The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(22)
Yael looked at the photograph in the silver frame. David, her brother, had been one of those nine UN aid workers. She leaned forward, listening intently to every word.
“Such as?” asked the anchor.
Richardson frowned. “Some say it was to send a message to the UN not to intervene. Others that it was simple bloodlust. There was enough of that in Rwanda then. But Bonnet’s release has triggered a fresh rumor.”
“Tell us more, Roger.”
“That he was connected to some kind of deal behind the scenes, something to do with the nine UN workers who were taken hostage.”
“Do we have any details?”
Richardson had a look of fierce concentration. He paused for a couple of seconds before he spoke. “Nothing verifiable. Fareed Hussein, the current secretary-general, was head of the Department of Peacekeeping at the time. It’s highly likely that he would have known what was going on. But if there was a deal, it went horribly wrong.”
Yael sat staring at her television, transfixed.
*
Armin Kapitanovic sat back on the wooden bench and flicked through the navy blue passport, stopping when he came to the photograph page that carried his picture. “Jovan Kovac. Translates as: John Smith. Very original.”
“You don’t want original,” said Menachem Stein. “You want commonplace, unremarkable.”
Kapitanovic stared at the embossed gold emblem on the cover. His fingers traced the words, the top line in English, the bottom in French. “Is it real?”
“Real enough,” said Stein, his palm open.
Kapitanovic handed him the passport. “I used to dream of Canada, in the war. At night, in Srebrenica, I would say the names of the cities to myself: Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Ottowa. Oh-tow-wa. Like a mantra. If I kept saying the names, one day I would get there.”
“Once we are done, its yours. You can go wherever you want.”
The two men were sitting on a bench at the end of a short cul-de-sac on the corner of Sutton Place South and East Fifty-Seventh, looking out over the East River. A garbage scow slowly headed upriver on the black, glistening water, a yellow light blinking on the stern. Queens beckoned on the opposite shore, the apartment buildings glowing brightly. Nighttime traffic flowed along the Queensboro Bridge, headlights shining.
Kapitanovic’s gaze moved to the left, to an elegant, detached townhouse that took up a good part of a block. Four stories high, it stretched from the corner of East Fifty-Seventh to the wide pavement that marked the end of the cul-de-sac. The house was built in a late Georgian style, with flat fronts and large white sash windows. A short staircase, flanked by black iron railings, led to the side door. A gray metal NYPD box with tinted windows stood on the corner, but the front entrance opened directly onto the street and was completely exposed.
“Seen enough?” asked Stein.
Kapitanovic nodded. “More than.”
9
Sami scribbled “Bonnet/Than Ly—chk with Richardson—Deal?” and put down his notebook. That was good work for CNN by Roger. Sami had also heard rumors that the case against Bonnet was looking shaky, but had not dug further. Perhaps he should have, especially because of the coltan connection. And as for the rumor about the dead UN aid workers in Kigali, Sami too had heard whispers, but nothing spelled out in that level of detail. It was definitely time for a lunch in the Delegates Dining Room with the CNN correspondent—assuming that Jonathan Beaufort did not get there first.
For now, Bonnet could wait. What he really wanted to know was why a Middle Eastern feast was going cold on his kitchen table. He picked up his iPhone and pulled up the number of Roxana Voiculescu, the SG’s spokeswoman. Roxana had been Schneidermann’s deputy. Romanian born, attractive, and extremely ambitious even by UN standards, she had somehow bypassed the usual recruitment procedures and immediately been appointed spokeswoman after Schneidermann’s death. Roxana knew all of Fareed Hussein’s movements, meetings, and appointments—firsthand, 24/7, snickered some. She would certainly know if Yael was meeting the SG now, but he couldn’t ask Roxana outright. Sami had heard from multiple sources that Roxana couldn’t stand Yael, was jealous of her access to the SG and trying to work out how to marginalize her. Roxana would brush him off, saying such details were confidential, and then she would probe him, trying to find out why he wanted to know. He needed a plan.
He thought for a moment, and an idea began to form in his mind.
Roxana picked up on the second ring. They chatted for a minute, exchanging pleasantries, promised to meet for drinks soon. Sami still blushed at the memory of his last social encounter with Roxana. She had been nagging him for weeks to take her out. Eventually he had succumbed and spent part of the evening buying expensive cocktails at a hipster bar while Roxana flirted heavily, until she promptly abandoned him when her boyfriend appeared. Meanwhile, Sami had stolen confidential UN documents from her purse while she was in the restroom.
“Hey, Roxana, it’s lovely to catch up, but I just wanted to check something,” said Sami.
“How can I help?” asked Roxana, her voice bright but wary. “Is this about Roger’s report? Because we don’t comment on unsubstantiated rumors.”
Sami stared straight ahead for a moment. The damp patch on the wall was definitely growing. Thank you, Roxana, he wanted to say, for answering a question I was not going to ask and thereby confirming that Roger was onto something.