Virginia stepped into the consultation room. Two delegates—Algeria and Qatar—were already waiting. The meeting had been set weeks earlier, once they realized New Zealand was one of the obstacles to executing the removal process.
Imad was the operation’s architect. He had researched Virginia to the bone. The dossier, compiled by private investigators, told a tidy Western story: good family, strong education, liberal, sharp. In a contest of arguments he would lose; in a game of money and interests, he might win. The problem was that even after expert profiling, he still hadn’t found her weak point—so he chose the velvet route. If needed, he could switch to sandpaper later.
When she entered and he matched her to the photos from the file, he remembered how it had all begun.
Africa had been easy: a string of projects in Senegal and Nigeria, a few thousand work visas for laborers from Ghana, and some “work visits” to the Gulf—plush enough to lubricate unanimity across the continent.
Asia was trickier. They had nudged Japan and China just enough, whispered about Taiwan’s status, and let gravity pull the votes their way. Europe they wrote off: the Holocaust’s memory, Western preening about liberal values, and a taste for “compromise” over messy expulsions—better to leave the cradle of the West on the shelf.
South America was simpler. A vocal local Palestinian diaspora plus strong national consciousness made the region soft clay. In a blitz of meetings they gathered almost all of them. Brazil remained not quite 100%—waiting for clarifications—but it wouldn’t vote alone against its neighbors. Functionally, it was already aboard.
They skipped the U.S. and Canada. Some argued there might be something to extract—a tepid statement, an abstention. Others warned the risk was too high; better to keep quiet than awaken a global pushback. Personally, Imad thought myths about Jewish power in America were exaggerated—but he wouldn’t test them. Precision was everything.
A few outliers remained. Scattered islands hardly mattered; surprise was a bonus, apathy the norm. The real card was Russia. One order there and the post-Soviet bloc would move as one. Last month’s trip to Moscow had been the most important of Imad’s life. He started with minor officials who could promise only reciprocal visits to the Gulf. He bribed, packaged projects, and handed out invitations. The Gulf junkets took off among Russian bureaucrats; everyone wanted a taste of Arab opulence and hospitality that granted anything a person could dream of—and a few things they couldn’t. Each man got exactly what his private file said he craved. Some were surprised with secret fantasies fulfilled—satisfaction that also forged obligation. Photos stayed with Imad, ready for the day a promise might break. Each visit ended with a wire transfer to a discreet account—a thank-you from the hosts.
After the eighth meeting, Imad knew the other side was interested. They arranged a session with the President. He wasn’t for sale with women, food, drink, or cash. He liked land and power. For that man, they would have to offer countries. Maps opened; borders were erased and redrawn; the Russian bear got his honey. Half the Middle East would tilt Soviet—for now. In return, the Russian finger would rise at the UN. There would be time later, Imad told himself, to reclaim for the Arab nation what was merely on loan.
He kept counting votes. The threshold was close. He cleared his head and looked up—at Virginia. New Zealand’s rep looked concerned: striking, young for a post this senior, a backbone telegraphed without a word. Button-down blouse, long pencil skirt, low heels. Nothing performative. She was here for business—and to hear an offer.
New Zealand had vexed them. Money didn’t move it; it had no deep interests in the region; it generally preferred to live in peace. But everyone has a hinge. They had found hers.
“We’ve decided to offer your country a gift,” Imad announced. “We’ll transfer to your control the island of Mauritius, which was once under your flag. It’s only historical justice that it return to New Zealand. We purchased it from the interim authority holding it. It’s ready to be part of your state again.”
Virginia lifted her eyes, puzzled. She barely knew the island’s file. Whatever the history, a century had passed—and it wasn’t exactly missing in Wellington.
“Thank you,” she said evenly, “but the local government seems to be doing fine. We have no need to assume sovereignty at this time. Better it remain under local rule.”
Imad rose theatrically. “No—historical justice is justice. This is our gift to you. If you decline, it would be a wrong. Also, we invite you for a personal visit to the Gulf. There’s much to show you—some of it of real value to your country.”
Virginia shifted to a guarded stance. “We appreciate the gesture—and the invitation. Unfortunately, my schedule is packed. It will be hard to arrange. Thank you, gentlemen.” She stood and moved toward the door—only to find two men blocking it.
“We need something from you, Virginia,” Imad said softly. “We want you to vote for our measure. Ask for compensation—for New Zealand or for yourself. You can realize a dream: money, a private island, help for your family—anything. We are here for you, but you must be there for us. If you won’t—our people in New Zealand know how to press the right buttons to replace you.”
Silence. Then Virginia smiled—thin, professional.
“You’ve done impressive math,” she said. “But you miscounted one thing. This room is under UN recording protocols; my chief of mission is listening. Security will be here in twenty seconds. Your offer, your threat, and your map games will be attached to my statement on the floor.”
Imad didn’t flinch. “You think transparency saves you?”
“I think sunlight changes prices,” she said. “And I don’t trade my vote.”
The door opened. Two blue-badged officers stepped in. Virginia gathered her folder.
“In case it helps your arithmetic,” she added, “New Zealand will vote on principle today. If that shifts your strategy, I suggest you hurry.”
She walked out into the fluorescent corridor, her heart steadying with each step. In the General Assembly hall, names lit the great board. Delegates murmured. Somewhere behind her, the tally began to change.
That day at the UN started as a counting exercise. It ended with the one number Imad hadn’t priced in.
