Chapter Forty-Five
Thirty-Eighth Floor, Secretariat Building
United Nations Headquarters
New York City, New York
Everett Westcott stood motionless by the massive window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the frame as he surveyed the city.
From this height, he had a panoramic view of the East River and the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn.
It was an impressive view, even to him. Views like this had a way of elevating a man’s sense of self, of positioning him above everyone else, of making him feel .
. . untouchable. And Westcott had no doubt that this very illusion had played a role in Julius Zuma’s decision to seek a second term as secretary-general of the United Nations.
Apart from the view, the office was sleek and modern and clearly designed to project dignity, resolve, and power.
And Westcott was all too aware that power did strange things to men.
Three men occupied the office now. Zuma sat behind his desk, his hands folded tightly together, while President Leonard Mutombo of the Democratic Republic of the Congo occupied one of the two leather chairs across from him.
Westcott hadn’t said a word in almost two minutes.
In that very moment, he was close to throwing Mutombo through the glass and letting him fall thirty-eight stories.
Another minute passed before he turned from the view and faced the room.
He stared at Mutombo and noticed for the first time that the man’s suit collar was at least a size too tight.
Mutombo cleared his throat.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but as I just explained to you, the proposition brought to me by Ambassador Nyambe won’t make it through the National Assembly. Again, the proposition is more than satisfactory for me and my party, but—”
“Have you really come all this way to tell me you’re too weak to lead? That you aren’t willing to move forward?” Westcott asked, cutting him off. “After everything Hearts United has done for your country?”
Mutombo shifted in his seat, his palms pressing against his knees. “Please understand, Mr. Westcott. It’s . . . it’s not that I’m unwilling. It’s just that . . . I can’t.”
“You’re the fucking president. Of course you can!”
Mutombo’s eyes flicked toward Zuma, searching for a lifeline. Westcott knew he wouldn’t find any. He’d made sure of that months ago. Just as he thought he would, the secretary-general remained silent, his lips pressed together in a neutral line.
There had been a time, early in Zuma’s tenure, when Westcott had high hopes for the secretary-general.
Born and raised in South Africa, educated in international law, and fluent in the unique pressures and challenges of the African continent, Zuma could have been an effective leader.
Westcott had seen in him the ideal candidate to advance Hearts United’s pragmatic vision for the DRC and, later, for the rest of the continent.
But Westcott’s optimism had slowly given way to contempt.
Zuma had proven to be indecisive, overly cautious, and frustratingly committed to multilateral process and a true bureaucrat’s obsession with consensus.
After two years, Westcott had grown tired of waiting and had taken matters into his own hands.
Digging into Zuma’s past had been a waste of time. The man was faithful, honest, and didn’t live beyond his means. His record was annoyingly clean. All in all, Zuma was a decent man.
But his son? Well, that was another story. He had secrets. And Westcott had found them all.
The drugs and gambling could have been enough but then had come the late-night accident in the Dominican Republic where he’d hit a young woman while driving intoxicated.
Somehow, he’d managed to bribe his way out of the situation, and without the help of his father.
It had taken Westcott’s assets a week to verify the footage and even longer to secure the original files.
But in the end, it had been worth it. Zuma had folded like a cheap beach chair once Westcott had shown him the evidence.
“You have to be reasonable, Mr. Westcott,” Mutombo said. “What you’re asking . . . it’s not something the National Assembly is ready to accept.”
Westcott took a step forward and lowered his voice. “You’re a coward.”
“Everett, please—” Zuma began, but Westcott turned and leveled him with a threatening look. The secretary-general closed his mouth and looked down at his hands.
Mutombo rose abruptly from his chair, clearly outraged. “I will not be talked to in this fashion.”
“Sit down,” Westcott ordered.
Mutombo hesitated.
“I said sit down.”
“Or what?” Mutombo snapped. “I’m the president of—”
“You’re the president because I fucking put you there,” Westcott shouted, stepping closer now, his voice booming.
