom, brilliant with golden light beaming from chandeliers and wall sconces, the air ringing with greetings from other guests. Despite the warm welcome, she understood that she would face tonight the way she had faced nearly all the greatest moments of her life—alone.
She chased away the thought with a flute of champagne served by a tall, awkward waiter. She was not about to spoil this with regrets and second thoughts. After all, it wasn’t every night you got to meet an actual queen and accept a medal of freedom from a grateful nation.
The Hague was a royal city, the seat of the Dutch government, and Queen Beatrix was tireless when it came to performing her official duties. Britain’s royals might have their scandals, but the Oranje-Nassau family of Holland had a monarch who was as hardworking as any salaried official. Security agents in street clothes discreetly patrolled the periphery of the room, their restless eyes scanning the crowd. It was an international, festive group. There was a woman in a head scarf, her tiered dress a bright flare of color, and another in a kimono, several men in colorful dashikis, as well as the Westerners in their tailored suits and evening gowns. For these few moments Sophie felt vibrant and alive, letting herself forget what was happening with her family. In their crisp, starched school uniforms, smiles displaying the gaps of lost teeth, a children’s choir performed with contagious joy, their bright voices filling the cavernous Gothic hall. The music was a mix of cultural offerings—traditional songs for Epiphany, such as “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant” and “Ça Bergers,” as well as native dance songs and the throaty humming of a ceremonial chant.
The choir launched into “Impuka Nekati,” an action chant dramatizing the chase of a cat and mouse. They were still able to sing, these orphans of war. Sophie wished she could take every single one home with her. She recognized some of them from earlier in the week when a group of them had come to deliver flowers to the prosecution team.
Her fight to stop transnational crimes against children took all her time and attention, and the ones who paid the price for that were her own kids. How many of Max and Daisy’s recitals and performances had she missed because of work? Had her son and daughter ever sung with their faces filled with joy, or had they scanned the audience, their eyes dimming when they failed to spot their mom? Dear Lord, how she wished they could be here to see the results of their sacrifice. Maybe then, they would understand. Maybe they’d forgive her.
There was a girl, all knobby legs and big white teeth, who sang as though singing was the same as breathing for her—necessary to sustain life. When the song ended, Sophie sought out the show-stealing girl. “Your singing is beautiful,” she said.
Oh, that smile. “Thank you, madame,” said the girl. She bashfully added, “My name is Fatou. I come from the village of Kuumba.”
She didn’t have to explain further. The militia’s attack on that village had rivaled the worst of wartime atrocities. Remembering the reports of Kuumba, Sophie felt a new surge of rage at the men who committed their inhuman acts upon children like Fatou.
Imagining what those velvety brown eyes had seen, what this child had endured, made Sophie wonder how Fatou was still standing, how she could face the world. How she could open her mouth and sing.
“I’m so happy you’re here now,” Sophie said, “and that you’re safe.”
“Yes, madame. Thank you, madame.” She smiled again.
And that smile reflected all the reasons Sophie did what she did, living far from her family and working more hours than a day actually had, or so it seemed, sometimes.
Just then, a murmur rippled through the crowd. The girl looked apprehensive, but Sophie overheard someone whispering. There was a rumor of snow.
“Come,” Sophie said, taking Fatou by the hand. “Look out the window.” She led the way to a tall Gothic window and pushed aside the velvet drapes. “Look,” she said again.
Fatou cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned forward. The snow was coming down in thick flakes now, turning the palace gardens into a winter wonderland, bathed in a glow from the sodium vapor lights. “I have never seen such a thing before. It is magic, madame,” Fatou said.
Outside, on a small cobble-paved driveway, shadows flickered across the fast-whitening ground. Sophie leaned in for a closer look, noting that the courtyard was deserted and peaceful. She wished Max and Daisy could see this, the splendor and the gravitas of this night. She was glad, at least, that the friendly girl beside her was sharing the moment. She turned to her with a smile.
Fatou didn’t notice but kept looking out the window, seemingly mesmerized by the snowfall.
Three
Once everyone had marveled over the snow, the performance resumed. Sophie went to a long serving table to peruse the offerings. Like the music, the food would represent the community of nations gathered here tonight. A tray of buttery gougères, cheese pastries baked to a light golden-brown, made her mouth water, but she resisted the temptation to sample them. She couldn’t allow herself to eat anything. She needed to look her best for tonight’s presentation. Pastry crumbs or faded lip color would never do.
