The Reykjavik Assignment

by Adam LeBor

  Najwa squeezed Sami’s hand. “I still want to introduce you to my cousin. She is very beautiful. Or maybe we should wait until you are recovered. Habibi, are you heartbroken?”

  Sami laughed despite himself. “No. I’m not. And we haven’t finished talking about your evening. Let’s loop back to the beginning. To before the beginning.” He slid his hand out, but gently this time. “Here’s what I’m wondering. How did you happen to be at the SG’s residence, with a film crew, just after Frank Akerman was shot?”

  She had anticipated this question. There was only one possible answer: the truth. “A tip-off.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sami looked skeptical. “Some random person just happened to contact you and say ‘Hi Najwa, why don’t you drop whatever you are doing and rush up to the SG’s residence because someone’s about to get shot when they walk out of the front door?’”

  Najwa flushed. “Not exactly.”

  “So what did they say?”

  Najwa paused for a couple of seconds before she spoke. “Enough to make me take my cameraman there.”

  “But why did you believe them? Any stranger can ring up a news office and say rush here or there. Most journalists don’t do that. Why did you?”

  “Instinct. Haven’t you ever taken a chance on a tip?”

  “Yes, of course. But you have no idea who it was?”

  Najwa shook her head.

  “Did someone call you? Or was it an e-mail, or a text message?”

  Take your crew to the SG’s residence immediately.

  “I told you. I got a tip. I acted on it.” Najwa was not about to share the provenance of the information, and what came with it. Not yet, anyway. Better to turn the conversation around. “That was an interesting quote from the ‘western diplomatic source’ you had in your story. Care to share?”

  “Maybe. Tell me about the Army of Forty. I couldn’t find any trace of them on the net.”

  “Then you weren’t looking in the right places. Maybe you should brush up on your Farsi.”

  “I don’t speak Farsi. Do you?”

  Najwa picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Not fluently. But enough to get by. In fact you don’t need Farsi to make the basic connections.”

  Sami looked puzzled. “Try me.”

  “You have heard of Ashura?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “And forty days after Ashura is?”

  Understanding spread across Sami’s face. “The Shia holy day of Arbaeen, commemorating the martyrdom of Hussein ibn Ali, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad.”

  16

  Yael leafed through the photographs. The detail was pin-sharp. She could see the outline of Eli’s .22 Beretta behind his jacket as he jammed it against her ribs, read the emotions frozen on his face: anger, resentment, hunger.

  Joe-Don stared at Yael, his small blue eyes bright with exasperation. “First Akerman. Now this.”

  Yael turned red. “Where did you get these?”

  “I found them in my post-box this morning. In this envelope.” He handed Yael a white envelope embossed with the UN emblem. “Put them away now. The waiter is coming.”

  She swiftly folded the photos and placed them back inside the envelope. The elderly Chinese man arrived with a cup of coffee for Joe-Don.

  “Ready now, miss?” he asked Yael. She nodded, although her appetite was fading fast. “Something to eat?” the waiter asked Joe-Don.

  “No thanks. Just coffee.”

  The waiter looked annoyed. “Peak time now. You gotta order something.”

  Joe-Don looked around the restaurant, which was half empty. “But …”

  “I’ll have the usual. He’ll have pancakes. With jam. Blueberry,” said Yael, before Joe-Don could finish his sentence.

  Joe-Don silently nodded his assent.

  Yael waited until the waiter had gone before she spoke. She sounded as contrite as she could. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? I like blueberry jam.”

  She looked down at the table. “You know what I mean.”

  Joe-Don glared at her. “You should be sorry. How can I protect you if I don’t know you are in danger? Or where you are. I thought you were going on a date last night. A cab door to door, you promised me. And a call or text if you were … weren’t …” He looked away, embarrassed.

  Yael was about to tell him about the paper tell when she suddenly felt an overwhelming rush of affection for the craggy-faced, socially awkward, intensely loyal man sitting in front of her. She placed her hand on his. “Do you know how much you mean to me?”

