The Washington Stratagem Read Online Free PDF Page A

love?”
    Sami smiled and carried on typing. “What can I do for you, Najwa?”
    “You could tell me what story you are working on, its news value, who your sources are, the basis on which they are talking to you, and their contact details. Then call them all up and tell them to talk to me as well,” she replied, her toned legs swinging back and forth in her trademark black patent-leather boots.
    Sami laughed. “I could, but I won’t. But I will give you a heads-up an hour before it goes online. Maybe even a copy, if you promise not to run it before me.”
    “Of course, habibi . As if I would ever do such a thing.” Najwa tried to make herself more comfortable in the small space she had managed to clear. “How do you survive in here? My offer is still open. And we have someone come in and clean our office every day,” she said as she looked around the room, shaking her head. She sniffed the air and crinkled her nose. “Is something burning in here?”
    “The new halogen lamp, I think,” said Sami.
    As if on cue, the bulb began to crackle and flicker. The United Nations bureau of the New York Times was barely ten feet by ten. The walls, recently repainted white, had already turned gray. The damp patch on the new white plastic ceiling tiles was larger than ever. The electric cable, which the maintenance team had repeatedly promised to secure, poked through the gap and was covered with condensation. A small window in the corner looked out on the building’s airshaft. The newspaper had a standing request in for a new office, but it was a point of pride for the UN’s building managers to give the major Western media, especially those that probed hardest for scandal and corruption, the smallest and most uncomfortable places possible. There was even talk that the Washington Post and the Financial Times might be forced to share an office. Newspapers and television stations from the developing world, such as Al Jazeera, were a different matter.
    Sami stood up and switched the ceiling light off. The room descended into gloom. He shook his head. “Thanks, Najwa, but I told you, my editors would never allow me to share space with another news organization.”
    “Even though we work together so nicely?”
    Najwa turned, stifled a yawn, and stretched languorously like a cat in the sun, her skintight blue cashmere sweater highlighting the curve of her substantial chest. Najwa was a niece of the king of Morocco, spoke five languages fluently, had degrees from Oxford and Yale, and had caused a minor scandal across the Arab world by modeling swimwear for a Parisian designer. The United Nations correspondent for Al Jazeera had thick black hair, doe-like brown eyes, full lips, clear olive skin, and no compunction whatsoever about using her looks to get the contacts or information she needed.
    After a year as neighbors and occasional colleagues, Sami knew every one of Najwa’s weapons for disarming uncooperative males. Almost every male reporter among the two hundred or so correspondents accredited to the UN had invited her for lunch, together with a good number of females. Najwa usually said yes, then filleted her hosts of their insight, insider information, and usually a good number of contacts as well. Occasionally she progressed to a one-off dinner. But that was it.
    Sami and Najwa had settled into an easy camaraderie, with an undercurrent of rivalry, punctuated by sporadic moments of bickering and flirtation. They both knew that Najwa’s languorous sexuality had the ability to unsettle him. Sami made sure not to turn and watch the brief show, to keep focused on his computer screen.
    Najwa’s star was rising at Al Jazeera, the most popular independent television channel in the Arab and developing world. Her investigation of women’s rights—or the lack of them—in Saudi Arabia had got her banned for life from the kingdom, and a deluge of death threats on Facebook and Twitter from Sunni extremists. But it was her recent