The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(18)
Noa asked, “Has something happened?”
“No, nothing unusual,” said Yael. Nowadays, that was true enough.
“I miss you, Sis. We all do. Amichai is twelve now. Next year will be his bar mitzvah. You will be here for that?”
Yael stared at the photograph on the sideboard of Noa, surrounded by her eight children. Amichai, the oldest, stood in the middle. Noa had her hands on his shoulders, as if showcasing him.
“Of course. What a question.”
Noa lived on Har HaZion, an isolated settlement deep in the occupied West Bank, with her husband, Avi, and their family. Noa had discovered religion on a visit to Jerusalem, just after she graduated from Cornell, when she met an emissary from the Lubavitch sect of Judaism who had invited her to come for Shabbat dinner. She became captivated by the warmth and stability of the Lubavitch lifestyle—and its contrast to the turbulent childhood she and Yael had shared. Now married to a full-time student of the Torah, with no apparent income, she was blissfully fulfilled.
The two sisters chatted for a couple more minutes, before Noa said goodbye. Yael put her phone on the coffee table and sat back on the sofa, hugging her knees, trying to make sense of the evening. She had phoned Sami to cancel their date as soon as Eli and his team had left Tompkins Square Park. Sami had been polite and understanding, if somewhat cool, which was understandable. He was a journalist, he knew about the sudden demands of work, he said. Neither of them had nine-to-five jobs. They would get together soon, another time. An accomplished liar, by both training and instinct, she thought Sami had believed her. Unless, of course, he had already checked his e-mail.
After that conversation, she had taken a taxi straight home. Once back, she changed out of her dress, scrubbed off her makeup and put on an old Columbia University T-shirt and faded gray sweatpants. Then she had called her sister, experiencing an urgent need to hear her voice.
Was Noa in danger? Not yet. At least, no more than usual. The settlement was heavily guarded and Noa rarely left its confines. Eli knew very well that if anything happened to her, Yael would wreak a terrible revenge. She would release the file on him, spreading his name and photograph all over the Internet, but that would only be the beginning. She knew enough about Mossad’s inner workings, and the operations in which she had been involved, to cause serious damage if she went public.
Meanwhile, a lot could happen by Monday afternoon. Yael switched on the television. CNN was showing a studio discussion about the UN’s Reykjavik Sustainability Conference. One pundit, a youthful liberal blogger with a goatee, argued President Freshwater was showing strength, that she was determined to follow her own agenda, by attending. Shireen Kermanzade, Iran’s new reformist president, would also be there. They might even meet, he speculated. The other guest, a middle-aged female conservative in a tight pink sweater, guffawed and said that Reykjavik was a complete irrelevance to American voters, and proved how out of touch Freshwater was with people’s everyday concerns. Yael was inclined to agree. The UN organized conferences almost every day of the week. It was a mystery to her why Freshwater was bothering to spend presidential time on new methods of recycling.
Yael heard a gurgling noise. She looked around then realized it was her stomach. She picked up a small packet of crackers, marked with the Air France logo, from her coffee table and ripped it open. The contents flew out, spilling over the coffee table and onto the floor of her apartment. She sighed and picked them up piece by piece and placed them on the table. This really was not her night.
She upended the packet of crackers into her hand, tipped what remained into her mouth, and slowly chewed as she stared at the printout of the photograph that Eli had given her. Had he really emailed it to Sami? There was no way she could have spent the evening at Sami’s apartment on a date, all the while wondering what was in his e-mail and what his reaction might be. There was a limit to even her powers of performance.
Imagine if the date had gone well. She might have stayed over, only to find Sami checking his e-mail in the morning, staring at the image, then at her. He would have felt betrayed. She would have been mortified. Yael imagined Sami printing the e-mail out before deciding what to do. He would not rush to action, she thought. This was more than just another story. This was personal, family business that had ended very badly indeed. Sami would probably approach her sometime in the next couple of days. He would be brisk and businesslike, or maybe he would try and charm more information out of her. Or he might wait for a while, as he dug deeper into her past. There was nothing she could do about it for now. Either way, tonight was a win-win for Eli.
The bottle of Puligny-Montrachet stood on the coffee table, three-quarters full, still glistening with condensation. Michael the doorman had handed it back to Yael on her return. She picked up her glass of wine, and tasted it. It was very good, as it should be for the price: lemony-crisp with an aftertaste of almonds. It was a waste to drink it on her own. She thought about calling Joe-Don. He was a bourbon man and she had a bottle tucked away somewhere. He would certainly be there very quickly indeed once he heard about her encounter with Eli in the park. At which point he would admonish her for not summoning him as soon as Eli appeared, to escort her home and stand guard at her door. But she was safe in her apartment now, and anyway, they were due to have breakfast tomorrow morning.
Who else could she call to keep her company? There were not many candidates. She took another sip of wine. In fact, there weren’t any.