The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(49)
Clairborne gestured to Stein to sit next to him in one of the two leather armchairs in the corner. “What can I get you, Menachem? Coffee, water, both, something stronger? I have an excellent bourbon, from a boutique distillery in Kentucky. Something to smoke?” Clairborne asked.
“Thank you. Nothing. I’m fine.”
No, you are not, Clairborne wanted to say. The last time he had seen the chairman of Efrat Global Solutions, barely a month ago, they had been hunting on his estate in West Virginia. Five hundred acres of prime farmland and forest, with a twelve-room lodge. Stein had shot several ducks out of the sky, but Clairborne none. Most incredibly of all, Stein had actually lowered the barrel of Clairborne’s gun when he was about to take a shot, just to emphasize his point.
Clairborne did not like Stein. He was no fan of Israel or Israelis, and thought the Palestinians had a rough deal. But there was no money to be made in Palestine. However, although he felt no warmth toward Stein, Clairborne did admire him. Stein, like Clairborne, was a survivor. EGS had been deeply implicated in the coltan scandal when, less than a year ago, two of its most senior officials had been arrested in Congo while handing out arms to a Hutu militia so its members could trigger a new genocide. Stein himself barely escaped an Interpol warrant.
That scandal, like several others, had not affected EGS’s share price or its contracts. In fact, it only seemed to boost their value. EGS was the largest private military contractor in the world, its headquarters five minutes’ walk from Capitol Hill. For Stein, like Clairborne, the instability in the Middle East had been very good for business. Despite the Israeli connection, EGS had just signed a multi-billion-dollar contract to train the Emirates’ new military and paramilitary forces.
Stein sat down next to Clairborne. Stein was in his early sixties, dressed casually in jeans, Timberland boots, and a white shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. He had close-cropped silver hair, which highlighted the most remarkable thing about him: his eyes. One blue and one gray, they had the intensity of lasers.
Normally they unsettled Clairborne. But today he had ammunition.
“Let’s get down to business, Menachem. The car bomb in DC. That was your responsibility. It would have been a damn useful backdrop to the Reykjavik meeting. Blood and shrapnel, a few yards from the White House. A trail of terror from Tehran to Pennsylvania Avenue. What happened?”
Stein frowned, tapped his fingers on the armchair. “I am not sure. Everything was in place. You saw what the cops found. There was no reason for anyone to be suspicious of the vehicle. A gray Ford. But someone made a call, alerted the cops.”
“Does EGS have a leak?”
Stein shook his head. “Impossible. Maybe the leak is at your end, Clarence.”
“Out of the question. I am the only one who knew about it.”
“Really? What about your friend? Packard the preacher? He was here yesterday, I believe.” Stein patted the arm of the chair. “Sitting here, I am sure, calling down fire and brimstone.”
Clairborne was about to ask how Stein knew about Packard, but immediately realized there was no point. EGS obviously had the Prometheus Group under surveillance. If he had done the same to EGS, he might know more about why the car bomb failed to detonate. “Packard does not know operational details,” said Clairborne. “And even though the bomb did not go off, at least we have laid a trail back to Tehran. What about the girl?”
Stein looked at his watch. “Meeting with the SG by now. He will give her the Reykjavik assignment.”
“I’ll miss her once she’s gone. She’s a firecracker.”
Stein smiled. “Yes. She is.”
18
The SG was waiting for Yael by the elevator, a rare honor. They briefly hugged, his soft belly pushing against her for a couple of seconds. She could smell his coconut hair lotion. There was the hint of new aftershave or cologne as well. It was light and floral for a male fragrance, but somehow familiar.
They stepped apart. Hussein stood in front of Yael, his hands resting lightly around hers. “Thank you so much for your calls last night. That meant a lot to me.”
“Of course. I was so worried about you.” Her next question, as to why he had not picked up and actually spoken to her, was left hanging in the air.
Every successful politician and diplomat had the ability to make the person they were with feel like they were the center of the universe, even if only for a few seconds, but Hussein’s skill in drawing in his companion was unrivaled. Yael had experienced every weapon in his charm armory, and while that knowledge blunted their efficiency, it did not neutralize them. Their relationship was complex and intense, but was laced through with genuine mutual affection. Each found in the other something missing from their personal lives. Hussein kept one hand on Yael’s upper arm as he escorted her through to his office. The warmth of his palm was still curiously comforting.
Grace Olewanda looked up as Yael and the SG stepped into the anteroom where she worked. Yael mouthed the word “Thanks.” Grace nodded and mouthed “Anytime” in reply as Yael and the SG walked through into his suite.
Even in a city that prized real estate like no other, and rewarded its power brokers accordingly, the office of the secretary-general of the United Nations stood out for its size and views. It took up most of the length of the thirty-eighth floor of the Secretariat Building, and all of its width. The front windows looked out over First Avenue and the East Forties, steel-and-glass canyons of office blocks and apartment buildings. The rear view took in the East River and the shoreline of Queens with its giant billboard advertising Pepsi Cola. The side windows showcased First Avenue and Roosevelt Island—a narrow strip of land just off the Manhattan side of the East River—and the Queensboro Bridge with the cable-car service that connected the two.