The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(44)

“Without telling me.”

“Exactly. You might ask him about that.”

“I will.” Yael cut off a slice of tortilla. It was delicious, rich and eggy, with thick slices of potato. “Eli told me something else.”

“What?”

“That Mossad placed me at the UN. Is that possible?”

“Sure. Anything is possible. Especially at the UN.”

False flag operations, when an asset was recruited by an agent purporting to be from one country or secret service while really working for another, were well known in the world of shadows. Mossad was renowned for them.

“How?” asked Yael.

Joe-Don shrugged. “It’s not hard to get someone a job at the UN. A fat envelope or the right connections is enough. The real question is, why did Fareed Hussein pluck you from the masses and fast-track your career?”

Yael smiled. “Because of my natural talents, charm, and puritan work ethic?”

“Sure. All of those. Or maybe because Mossad has something on the SG. They could have played a long game. And now it’s coming to the end.” Joe-Don paused. “There is more bad news. From Istanbul.”

Yael nodded. “I know. I got a text from Yusuf. Is it true?”

“It’s true she is dead. Isis hanged herself in her cell. Whether she was helped along the way is an open question.”

“Clairborne?”

“Clairborne and/or his Iranian friends. She was no more use to them, and she knew too much.”

Yael looked thoughtful. “Is my father wrapped up in this mess?”

“It’s starting to look that way. You should talk to your mom. She is still due in tonight?”

“Yes, she is. And I will. Meanwhile, KZX are hosting a reception tomorrow night. At Columbia University.”

“I know. Are you going?”

“Yes. I think I’ll take her. She’ll enjoy the glamour and the glitz. There is also a dinner later. Fareed Hussein and KZX and their friends. I’m not invited.”

“Are you surprised?”

Yael laughed. “Not very. But I want to know what they talk about. Can you fix it?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Yes. There is. But that’s harder to fix.” Yael put her fork down into the tortilla, watched it slowly topple over. She looked outside. The sky was even darker. The rain smashed onto the cars and sidewalks as though it was being fired from the heavens.

Joe-Don sensed her mood. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know, J.D. I think I’m reaching my limit. I’ve had enough of being followed, threatened, kidnapped, shot at. I’m thirty-six. I want to go shopping. I want to go to the movies. I want a hot guy to take me out for dinner. Someone who has never heard of the UN. Someone who doesn’t even read the newspapers. Plus …”

“Plus what?”

“Body clock. Tick-tock.”

“So go to the movies. Take a day off. You deserve it.”

“Not on my own. Not again.”

“Then stand down. Or just take a long break.” Joe-Don’s eyes probed Yael’s. “You’ve done enough. Much more than most. Find a guy. They should be queuing up for a girl like you.”

“Yes. They should.” Yael looked around, smiling. “Do you see them? Because I don’t. Meanwhile, I just have to prevent the outbreak of World War Three. Then I promise I will take a long holiday.” She glanced down at her breakfast. “There’s more.”

“Go on.”

Yael reached inside her jacket, extracted the plastic envelope and upended the contents onto her palm. She handed a scrunched up scrap of paper to Joe-Don.

Thunder cracked the sky, the boom so loud it made Yael jump.

*

The waiter presented two steaming bowls of oatmeal to Najwa and Sami. In the center of each was a single triangle of canned pineapple. Najwa looked at him, and started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked indignantly. “Oatmeal. With fruit. That’s what you ordered, isn’t it?”

She gave him her best smile. “We did. Absolutely. Thank you.”

He left, still bristling.

Najwa sprinkled brown sugar on her oatmeal and slowly stirred it, watching the sugar trails dissolve in the mush. “Schneidermann,” she said.

Sami shook his head. “It’s really sad. And now it’s like he was never there. Roxana’s in his office. Even Francine’s gone. ”

In theory, the UN spokesman was available to journalists whenever they needed to speak to him or her. In practice, access had been strictly controlled by Francine de le Court, his secretary. An immaculately dressed Haitian of a certain age, she was known as “Madam Non” among the UN press corps.

“I know,” said Najwa. “Actually, I kind of miss our duels.”

“Where is she now?”

“At home, I guess. She left last week.”

“Jumped or pushed?”

“Pushed, I heard. A hefty shove from Roxana and a pay-off from HR. No leftovers from the ancien régime allowed.” She took a spoonful of oatmeal. “Remind me—what did the Schneidermann autopsy say?”

“Natural causes. A massive heart attack.”

She nodded. “Do you believe that? Really believe it?”