The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(43)
Now Joe-Don turned pink. “Yeah. Sure. Anyway, what the hell were you doing with Eli and his team of hoods in Tompkins Square Park?”
She took a deep breath. She told him about the SUV that had been following her, how she had gone to the park to take a few minutes out before going over to Sami’s place when Eli and his team had appeared, how he had threatened Noa and demanded Yael return to Israel. She pulled out her iPhone from her purse and called up the photographs she had taken last night from the taxi. Her phone looked like any commercially available iPhone, but it was not. As well as the ultrasensitive voice-recording app, it had also been fitted with NSA-standard encryption software and a broadcast-quality, high-definition still and video camera.
She handed the phone to Joe-Don.
He flicked through the shots, then handed it back to Yael. “Not very subtle. Looks like the kind of car that musician guy you work out to would drive. What’s his name? M&M’s?”
She laughed. “Eminem.”
“Was the SUV Eli’s people?”
Yael shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s not how we were taught, or how they operate. He said they were way behind me in two ordinary sedans. I always know when he is lying. He was telling the truth.”
“So who was it?”
“Whoever took the photos, I guess.”
“And who’s that?”
“Someone I pissed off along the way.” Yael shrugged.
Joe-Don smiled. “Well, that narrows the field. How long did Eli give you?”
“Ninety-six hours. Four days. A ticket is booked for me on the El-Al flight to Tel Aviv on Monday evening.”
Joe-Don sipped his coffee as he processed the latest news from his wayward charge. Born in Minnesota, the taciturn US Special Forces veteran had worked for the UN’s Department of Safety and Security for more than a decade, the last six as Yael’s bodyguard. Barely five feet nine, he had sloping shoulders and the physique of a boxer who had mellowed somewhat with age but was still hard-packed muscle at the core. Now in his late fifties, his face was scored with deep lines from his nose to his mouth. His thick, callused fingers and almost simian appearance led some to dismiss him as a muscle-bound goon, which was a mistake. His instinct for danger and sharp, subtle intelligence had saved his life, and Yael’s, on numerous occasions. He beat back kidnap attempts by insurgents in Kandahar and Kabul, and he still walked with a slight limp after taking a bullet in his leg when he threw himself on top of Yael during a Gaza firefight between Hamas and Fatah gunmen. Despite his bravery and his complete lack of self-interest—or perhaps because of them—Joe-Don had many enemies at the UN, none more than Fareed Hussein. When he was serving in Baghdad, Joe-Don sent a long memo to Hussein, who was then at the Department of Political Affairs, warning him that the city’s UN headquarters needed properly manned checkpoints at staggered perimeters, zig-zag approach roads, blast walls, and shatterproof windows.
Hussein had not replied, but the following year, 2004, a suicide bomber smashed a truck through the wall of the building, killing twenty-three people and injuring many more. Joe-Don was immediately fired for “dereliction of duty.” He protested, producing copies of his 2003 memo to Fareed Hussein, and was instead relegated to an advisory position with reduced security clearance. After a reminder from the US ambassador to the UN that the United States paid 25 percent of the UN budget, Joe-Don was properly reinstated, with top-level clearance that gave him access to any UN mission or building anywhere in the world. Nor was Hussein in any position to object when Joe-Don, impressed with Yael, decided to work with her.
The waiter reappeared with a tray of food. He placed a tortilla, tomato salad, and a portion of red beans in front of Yael, and the pancakes in front of Joe-Don.
Joe-Don upended a small container of blueberry jam over the thick pancake. “So let’s count the candidates. You derailed KZX’s coltan plan. You saved Freshwater. But these are tactical victories. Everything is still in play. Clairborne. Prometheus. KZX. Eli and his friends. They are all still out there. We know they want their war. They won’t stop and they won’t give up.”
“Did they kill Akerman?” asked Yael.
“I’m not sure. Akerman had a lot of enemies with long memories. Very long memories. I saw the NYPD firearms trajectory analysis early this morning.”
“And?”
“A single shot, probably from the roof of an apartment building a block or two away. They think the corner of East Fifty-Fourth and Second Avenue. The New York JTTF has opened a case file. It was a tricky shot, on a moving target.”
Each of the FBI’s fifty-six field offices hosted a Joint Terrorism Task Force, bringing together dozens of US local and national law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The New York JTTF office, the first to be established in 1980, was one of the most high-profile.
“Did you know Akerman had been in Istanbul?” Yael asked.
Joe-Don shook his head. “No. Only after he was shot. It was an overnighter. In and out. Did you?”
“No. And I didn’t know Akerman was meeting Fareed last night. What is Fareed up to?”
Joe-Don speared some more pancake and raised his fork. “Want some?”
“No. Fareed?”
“What’s Fareed up to? Let’s see. Number one. Guarding his back. Number two. Guarding his back. Number three. Sharpening a knife and keeping it nearby in case it is needed in anyone else’s back. But to answer your question, it looks like Fareed is opening a private back channel to someone in Tehran.”