To her surprise, the culinary display, usually so meticulous, appeared haphazard tonight, the food and flowers artlessly displayed. The head waiter, a big-boned blond man, snapped his fingers and issued an order into the mouthpiece of his headset. As he reached to replenish the chilled prawns, he managed to break an ice sculpture, and Sophie was certain she heard him swear under his breath. Enjoy your evening, she thought as she took a flute of champagne from the end table. You won’t be back. Here at the most powerful court in the world, the catering had to be impeccable. One false move and the caterer was toast.
She made her way to a group of people gathered around Momoh Sanni Momoh, Premier of Umoja, resplendent in his robe of saffron silk and tall, intricately wound headdress. While waiting to greet him, she encountered a colleague, Bibi Lateef. A native of Umoja, Mme Lateef was decked out tonight in native garb, a startling contrast to her usual somber court robes.
“You are staring, madame,” she said to Sophie, offering a smile as bright and wide as the moon. Victory and joy danced in her eyes.
They embraced, and Sophie stepped back to regard her friend. “I’m dazzled. This is a good look for you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Mme Lateef said, “because I will no longer be needing the robes.”
Sophie beamed with pride. Her colleague was as accomplished and educated as any of the jurists of the court, and she would be given a major role in the new government. “You have a new title, then? Can you share?”
“How do you like ‘Minister of Social Welfare’?” Mme Lateef said.
Sophie took her hand. Bibi Lateef had lost family members in the fighting; her struggle had been personal. Returning to her native land was bound to be bittersweet. “It sounds perfect for you,” Sophie said. “Congratulations. I’ll miss you, though. No one wanted to see the conclusion of this case more than I, but I’ll miss working with you.”
“There is much work to be done. Displaced families and children orphaned by war will be my most urgent concerns. You must promise to visit.”
“Of course.” Sophie had been to Umoja several times. It was a land of heartbreaking beauty, even in the wake of war. The fighting and encroachment by mining had decimated its cities, but there were vast regions that lay untouched—high red plains and mountain rain forests, and the river-fed regions where towns were already recovering.
“I will hold you to that promise,” said Mme Lateef. The genuine gratitude in her eyes touched Sophie’s heart. “I’m grateful to have known you.”
“It’s been an honor to serve the cause of justice, truly,” she said, watching her colleague’s face even as she stepped away to speak with the children in their native tongue. This was what Sophie lived for, this moment when she was absolutely certain that what she did mattered. That it was worth all the pain and sacrifices she’d made. But always the question remained—would her own children agree?
As she hung back, still waiting to greet the premier, a man with a press badge appeared. “Brooks Fordham, New York Times. Please, tell us what tonight is about.”
Sophie offered a restrained smile. “Mr. Fordham, if you really want the story, it would take hours to tell.”
“I really want the story. Why don’t you give me the digest version. And please, call me Brooks.”
Sophie knew his type—spoiled, ambitious, overeducated, handsome, and he knew it. But she obliged, summarizing the situation that had brought them to this night. Umoja had been a nation enslaved, oppressed by a semi-legal syndicate of European diamond merchants and their African collaborators, led by a notorious war criminal named General Timi Abacha. For two decades, the nation had been run by a ruthless militia funded by the blood diamond trade. In time, the atrocities became so severe that finally the world took notice.
Then came the photograph, the one that finally put Umoja on the map and in the public consciousness. The picture showed a young native boy, missing a hand and an ear, glaring at the camera with eyes that had lost all innocence. He had been ripped from his family, forced to work and punished by mutilation, all because he was small enough to fit into a mine shaft. The photograph made the front page of newspapers and journals and galvanized the world community to take action. A team of international investigators verified incidents of slavery and abuse, of child conscription and rape. The case was built with meticulous care, imperiling many of the key players. “Accidents” befell those who questioned the wrong people or found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sophie knew the tale by heart, perhaps better than anyone in the room. In preparing for the case, she had sunk herself deep into the red clay earth of the landlocked nation. On a map, it was shaped like a pitcher, its spout tipping down into the top of South Africa.
And that, of course, was what made it such a rich prize. In its borderlands were some of the most prolific diamond mines in the world, yielding up rough stones of exceptional quality. For untold generations, the native tribes had defended themselves from European colonists and rival tribes. Finally, ten years before, a rogue tribe, armed and financed by diamond interests, took over the nation in a bloody coup.
Its people suffered tortures beyond imagining—rape, ethnic cleansing, genocide. Little boys were conscripted as soldiers; young girls were used and discarded, or forced to bear the children of their rapists. In preparing the case against the dictator and warlord, Sophie and her team had interviewed victims of every possible crime. There were so many stories of unspeakable brutality that some members of the staff had resigned, traumatized. Others turned numb as a defense, desensitized by an overload of horror.
