The Reykjavik Assignment

by Adam LeBor

  Report of Meeting between NAJWA AL-SAMEERA and RIYAD BAKRI

  The only useful thing about the account of the meeting between Najwa and the Saudi diplomat was the fact that it had taken place. His operative had not managed to overhear any of their conversation. The giant terrace outside the Delegates Lounge was an inspired choice because it was impossible to stand close enough to anyone there to eavesdrop. All KZX’s informant could provide was the place, time, and duration of the meeting, but even that was useful. Bakri was a person of growing interest. The Saudi Mukhabarat had superb networks inside Iran.

  Daintner switched on his laptop, a thin machine in a titanium case that had been custom manufactured for him by one of KZX’s subsidiaries. He entered his password and checked his secure e-mail inbox. There was a new message. No sender was shown, but the e-mail had two links. He clicked on the first. It opened a window with Najwa’s name and a list of her recent Internet searches. Daintner was alarmed to see that Najwa’s data trail led to the video interview with the widow of Abbas Velavi.

  He sat staring at the screen for more than a minute, then opened the second link. The footage had been shot from above, perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet above ground, Daintner guessed. It showed Najwa doing her stand-up on First Avenue outside the UN headquarters, first from a distance, then zooming in closer. Daintner froze the frame as it focused on Najwa’s face. She was certainly attractive, if a little Rubenesque for his taste. He thumbed through her file: “Despite all the talk of a boyfriend/fiancée, al-Sameera has never been seen in public with a partner.”

  His ringing phone interrupted his reverie. He looked at the number and immediately took the call.

  A female voice with a French accent said, “We have a situation, sir.”

  *

  Yael dipped the tea bag in the cup. The water turned a pale brown. She dipped the tip of her index finger into the drink and kept it there. “Why can’t Americans make tea? It’s really easy. You just put boiling water on a tea bag and leave it for a couple of minutes. I’ve had baths hotter than this.”

  Joe-Don’s face was tight with anxiety. He stared at Yael, who looked surprisingly calm. Her skin was soft and relaxed, gently flushed. Her eyes were shining. “Are you going to tell me what happened in there?” he demanded.

  She pressed a teaspoon against the tea bag, tasted the drink, and scowled. “They made me wait. Pretended they had never heard of Eli. Eventually they let me in. He was there. We talked in his office for a while.” She paused, looked down at her drink, suddenly shy. “Quite a while.”

  Joe-Don stared harder. A thin film of perspiration covered her upper lip. He exhaled long and hard. “Tell me you didn’t …”

  Yael caught his eye, blushed. She put her hand on his. “I did what was needed.”

  He quickly withdrew his hand from under hers. “I don’t believe it.”

  She smiled. “Hey. It worked. We made a deal.”

  Joe-Don shook his head in mock despair. “Which was?”

  Yael turned to face him, her voice businesslike now. “I promised to wipe the file I have of Eli’s movements and the dead people that keep turning up wherever he does. I also agreed to be ready in the foyer of my apartment at three o’clock with my bags packed, awaiting my transport to the airport, on Monday for my brief holiday in Tel Aviv. In exchange he guaranteed Noa’s safety.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I am not sure. But I told him that I had informed my father about his threat. And that if anything happened to Noa or any of her children, Eli knew what to expect. He is one of the few people in the world that scares Eli.”

  “And where will Eli be next week?”

  “That is the tricky part,” said Yael.

  “Where?” demanded Joe-Don.

  “Reykjavik.”

  23

  “You promised to tell me about your date,” said Barbara.

  Yael smiled ruefully. “Sure. Have you got five seconds?”

  It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. Yael and her mother were standing on Bow Bridge in the middle of Central Park, looking out over the water. Barbara’s flight had been late coming into LaGuardia and she had not arrived until after midnight. They had woken late, grabbed lox bagels and coffee from Zabar’s, and walked to the park.

