The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(42)

Najwa leaned forward, fixing on him her most demure expression. “Sami. I’m sorry. What more can I say? I didn’t have a spare second. The editors were crazy for the story. I am in your debt,” she said, resting her hand on his again. “You said you had to talk to me about something important. How was dinner?”

“It wasn’t. She canceled.”

“No. I am so sorry. Why?”

“She said she had an urgent meeting with the SG.”

Najwa frowned, thinking for a moment. “But she wasn’t there last night. There was just the SG, Akerman, and Roxana.” She brightened. “Roxana’s pretty. Why don’t you ask her round for dinner instead?”

“Ha-ha.”

Najwa squeezed Sami’s hand. “I still want to introduce you to my cousin. She is very beautiful. Or maybe we should wait until you are recovered. Habibi, are you heartbroken?”

Sami laughed despite himself. “No. I’m not. And we haven’t finished talking about your evening. Let’s loop back to the beginning. To before the beginning.” He slid his hand out, but gently this time. “Here’s what I’m wondering. How did you happen to be at the SG’s residence, with a film crew, just after Frank Akerman was shot?”

She had anticipated this question. There was only one possible answer: the truth. “A tip-off.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know.”

Sami looked skeptical. “Some random person just happened to contact you and say ‘Hi Najwa, why don’t you drop whatever you are doing and rush up to the SG’s residence because someone’s about to get shot when they walk out of the front door?’”

Najwa flushed. “Not exactly.”

“So what did they say?”

Najwa paused for a couple of seconds before she spoke. “Enough to make me take my cameraman there.”

“But why did you believe them? Any stranger can ring up a news office and say rush here or there. Most journalists don’t do that. Why did you?”

“Instinct. Haven’t you ever taken a chance on a tip?”

“Yes, of course. But you have no idea who it was?”

Najwa shook her head.

“Did someone call you? Or was it an e-mail, or a text message?”

Take your crew to the SG’s residence immediately.

“I told you. I got a tip. I acted on it.” Najwa was not about to share the provenance of the information, and what came with it. Not yet, anyway. Better to turn the conversation around. “That was an interesting quote from the ‘western diplomatic source’ you had in your story. Care to share?”

“Maybe. Tell me about the Army of Forty. I couldn’t find any trace of them on the net.”

“Then you weren’t looking in the right places. Maybe you should brush up on your Farsi.”

“I don’t speak Farsi. Do you?”

Najwa picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Not fluently. But enough to get by. In fact you don’t need Farsi to make the basic connections.”

Sami looked puzzled. “Try me.”

“You have heard of Ashura?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“And forty days after Ashura is?”

Understanding spread across Sami’s face. “The Shia holy day of Arbaeen, commemorating the martyrdom of Hussein ibn Ali, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad.”





16

Yael leafed through the photographs. The detail was pin-sharp. She could see the outline of Eli’s .22 Beretta behind his jacket as he jammed it against her ribs, read the emotions frozen on his face: anger, resentment, hunger.

Joe-Don stared at Yael, his small blue eyes bright with exasperation. “First Akerman. Now this.”

Yael turned red. “Where did you get these?”

“I found them in my post-box this morning. In this envelope.” He handed Yael a white envelope embossed with the UN emblem. “Put them away now. The waiter is coming.”

She swiftly folded the photos and placed them back inside the envelope. The elderly Chinese man arrived with a cup of coffee for Joe-Don.

“Ready now, miss?” he asked Yael. She nodded, although her appetite was fading fast. “Something to eat?” the waiter asked Joe-Don.

“No thanks. Just coffee.”

The waiter looked annoyed. “Peak time now. You gotta order something.”

Joe-Don looked around the restaurant, which was half empty. “But …”

“I’ll have the usual. He’ll have pancakes. With jam. Blueberry,” said Yael, before Joe-Don could finish his sentence.

Joe-Don silently nodded his assent.

Yael waited until the waiter had gone before she spoke. She sounded as contrite as she could. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? I like blueberry jam.”

She looked down at the table. “You know what I mean.”

Joe-Don glared at her. “You should be sorry. How can I protect you if I don’t know you are in danger? Or where you are. I thought you were going on a date last night. A cab door to door, you promised me. And a call or text if you were … weren’t …” He looked away, embarrassed.

Yael was about to tell him about the paper tell when she suddenly felt an overwhelming rush of affection for the craggy-faced, socially awkward, intensely loyal man sitting in front of her. She placed her hand on his. “Do you know how much you mean to me?”