The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(63)
He had to damp down his rising anxiety and think this through. Logic, not emotion, was needed now. He watched a laundry truck stop on the corner of Fortieth and Second Avenue. The deliverymen worked with mechanical efficiency, hurling large sacks of clothes into the back before slamming the door and jumping back into the truck as it headed into the traffic.
That was it. If she really was a prisoner, eventually they would have to get her out of the building and into a vehicle. It was just a question of waiting. Entering and exiting buildings and vehicles always made for the most vulnerable moments. Former Serbian prime minister Zoran Djindjic had one of the heaviest security details in the world, but it had not prevented a sniper from killing him as he stepped out of his car one afternoon in Belgrade.
Joe-Don had checked the building plan earlier and number 800 had no back entrance. If they had Yael, they would need to come out of the front, or more likely the side entrance on East Forty-Second Street. Maybe he would make that call to his old friend, but give him a longer shopping list. He would need a vehicle, weapons, and some backup. He began to calculate the permutations: the number of men, the weapons, the positions they would need to hold. He picked up his phone and called up the number of his contact. He was about to press the dial button when the door of the pizzeria swung open.
*
Reinhardt Daintner checked over the guest list for the twelfth time that day, nodding to himself in quiet satisfaction. Almost every one of the city’s great and good were attending. Both the Democratic mayor and the Republican governor had promised to be there, even though it was well known that they cordially loathed being in the same room as one another. The chairman of the board for both the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum, the chairman of the Board of Education, almost every city councilor and state senator, as well as numerous journalists from the major newspapers, television networks, and websites, had all gladly accepted KZX’s invitation. Even Page Six was sending two reporters.
Twelve hours ago, it had looked like he would have to cancel. The NYPD and the FBI demanded that the event be postponed, claiming the threat level was too high after Akerman’s shooting. But after a series of phone calls to some of the most prominent guests, and promises of substantial donations to the NYPD’s and the FBI’s Benevolent Funds, they had agreed to go ahead. Daintner put the list down on the faux-antique desk in his executive suite at the Waldorf Astoria and looked around. Composed of two rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, it was furnished with the bland corporate elegance that now seemed to be his permanent habitat: a dark blue carpet, lighter walls, two plush cream-colored sofas, the walls decorated with unthreatening works of abstract modern art.
He leaned back, yawned, and stretched his long limbs. Daintner had arrived in New York three days ago. He’d factored in a couple of days to get over the jet lag, but the journey had certainly been eased by the fact that he was the only passenger on KZX’s corporate jet, a Bombardier Global Express. The onboard chef had prepared him a light dinner of grilled sea bass, washed down with a superb Chablis. A good night’s sleep in the airplane’s bedroom was followed by a swift VIP processing at Teterboro Airport, just outside New York, and a limousine to his hotel.
He reached across the desk for the fine white china teapot, poured himself another cup of Japanese Sencha green tea, and walked over to the large corner window. The sky was still gray but the rain had stopped and pedestrians were striding along without umbrellas. He watched a pizza deliveryman effortlessly zip through the crowds on Rollerblades, all the while holding two cardboard boxes in front of him. How easy it looked. How easy Daintner’s own work had been, directing the tide of money that quickly washed away the stains on KZX’s reputation.
A series of dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants over the last year, hosted by the PR department of KZX’s New York office, and several substantial corporate donations to the favorite charities of the cabal of elderly ladies who reigned over New York City’s philanthropy circuit had opened all the necessary doors. The coltan scandal; the recent unpleasantness in eastern Europe with the Romany people; the messy connection with the Prometheus Group over privatizing UN security and peacekeeping—all this was now old news. The new news was tomorrow evening’s opening reception of the KZX School of International Development at Columbia University, with Fareed Hussein as the guest of honor. Daintner looked at his watch, a sleek black Rado. It was now five o’clock. Twenty-six hours to go.
He sipped his tea, relishing the sharp, almost bitter taste. Tomorrow night would be the crowning glory of his career. Sometimes he admitted to himself that the reach of his company, the sheer power of money, scared him a little. What if, one day, his bosses tired of him? For now, at least, that seemed unlikely, but if they did there were the files, backed up somewhere deep in cyberspace, the hard copies in the safe sunk into the floor of his penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Geneva.
Daintner put the cup down on the desk and walked into the bedroom.
The floor on his side of the king-sized bed was empty. Three identical gray silk suits hung from the railing in the wardrobe, together with six white shirts. Each had been hand-stitched by Daintner’s tailor on London’s Savile Row. Two identical pairs of black brogues stood on the floor, both handmade by Lobbs. He walked around the bed. That month’s issue of Vogue lay open on the floor, on top of that day’s New York Times. He picked up a black bra that lay crumpled in a corner and placed it on the bed.