The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(107)
Yael glanced at Fareed. It was a clumsy gambit, and had no chance of success. The SG nodded, almost imperceptibly. She had not made any arrangement to see him but they both knew that their next conversation had been a very long while in the making. Roxana was right, Fareed owed Yael his life. The debt was about to be paid.
Yael said, “You can leave.”
Roxana looked confused, then indignant. She began to speak, her voice rising, “Yael, I don’t think you understand—”
“I understand perfectly. You asked how you can help. I just told you.”
Roxana looked at Hussein, expecting him to come to the rescue.
“Thank you Roxana,” said Hussein. “I will call you later.”
Roxana stepped back, her mouth open in amazement before she replied. “But Fareed, we have to—”
The SG smiled as he replied, but his voice was cold. “I said, later.”
Yael walked over to the floor to ceiling window that looked out over the harbor, feeling the weight of her iPhone in her jeans pocket. Reykjavik sparkled in the night, the apartment block windows a honeycomb of white and yellow, car headlights sweeping along the black tarmac roads, the harbor lights a rainbow of colors shimmering on the water. Mount Esja loomed in the darkness, a great brooding presence. She watched a fishing boat chug into port, its port and aft lights blinking.
Yael turned around to see Hussein watching her. She could feel the emotions running through him: affection, comfort in her presence, guilt. He asked, “Would you like something to drink, to eat?”
“Tea, please.”
“Tea for two. Coming right up,” he replied as he walked the length of the suite to the kitchen area.
Yael strolled around, taking the measure of the place while Hussein made the drinks. Yael had stayed in hotels around the world, often in very comfortable conditions. But this was probably the largest and most luxurious hotel room she had ever stepped inside. It was certainly the whitest. She stepped inside the bathroom. A large Jacuzzi sat in the center. She quickly checked the shelves: one toothbrush, no women’s cosmetics on display.
She walked out, sat back on the sofa. Now, at last, it was just her and the SG. President Freshwater had gone straight to Keflavik airport and would be halfway to Washington, DC, by now. Kermanzade was on her way back to Tehran. Eli was under arrest. Michal was in the hospital under armed guard. After the death of Salim Massoud, the remaining Iranians had surrendered and were in custody. As for Sami and Najwa, well, yes, Sami and Najwa. An Icelandic journalist had already tweeted a photograph of the two journalists embracing and kissing in the Kaldi café, which had instantly gone viral. Yael felt a twinge of jealousy, sure, perhaps of both of them, to her slight surprise. But overall, she was pleased. Najwa was a better prospect for Sami than she ever would be, especially now that she was a journalistic superstar. And lately, someone else was much on Yael’s mind.
The SG reappeared with a tray. She watched him pour the drinks, glancing at her uncertainly. She took her tea, then handed him her iPhone. A text message was displayed on the screen.
He read the message, leaned back, exhaled loudly, closed his eyes for several seconds. “Who sent you this?”
“That doesn’t matter. Is it true? Did you let my brother die?”
Hussein looked at Yael, started to speak, stopped, looked away. He picked up his teacup and saucer. The white china rattled. A trickle of liquid slopped over the side. He put the cup and saucer back down, not just his hand but his whole body trembling slightly.
Yael sipped her drink and waited.
Hussein sat up. “I don’t know whose idea it was. Maybe it was Bonnet’s, maybe the French foreign ministry, maybe it was mine. It just seemed to appear out of the discussions, the telegrams and the confidential cables and then suddenly it was part of the consensus, the solution, the thing that we all needed to do. The … the … plan …”
“Which was what, exactly?” asked Yael. She put her drink down, pulled her legs up underneath her and leaned back on the sofa. She felt oddly calm and composed.
Hussein closed his eyes, swallowed and started talking. The words poured out.
“David”—he looked again at Yael, guilt and shame written on his face—“and the other eight were supposed to be taken hostage by the Tutsis. Then there would be a rescue mission by French troops. That was Bonnet’s responsibility. He was the liaison with the French Ministry of Defense.”
“I know that,” said Yael. “Bonnet told me. But what came next? What was the point of it?”
Hussein paused, looked at the ceiling for a moment, continued talking. “Once the French rescued the nine UN staff, they would have boots on the ground. There would be some fighting, enough to justify more French troops, a full-scale intervention to back the Hutus. The Hutus were Francophones, the Tutsis favored Britain. Britain had Uganda, so France got Rwanda. That was the deal. The P5 agreed. That’s why nobody intervened to save David and the others. They were only supposed to be held for a day or two, then released. But the Hutus had their own ideas. They killed them. They had always planned to. Rwanda turned into a bloodbath, just as they wanted. Then everyone backed away.”
Yael’s stomach turned to ice. For a second she could not breathe. “So my brother, and the other eight UN workers, died because you, or someone, had a bright idea to gamble with their lives, then another eight hundred thousand innocent people were killed because the P5 were carving up Africa like a turkey at Christmas?”