The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(38)
A minute passed, then two and three. Finally, her computer beeped, alerting her that an e-mail had arrived. The screen returned to life, showing her desktop wallpaper of grinning Syrian children in a refugee camp.
The e-mail had no header or sender. But there was an attachment: a JPEG image.
She clicked.
A photograph of a young woman appeared. She was strikingly pretty, with olive skin, dark brown eyes, and long black hair.
Najwa gasped. Letters began to appear in the message window.
<we can play hardball. Or we can be nice. Which would you prefer?>
Najwa glanced at the image again, and swallowed. <nice.>
<Good. You will keep your webcam plugged in at all times when we communicate. OK?>
<OK>
<Plug the webcam back in.>
Najwa took the webcam cable and reached around the back of her drive. She found the USB port but her hand was shaking and she kept missing the slot. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Eventually, the cable jack slid into the USB port.
<Mabrouk, congratulations. Nice outfit, BTW.>
<thanks. What’s the tip?>
<two, actually>
<I’m all ears>
<One, Bakri is reliable>
Najwa ignored the flurry of questions that message triggered. Instead she typed: <two?>
<Take your crew to the SG’s residence immediately.>
*
Yael switched on her television and flicked through the news channels. President Freshwater’s stumble played again and again. There was more coverage about the DC car bomb as numerous pundits speculated as to who, or what, the Army of Forty was. There was no mention anywhere of Isis Franklin’s death, but that was not surprising. Nine o’clock at night in New York was four o’clock in the morning in Istanbul, and Isis had been held in a high-security prison. The news would eventually leak out overnight, either from someone inside the prison or the American diplomats who were dealing with Isis’s case. She could leak the news herself, of course, and tip off Najwa, or Sami, or both. A little credit in the favor bank with two influential journalists was always useful. She certainly owed Sami a favor. She glanced at her phone. But she owed Yusuf a much large one. She would keep quiet.
She continued channel-hopping until she pulled up Al-Jazeera America. The television screen showed a photograph of a man in late middle age. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and thinning gray hair. Underneath was written: Breaking: Dutch UN official killed by unknown gunman near Secretary-General’s residence. The photograph vanished, replaced by a live feed of Najwa standing outside the SG’s home on Sutton Place in midtown Manhattan. The whole area had been taped off, and police checkpoints had clearly been erected on the corner of East Fifty-Fourth Street and First Avenue. Crowds of onlookers watched, held back by officers wearing Kevlar helmets and full body armor.
“What do we know about this apparent killing, Najwa?” asked a male voice, presumably that of the studio anchor.
“Frank Akerman was leaving a meeting with Fareed Hussein, the UN secretary-general here, about half an hour ago—” Najwa spoke as a police helicopter swooped overhead, the roar of its rotor blades suddenly drowning out her voice, sending her long dark hair flying in every direction. She waited for a few seconds until the helicopter flew on: “—when he was shot dead.”
The screen cut to the anchor, a middle-aged Pakistani man, in the New York studio. “Do we have any information about the type of weapon used? Or who might have been responsible?”
Najwa nodded. “Yes, and no, Faisal. My understanding is that he was killed with one shot to the chest, which may have been a high-caliber sniper bullet. But no claims yet of responsibility and no arrests. The police have yet to release a statement.”
“So we may be looking at a targeted assassination. Who was Frank Akerman? And why might somebody set a hit man on him?”
“Akerman was assistant secretary-general of the UN’s Department of Political Affairs. The DPA deals with the most sensitive international issues. Akerman was a Middle East specialist who just this morning returned from a trip to Istanbul.”
Yael stared, her eyes wide in disbelief. Akerman was dead. And he had been in Istanbul? Istanbul was a common neutral meeting point for confidential discussions on Iran. But why hadn’t she been informed? She and Akerman had met several times to talk about his role as a back channel between the White House and Tehran. She hadn’t seen him around since she’d returned, but had no idea he had recently been dispatched to Istanbul, especially as he had not been at the summit. At well over six feet Akerman was tall, even for a Dutchman, with a laconic style that was almost monosyllabic. They’d never really connected even though, or more likely because, their briefs overlapped. Yael tried not to get involved in turf wars because her mandate from the SG allowed her to act fairly autonomously, and she did get to see Akerman’s reports to the SG. At least, the SG said they were Akerman’s reports. Apart from brief summaries of his meetings with US officials in Washington and Iranians in Tehran, they never seemed to contain much of interest that could not be gleaned from media coverage and specialist newsletters.
The anchor asked, “What was Mr. Akerman doing there, Najwa?”
“That is a very good question, Faisal. We don’t know for sure, but my sources tell me that he may have been acting as an intermediary between the United States and Iran. Both sides deny that they have been in contact, but there has been increasing talk of high-level discussions, especially now that they both want to see the defeat of the Sunni extremists and the jihadists in Iraq. We’ve already seen reports of American and Iranian intelligence agencies and special forces working together against the Islamists, which both parties refute. But the UN would be the obvious channel for these kind of negotiations.”