The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(102)

“Where is he?”

“Utah. In a private prison run by a black ops division of the US government known as the Department of Deniable, or DoD. One hundred miles from the nearest human settlement.”

“Who put him there?”

Yael gestured for the phone, and Massoud handed it back. She called up a sound file and played it.

“Now you make sure to do a real good job with that photograph,” said Clarence Clairborne. “We want him looking just right for his daddy’s birthday card.”

Yael glanced at her watch, careful not to reveal her tension. It was 6:21. By her calculation, they had six minutes. “The guards, security and catering services are all provided by the Prometheus Group. Clarence Clairborne personally oversaw the tender for the work, the negotiations, and the fine detail of the contract.”

Massoud asked, “You can get him out?”

Yael nodded.

Massoud said, “What do we do now?”

A wave of relief coursed through her as Massoud spoke, although she did not let it show on her face. “We” was the smallest but most important word of any negotiation. It showed that the two opposing parties now shared a common agenda. In Massoud’s mind, he and Yael were working together. She just had to guide him further down her path. “You stop this. Order your men to stand down. Will they do that?”

“Of course. Then what? How will you get Farzad released?”

“That’s the easy part, Salim. The United States is a land of many, and competing, law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The DoD is not popular. It is especially unpopular with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose agents have long been waiting to take it down as soon as the right political conditions arise. They raid the prison. Farzad will be freed immediately. He has committed no crimes.”

“When will this raid take place?”

Yael said nothing, but gave him a pointed look and then glanced at her watch.

“I need a guarantee,” Massoud insisted.

“I give you my word.”

Massoud stared at her. “Your word. OK. And Clairborne?”

“He will be taken care of.”

*

Yael and Massoud walked into the front reception room, Massoud with his pistol in his hand. The air was fetid, thick with the smell of blood, fear, and vomit. Everyone stared at them: Kermanzade, Gunnarsdottir, and the Icelandic journalists with a glimmer of hope, and Freshwater, Hussein, and Najwa with amazement. Yael smiled back, as reassuringly as she could, and looked at the clock on the bomb between the four chairs. The timer showed three minutes and fourteen seconds.

Massoud gestured to Ingilin. “Turn off the camera.”

She pressed a button and nodded. “It’s off.”

Kent Maxwell turned to Massoud. “What’s she doing here? And it’s time I left. Like now. That was part of the deal.”

“You may leave. In fact, I will speed you on your way.” Massoud raised his gun and shot the American in the chest.

Maxwell stumbled backward, slid to the floor, blood bubbling in his mouth. Massoud then turned to the journalists. Najwa watched him, wondering if she could grab the gun and somehow turn it on him. The Iranian smiled, as if reading her mind. “You may go. All three of you.” He glanced at the timer. “If you run fast enough you will make it to safety.”

Najwa and the two Icelandic journalists glanced at each other, a current of understanding passing between all of them.

“No. We’ll leave when this is over,” Najwa said.

“As you wish,” replied Massoud. “But the camera stays off.”

“Absolutely.” Najwa resisted a powerful urge to touch her lapel, check the thin wire that led to the mobile telephone in the inside pocket of her jacket.

Massoud turned to Freshwater. “Madam President. I will be brief. Even if I were to cut all of your bonds, and those of your colleagues, by then it would too late to reach a safe distance. But, I can defuse the bomb in time.”

“What do you want?” asked Freshwater.

“Three things. One: my son is released from your DoD prison. Two: my team is allowed to leave.”

“Your son, OK. But your people here, no. Absolutely not. They killed American citizens.”

Massoud shrugged. “Casualties of war.”

Freshwater refused to meet his eyes, stared ahead, duty struggling with self-preservation—and the lives of her fellow hostages. “No.”

Massoud turned on his heel, toward the door.

Kermanzade squeezed her eyes closed.

Hussein said, “Renee … please.”

Freshwater looked up, swallowed hard, exhaled. “OK. Anything else?” Massoud spoke softly into her ear, and she nodded. “That part would be a pleasure. And now, if you would please …”

Massoud walked around to the bomb. The timer showed fifty-eight seconds. He bent over the small keyboard and started entering a series of numbers.

A loud pop. The Iranian tumbled forward, red seeping from his chest.

Najwa instantly turned to Ingilin. “Get this!”

Ingilin swung the camera around.

Maxwell smiled, then suddenly shook as more blood poured from his chest. He jammed his gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. A thunderous boom, and he slumped forward.

The timer showed forty-nine seconds.