“Don’t you forget that, you dimwit. You didn’t win that office, I handed it to you.
I paid for your television ads, your staff, and even your goddamn suits.
You wouldn’t have made it out of the provincial governorship without my backing. ”
“I—”
“Enough!” Westcott shouted. “You serve because I allow it. Don’t mistake proximity to power for having any of your own.”
Mutombo, stunned, dropped back into the leather seat like a man returning to prison. Westcott let the silence stretch. The stick had done its work. He would now offer the carrot.
“Three months ago, you told me your minister of land management, Dr. Hervé Tchangana, and Destin Mpanga, who if I recall correctly, was the number two inside the Congo River Alliance, were the two final obstacles standing in the way of the hydroelectric initiative I’m proposing.
You said, and I quote, ‘As long as those two are around, the Assembly will never pass the deal.’ Well, those two are no longer around. ”
Westcott moved closer to Mutombo, making sure the man couldn’t look away.
“So, tell me, Mr. President, what changed?”
Mutombo glanced again at Zuma, who this time gave a shallow nod, which told Westcott the two men had conferred about this very subject prior to his arrival.
“It’s Florent Bongonda, the prime minister,” Mutombo said finally.
“As you know, he belongs to the opposition. While I still command the loyalty of my party, Bongonda controls the legislative schedule. And right now, he’s undermining every single piece of legislation we bring forward.
He’s consolidated his influence, and now, even my own members are starting to waver. ”
Westcott digested this. Bongonda was indeed a problem, but until now, a manageable one.
But in the power vacuum left by the deaths of Tchangana and Mpanga in Aruba, Bongonda had stepped forward with alarming effectiveness.
He was cunning, media savvy, and he had the moral credibility Mutombo lacked.
Still, Westcott had expected Mutombo to outmaneuver him. Clearly, he’d overestimated the man.
I bet on the wrong man. Should I give him one more chance, or cut my losses?
“My patience with you is wearing thin,” Westcott said a moment later. “But I’m prepared to give you one more shot at greatness, Leonard. What do you need to make Hearts United’s proposition acceptable to your colleagues in the Assembly?”
Mutombo hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes shifted toward Zuma. Westcott decided to make it easier for him.
“Mr. Secretary-General,” he said, not bothering to glance over. “I believe now might be a good time for you to step out.”
Despite being in his own office, Zuma stood without objection. “I’ll let you gentlemen speak privately. But, Mr. President, please know that I fully support Everett’s proposition. Whatever it is.”
Westcott offered Zuma a polite smile, and the secretary-general exited without another word. When the door clicked shut, Westcott turned his attention back to Mutombo and let the silence hang for a beat before he spoke.
“Now,” he said, folding his arms, “tell me what you need. And don’t insult me by asking for Bongonda’s disappearance. That’s off the table. Another political assassination, especially on your own soil, could unravel everything I built.”
Mutombo shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t want him dead. I want him arrested. Publicly. The bigger the scandal, the better. If we can somehow suggest financial impropriety tied to the hydroelectric contracts . . . the Assembly will turn. I guarantee it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Everett Westcott sat in one of the captain’s chairs in the second row of his armored black Cadillac Escalade.
He looked through the bulletproof glass as the large SUV surged through midtown traffic toward his office where the chair of the Senate Appropriations Committee had been waiting for him for over an hour.
This wasn’t about power games or empty posturing.
There was no need for that. They both understood the reality of their relationship.
The senator might command the budget lines and the televised hearings, but it was Westcott who shaped the outcomes.
There was no doubt who sat at the top of the food chain, and it wasn’t the elected official.
Still, Westcott needed the senator. Hearts United was well financed, but its wealth did have a ceiling.
If the US government signed on as a funding partner for Hearts United’s initiative in the DRC, it would allow Westcott to accelerate the timelines and even expand the scope of the project.
And it would also add an additional layer of legitimacy.
The money mattered, yes, but only if the terms were right. Westcott wasn’t going to leave the government in charge of his project.