Every time Sophie heard of a boy, no older than her own son, brainwashed and forced into drug addiction, and turned into a killing machine, she bled a little. When she heard of a young woman, a teenager perhaps her daughter’s age, raped within an inch of her life, she bled a little more. Every story ripped at her heart, and very early on in the case it became personal.
Protests and calls for international sanctions were insufficient. Calculating as coldly as the diamond lords who called all the shots, she set about building a case against the regime, ousting the government and restoring the natives to power.
The process had taken two years. Sophie had worked herself into exhaustion. She’d lost her marriage and now lived an ocean away from her children. But tonight she reminded herself that the battle had been won. Tonight was about recognizing those who had restored a nation to its rightful keepers. No longer did villagers flee before armies of thugs. No longer were people forced to work in the mines, suffering abuse and starvation until they died at the hands of the inhuman jackals who had stolen their country.
She felt Brooks watching her. She tried not to look at him because she was afraid he would distract her. Though they’d only just met, she sensed he had the sort of easy charm and witty insouciance that would bring a smile to her face. Emerging from the emotional pain of divorce, she was discovering she had a great liking for men. And as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she felt a blush creep upward through her cheeks.
Sophie served as assistant deputy counsel for the prosecution. When illness struck two of her superiors, she found herself directly addressing the fifteen judges of the International Criminal Court. It was said that her relentless and passionate arguments were key to attaining a conviction. After that, UN troops moved in, ousted the corrupt government and restored the exiled premier to his rightful place.
“Anyway,” she concluded, addressing Brooks, “that’s the digest version, and I can already see your eyes glazing over.”
“Jet lag,” he said, taking out a hand-size notepad and wooden pencil. “Phone number?” He flashed her a grin.
She gave him her second assistant’s mobile number. That was close enough.
He wrote it down and added some notes, then gave her his own number. “Don’t you want to write it down?” he asked.
“I already have it,” she said. It was a gift of hers. She had a near-photographic memory for phone numbers. She could remember the number of the arbitrator who had handled her divorce more than a year before. The number of her son’s hockey coach, whom she’d never met in person. The number of Greg’s new wife, Nina, though Sophie would never call it. She looked up at Brooks and repeated his phone number back to him.
“A woman of many talents,” he said. “Really, it’s an incredible story—”
“That will be reduced to a one-inch blurb under ‘Around the Globe’ and buried on page 19-A,” she finished for him.
“I’ll try for more space,” he said. “Another question.”
“Go ahead.” She folded her arms in front of her.
“Is it true you gained access to the syndicate’s banking records by using the same methods as the Nigerian banking scam?”
Sophie felt her mouth twitch with a smile. “We finally found a use for e-mail spam. The investigative team did the technical work, but it did amount to duping the syndicate’s chief treasurer. It’s not the oldest trick in the book, but close. And it made them look incredibly foolish.”
In the tradition of the Nigerian banking spammers whose scam was so notorious it was known as a 419, they had targeted the dictator’s top treasury official, Mr. Femi Gidado. He was known to be an ambitious, greedy man whose high-risk investments had brought high returns to the regime.
Having learned this about him, Sophie’s team had sent him a “phishing” e-mail, posing as an innocent government official in charge of a staggering fortune. They had “begged his worthy indulgence” on a “matter of utmost financial urgency,” promising a sum of $3.5 million if he would simply provide his banking information to be used in a simple, clandestine transaction.
After a relatively short exchange of e-mail information, Sophie and her staff found themselves in possession of the regime’s fortune. Since it was obtained through illegal means, they couldn’t use the money at all—but the insanely simple ploy gave them leverage. They offered the dishonest treasurer a choice. He could serve as the key witness in the case against the dictator, or his participation in the banking scam would be revealed to his superiors. Since the punishment for betrayal was excruciating torture followed by a beheading, he chose to throw in his lot with the Umojan people. His cooperation had proved to be the undoing of the regime.
“What became of General Timi Abacha? And the head of the diamond syndicate, Serge Henger?”
Great. He would ask her that. “They’re still at large. But since everything was seized, they have no staff or assets. It’s only a matter of time before they are hunted down.” She paused, then added, “And I hope you’ll include that in your article.”
“Are you kidding? We should make a video to run on the paper’s Web site. You’re great, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you worried about retaliation? Attacks? Before the army was disbanded, they were one of the most heavily armed militias in the region. It’s said a number of them have gone into hiding right here in The Netherlands.”
“Cowards who are motivated by greed will always be with us. I’m not going to live in fear because of them.”
