The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(11)

“It takes two parties to make a money transfer. I could go public.”

“With what, exactly?” asked Smith.

It was a good question. The money came from an account registered in the name of Universal Trading Ltd. Ortega had Googled the name. Universal Trading was the name of the fake company from whose offices James Bond operated. Someone had a sense of humor. “Why do you need me for this?”

“You’re part of the team now. Like D’Artagnan. Welcome aboard.”

“Who?”

Smith prodded Ortega in the chest. “You’ve seen the Four Musketeers. ‘All for one, and one for all.’” He pushed harder. “Meaning: if we go down, you come with us. Are you in?”

Ortega resisted the urge to smash Smith’s hand away and take him down. He had no choice. Not yet. He nodded.

“When?” asked the fat man.

Ortega looked at his watch. It was just after seven o’clock. His shift ended in two hours. That was more than enough time. “Now. As soon as I get back.”

Smith nodded. “Good.”

Ortega felt Smith’s hand quickly slide in and out of his jacket pocket, leaving the metal box inside. Smith’s pudgy fingers were surprisingly nimble. Then, as if from nowhere, he produced a silver tube barely larger than an AAA battery, and handed it to Ortega. “You’ll also need this to check the door,” he said, as he turned around and waddled off, rolls of fat spilling over the top of his trousers.

Ortega looked at the cylinder in his hand. It was a mini Maglite flashlight. He twisted the top. The tiny black light bulb glowed a soft purple.

*

Yael shivered as she pulled her jacket around her. The sky was dark gray now, shot through with crimson streaks, and the wind had turned colder, gusting through the wide open space of the park. She watched the bubble man trying to coax forward another creation. It swelled, shimmered in the wind, then popped. He tried again, with the same result. He shook his head, kneeled down, and pressed a button on his boom box. Miles Davis stopped midnote.

She wanted to look ahead to this evening, and push that night at Zone aside. But the memories were insistent, forcing their way into her consciousness.

*

He is sitting by the bar, calm, confident, swirling the ice cubes in his club soda. A man used to getting what he wants. And if not, to taking it by force.

“Yael, we go back such a long way. We don’t have to have this discussion now. How about dinner sometime? Tomorrow? Or we could leave now. There’s great Italian two blocks away.”

She steps back before she speaks. “How about if you write a letter to the family of the boy at the Gaza checkpoint, explaining what happened? He would be, what, in his late twenties now?”

*

Three days after her dance at Zone, Yael was in Istanbul. So was Eli, with his team, this time using different methods of persuasion.

Yael looked around the park again. The sound of childish laughter carried over from the playground. A squirrel scampered up a tree to sit on a wide branch. It chirped and seemed to look straight at her, its tiny eyes like beads of polished obsidian. Eli was safely back in Tel Aviv, on sick leave. Or so she had been told. So why was her sixth sense starting to howl? Yael watched a woman in her late thirties walk across the open space. She had thin lips, shoulder-length hair dyed the color of straw, and wore a pink jacket. She was chatting on her mobile phone, her shoulders hunched forward, her brown eyes staring resolutely ahead.

Thinking about that day in Istanbul made the voice in Yael’s head even more insistent. She knew she would eventually surrender and call Joe-Don. He lived on the Lower East Side, a few minutes’ drive away. Maybe he could head up here in his car and park outside Sami’s apartment, keep an eye on her. She took her phone from her purse. Joe-Don’s number was on speed dial. Yael’s finger was poised over the screen when someone sat down next to her.





5

Thirty blocks uptown at UN headquarters, Najwa al-Sameera sipped her sparkling water, thinking fast. Had the Saudi diplomat standing next to her really said that? Yes, she decided. He had.

They were standing, drinks in hand, on the giant terrace that looked out over the East River and the rose garden. Behind them was a wall of steel and glass, two stories high. A door in the middle opened into the Delegates Lounge. The sun was setting and a breeze blew in from the water, carrying the salty tang of the distant sea.

The UN headquarters in New York covered eighteen acres of prime real estate between First Avenue and the East River, from East Forty-Second Street to East Forty-Seventh Street. The centerpiece was the Secretariat Building, a thirty-eight-story modernist skyscraper with commanding views over the city and the East River. The complex also included the General Assembly building, where all 193 member states met once a year; a conference building; the Dag Hammarskj?ld Library, named for the second UN secretary-general; and numerous cafés, restaurants, and bars, the most popular of which was the Delegates Lounge.

The lounge was the see-and-be-seen place in the General Assembly Building, and Najwa had suggested that they meet there. Its front windows looked out over First Avenue, but for most of the patrons the hotbed of gossip and intrigue inside the building was far more interesting than the street outside. Bakri had agreed, but once there quickly suggested that they move out onto the terrace and she had readily assented. Although the terrace was not secluded, it would be impossible to eavesdrop there without being noticed. The view was captivating. A mile upriver, the lights along the Queensboro Bridge had just been switched on, a long string of white lamps glowing against the darkening sky. Najwa watched a UN security officer in his forties step out of the lounge and amble across the terrace. He had a heavy paunch and a thick mustache. He glanced at Najwa and her companion, then returned inside.