  Bow Bridge spanned a narrow stretch of the lake, surrounded by trees and greenery. It was a minor landmark, a graceful arch of pale gray stone popular with tourists and New Yorkers alike. The sky was bright blue, studded with puffy white clouds. A gentle breeze blew over the water, ruffling the gray-green surface of the lake. The air smelled clean and fresh. Beyond the edge of the park, granite apartment blocks pointed skyward, the bright morning sun glinting on their windows.

  “I’m sorry,” said Barbara. “I know you were looking forward to it. What happened?”

  Yael turned to look at her mother. She was just the right side of seventy, but looked several years younger. Barbara Weiss—she had reverted to her maiden name after her divorce—was tall and still slender. She had blue-green eyes and gray hair cut short in a stacked bob that subtly emphasized her graceful neck. She was dressed in a blue turtleneck sweater and jeans and a gray American Apparel zip-up jacket. This was the first time Yael had seen her mother for three years. One part of her wanted to hug her, be hugged, and never let go. The other wanted to up-end her and tip her over the bridge and into the water.

  “It’s a long story,” said Yael. She watched a white electric park maintenance vehicle silently glide by, the minitrailer stacked high with branches and leaves. She instinctively checked the inside compartment. The driver, the only one inside, wore wrap-around sunglasses and a baseball cap. Was it a deliberate attempt to obscure his face? Or was she being paranoid? She had not sensed any surveillance that morning, but that was no guarantee that there was no threat.

  Barbara took Yael’s arm, breaking her chain of thought. She beckoned her daughter to a nearby bench. “Tell me. We have time. All day, if you need.”

  Yael sat down. The park vehicle was now several hundred yards away. She relaxed. The wooden slats felt familiar against her back. Perhaps they had both sat on this very bench at some point in the past. Yael had spent much time in Central Park, with her parents when she was still a child, and later with David. Her parents had met in 1969, at a New York reception for former Israeli prime minister Golda Meir. Barbara was then a reporter on the Metro desk of the New York Times, and assigned to cover the event. They fell quickly, deeply, in love, and when Barbara got pregnant they had married. David was born in 1970. Barbara ran the business and administration side of Aleph Research, Yael’s father’s company that supplied business intelligence to governments, firms, and select individuals, but that was a poor substitute for the buzz of the New York Times newsroom.

  Aleph was not listed in the phone directory or on corporate contact lists, but it never lacked for clients. It was known for accuracy, both of its research reports and its forecasts. Yael’s father brought in much of the information, together with a team of researchers, most of whom seemed to be Israeli or to have lived in Israel. There was a stream of visitors from all over the world. Yael got used to hearing French, German, Spanish, Russian, even Arabic. When she asked her parents who the visitors were, they told her they were “clients.” As a child of eight or nine, Yael had delighted in helping with the filing. She even had her own desk with a small brass nameplate inscribed: “Yael Azoulay: Office Manager.” By her teenage years, she believed that Aleph was either a front company for the Israeli intelligence establishment, or was so close to it that it didn’t matter.

  But by the 1980s, Barbara was increasingly unhappy: about having to raise three children on her own, about the kind of work Aleph was doing, often for the darker reaches of the US government. During the 1980s governments toppled across the developing world in coups, and in almost every instance Aleph had submitted a detailed report on the country before the violence had erupted.

  Yael watched a heron swo
op low over the water before instantly changing direction and soaring skyward. Her mother’s smell, a mix of White Linen perfume and lemon-scented soap, was familiar, even comforting. She had once been very close to her mother. Her father traveled all around the world for Aleph, so much that she hardly saw him.

  Barbara put her hand on Yael’s arm. “Your date?”

  Yael started to talk, and then she couldn’t stop. She felt overwhelmed at the emotions welling up inside her. So many feelings, stopped up for so long. It all poured out, from Goma to Geneva, from Istanbul to Tompkins Square Park. The coltan scandal. The Sami disaster. Her friendships with Isis Franklin and Olivia de Souza and their terrible ends. Rina Hussein. The dark force that still drew her to Eli. But she did not mention Eli’s threat against Noa, or her agreement with him.

