The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(14)
Yael asked, “Why are you following me?”
“I already told you. It’s time to come home.”
“I am home. I live here now. And next time, ditch the black SUV with tinted windows. This isn’t an episode of Homeland.”
Eli looked puzzled. “What are you talking about? We had your taxi on satellite. We were a good half mile behind you. In two family sedans.”
She looked sideways at him. Yael always knew when Eli was lying to her. He was telling the truth.
Despite everything that had happened between them—or because of it—Eli’s sensuality was still a dark magnet, drawing her in. Even now he was salvation. Self-immolation. Both.
She cased the park again. The blond woman in jeans and a pink jacket was now sitting on a bench nearby. She looked vaguely familiar, but Yael could not immediately place her. The woman was apparently absorbed in texting on her smartphone but Yael saw her eyes flick across the path to the tattooed young women who were now standing twenty yards away, still holding hands. There were plenty of tattooed lesbians in Tel Aviv. And thirty-something blonds with mobile phones.
She glanced at Eli. He was looking at the woman in the pink jacket. His finger rose to his right ear, quickly scratched it, then dropped. The woman nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture. Yael’s senses, already on alert, went up a gear.
Yael asked, “How did Isis Franklin get involved with you? Why did she bring me to you, Eli?”
Eli laughed. “You turned down my dinner invitation in New York. I thought I would try again in Istanbul. But that didn’t work. So here I am again. With a new proposition.” His voice turned hard. “I suggest you accept it.”
6
Najwa focused before answering Bakri, glad now she had stuck to mineral water and not had the glass of wine she’d wanted.
On one level, it was hardly surprising that a Saudi diplomat, whether or not he worked for the Mukhabarat, would want to know more about a high-profile Israeli UN official like Yael Azoulay. And his interest might be personal as well as professional. In Najwa’s experience, once they relaxed Israelis and Arabs were usually fascinated by each other, especially when they met on safe, neutral territory. The question was, how much would Najwa share? Especially about her own suspicions, fueled by a rumor she had recently picked up from a diplomat at the Palestinian mission to the UN.
She glanced at Bakri. His body language had changed. The relaxed charm was replaced by a palpable intensity, his eyes almost eager, his posture alert. Anything she said would be instantly absorbed, processed, used to guide the next question, and filed away.
“I know what everyone else knows. She does the secret deals behind the scenes for Fareed Hussein, and presumably, the P5. I’d love to interview her, of course, but she does not talk to the press.”
Bakri nodded. She sensed his dissatisfaction.
“How does an Israeli get such a sensitive position?” he asked.
“She is also an American citizen. And Israel’s a UN member state. It was founded on a UN resolution to partition Palestine.”
“You sound like you are defending the Zionists.”
“I’m not defending anything. Just pointing out historical reality. I’ve reported from Israel several times. They let me into the country,” she continued, her voice pointed. “Government officials talk to us. It’s the only country in the Middle East where my crew and I weren’t arrested.”
The mating dance between UN journalists and their sources, whether officials or accredited diplomats, was complex. Both sides had an agenda. One wanted stories, the other to put certain information in the public domain, often to their personal or political benefit. Sometimes a contact clearly detailed the material they wanted to share, even providing supporting documents. Others dropped a tantalizing hint into a conversation about something else entirely, seamlessly moving on like the words had never been uttered—as Riyad Bakri had just done.
Najwa was meeting Bakri on “deep background.” Nobody ever wanted to be quoted on the record, not even UN departmental spokesmen and women. Information was the UN’s currency, to be spent and traded with care, sparingly and always with regard for the possible consequences. Alliances shifted, departmental empires evaporated, powerful potentates deposed, and all so quickly that it was thought best to avoid committing to anything, at least by name. There were no outright lies, for these would be swiftly discovered and the word soon spread throughout the two hundred or so journalists accredited at the U.N. that the originator was not to be believed or trusted. Journalists used three levels of attribution. Deep background, which meant the information could be used but not attributed to anybody; a UN or diplomatic “source,” which usually provided sufficient cover as tens of thousands of people worked for the UN and hundreds of diplomats were accredited there; and Najwa’s favorite, “a person with knowledge of the issue,” which implied someone on the inside track but could also mean anyone who had read that day’s edition of the New York Times. But both reporters and sources knew there was one rule: if a UN official or diplomat asked to meet a reporter in private, it was for a reason. The rules said that she should give him something in return for the Velavi tip.
Najwa thought for a moment.
“She’s a good dancer.”
Bakri raised his eyebrows. “Especially when she has such an eye-catching partner.”