The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(104)

Yael glanced at her bodyguard, her eyes flicking to the paramedic then back at Joe-Don. Joe-Don was also staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Yael’s unease deepened, but she needed first to understand what was happening here.

Yael watched as Hussein ended his phone call and turned to gaze at the paramedic. The two men knew each other, that was obvious. There was tension on the SG’s face, but no fear. Then suddenly, Yael knew what he was going to say.

Hussein smiled. “Hello, Armin.”

The paramedic turned to Yael. “Miss Azoulay, you are in no danger at all. I am in your family’s debt. Your brother saved my life. You and your bodyguard are free to leave.”

“Thanks. But I’ll stay,” Yael said.

“As you wish.” Kapitanovic reached inside his pocket, took out a blue UN laissez-passer, and handed it to Hussein. “Your atonement is finished.”

Hussein took the booklet, flicked through the pages. “I don’t think so. But I hope yours is.”

Yael watched closely, remembering now more detail of both what she had read and the accompanying rumors that swirled around the UN building. Armin Kapitanovic, a young Bosnian man, had escaped from Srebrenica to Belgrade with her brother David’s help. A few months later, he crossed the front lines and returned to the besieged enclave. He became a legendary sniper and led raiding parties out of the enclave behind the Serb lines. Kapitanovic survived the fall of the town, but lost his family. His father and brother had taken refuge on the UN base but were forced out by Frank Akerman and the Dutch officers, taken away, and killed by the Bosnian Serbs. His mother hanged herself soon afterward. Then Armin Kapitanovic disappeared.

Sometime in the late 1990s, a few years after the Bosnian war was over, a man called Rifaat al-Bosni had joined the United Nations. He worked with refugees in Kosovo, Chechnya, Iraq, and Afghanistan. In each place that he had been posted, the most brutal militia leaders had been found murdered, often killed with a single shot from a long distance. That much was known. The identity of the sniper was not. Each death triggered a flurry of gossip and speculation. Some said that al-Bosni was the killer. There were even whispers that al-Bosni was really Armin Kapitanovic, the legendary sniper of Srebrenica. Many wondered how al-Bosni had found employment at the UN, but the questions faded away once it was made clear that he had high-level protection on the thirty-eighth floor. Soon after the Syrian war started, al-Bosni disappeared.

Over the years Yael had often wondered what happened to Kapitanovic, even made a few inquiries. But they led nowhere. Now she knew.

She turned to the Bosnian. “The UN forced your family out of the Dutch base at Srebrenica. They all died. Then you went to work for Fareed?”

Kapitanovic said, “I wanted to save lives. He gave me the means and the opportunity.”

In her exhaustion, Yael struggled to process what she was seeing and hearing. Kapitanovic was al-Bosni, OK. But had Kapitanovic/al-Bosni also been the sniper, the killer of warlords? “The means and the opportunity to do what?”

“To remove bad men.”

The SG weighed the laissez-passer in his hand. “It was off-the-books. Nobody knew about it, and there was nothing in writing. It was highly effective. Our humanitarian programs’ efficiency always soared after a visit from Armin. Local warlords suddenly became so much more cooperative. Aid convoys passed easily through checkpoints. Many more lives were saved. Rough justice is sometimes the best we can do.”

“Exactly,” said Kapitanovic as he swiftly reached underneath the gurney and held a Browning pistol to Hussein’s head. “Now it’s my family’s turn.”

Joe-Don looked at Yael. His shoulders were tensed, his mouth locked tight. Armin Kapitanovic was al-Bosni. She blinked three times, code for wait. Joe-Don inclined his head, almost imperceptibly. Yael knew Joe-Don was unhappy, but he trusted her and would not intervene. And he still had his Glock in the holster against the small of his back.

Hussein glanced sideways at the muzzle of the gun. “Before you pull the trigger, Armin, at least let me say my piece.”

The Bosnian nodded.

“Yes, we made another mistake. Another bargain that went wrong. Srebrenica was an irritant, a tiny island of government territory in a Bosnian Serb sea. Everyone knew the war was over. America was pressing us, Britain, France, Germany. Tidy it up. Let Srebrenica go. Give it to the Serbs. Then we can sign the peace deal, the fighting will stop and the refugees can go home. That’s why Akerman was toasting the Bosnian Serbs. Not because he liked them. He didn’t. Because we all thought it was the end of the war.”

Kapitanovic pushed the muzzle against the SG’s head. “The prisoners? The eight thousand men and boys. My father. My brother.”

Hussein grimaced as he spoke. “There was a deal. It went wrong. They were supposed to be held for a few days, then released.”

Kapitanovic’s voice rose in anger. “It took days to kill them all. Days when you sat in your office, drinking coffee, sending memos. Why didn’t you do something?”

Yael judged the distance between her hand and the gun. She caught Joe-Don’s eye. He was also taking the measure. They both knew it would be a very risky move to go for a grab. Kapitanovic’s finger was on the trigger. The safety catch was off. But more than that, she wanted to hear what Hussein had to say. Kapitanovic was asking the same questions that she had stored up over the years. Hussein had always dodged answering, fobbed her off with platitudes. But now he could not.