  When she was finished, she wiped her eyes, stared at the lake. A young couple sat in a boat, going round and round in circles as the man ineptly tried to row. His girlfriend was laughing, the wind in her hair, filming his efforts on her camera. Yael felt suddenly, intensely jealous. She blew her nose, and turned to her mother. “Where were you?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t want to see me or talk to me anymore.”

  As Yael got older, she slowly grew apart from her mother. Barbara focused on David, the eldest son, and Noa, the youngest daughter, leaving her middle child to her own devices. Yael felt that her mother resented her, even started to view her as a rival for her father’s attention and affection. In reaction, she reached out to her father, further alienating her mother and launching a self-perpetuating circle of mutual resentment. After David died, when Yael was sixteen, her parents separated. Her father returned to Israel, and she went with him; two years later she followed him to London. Yael stayed with her father in London until she moved back to Israel and did her military service.

  “I did. I didn’t. It doesn’t matter what I wanted. You’re my mom.” Yael was almost shouting now. “You are supposed to come and find me. To make it better. That’s what moms do. Why didn’t you?”

  Barbara swallowed, blinked, looked out over the park as she spoke. “You never picked up the phone when I called. You didn’t reply to my letters. You never called.”

  Yael started coughing, laughing through her tears. “Now you really sound like a Jewish mother.”

  Barbara’s face was tight. “It’s very … difficult for me, for all of us at this time of year. He would have been forty-four by now. And when I think how he … what happened there …”

  She grasped her mother’s hand, the skin was warm to her touch. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t think about that. Remember him as he was.” Their fingers intertwined, locked solid. “I still miss him so much. I lost my brother. I’m permanently single. Nobody calls me. Every time I make a friend they end up dead. I’m the kiss of death.” She blew her nose again. “I’m so sick of being on my own. Eating alone. Sleeping alone. At least you have Nora.”

  “Not anymore. We broke up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Why?”

  “Everyone likes to experiment. My phase came a little late in life. But look at you. You are beautiful. There must be someone out there.”

  Yael released her mother’s hand. She reached inside her purse, took out the postcard of the catamaran and handed it to Barbara.

  “A boat with an Istanbul postmark,” she said, intrigued. She turned it over. “And it’s wordless. How mysterious. Who’s it from?”

  “A friend.”

  “Obviously. What kind of friend? A male friend?”

  Yael looked out over the lake. The oarsman had control now, gliding along the surface of the water. His girlfriend leaned back, the sun on her face, looking contented.

  *

  She watches Yusuf finish his pide. His fingers are long and slender, his dark eyes, somewhere between brown and black, warm and intelligent. A lock of hair, so black it almost shines, falls over his forehead.

  *

  Her voice was almost wistful. “Male, yes, definitely. But he’s there and I am here.”

  “Why don’t you go? Istanbul’s not that far. You must be owed weeks of vacation.”

  Yael smiled. “Yes, I am. And I find myself thinking about him. More and more often. Maybe I will go. But not this weekend.”

  She turned to look at her mother. “Mom, I’m really happy you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  “But why now, all of a sudden?”

  “Because …” Barbara paused. “Because there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Go on.”

  Barbara took both of Yael’s hands in hers. “Your father.”

  *

  Najwa stepped back and checked the blue awning that reached from the front of the apartment block on East Sixty-Sixth Street to the curb. Number One Hundred and Twenty was written along the side in cursive. She was in the right place. It was a classic Manhattan building: gray granite on the outside, cream and brown marble foyer on the inside. A uniformed doorman stood at the entrance in matching livery, watching her.

  Najwa looked around as she walked down the entrance corridor. The building was not quite as grand as it seemed from the outside. The cream walls were covered with numerous scuff marks and needed repainting. The black granite floor was chipped and worn, spotted with gray and white patches. There was a faint but noticeable smell of disinfectant. CCTV cameras covered the entrance, the corridor, and the lobby.

