The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(48)



Collette let go of Najwa’s hand and looked at her watch. “Fifty-eight minutes ago. At nine o’clock. Are you OK? That must have been terrifying last night.”

“I’m fine. The gunman wasn’t aiming at me.”

“What a story. Do you think they were trying to kill the SG? Or Roxana?”

Najwa shook her head as the two women stepped apart. “No. He wanted to kill Frank Akerman, and he did. It was a single shot at the SG’s door. He wanted to scare him and Roxana.”

“Then it worked. The SG arrived here in a convoy of armored vehicles this morning. I’m one of your biggest fans, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Najwa, as she rapidly reappraised Sami’s new deputy. She had expected a wide-eyed newbie, one step up from an intern, overawed to be working for the New York Times and mixing with the titans of the UN press corps. She did not anticipate this sleek, efficient vision of Parisian chic wearing Chanel pumps and a Rado watch. Collette Moreau was young, petite, and fizzing with energy. She had wide brown eyes, a bob of thick, mahogany-colored hair, carefully groomed eyebrows, a subtle dusting of makeup, and a French accent that Najwa knew every man in the building would find cute. Her fitted white blouse and tight blue tapered slacks highlighted her almost boyish figure. Najwa was bursting to ask Collette what she had discovered about Akerman. But this was Sami’s colleague, and Sami’s territory. He had first rights. And it was never a good idea to look too eager.

Sami looked at both women, both of whom were waiting for him to tell Collette to share what she had found out. “Come,” he said to Najwa, a mischievous smile on his face. “Tour time.”

She flashed him an angry glance, but had no choice other than to go along with the game. “Mabrouk, Sami. It’s beautiful. Like moving from a prison cell to a five-star suite. But I thought you were going to move into the office next to our bureau. It’s been empty for ages.”

“This is what they came up with. I took it while the offer was still open.”

Najwa paused before she spoke. “How, exactly, did you do that? The Financial Times and the Times of London are still stuck in their poky holes. Who was here before?”

“Healthwire. The agency in Paris that Henrik Schneidermann worked for before he became the SG’s spokesman. They closed their operation, so this space freed up. Complete with their furniture and computers.”

She thought for a moment before she replied. “Sure, but there was a long queue ahead of you. And you already had an office, even if it was a dump.”

Sami shrugged. “Add it to the list of UN mysteries. I’m not complaining.”

Collette was sitting back down and tapping away again at her keyboard as she stared at her screen. But Najwa could see from her posture, straight and alert, that she was listening hard to every word.

Najwa’s phone beeped. She scrolled through the messages until she found the latest arrival, which she read quickly. “Just in time for the presser with Roxana. From our Sarajevo bureau.” She glanced up to see Sami staring hungrily at her phone. She inclined her head toward Collette, as if to say, You know what to do.

Sami turned to Collette. “What did you get on Akerman?”

Collette spun around, with a printout in her hand. “Captain Frank Akerman. Dutch Military intelligence, 1992 to 1994. Liaison officer with UNPROFOR, the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia. He was also an UNMO.”

UNMO stood for United Nations military observer. UNMOs were, in essence, licensed spies who could cross back and forth across front lines in conflict zones where the UN had a presence. They used their privileged UN status to gather information for the Department of Peacekeeping, and UNMO reports were a treasure trove of military intelligence, recording highly coveted data like troop numbers and deployments, weapons capability, and command structures. Everyone understood that the UNMOs’ reports would soon find their way to the defense and intelligence services of those countries who had an interest, or troops deployed, in the conflict zone.

“And then?” asked Sami.

Collette said, “Trail goes cold. I’m working on it.”

“It just heated up,” said Najwa as she handed her phone to Sami.

*

Clarence Clairborne watched his visitor lift the antique volume off the bookshelf and slowly open it. Despite the prodigious amount of bourbon he had drunk yesterday, he felt relaxed and refreshed. Clairborne always slept well after a visit from Eugene Packard. The doubts, the nagging voices in his head, all were quelled by the pastor’s certainty. He was doing the right thing, for himself, for Prometheus, and, most of all, for America. For this was God’s work, even if it demanded some curious allies, like the man currently in his office.

Menachem Stein nodded. “I am impressed. I didn’t know you were a fan of Rumi.” The leather binding creaked as he gently opened the book.

“Careful, now,” said Clairborne, “that’s five hundred years old.”

The work by Persia’s most famous poet had pride of place in Clairborne’s office library. It was displayed full on, flanked by other works on the Middle East in Arabic, Farsi, German, and English that had been tracked down by Clairborne’s international network of antiquarian booksellers.

Stein slowly closed the book and returned it to its shelf. He looked around, his surprise showing on his face. Clairborne was used to Stein’s reaction, as the rare visitors allowed into his office were often taken aback by the understated furnishings. He was never sure quite what they expected—a Confederate flag, perhaps, a poster advertising a lynching, or a piped recording of a rendition of “Dixie”—but not this. The dark floor of Vermont oak was covered with an enormous Persian rug, woven for the royal court. A pattern of roses and jasmine flowers swirled around the center medallion. The walls were covered with wooden paneling from the same forest as the flooring. Clairborne’s heavy, old-fashioned desk once belonged to Richard Nixon, before he became president. Apart from the framed photographs of Clairborne with three presidents and Eugene Packard, the only sign of ego was the P and G monogram on the wooden humidor.

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