The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(105)
The SG continued talking. “Armin, I am truly sorry for your loss. But I work for the UN. We don’t have an air force. We try and keep the peace. We do our best. We kept Srebrenica alive through three years of siege. But sometimes we fail. We don’t fight wars. You must ask that question in Washington, Paris, London. We didn’t know what was happening. Dutchbat had pulled out. So had the military observers. Ask the P5. They knew what was happening, much better than we did. We found out later that there was a satellite feed, to the CIA station in Vienna. They were watching in real time. Men standing, waiting. Men, dead, on the ground. Diggers. Bulldozers. Raised earth. Ask the Americans. They knew. And they did nothing.”
Yael saw the pressure of the gun against Hussein’s head ease slightly before Kapitanovic spoke. “You have could screamed, shouted, held a press conference, demanded a meeting with the White House, an emergency session of the Security Council. Done something. Anything.”
“Yes. I could have. But I didn’t. And I will live with that for the rest of my life.”
Yael looked at Kapitanovic. His face was fixed, determined, but the Browning was trembling. She slowly reached for the pistol.
Kapitanovic knocked her hand away with the muzzle of the gun. “I told you, Miss Azoulay. You are in no danger here. But please don’t interfere.”
Yael ignored the pain in her hand, slowly moved it back toward the gun, her right palm turned upward. She glanced through the front and rear windshields. The police cars were still bracketing the ambulance. No other vehicles were in sight. Armin was operating alone. She shot a look at the driver. He seemed completely unperturbed, kept a steady pace. Something about him …
Joe-Don’s voice broke the silence. “That was a nice shot in Kandahar, Armin. A moving target at what, seven hundred yards?”
Kapitanovic started with surprise. “Eight.”
Yael looked from one man to the other, momentarily puzzled. Then she understood. Sharif.
Yael gazed at Kapitanovic, kept her eyes on his. “You took a life to save many lives then, Armin. But there has been enough killing today. Give me the gun.”
Kapitanovic’s hand trembled. He started to speak but no words came.
Yael reached for the muzzle, guided it away. This time the Bosnian did not resist. Kapitanovic handed the Browning to Yael. She passed it to Joe-Don. He immediately slid the magazine out of the stock, checked under the gurney for more concealed weapons. There were none.
Fareed looked at Yael, thanking her with his eyes. He turned to Kapitanovic. “There was nothing you could have done. Akerman was determined to clear the peacekeepers’ base.”
“On whose orders?”
“Nobody’s. Nobody was giving orders. It was complete chaos. Akerman seized control. Everything happened so fast. All our systems collapsed.”
“But you didn’t stop him.”
“No,” said Hussein. “I did not.”
Kapitanovic turned away, tears flowing down his face.
The driver turned around at the sound. “I hate to interrupt your reunion, but we are almost there.”
Yael’s stomach flipped over. She got up and walked through the back of the ambulance to the driver’s seat. He turned around to look at her. She lifted off his baseball cap and then removed his sunglasses, barely managing to control her quivering fingers.
The driver’s eyes were startling. One blue and one brown.
“Hello, Aba,” said Yael.
*
Sami sat at the table in Kaldi, his laptop open in front of him. The place was jammed, the hum and buzz of excited conversations so loud he could barely concentrate. A television had been set up on the bar, showing Najwa standing outside the Harpa concert center, surrounded by other journalists who were shouting questions at her. She looked pale, extremely fatigued, and modestly triumphant.
He glanced at his story, which was already up on the New York Times website.
ELEVEN DIE IN ICELAND TERROR ATTACK
President Freshwater, Icelandic and Iranian counterparts, UN Secretary-General taken hostage, freed unharmed
By SAMI BOUSTANI
REYKJAVIK—At least eleven people were killed today after Iranian terrorists took the presidents of the United States, Iran, and Iceland hostage along with Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations. Six American Secret Service agents died, along with three Icelandic security agents, the president of Iceland’s spokesman and Salim Massoud, a senior Iranian official. Kent Maxwell, one of the Americans who was killed, appeared to be working with the Iranians.
The crisis ended when senior UN official Yael Azoulay managed to defuse a bomb that had been placed in the residence with just seconds to spare. The terrorist attack was broadcast live over the Internet by Najwa al-Sameera, the United Nations correspondent for Al-Jazeera, and two Icelandic journalists, Rafnhildur Eriksdottir and Ingilin Sjonsdottir, in part via a concealed microphone after the terrorists ordered the camera feed to be closed down.
Sami’s editors were demanding more of everything: more details, more color, more analysis. It was the story of the decade, if not a lifetime. And if he had not been inside the residence, at least he was here in Reykjavik. The concealed microphone he had given Najwa had worked perfectly. He had been able to listen in real time to everything that was happening. And Quentin Braithwaite, who had arrived in Reykjavik a few hours ago, was also proving most communicative about what had happened inside Bessastadir and what would likely happen next at the UN.