  Now Joe-Don turned pink. “Yeah. Sure. Anyway, what the hell were you doing with Eli and his team of hoods in Tompkins Square Park?”

  She took a deep breath. She told him about the SUV that had been following her, how she had gone to the park to take a few minutes out before going over to Sami’s place when Eli and his team had appeared, how he had threatened Noa and demanded Yael return to Israel. She pulled out her iPhone from her purse and called up the photographs she had taken last night from the taxi. Her phone looked like any commercially available iPhone, but it was not. As well as the ultrasensitive voice-recording app, it had also been fitted with NSA-standard encryption software and a broadcast-quality, high-definition still and video camera.

  She handed the phone to Joe-Don.

  He flicked through the shots, then handed it back to Yael. “Not very subtle. Looks like the kind of car that musician guy you work out to would drive. What’s his name? M&M’s?”

  She laughed. “Eminem.”

  “Was the SUV Eli’s people?”

  Yael shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s not how we were taught, or how they operate. He said they were way behind me in two ordinary sedans. I always know when he is lying. He was telling the truth.”

  “So who was it?”

  “Whoever took the photos, I guess.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Someone I pissed off along the way.” Yael shrugged.

  Joe-Don smiled. “Well, that narrows the field. How long did Eli give you?”

  “Ninety-six hours. Four days. A ticket is booked for me on the El-Al flight to Tel Aviv on Monday evening.”

  Joe-Don sipped his coffee as he processed the latest news from his wayward charge. Born in Minnesota, the taciturn US Special Forces veteran had worked for the UN’s Department of Safety and Security for more than a decade, the last six as Yael’s bodyguard. Barely five feet nine, he had sloping shoulders and the physique of a boxer who had mellowed somewhat with age but was still hard-packed muscle at the core. Now in his late fifties, his face was scored with deep lines from his nose to his mouth. His thick, callused fingers and almost simian appearance led some to dismiss him as a muscle-bound goon, which was a mistake. His instinct for danger and sharp, subtle intelligence had saved his life, and Yael’s, on numerous occasions. He beat back kidnap attempts by insurgents in Kandahar and Kabul, and he still walked with a slight limp after taking a bullet in his leg when he threw himself on top of Yael during a Gaza firefight between Hamas and Fatah gunmen. Despite his bravery and his complete lack of self-interest—or perhaps because of them—Joe-Don had many enemies at the UN, none more than Fareed Hussein. When he was serving in Baghdad, Joe-Don sent a long memo to Hussein, who was then at the Department of Political Affairs, warning him that the city’s UN headquarters needed properly manned checkpoints at staggered perimeters, zig-zag approach roads, blast walls, and shatterproof windows.

  Hussein had not replied, but the following year, 2004, a suicide bomber smashed a truck through the wall of the building, killing twenty-three people and injuring many more. Joe-Don was immediately fired for “dereliction of duty.” He protested, producing copies of his 2003 memo to Fareed Hussein, and was instead relegated to an advisory position with reduced security clearance. After a reminder from the US ambassador to the UN that the United States paid 25 percent of the UN budget, Joe-Don was
properly reinstated, with top-level clearance that gave him access to any UN mission or building anywhere in the world. Nor was Hussein in any position to object when Joe-Don, impressed with Yael, decided to work with her.

  The waiter reappeared with a tray of food. He placed a tortilla, tomato salad, and a portion of red beans in front of Yael, and the pancakes in front of Joe-Don.

  Joe-Don upended a small container of blueberry jam over the thick pancake. “So let’s count the candidates. You derailed KZX’s coltan plan. You saved Freshwater. But these are tactical victories. Everything is still in play. Clairborne. Prometheus. KZX. Eli and his friends. They are all still out there. We know they want their war. They won’t stop and they won’t give up.”

  “Did they kill Akerman?” asked Yael.

  “I’m not sure. Akerman had a lot of enemies with long memories. Very long memories. I saw the NYPD firearms trajectory analysis early this morning.”

  “And?”

