The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(59)

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I can’t help you in there, if it goes wrong.”

She took a large bite out of the slice. “Sure. I need to speak to him—and on his home territory. I can pick up all sorts of stuff about what’s going on once I’m there. I’ll tell him you are waiting for me. I’ll be fine.”

Joe-Don looked doubtful, but said nothing.

Yael continued talking. “What have you got on the SUV’s license plate?”

“Black Ford Expedition, three years old. Registered to a firm in Montana. The firm ceased trading a year ago. The trail goes cold.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“Davidson Outdoor Devices.”

She frowned, thinking hard for a few seconds. “Oh. Of course.”

“Of course what?

“D.O.D.”

Joe-Don nodded, sipped his Diet Coke. “Figures.”

“Was it them inside my apartment?”

“Maybe. But it’s clean. I swept it this morning. No bugs, no cameras.”

“So why did my visitor leave the paper tell on the table?”

“Because he could? To send a message?”

“What kind of message?”

“That your apartment is not as secure as you think.”

“Clearly. But why would someone do that? And how did he get in without triggering the alarms? The UN security people said the system was foolproof.”

“Nothing is foolproof. You know that. There was a brief power outage last night on the Upper West Side. A few seconds, but long enough to disable the system.”

She dunked a piece of pizza crust into a puddle of tomato sauce and bit the end off. Then she put it down and took out her cell phone. The screen showed a frozen frame in a video clip. “Have you seen this?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to. Najwa got it.” She slid it across the table and pressed play.

Surrounded by rolling hills and pine trees, a much younger version of Frank Akerman was standing by a shallow stream. He was dressed in the UN Peacekeeper’s uniform of khaki military fatigues, a UN armband, and a blue beret. The camera panned to the bank of the stream, where a thin man in his thirties, wearing dirty jeans and a track top, lay facedown in the mud. There was a large, dark stain in the center of his back. A few feet away a younger man lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the sky.

Akerman was talking to an older man. Shorter and stockier, the man had a puffy red face and wore a Bosnian Serb army uniform. Both he and Akerman were holding small glasses filled with clear liquid. The two men clinked glasses and downed their contents in one. They then hugged and slapped each on the back.

Joe-Don exhaled loudly. “Wow.”

Yael pointed at the date stamp on the film. “Tuesday July eighth, 16:04 1995. Srebrenica had fallen by then. The Bosnian Serbs were taking away the men and boys. The killing had already started.”

“How did she get this?”

“I don’t know. They have a bureau in Sarajevo. She’s good.” Yael shook her head admiringly. “RIP Frank Akerman. And his reputation.” She kept one eye on Second Avenue as she spoke. A well-built man, dark and tough-looking, was approaching the entrance of number 800. He looked familiar.

“What is it?” asked Joe-Don.

“Hold on. Yes. That’s one of Eli’s goons. I saw him in the park last night. Eli should be here soon. But I forgot to ask—what did HR want when they called you?”

“Me to retire.”

“We both knew that was coming. You’ll be sixty next year. I might join you. We could go into business together. Set up a consultancy.”

“Or a think tank. The Institute for How the World Really Works.”

“A great idea. We can ask Fareed to get the UN to sponsor it.”

Joe-Don stirred his coffee. “I was thinking about Clarence Clairborne. Or maybe Reinhardt Daintner,” he said, his voice droll.

Yael laughed. “Sure. Daintner would go for that. KZX would love it.”

Joe-Don smiled wryly. “You can ask him on Saturday. Meanwhile, you still haven’t told me what the SG wants you to do.”

“I’ll get to that. I also promised Eli that at three p.m. on Monday afternoon I would be standing in the foyer of my apartment building, with my bags packed. He kindly offered to arrange a lift to the airport. He’s booked me a ticket to Tel Aviv. Business class. El-Al, but still business class.”

Joe-Don started in surprise. “You’re going back?”

“Of course not. We will either be at the airport by then or en route. Pack warm clothes and waterproofs. And the other stuff.”

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“Reykjavik.”

Joe-Don frowned. “Is that part of your brief now, sustainability?”

Yael drained her can of Diet Coke. “It’s part of everyone’s brief, J.D. Our world has limited resources. There are too many of us. Consumer culture is killing the planet.”

“Sure. Is that why you have twenty-four pairs of shoes?”

“Twenty-five, actually. Although that does include boots and sports shoes.”

“Right. Now tell me. Why are we going to Reykjavik?”

Yael’s voice turned serious. “President Freshwater knows she is being undermined from inside her own party. She is pissed that the Istanbul Summit collapsed. She wants to define her legacy, make a symbolic statement for history. Iceland’s good for that, it’s where Reagan and Gorbachev met in 1986. The Cold War ended soon after.”