The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(34)

So it was in Bakri’s interest to direct Najwa toward an Iranian connection to Schneidermann’s death. The Saudis were enraged by the nuclear deal between the United States and Iran. In exchange for strict controls of Iran’s nuclear program, sanctions were being lifted. Anything that was bad for the Iranians was de facto good for the Saudis. But there had to be something in his steer. And Najwa’s instincts told her that there was indeed an Iranian link. The Middle East was in turmoil as the Islamists advanced. Old certainties were evaporating, new alliances sprouting. Tehran was winning its struggle for influence and the Shia crescent now ran through Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon. Just this week she had watched a report on how America and Iran were cooperating against the Islamists in Syria and Iraq. The Pentagon denied it, but there were increasing reports about intelligence-sharing, even special forces working together.

The Saudis and their allies were left standing on the sidelines, furious and fearful that Iran’s strategic victories might foment an uprising among their own restless Shia minorities. After all, Shia Islam had been the engine of the revolution in Iran that overthrew the Shah and brought the ayatollahs to power. Centuries of oppression and persecution at the hands of Sunni rulers hardened the Shia, who celebrated martyrdom and were known for being skilled at subterfuge, conspiracy, and secrecy. And amid this state of flux and confusion, the White House was flailing, assailed by enemies within and allies without. The Saudis and their neighbors were deeply worried by the uncertainty in Washington, and were developing ever-stronger secret ties with Israel’s defense and intelligence establishments. The news of the car bomb in DC would only increase their anxiety.

Along with about 80 percent of the Muslim world, Najwa had been brought up as an observant Sunni. Sunni Islam was an egalitarian faith without a formal clergy, whereas Shia Islam had a clergy and a carefully delineated hierarchy, at the top of which sat the ayatollahs. As an adult, she did not pray or go to the mosque, but neither did she deny her faith and her roots. If asked, she answered that she was a Sunni Muslim. Her Western education and time living in Europe and the United States triggered complex emotions about her heritage. She felt a powerful loyalty to the Arab world, but burned with frustration, even anger, at the chaos and bloodshed across the region and the failure of so many Arab governments to provide even basic services for their citizens, let alone human rights and freedoms.

Najwa picked up the remote control on her desk, pointed it at the LED screens on the wall, and pressed a button. Each television was tuned to a different station: Al-Jazeera English, Al-Jazeera Arabic, BBC, and CNN, but all four showed the same footage. Renee Freshwater, dressed in a white blouse and black jacket, with her black hair tied back and her strong features tight with determination, sitting at her desk in the Oval Office. Najwa turned up the volume:

“We utterly condemn the barbarous attempt at a terrorist outrage tonight in our nation’s capital. A catastrophe has been averted, a catastrophe that would have taken dozens of lives and maimed many more.”

A former United States ambassador to the United Nations, Freshwater had begun her career in the State Department, where her reputation as a liberal was solidified after she called for the United States to intervene in the Rwandan genocide. Her election had enraged Republicans, and more than a few southern and conservative Democrats, but in the beginning she rode a powerful wave of public support. Her first couple of years had seen a tsunami of legislation as she forced through an amnesty for illegal immigrants and reforms for labor law and banking regulation, infuriating both Wall Street and K Street, the avenue in Washington, D.C., where powerful lobbyists congregated. Now, after three years in office, the luster of being America’s first female president—one with Native American ancestry—had long faded. The Republicans had declared open war on her administration, aided by their covert allies in the Democratic Party. Her proposed bill to bring back all outsourced military and security functions from the private sector to government had been quickly vaporized by a bipartisan filibuster. In Syria, Freshwater had pushed hard to back the moderate Syrian opposition and called for airstrikes after the Assad regime gassed its own people. But the moderates were abandoned and the airstrikes never happened, and Najwa had heard from several sources that sections of the American intelligence agencies saw President Assad as a bulwark against the Islamists and were secretly cooperating with him.

Either way, power was leaking away from the White House and down the corridors of Capitol Hill to those of K Street. Freshwater’s husband Eric had been killed in a strange skiing accident ten months ago. Despite her efforts, and the involvement of multiple government agencies, there had still been no concrete answer as to why his bindings had failed and he had hit a tree. The president herself was still recovering from Isis Franklin’s attempt to poison her. Losing Eric had garnered sympathy and brought a truce from her political enemies for a couple of months. The assassination attempt in Istanbul had brought temporary respite—but this time for just a few days. After that, her enemies used it to pillory her, asking how she could protect America if she could not protect herself. The president was once again dubbed “Dead-in-theWater,” hobbled by Congress, dismissed by the ever-louder right-wing media as a one-term wonder before America recovered its senses.

Freshwater continued talking, her praise of the police and emergency services presumably read from a teleprompter in front of her desk. Then she paused and looked directly into the camera, her dark eyes blazing with anger. “Whoever planted this cowardly bomb: I know you are watching. So listen up, because I have a message for you. I don’t care whether you have an army of forty or forty thousand. Know this: We are coming for you. We will never give up. The United States of America will hunt you down, will find you, and make you play.” She blinked once, then paused for a fraction of a second. “Make you pay.” Each channel switched back to the studio.