  “A single shot, probably from the roof of an apartment building a block or two away. They think the corner of East Fifty-Fourth and Second Avenue. The New York JTTF has opened a case file. It was a tricky shot, on a moving target.”

  Each of the FBI’s fifty-six field offices hosted a Joint Terrorism Task Force, bringing together dozens of US local and national law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The New York JTTF office, the first to be established in 1980, was one of the most high-profile.

  “Did you know Akerman had been in Istanbul?” Yael asked.

  Joe-Don shook his head. “No. Only after he was shot. It was an overnighter. In and out. Did you?”

  “No. And I didn’t know Akerman was meeting Fareed last night. What is Fareed up to?”

  Joe-Don speared some more pancake and raised his fork. “Want some?”

  “No. Fareed?”

  “What’s Fareed up to? Let’s see. Number one. Guarding his back. Number two. Guarding his back. Number three. Sharpening a knife and keeping it nearby in case it is needed in anyone else’s back. But to answer your question, it looks like Fareed is opening a private back channel to someone in Tehran.”

  “Without telling me.”

  “Exactly. You might ask him about that.”

  “I will.” Yael cut off a slice of tortilla. It was delicious, rich and eggy, with thick slices of potato. “Eli told me something else.”

  “What?”

  “That Mossad placed me at the UN. Is that possible?”

  “Sure. Anything is possible. Especially at the UN.”

  False flag operations, when an asset was recruited by an agent purporting to be from one country or secret service while really working for another, were well known in the world of shadows. Mossad was renowned for them.

  “How?” asked Yael.

  Joe-Don shrugged. “It’s not hard to get someone a job at the UN. A fat envelope or the right connections is enough. The real question is, why did Fareed Hussein pluck you from the masses and fast-track your career?”

  Yael smiled. “Because of my natural talents, charm, and puritan work ethic?”

  “Sure. All of those. Or maybe because Mossad has something on the SG. They could have played a long game. And now it’s coming to the end.” Joe-Don paused. “There is more bad news. From Istanbul.”

  Yael nodded. “I know. I got a text from Yusuf. Is it true?”

  “It’s true she is dead. Isis hanged herself in her cell. Whether she was helped along the way is an open question.”

  “Clairborne?”

  “Clairborne and/or his Iranian friends. She was no more use to them, and she knew too much.”

  Yael looked thoughtful. “Is my father wrapped up in this mess?”

  “It’s starting to look that way. You should talk to your mom. She is still due in tonight?”

  “Yes, she is. And I will. Meanwhile, KZX are hosting a reception tomorrow night. At Columbia University.”

  “I know. Are you going?”

  “Yes. I think I’ll take her. She’ll enjoy the glamour and the glitz. There is also a dinner later. Fareed Hussein and KZX and their friends. I’m not invited.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  Yael laughed. “Not very. But I want to know what they talk about. Can you fix it?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “Yes. There is. But that’s harder to fix.” Yael put her fork down into the tortilla, watched it slowly topple over. She looked outside. The sky was even darker. The rain smashed onto the cars and sidewalks as though it was being fired from the heavens.

  Joe-Don sensed her mood. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know, J.D. I think I’m reaching my limit. I’ve had enough of being followed, threatened, kidnapped, shot at. I’m thirty-six. I want to go shopping. I want to go to the movies. I want a hot guy to take me out for dinner. Someone who has never heard of the UN. Someone who doesn’t even read the newspapers. Plus …”

  “Plus what?”

  “Body clock. Tick-tock.”

  “So go to the movies. Take a day off. You deserve it.”

  “Not on my own. Not again.”

  “Then stand down. Or just take a long break.” Joe-Don’s eyes probed Yael’s. “You’ve done enough. Much more than most. Find a guy. They should be queuing up for a girl like you.”

  “Yes. They should.” Yael looked around, smiling. “Do you see them? Because I don’t. Meanwhile, I just have to prevent the outbreak of World War Three. Then I promise I will take a long holiday.” She glanced down at her breakfast. “There’s more.”

  “Go on.”

  Yael reached inside her jacket, extracted the plastic envelope and upended the contents onto her palm. She handed a scrunched up scrap of paper to Joe-Don.

