The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(45)

Sami was thoughtful. “I’m not sure. We know he had no history of heart trouble. He was a bit overweight, but that’s all.”

“I’m not sure I believe it either. Remember your article about Abbas Velavi?”

“The Iranian dissident?”

Najwa took out a small tablet computer from her purse and handed it to Sami. “That’s the one. Press play.”

Sami watched Abbas Velavi’s wife recount the arrival of the mysterious visitor and her belief that her husband was murdered.

“The visitor was bald. He had a neat beard and wore fine black leather gloves. He did not take them off all the time he was here. He said he had a skin condition.”

Najwa put the tablet back inside her purse and took out the photograph of Salim Massoud. She slid it across the table to Sami.

He looked down at the picture, then up at Najwa. “There are lots of bald men with beards and black gloves. How do we know it’s …” he glanced at the Arabic script. “Salim Massoud, whoever he is? Where did you get this?”

She ignored his questions and closed her eyes for a few seconds, concentrating hard, before she spoke. “Let’s talk this through. We know that the Prometheus Group and Efrat Global Solutions were working with Caroline Masters on a pilot plan to privatize UN security as a stepping-stone to outsourcing all peacekeeping to private military contractors. That was the Washington Stratagem, worth billions of dollars. You wrote about that. Controversial, but not illegal. But what if there was something else? We know that Schneidermann had been at the SG’s residence before he came to meet you for breakfast. Why?”

Sami drank his coffee. “Schneidermann told me the day before that he—meaning the SG—wanted to give me proof of an Iranian connection to the Prometheus Group, and somehow, to the UN.”

Najwa stared at him. “Iran, again. You didn’t tell me this before. And why did the SG want you to have this proof?”

“Hussein was ambivalent about the Washington Stratagem; he would probably have gone along with it if it suited his interests, and if it hadn’t been Masters’s idea. He hates her. The feeling is mutual. But because it came from Masters, it would be her triumph. If he could show an Iranian connection to the Prometheus Group it would bring her down. But you still haven’t told me how you got this photograph.”

“From a source. A reliable source. It’s good enough for me, so should be for you. Don’t worry about that. We need proof of the Iran-Prometheus connection. The SG must have other copies of the documents.”

“Of course. And all we have to do is persuade him to hand over another set.”

Najwa spooned up some more oatmeal. “That’s all. But he doesn’t need to now that Masters is out of the picture. It’s not in his interest any more. Of course you could ask Roxana. I’m sure she’ll help. Maybe you could take her out for some more cocktails.”

“Or maybe you could,” said Sami, drily.

Najwa’s spoon was suspended in midair. “Good idea. But wait a moment. You were meeting Schneidermann here. The SG’s residence is on Sutton Place and First Avenue. That’s what, seven blocks up and one across. So he probably walked down First Avenue.”

“And?”

“CCTV. There must be CCTV footage. It was only two weeks ago.” She put her spoon down. “This is how it’s going to work. I’m going to chase down the CCTV footage. You can find Francine and Velavi’s widow.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Al-Jazeera bureau chief. But the last time I checked, I was employed by the New York Times.”

Najwa fixed her doe eyes on him. “Please? Anyway, I believe you owe me an iPad Air, an iPhone 6, a Montblanc pen, and a leather portfolio. All inscribed with my name. This will cancel our debt.”

Sami, Najwa, and the rest of the UN press corps had flown from New York to Istanbul on an airplane sponsored by KZX, who provided a lavish goodie bag for each journalist. Sami handed his back. So had Najwa, in solidarity and with only the slightest of pouts.

Sami laughed. “Deal. But I have a question.”

Najwa nodded.

“When was Akerman shot?”

“At five minutes past nine. I got that from the cops.”

“And when did you get the tip-off?”

Najwa thought for a moment. “I don’t know exactly. The communication method was … unorthodox. Let me think for a moment.” She stirred her coffee as she ran through the events of the previous evening in her mind. The complicated communication method, and especially the photograph, had thrown her off track.

She couldn’t say for sure, at least with the precision Sami and she were looking for. The communications had disappeared from her computer. But: she would have phoned Maria and Philippe, her French cameraman, immediately after the message appeared on her screen. Najwa removed her phone from the pouch and flicked through to her call log. “Oh,” she said, looking down at the screen. She sat back, her face creased in worry. “What time did I say Akerman was shot?”

“Ten minutes past nine.”

Najwa gave her phone to Sami. “That’s when I called Maria.”

“Ten to nine. That’s creepy.” He handed it back.

“I know. And problematic.”

“Very. If the cops start asking questions about why you called your producer twenty minutes before Akerman was shot, then rushed to the residence … Is there a record of an incoming call? Was it a phone tip-off?”