The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(100)

Yael picked up Ortega’s phone, glanced again at the number on the screen. “I need to get into Bessastadir.”

“It’s sealed off. They have boats patrolling the coast, police on every road. How are you going to do that?”

“Through the front door,” said Yael, as she dialed a number.

*

Salim Massoud watched the Iranian agent with hooded eyes skillfully apply a dressing to Reardon’s foot, tie it in place with a fresh bandage, and give him a morphine shot. The American sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. His forehead was still beaded with sweat but he had stopped shaking. He would die soon, like all of them, but not from his wound.

Massoud then looked at the three journalists. All were as composed as could be expected. Forcing them to broadcast from inside the residence kept them busy, focused their minds and stopped their imaginations from running wild. He looked at the clock on the bomb strapped to Fareed Hussein’s chest. Fourteen minutes and seven seconds.

Maxwell turned to Ingilin. “Freshwater.” She nodded and moved the camera toward the president. He looked at Rafnhildur. “Are we good to go?” Rafnhildur nodded. “Live in ten.”

Massoud nodded at Maxwell. The demands were irrelevant, a diversion. The point was to have Freshwater calmly looking at the camera when it happened, live on global television. She would read them every five minutes. At least the end would be instantaneous. Unlike the Sunni barbarians and their beheadings.

Maxwell was tense, sweating, kept glancing at the clock on the bomb, Massoud saw. He had believed Massoud’s promise of a negotiated passage, of a speedboat to a waiting freighter and five million dollars in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. There was no speedboat and no freighter. This was a one-way trip. The money was real, however, but it would soon be returned to its source, a subaccount of Nuristan Holdings. War would be inevitable, and with it, the toppling of Kermanzade’s government. Massoud was proud to be a martyr for his faith. His family traced its lineage back to the battle of Karbala. He had no fear of joining his ancestors. His only regrets were that he was leaving his son behind, and that he would not see the new Islamic order arise again in his homeland.

Rafnhildur had begun the countdown when Massoud’s phone rang.

Massoud frowned. Nobody had this number except Clairborne and a handful of people in Tehran, all of whom knew not to call in the middle of an ongoing operation. He looked at the screen. Unknown number.

He took the call. “Yes?”

“Salim Massoud?”

“Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“I think you want to talk to me.”

Massoud’s tone changed as he recognized Yael’s voice. “About what?”

“Farzad.”

*

“No,” said Joe-Don. “No, no, and no.”

Yael watched the emotions play out: anger, exasperation, flashes of something much softer. She was sitting in the rear passenger seat of the police car next to him, with Magnus in front. The vehicle was one of two parked across the black stone road in a V-shape, the edges of their front bumpers touching, the blue lights on the roof slowly turning.

She looked out of the window for a moment. The sky was still almost black, the rain hurling against the windshield, thin tendrils of water draining down the glass. She handed Ortega’s iPhone to Joe-Don. Its screen showed Al-Jazeera’s news feed, and the channel was now broadcasting nonstop from the residence. The camera showed the four hostages sideways on, still sitting in their chairs, bound together. Fareed Hussein sat staring, as though oblivious of the bomb on his lap. The timer showed 12:57, the seconds ticking down. Freshwater remained straight-backed. Kermanzade and Gunnarsdottir stared ahead, as though determined to show no emotion.

Yael took Joe-Don’s hand in hers, his skin rough and callused against hers. “You knew what was coming. That sooner or later we would need to use the tape of Farzad. That’s why you hacked it from Clairborne’s computer and gave it to me. He is our only chance. I’ll be in and out in an hour. Then we can all go home.”

“And I am responsible for your safety,” he responded. “Which is why you are not stepping out of this car and are staying at least five hundred yards from the residence.” Joe-Don reached between the seats and pressed the central locking button. The locks thunked.

She leaned forward and pressed the same button. The doors unlocked. “Magnus?” she said.

The Icelander held a detailed map of Bessastadir over the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “This is a catastrophe. Three of mine and five American Secret Service agents dead. Half of them killed by their Iranian counterparts and the rest by Kent Maxwell. Three presidents and the secretary-general of the United Nations held hostage. At Bessastadir. Live on the Internet. All on my watch.”

“If I don’t go in, what other options are there?” asked Yael.

“Not many, I am afraid,” Olafsson replied. “Karin is the nearest, but she is two hundred and fifty yards away and cannot do anything on her own. There is a fifty-yard stretch of no-man’s-land before the terrorists’ perimeter around the house. They have lookouts checking the roads, the beaches, and the shore. All armed. We have boats patrolling, but cannot land nearby. The residence has a clear view for miles around, which means a clear field of fire out as well as in. We cannot come in by helicopter. The terrorists are on a suicide mission. So is anyone who walks into that place.”