  A second, older doorman stood behind a tall wooden desk that reached up to his chest. He had small, suspicious eyes set in a broad, fleshy face. The sports section of the New York Post was open on the lectern.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, looking Najwa up and down, clearly assessing her curves.

  She smiled. “I hope so. I’m here to see Francine de la Court.”

  The doorman scowled and returned to his newspaper. “You’re outta luck. She’s out,” he said in a strong Queens accent.

  Najwa glanced at the row of television monitors by the side of the desk. They were all blank apart from the words “Source fault.” On the contrary, she was very much in luck. “That’s a shame. I’d like to go up anyway. She has a book of mine. She said if she had to go out she would leave it with a neighbor. He’s waiting for me to pick it up.”

  The doorman looked up. “Who?”

  “Joel Greenberg. Could you call him?”

  “Mr. Greenberg don’t like to be disturbed by unexpected visitors. Try later.”

  “Please? I am here now, I cannot come back later,” she said, dropping a fifty-dollar bill onto the newspaper. The doorman did not lift his eyes, merely gestured backward with his head to indicate she could go ahead.

  Francine lived on the sixth floor, in apartment 6F. Najwa stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway. The floor was lined with a brown runner, held in place by brass rails, but the brass was dull and mottled and the edges of the long, stained carpet were fraying. Apartment 6F was just two doors down from the elevator. It was an old and noisy contraption, and she could feel the floor vibrate as it descended back to the lobby.

  The door of 6F was painted light green. She knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still no answer. This was not unexpected. Najwa had called several times over the past couple of days, and nobody had picked up the phone. The bad-tempered doorman was correct. She moved on to knock on the door of apartment 6E, which she had already established was occupied by Joel Greenberg.

  A voice shouted, “Hold on, I’m coming,” echoing down the corridor. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal an elderly man. He wore a pressed light-blue denim shirt that matched his lively blue eyes, and was trim and well groomed. He looked at Najwa, clearly pleased to have such a visitor. “Hello. How can I help you, my dear?”

  She gave him her most dazzling smile. “I’m Najwa, a friend of Francine’s from the UN.”

  “Joel Greenberg, pleased to meet you.”

  They shook hands. Greenberg’s palm was
cool, his grip firm.

  “I’m worried about her,” Najwa said. “She doesn’t answer any of her phones. I’ve left several messages. She hasn’t called back.”

  Greenberg frowned. “I thought it was terrible what they did to her. First her boss dies, then they sack her, just like that after all those years of service. I told her to get a lawyer but she didn’t want to know. I used to be a lawyer, did a lot of labor work, for the unions as well, and I told her, she would have a very good case for—”

  She sensed he was about to launch into a monologue and cut in quickly. “I completely agree, Joel.” She paused. “May I call you Joel?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  Greenberg nodded. “Of course.”

  Najwa continued talking. “We all said she should fight it. Even the UN staff union wanted to take it up. But she didn’t want to … do you know where she is now?”

  “She said she was going away for a while, to stay with friends. Didn’t say where. We were good friends, you know. Then she just disappears like that …”

  “The thing is, Joel,” Najwa leaned forward conspiratorially. She could hear the NPR midday news playing in the background. “I lent her a book and I really need it back.” She stepped back, paused. “No, no, it’s too much to ask.”

  “What? Ask already.”

  “I couldn’t …”

  “Ask.”

  “A key. Did she leave you a key? It would be for a couple of minutes, just till I find the book.”

  Greenberg gave Najwa a piercing look as if to say, I may be old, but I know when I am being played. “A friend of hers from the UN, you say?”

  “That’s me. We spent a lot of time together.” Mostly trying to get past her to get to Henrik Schneidermann, Najwa thought, but there was no need to go into that.

  He paused for a moment. “Then you must know her daughter. A beautiful girl.”

  “Francine doesn’t have a daughter. Not as far as I know. She does have a son, Luc. He goes to Brooklyn Community College.”