The Washington Stratagem Read Free

Daily Beast . “UN Secretary-General Pleads for Prometheus Face Time. Again,” the headline had read. As a last resort the SG had personally called an acquaintance who sat on the Prometheus board, asking him to intervene. Such a personal plea was a major admission of weakness, which indicated that Hussein’s position, and office, counted for little. Clairborne had softened, barely. He still refused to meet the SG, but had grudgingly agreed to see Yael for fifteen minutes. The website had run another story this morning on the SG. “Fareed Hussein Denies Claims of Ill-Health, Aims to Serve Full Term.” The article, which Yael had read on the train from New York, was an especially skillful construct. Most of the piece was taken up with speculation about Hussein looking increasingly tired, reports that he was suffering from blackouts, and two quotes from unnamed “Western diplomatic sources” expressing concern about his apparent ill-health. The denial, from Hussein’s spokesman, was buried at the bottom.
    Yael suddenly felt dowdy in her Zara black trouser suit and white fitted shirt, both bought two summers ago. A loose button fell off her cuff and rolled across the floor. She reached down to pick it up and a jagged pain shot down her left side. She breathed in sharply and stood up. The button rolled away.
    Samantha instantly leapt forward. Yael used the moment to quickly check that the small blue enamel UN brooch pinned on the lapel of her jacket was securely in place.
    Samantha bounced back and handed the errant button to Yael. “Are you OK?” she asked. Her voice was full of concern but a triumphant half smile played on her lips.
    “Thank you, I’m fine. Too much tennis,” said Yael, briskly.
    The pain in her side faded but Yael’s unease grew. Clairborne had a legion of former cabinet members and corporate heavy hitters on his board, the best lawyers in the United States, and a virtually unlimited pot of money to keep them all loyal.
    She had a single sheet of photocopied paper.
    In Washington terms, the Prometheus Group was a curious hybrid. Its headquarters took up much of a block on K Street, the only address that counted when it came to the capital’s legion of lobbyists. The Prometheus Group was a lobbying firm, like its neighbors. It was renowned for its excellent connections to the Pentagon and the United States’ numerous intelligence agencies. But it was also a private equity company, specializing in asset management in the Middle East, Asia, and the developing world. Its new security division, providing corporate security and intelligence, was open only to select clients who were guaranteed anonymity. Their names were the subject of much fevered speculation in DC’s clubs and bars.
    Prometheus claimed to have strong firewalls between its divisions to prevent messy conflicts of interest. But few believed the claims, especially in a town where so many had made fortunes from blurring the lines. Either way, the group’s shares had more than doubled in value over the last two years. Two investigative bloggers had tried to dig deeper into the company’s wealth and its military and intelligence connections, but their stories had not been followed up by the mainstream media. One of the bloggers was quickly outed, apparently, as a pedophile and had closed his site. The other was now working for Prometheus’s corporate liaison department.
    Despite the flowers, the newspapers, and the coffee machine, the lobby was less welcoming than it seemed. The ceiling was studded with small black half domes, which concealed wide-angle CCTV cameras. A thick wall of reinforced glass ran across the front of the lobby. The only way in and out was through a circular steel-and-glass cubicle in the middle of the glass wall. For the cubicle doors to open, the doormen had to manually punch a code into a keypad. A heavy wooden door, at the back of the area, controlled access to the suites of offices. The doormen, both of whom