The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(5)
The top two sections of his screen showed the feeds from the cameras on the corner of Riverside Drive: the top right side showed the traffic flowing uptown, the left side downtown. The bottom two sections showed the nearby cross streets that ran east to west across Manhattan, from West Seventy-Sixth to West Eighty-Second. If any of his personal drivers had executed a U-turn like that of Yael’s taxi driver they would soon be looking for a new job, but it had worked. Clairborne watched her taxi turn left and head up West Eightieth.
He pressed a series of buttons on his keyboard. The cameras showed West End, the next avenue to the east, then Broadway. Both were jammed with traffic. Clairborne was as intrigued as he was angry. Why was she headed into the evening commuter snarl-up? Why didn’t she just take the Henry Hudson Parkway and head downtown as fast as possible? And where would she go next, uptown or downtown? Or would she cut across the Upper West Side until she reached Central Park and disappear on foot?
Clairborne put his cigar down in an outsized ceramic ashtray emblazoned with a picture of the White House, a souvenir for presidential dinner guests. The tobacco had soothed him for a few seconds, but now he felt even more agitated. Especially as he was getting involved in what should be a minor operational matter—not a good use of his time when he had one of the most powerful companies in America to run, a barrel-load of lost contracts to win back, and more. Except nothing was minor if Yael Azoulay was involved. That much he had learned.
Clairborne’s fingers moved again across the keyboard. The avenues vanished from his computer screen, replaced by the cross streets. Her taxi had moved a block, but was now stationary behind a red light on the corner of West Eightieth and West End Avenue. The SUV had caught up after the U-turn, now just three cars back. The light on West End Avenue changed to green. Clairborne could see the traffic start to pull away down the avenue, flowing right and left. The taxi could go no farther.
Clairborne rested his hand on his capacious stomach. Finally. Everything was under control. They had her.
2
Very few people had been kind to Michael Ortega in his twenty-seven years. He had grown up in a children’s home in a rough part of Oakland, California, abandoned by his mother, a prostitute who had died of a heroin overdose when he was ten. He had never known his father, assumed he was one of her johns. The staff at the home had been dedicated, but overworked and underfunded, and he soon learned to look out for himself. He was quick with his fists and feet and street-smart, and also intelligent. His teachers saw his potential and encouraged him to apply for university scholarships.
Ortega had won a scholarship to UCLA to study English literature, but a week before he was due to move to Los Angeles, he changed his mind. Scared that he would be an outsider because of his childhood in an orphanage, and lack of a family, he enrolled in the Marines. After two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, he came home, another recruit to the legion of militarized young men with a skill-set not especially useful for civilian life. In his case, it was static surveillance from a concealed hide and long-distance photography. Ortega had returned to Oakland, tried and failed to get work as a photographer, drifted through a series of jobs as a waiter, bouncer, and security guard at a mall. Until the arrival, about two months ago, of his mystery benefactor. His initial assignment was a little strange: he was to move to Manhattan and pretend to be homeless, instructed to live in the lower level of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument on the edge of Riverside Drive by the corner of West Ninetieth. All he had to do was report on Yael Azoulay when she went for her morning run, and take photographs.
After Fallujah and Kandahar, it was no hardship to sleep out in the memorial. He was protected from the weather and supplies of food arrived regularly. Sure, he felt a little creepy, but his contact had indicated that this was US government business. They needed to keep an eye on Yael because of her high-level access at the UN. He was a soldier, he told himself; he knew how to follow orders and nobody seemed to be getting hurt. He was certainly getting richer. His benefactor’s identity remained unknown, but each month $5,000 was paid into a numbered bank account at Bank Bernard et Fils in Geneva. He had checked out the Swiss bank, even spoken to the manager. The account existed and was under his control, the manager had said. Ortega then ordered some of the money to be wired to his usual account at Wells Fargo. It arrived safely. It was real.
Ortega tapped the wooden desk in the lobby. So was this. The apartment block was certainly the most stylish place he had ever worked. The cream walls still had their original art deco lamps and fittings. The floor was black and gray marble. The polished brass handrails shone like gold. Brown leather sofas and enormous Persian rugs added to the comfortable feel. The pay was reasonable, the work was not stressful, and most of the tenants were pleasant and courteous. He even had accommodations—a small studio that looked out onto the courtyard. It was hot and noisy when the building’s air-conditioning was running, but it was free.
But there was a price to be paid—specifically in the shape of the short, fat man with a red face who called himself Mr. Smith, who was now walking through the front door of the lobby. For the third time this week. Ortega’s stomach clenched as he watched Vasquez ask the fat man if he could help. Smith pointed at Ortega. Vasquez looked at Ortega, then back at Smith.
“It’s OK, Enrico,” said Ortega. “Can you give me a couple of minutes? It’s personal.”
Vasquez frowned. The rules stipulated at least two doormen on duty at all times. “Make it quick.”