The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(58)
Hussein frowned. “It is legal nonsense for you to declare three random New York taxis to be UN territory for the duration of your ride, as you well know.”
“They were not random taxis. They were helping me avoid a car that was following me. I had good reason to believe I was under threat because of my work for the UN. I had a right to ensure my security. Give me a moment, please.”
She picked up her cell phone and scrolled through the menus until she found the video clip. She pressed play and handed it to the SG. “The black SUV. It was near my apartment, then tracked me down Broadway until we got away.”
Hussein stared at the screen as the video clip played, then handed the phone back to her.
Yael watched him as she spoke. “Fareed, you can make this go away with a phone call. Please?”
The SG blinked as he answered. “This time, yes. But don’t make a habit of this. You have a bodyguard. Try using him. Anyway, we have something much more important to discuss.”
Yael leaned forward. “I’m listening.”
The SG spoke for several minutes, explaining what he wanted Yael to do. Her eyes widened in surprise. Even with Akerman’s death, she had not seen this coming.
Hussein sat back. “So you see now, why Akerman was in Istanbul, and why I could not tell you until now.”
She was about to reply when the door opened and Roxana walked in, holding her mobile phone, wafting perfume through the air. The fragrance smelled familiar. She smiled and nodded briefly at Yael in greeting, then looked at the SG. “I need to talk to you.”
“Please, Roxana, sit down,” Hussein said.
Roxana remained standing, looked at Yael again, then back at the SG. “Fareed, we have a situation here.”
Yael looked at Roxana, then at the SG. Roxana’s dominating body language, her demanding tone of voice, were both extraordinary and telling. And Yael definitely knew that smell: it was Zest.
Hussein sat still for several seconds. He looked at Yael. “Would you excuse us, please.”
21
Yael and Joe-Don sat at a table by the window in Patsy’s Pizzeria, three empty cans of Diet Coke and the remains of a large Margherita pizza—a few crusts and a lone slice—in front of them. The rush hour traffic was pouring down Second Avenue, but they had a clear view of number 800, and the gray police booth that stood by the entrance, across the street.
Joe-Don handed Yael a printout of a photograph. “You’ve seen this before. But here’s a reminder.”
“Salim Massoud,” she said. “Number two in the Revolutionary Guard. The money man, with the occasional assassination on the side. Is he back?”
He took a sip of his Diet-Coke. “We don’t think so. But he hasn’t given up. He is still in communication with Clairborne. They want their war.”
Yael stared closely at the photograph. She pointed at the side of Massoud’s right eyebrow where an inch or so of skin was ridged and puckered. “What’s that?”
“A scar, from the Iran-Iraq war. He was a commando. Three of his brothers were killed. He is the last one of his family. Apart from his son.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Farzad Massoud. A teacher, went to Afghanistan to help. The Americans lifted him at a checkpoint in Kandahar five years ago. He was clean; his only value is his connection to his father.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Sure. Thinner, but alive. Every year his father gets a birthday card from him. Same as yours—August twenty-first.”
Yael handed the photograph back to Joe-Don. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-six. So he was born when?”
“Er, 1985?” Yael’s inability to do simple mathematics was a running joke between them.
“Try again.”
“Eighty-eight?”
Joe-Don smiled. “Eighty-seven.”
“Whatever. Where is he?”
“Somewhere in the US. In a DoD black prison. So black it’s off the books. Run by a private corporation. Guess which one?”
Yael said, “Begins with P?” She looked outside again, across the road. 800 Second Avenue spanned the length of the block between East Forty-First and East Forty-Second. Apart from the police booth, the building appeared to be just another of the standard office and apartment blocks that filled this unremarkable quarter of Manhattan. The UN Plaza Pharmacy occupied one corner of the ground floor, Calico Jack’s Cantina the other. But heavy concrete blocks had been staggered in front of the building and along the sidewalk that ran down its right-hand side. They had been painted gray, and some had plants growing out of the center, but there was no mistaking their purpose: to prevent car bombers from smashing through the doors. The only direct clue that this was the Israeli mission to the United Nations was a small blue street sign, on the corner of East Forty-Second Street, for Yitzhak Rabin Way, named after the Israeli prime minister assassinated by a right-wing Jewish fanatic.
Yael glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to four. The mission’s end-of-week review and security update took place every Friday at four o’clock. He should be here at any moment. She gestured at the last slice of pizza, keeping one eye on the building entrance.
Joe-Don shook his head. “Please, be my guest. How can you eat that much?”
“I get hungry when I’m stressed.”