The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(15)
Najwa held his gaze. “What do you want to know, Riyad?”
Bakri moved nearer and spoke quietly. “Who is she really working for?”
A question that Najwa often asked herself. She had long wondered about Yael’s history, who she was and what drove her. Yet to Najwa’s surprise, she suddenly felt almost protective of Yael. Perhaps it was their dance at Zone, or the Amnesty International reports she had read about what happened in the basements of Saudi Mukhabarat headquarters. Either way, she would not share the tip-off she had recently received from a Palestinian diplomat.
Her mobile phone trilled three times inside her purse. That sound meant an urgent text message had arrived from her editor at the main New York bureau a few blocks away on West Forty-Fifth, which oversaw her UN operation. She looked down, then up at Bakri. “Don’t think me rude, but I do need to check that.”
“Please, go ahead,” said Bakri, as he reached for his BlackBerry and began to check his screen.
Najwa took out her iPhone and quickly read the text message on the top half of the screen. Sensing movement to her right, she quickly scanned the entrance to the Delegates Lounge. The overweight UN security officer was back, walking out onto the terrace.
Legally, the UN was a curious anomaly. The complex was physically in the United States, but the area behind the gates was international territory and so enjoyed the same diplomatic privileges as embassies. The NYPD, FBI, and other agencies handled security around the site, but once past the gates, they had no jurisdiction. Instead, the UN relied on its own security service. However, the UN Department of Safety and Security had no authority to detain anyone suspected of breaking the law on UN territory. Crime was rare, but if one was committed, the UNDSS could only lock up the perpetrator until the NYPD took over and they entered the American judicial system.
Najwa watched the security officer stroll back and forth for a minute or so. Was he watching her and Bakri in particular, or just checking in general? Najwa was friendly with many of the security staff, who often shared gossip or had useful inside information, but she had never seen this man before. She stared hard at him, memorizing his features: middle-aged, dark-complexioned, mustache, stomach flowing over his belt. The security officer saw her, looked away, and returned back inside the lounge.
Bakri sensed her distraction, but had not noticed the security officer. “What is it?”
Najwa thought quickly. Was she being paranoid? The whole UN building had been on a heightened security alert for at least a month after the capture of several UN aid workers by Islamists in Syria. The extra checks, bag searches, and body scans were an irritant but, she assumed, a necessary one. She was about to ask Bakri what he thought, but then decided that would sound ridiculous. Still, there was something about this security officer that made her uneasy. She frowned slightly, then slipped the phone back inside her bag.
“Bad news?” asked Bakri. “Do you have to rush off?”
Najwa shook her head. “No, not quite yet.” She paused for a moment, watching a police launch bounce along the water, then made her decision. The information would be public in a few minutes and this was too good an opportunity to miss. “There’s been a claim of responsibility for the DC car bomb.”
“Who?” asked Bakri.
Najwa handed him her iPhone, watching him intently as he peered at the screen.
“Jaesh al-Arbaeen. The Army of Forty. Who are they? I have never heard of them.” Bakri’s puzzlement seemed genuine, as he handed Najwa her phone back.
Najwa smiled. “Thanks for the drink. Neither have I. Which is why I have to go back to work.”
*
Yael sat back on the park bench, watched a magpie jump across the open space. The park was deserted now, the temperature dropping rapidly. She checked her watch. It was seven fifty. She was late and getting later. Even if she stood up now and walked off she would not be at Sami’s apartment for another ten minutes. She had no interest in Eli’s latest proposition, whatever it was. But she was very interested in the connection between Isis Franklin and the Israelis. Sami would have to wait, which was anyway a kind of poetic justice. And if she walked fast enough, maybe she could be there in five minutes.
Yael thought quickly. She assumed that Isis had done some kind of trade with Eli, helping him to capture her in exchange for something. But what could Eli offer Isis? What was their shared interest? And then she understood. The attack ads, the op-eds accusing President Freshwater of abandoning Israel, the Twitter storms, the whispering campaigns, the Capitol Hill filibusters, the high-profile resignations of senior staffers—none of it had worked. The president’s message to Jerusalem remained unaltered: Stop building settlements, withdraw from the West Bank, and reach a peace agreement with the Palestinians and the wider Arab world, or US aid would be cut in half. Jerusalem wanted Freshwater out of office and, it seemed, at any price. Isis wanted Freshwater dead in revenge for authorizing indiscriminate drone strikes, one of which had killed the little boy she was about to adopt—a death that had undone her. Tormented with grief, Isis would betray Yael and do Jerusalem’s dirty work.
Yael said, “Why Isis Franklin?”
Eli shrugged. “You know the rules. Plausible deniability. She wasn’t an Israeli. She wasn’t Jewish. She had never even been to Israel.”
“What was in it for her?”
“A new life, a new name, and a baby to adopt. More, if she wanted. All she had to do was walk away. We could have got her out of Istanbul. But she went crazy, demanding that the White House release the black files on all the drone strikes.”