He wrote that down—a good sound byte. “You’re very young to hold this position,” he remarked.
“Age has nothing to do with it,” Sophie told him. “It’s dedication and experience, and I have plenty of that.” She knew he could discover her age with a few clicks on his BlackBerry; it was a matter of public record, as were her blood type, passport numbers, rank in class at her law school and the fact that she’d set collegiate records in distance swimming. She decided to end his suspense. “Thirty-nine,” she said. “Divorced. Two kids who live in Avalon, New York.” Summed up like that, so nice and neat, she sounded like a professional, career-minded international lawyer. The nonchalance of her “They live in Avalon, New York” comment did not begin to cover the agony of her shattered family in the aftermath of divorce. And she wasn’t about to go there with him, though she lived with the pain of it every day. She was a mother without kids to raise. Her mothering was carried out by phone, e-mail, text message and IMs. But the things that happened in her absence were legion. She might find that Daisy had turned into a brunette or Max had started drum lessons … She might find that her ex-husband was getting married. That Max was still begging for a dog, and that Daisy was about to start college. Sophie was forever torn between her simultaneous yearning to be involved in their lives and her abject fear that she’d make more of a mess of her kids than she already had.
Brooks was asking her something, and she realized she hadn’t been listening at all. “You have a whole room full of dignitaries here,” she told him, gesturing at the milling guests. “Why me?”
“Because you make good copy,” he told her bluntly. “I write about you, and I’ve got half a chance of getting it placed somewhere other than in the footnotes.”
“And I should help you because …”
“Look,” he said, “this is a big deal, what’s happening here—a sovereign nation was saved from being erased off the map. But we both know John Q. Public doesn’t give a rat’s ass about that. He’s too busy texting his vote for American Idol to worry about the state of some third-world country he’s never heard of.”
“Don’t think writing about me is going to change that.”
“It will if you do something outrageous that’ll play well on YouTube.”
“What, like drive across Europe wearing Depends? I can see you’re completely tuned into the solemnity of the occasion,” she said.
“Seriously,” he said, “how does a nice girl like you wind up toppling warlords and dictators?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“When people think of world court personnel, they think of seventy-year-old guys in musty robes. Not …” He gave her a meaningful look.
She forced herself not to respond. One of the strictest rules of this job was to increase public perception of the court’s mission. “First of all, you could clarify the trial was through the International Criminal Court, which was created only six years ago, so it’s not some venerable, old institution. And honestly, the only reason I served as a prosecutor is that the lead counsel and his deputy got sick right before the first hearing.” Willem De Groot was an older man who shared her passion for a just cause. Hooked up to a dialysis machine, he had guided her and his staff through the case, week after week.
“So it was a matter of luck meeting opportunity,” Brooks said.
“Bad luck meeting necessity,” she clarified. “I’d give anything if he could be here tonight.”
“You really don’t want to be the star of this, do you? What a waste of looks and talent.”
“You seem preoccupied with my looks.”
“It’s the dress. You had to have known it would affect men this way, even without jewelry. I assume you’re making a statement.”
“I’m opposed to diamonds for obvious reasons. And so many other stones are questionable that it’s simpler to wear none. But pearls! They’re produced by oysters and hunted by happy divers, right? I should take to wearing pearls.”
“You could wear pearls in the video,” he said.
Sophie was about two sips of champagne away from ditching this guy. “You’re obnoxious, Mr. Fordham. And I’m leaving. Everything is about to start.”
“One final question and I’ll leave you alone,” he added.
“Go ahead.”
“Will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?”
“That doesn’t sound like leaving me alone.”
“But does it sound … like a plan?”
She hesitated. He probably had a degree from an Ivy League school, a pedigree back to the Mayflower and a brazen sense of entitlement. Still, going to dinner with him meant not eating alone. “I’ll have my assistant call you to arrange things.”
“It’s a dinner date, not an international summit.”
“My assistants are excellent at arranging things,” she assured him. A date with this man might be a diversion. Her romantic past was … undistinguished. Perhaps that was the word for it. Forgettable teenage gropings in high school had given way to slightly more sophisticated dating in college—frat parties and raves. And then there was Greg. They’d married before they even knew who they were. It was like grafting together two incompatible trees—tolerable at first but eventually the differences could not be ignored. Had she loved him? Everyone loved Greg. He was the adorable, charming, indulged youngest of the four Bellamy siblings. How could anyone not love him? This sense that she should love him had sustained the marriage over sixteen years, long enough for her to be absolutely certain the love was gone. Afterward she had walked around shell-shocked for several months.