The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(53)
Najwa looked up and down the press room. She had never seen it so crowded. Most of those present were genuine reporters, but there were a good number whose by-line never appeared because they either reported to their national intelligence services or were relatives of UN diplomats and used accreditation to obtain an American visa. Usually a few dozen journalists turned up for Roxana’s daily briefings, lately sometimes even less now the novelty of having an attractive new spokesperson had worn off. But today there was barely space to step inside the room, let alone gain a seat. The electric undercurrent of excitement and anticipation underneath the whispered gossip was palpable.
Reporters stood in huddles, some hunched over their cell phones, tapping away, others expounding complicated theories as to who shot Frank Akerman and why. One strand of thinking had it as an attempted hit on the SG that went wrong; another, that Akerman had somehow uncovered Iranian nuclear secrets and paid the ultimate price. The correspondents from Reuters, Associated Press, and Bloomberg Business News were standing together and they waved at Najwa, but she did not stop to chat. Jonathan Beaufort, she saw, was deep in conversation with the new bureau chief for Russia Today, a long-legged blond who was rumored to be a niece of the head of Gazprom, the Russian state energy company. Beaufort beckoned Najwa over, but she declined. She needed to stay focused for what was coming.
Television crews lined the sides and the back of the room, their halogen lights making the space even warmer than usual. More cameramen and news photographers were standing at the front, the harsh light glinting off their lenses. Maria, Najwa’s producer, had already staked out a prime position in the center of the front row. The table in front of Roxana’s lectern was thick with black cables and microphones adorned with network logos. Najwa counted ABC, CNN, BBC, Reuters, Russia Today, Associated Press, and Nigerian, Turkish, and Japanese crews, along with Xinhua, the Chinese state news agency. Even Vice, a hipster network not usually known for its interest in the United Nations, had sent a crew.
Roxana nodded at the sound technician at the side of the room. The reporters quickly fell silent, glancing at each other expectantly before staring at the SG’s spokeswoman.
“I have a short statement about the tragic events of last night, but as this is an ongoing police investigation I will not be taking questions, so as not to prejudice the legal proceedings.”
Najwa watched, amused, as the room filled with outraged muttering. She checked her phone. The screen showed the profile of @najwaun. The tweet had already been written; the link to the video clip, just uploaded onto Al-Jazeera’s website, added. She looked up as Jonathan Beaufort raised his arm and started to shout a question, his stentorian voice cutting through the complaining journalists. “This is absurd. A UN official was shot dead by the SG’s residence last night. A sniper was taking potshots at the door, and you won’t take questions?”
A half smile played on Roxana’s mouth. “One shot at the door, actually, Jonathan. I’m very pressed for time today. So if you don’t stop shouting and waving your arms around and sit down, I won’t be able to read the statement. Which for technical reasons won’t be on the website for several hours. You might like to consider the interests of your colleagues and their deadlines.”
Beaufort sat down, his face crimson with anger.
Roxana began to speak. “At ten minutes past nine last night, Frank Akerman was brutally murdered as he stepped onto the pavement outside the door of the SG’s residence. We strongly condemn this cowardly killing of a dedicated UN official and public servant. UN officials must be free to carry out their duties without suffering threats or violence, or, in this case, murder. The Joint Terrorism Task Force, based at the New York Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is investigating the killing of Mr. Akerman. Please direct all your inquiries to their press office.”
“That’s it?” asked Beaufort.
Roxana smiled beatifically as she gathered her papers. “That’s it for today, Jonathan.”
The reporters looked at each other in amazement, their indignation tangible. Then came the eruption. A barrage of questions in a babel of languages resounded across the room. Roxana ignored it all and walked toward the door, her portfolio under her arm.
Najwa quickly reread her tweet, double-checked that the link was complete, and pressed the button. @najwaun had more than forty-eight thousand followers. She watched with satisfaction as just a few seconds later many of the journalists pulled out their phones, stared at them, then pressed down on their screens to watch the attached video. Najwa waited until the hubbub had died down and Roxana was almost out of the room. She walked up to the lectern, switched the microphone back on, and tapped it twice. The noise echoed around the room and the journalists looked at her, wondering what was happening now. Roxana spun on her heel and turned back to face Najwa, her face indignant.
Najwa said, “Thanks for the briefing. You might like to check your Twitter feed.”
*
An hour later Quentin Braithwaite greeted Najwa with a wry grin as he walked into McLaughlin’s. “Good morning. Or should I say mabrouk, congratulations? You’ve ruined Roxana’s day. Not to mention a number of people’s placid retirement,” he said, his blue eyes aglow with amusement. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. “I was wondering how long it would take you, or one of your colleagues, to find that video of Akerman.”