  Thunder cracked the sky, the boom so loud it made Yael jump.

  *

  The waiter presented two steaming bowls of oatmeal to Najwa and Sami. In the center of each was a single triangle of canned pineapple. Najwa looked at him, and started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked indignantly. “Oatmeal. With fruit. That’s what you ordered, isn’t it?”

  She gave him her best smile. “We did. Absolutely. Thank you.”

  He left, still bristling.

  Najwa sprinkled brown sugar on her oatmeal and slowly stirred it, watching the sugar trails dissolve in the mush. “Schneidermann,” she said.

  Sami shook his head. “It’s really sad. And now it’s like he was never there. Roxana’s in his office. Even Francine’s gone. ”

  In theory, the UN spokesman was available to journalists whenever they needed to speak to him or her. In practice, access had been strictly controlled by Francine de le Court, his secretary. An immaculately dressed Haitian of a certain age, she was known as “Madam Non” among the UN press corps.

  “I know,” said Najwa. “Actually, I kind of miss our duels.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “At home, I guess. She left last week.”

  “Jumped or pushed?”

  “Pushed, I heard. A hefty shove from Roxana and a pay-off from HR. No leftovers from the ancien régime allowed.” She took a spoonful of oatmeal. “Remind me—what did the Schneidermann autopsy say?”

  “Natural causes. A massive heart attack.”

  She nodded. “Do you believe that? Really believe it?”

  Sami was thoughtful. “I’m not sure. We know he had no history of heart trouble. He was a bit overweight, but that’s all.”

  “I’m not sure I believe it either. Remember your article about Abbas Velavi?”

  “The Iranian dissident?”

  Najwa took out a small tablet computer from her purse and handed it to Sami. “That’s the one. Press play.”

  Sami watched Abbas Velavi’s wife recount the arrival of the mysterious visitor and her belief that her husband was murdered.

  “The visitor was bald. He had a neat beard and wore fine black leather gloves. He did not take them off all the time he was here. He said he had a skin condition
.”

  Najwa put the tablet back inside her purse and took out the photograph of Salim Massoud. She slid it across the table to Sami.

  He looked down at the picture, then up at Najwa. “There are lots of bald men with beards and black gloves. How do we know it’s …” he glanced at the Arabic script. “Salim Massoud, whoever he is? Where did you get this?”

  She ignored his questions and closed her eyes for a few seconds, concentrating hard, before she spoke. “Let’s talk this through. We know that the Prometheus Group and Efrat Global Solutions were working with Caroline Masters on a pilot plan to privatize UN security as a stepping-stone to outsourcing all peacekeeping to private military contractors. That was the Washington Stratagem, worth billions of dollars. You wrote about that. Controversial, but not illegal. But what if there was something else? We know that Schneidermann had been at the SG’s residence before he came to meet you for breakfast. Why?”

  Sami drank his coffee. “Schneidermann told me the day before that he—meaning the SG—wanted to give me proof of an Iranian connection to the Prometheus Group, and somehow, to the UN.”

  Najwa stared at him. “Iran, again. You didn’t tell me this before. And why did the SG want you to have this proof?”

  “Hussein was ambivalent about the Washington Stratagem; he would probably have gone along with it if it suited his interests, and if it hadn’t been Masters’s idea. He hates her. The feeling is mutual. But because it came from Masters, it would be her triumph. If he could show an Iranian connection to the Prometheus Group it would bring her down. But you still haven’t told me how you got this photograph.”

  “From a source. A reliable source. It’s good enough for me, so should be for you. Don’t worry about that. We need proof of the Iran-Prometheus connection. The SG must have other copies of the documents.”

  “Of course. And all we have to do is persuade him to hand over another set.”

  Najwa spooned up some more oatmeal. “That’s all. But he doesn’t need to now that Masters is out of the picture. It’s not in his interest any more. Of course you could ask Roxana. I’m sure she’ll help. Maybe you could take her out for some more cocktails.”

  “Or maybe you could,” said Sami, drily.