The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(13)

His voice was still casual, but had an eager edge he could not quite disguise. “Yael Azoulay.”

*

Yael did not need to turn her head to know who had sat next to her. As soon as he spoke—“Hello, Motek”—her stomach flipped over.

Only three men in her life had ever had such a powerful effect on her. Her brother, David, was dead. The second was her father. The third was now sitting too close, his thigh resting lightly against hers.

“Try again, Eli,” Yael said brightly, as though they had only last seen each other that morning. She shifted away, staring ahead as she spoke. “I already told you. I’m not your sweetie anymore.”

Eli Harrari leaned back and stretched his legs out before replying. “My apologies. Yael, what a pleasure to see you again. How are you?”

Fine until you arrived, she wanted to say. She turned to look at him. The bruising on Eli’s face had faded in the nine days since their encounter in Istanbul, but his skin was still discolored.

*

The door of the van opens. There are two more men inside, both in their twenties, dark and tough looking. “Shalom, Yael,” says one. “Time to come home.”

Eli steps back, easing the pressure of the gun barrel a fraction. It is all she needs.

She moves forward, drops her head, slams the back of her skull into Eli’s face, and throws the weight in her hand into the van.

The stun grenade explodes with a deafening roar. The two men inside pitch forward, facedown and unconscious.

*

The first of Isis Franklin’s betrayals had been to lure Yael to Eli’s parked van in Istanbul on the pretense of sharing some new information about David’s death. The second had been to poison the president.

Yael replied, “Tov me-od. Very good. How’s your nose?”

“Sore. But luckily, you didn’t break it.”

“Next time.”

“You did burst those boys’ eardrums.”

Yael shrugged. “Too bad. They should learn to take no for an answer. So should you.” She glanced at Eli’s wrist and right hand, encased in a support bandage.

He flexed the tops of his fingers. “Getting better every day.”

“It must have hurt.”

“Not much. The bullet hit the pistol. A sprained wrist and bruised fingers, but no lasting damage.”

Yael had escaped toward Istanbul’s bazaar, but Eli had then chased her along its roof. He was just a few yards away from her when a sniper had shot the pistol out of his hand, sending him toppling down the side of the building. Such a shot at a moving target on an irregular surface demanded an extraordinary level of skill, and the identity of the gunman was still a mystery to her.

Now, as in Istanbul, Eli was sure to have company. Yael rapidly scanned the park as she spoke. At least three possible operatives had appeared: one sat ten yards away on the other side of the long curved bench, and two more idled nearby on each side of the open space. She recognized the type instantly. She had graduated from the same school. All three were male, tanned, and fit. At first glance, they appeared relaxed but Yael knew they were on high alert as they watched the open space and the paths that led to the bench.

Yael turned to face him. “What do you want, Eli?”

He spread his arms. His blue zip-up jacket opened, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a pistol under his left armpit. “It’s a lovely evening. Manhattan in the spring. I thought we could have a chat. Go for a walk, maybe a drink at Zone. I know you like that place. Maybe a quiet dinner somewhere.”

“Thanks, but I’m busy tonight.”

He looked at her appraisingly. “So I see. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Nobody you know.”

Eli crossed one leg over the other. “I know all sorts of people.” His tone changed as he spoke. “And if I don’t know them, I know all about them. Especially Palestinians with terrorist connections and prominent jobs in the media.”

Yael felt the anger ripple through her as she moved away from him. “Get out of my life, Eli. And stay the f*ck out. And find some guys who blend in a little better.”

“Meaning?”

She pointed at Eli’s backup trio one by one, her finger resting for a couple of seconds on each. “One, two, three. This is the East Village. Not the Knesset.” As if on cue, two spiky-haired young women walked past arm in arm, both wearing cargo pants and tight halter tops that framed the intricate tattoos across their shoulders. Yael continued talking. “Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.”

Eli turned and stared at her again. “Time spent with you is never wasted.”

She felt his eyes roam up and down her body, taking in the swell of her breasts under her black minidress, her flat waist, and toned legs. She closed her eyes for a second, suddenly aware of her nakedness under her clothes, feeling her skin against her dress, her stockings, her black lingerie. Even as she willed it not to, something slid away inside her. Her anger started to morph into something far more dangerous. Yael swallowed and looked away. Score one point to Eli, and he knew it.

They had been recruited together, trained together, lived together for five years in a crummy flat in south Tel Aviv. They were the agency’s golden couple, and she had thought she would probably marry him. Until that day on the Gaza crossing point. And still then, after what she saw, she had wanted him as much in their last hour together as in their first.