The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(106)
Sami was halfway through updating his story when he felt a presence behind him. He did not need to turn to know who it was. He knew her smell, the way the air vibrated around her, the sheer presence of her. The hum of conversation in the bar lessened as the revelers began to notice who had just walked in. Scattered applause sounded, swelling to a rolling crescendo.
Sami stood up, pulled Najwa toward him and held her tight. “Mabrouk,” he said. “You made it.”
She laughed, gently freed herself, grasped Sami’s hands. “So it seems.”
Someone thrust a bottle of champagne into his hand. He stared at her: her tousled hair, her crumpled clothes, her scuffed boots. Her brown eyes held his. The bar was completely silent now, with every eye in the room on the two reporters.
Sami had been dreaming about his next move for some time, but he had not anticipated an audience. After today, however, it didn’t matter.
The air turned thick between them.
He put the champagne down, pulled Najwa toward him.
She smiled, said, “But what about Y—”
Sami did not reply, only held her closer, felt her breasts crush against his chest, her hair in his hands, breathing in her musky smell, as her mouth opened to his.
37
A couple of hours later, Yael walked into the presidential suite of the Hilton Reykjavik Nordica. Roxana stood up as soon as she saw Yael and walked toward her, radiating enthusiasm.
“Yael, I’m so pleased to see you, it was amazing, incredible what you did today,” she exclaimed, air-kissing Yael on each cheek. “Well done.”
“Thanks,” said Yael, swiftly dodging an oncoming hug as she stepped away and scanned the room.
Roxana ignored Yael’s distancing, stepped closer and took her arm as she continued talking. “You saved Fareed’s life.”
“She did more than that,” said Hussein. He was seated at the end of the brown sofa at the far end of the suite. He smiled, stood up, and started to walk toward the two women.
“I know,” said Roxana. “We are all so proud of her. She is a hero.” Roxana lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Have you heard, there is a rumor that the White House wants to give a dinner in your honor? President Freshwater wants to say thanks. That’s twice you have saved her life.”
The SG’s press secretary was back on form, noted Yael. Her body language was confident and expansive, her hair sleek, her makeup lightly and skillfully applied, her Prada jacket and skirt pressed and spotless. Zest had gone, noted Yael, replaced by something much heavier and richer.
“No,” said Yael. “I hadn’t. But that’s not really my kind of thing. I don’t like being in the public eye.”
Roxana laid her hand on Yael’s arm as she spoke. Her blue-gray eyes were wide open, trusting, entreating—and hoping. “I completely understand.”
Yael smiled inside. Roxana was so predictable. First the empathy, then the attempt at manipulation. They both knew that after this afternoon Yael was untouchable, at least for the near future. Roxana would instantly be calculating the potential benefits for her career—which were considerable, if she played her cards right and could engineer, if not an alliance, at least a rapprochement with Yael. She and Yael worked for the same boss. All the good press and media coverage generated by Yael’s skill and heroism would boost the UN and the SG’s image, and so add to Roxana’s stature and prestige.
Roxana continued talking. “The last thing you want at the moment is to be the center of attention. But it would be such amazing publicity for the UN, and all the good work we do. At least think about it.”
“I will, when the invitation arrives. Meanwhile, I need to talk to Fareed.”
Roxana’s smile faded slightly as the SG stood in front of the two women. She looked puzzled for a moment. “Yael, I don’t remember, did we agree to meet here?”
“No,” said Yael. “We didn’t.”
Hussein said, “Roxana, leave Yael for now. She has just saved the world. The White House can wait. So can everyone else. We have things to talk about.”
Yael stepped back and looked at the SG. He was still paler than usual, but was no longer gray. He smiled at Yael, a genuine smile, full of warmth, as if to say, “I wondered when you would get here.”
Once she returned to the Hotel Borg Yael had taken a very long shower and ordered a large, medium-rare hamburger with a small bucket of french fries, which she ate with gusto. After that she had tried to rest for a while, but it was impossible. The questions that she had filed away for years—about Rwanda, about David, about why she continued to work at the UN—were spinning through her head, demanding answers. Tonight, she knew, she would get them. She got up, changed into clean jeans, a T-shirt, and a black turtleneck sweater and made her way to the Hilton.
Roxana watched warily, a half frown on her face, aware of the powerful emotional currents passing between Yael and the SG and wondering how to respond.
For a moment Yael was back on the thirty-eighth floor, the previous Friday morning. Was it really only three days ago that Roxana had, in effect, ordered her out of the SG’s offices and Fareed had acquiesced? Yes, it was, give or take a time zone or two. But they all knew that now Yael was the SG’s confidant, and Roxana the outsider.
Roxana, however, was not about to cede so easily. She gave Yael her best UN press officer smile, which showcased her white teeth and did not reach her eyes. “Yael, it’s fantastic to see you. But Fareed and I are in the middle of planning the press conference,” she glanced at her Patek Philippe watch, “in just over an hour, at ten o’clock tonight. How can I help?”