The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(64)

He slowly shook his head in irritation, walked into the marble-lined bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and stared at himself in the mirror. Reinhardt Daintner’s unusual appearance almost always turned heads. Just over six feet tall, he was stick-thin, with slightly stooped shoulders and light gray eyes, and so pale he was almost an albino. His white-blond hair stopped on his forehead in a widow’s peak, above eyebrows of the same color. On the rare occasions that he was worried, and he let it show, his tongue flicked out through his lips like a hungry lizard’s. Yet he could, when he chose, be charm itself.

Daintner had joined KZX as a trainee in the communications department after graduating from Heidelberg University. He lived to work and his dedication was appreciated; after twenty years he was now director of corporate communications, with a network of media and political contacts across the world that many of the prime ministers, presidents, and CEOs on the list would envy. An invitation to lunch or dinner came almost every week from an elite head-hunting agency representing countries and corporations keen to hire him. He never accepted any of them, partly because, despite the promises of confidentiality, word of his disloyalty would soon get out. But mostly because KZX was one of the most powerful corporations in the world. It had its own intelligence department, which was far better informed that those of many countries. KZX’s media holdings were always in the headlines, but its pharmaceutical division garnered less attention—which was how Daintner liked it.

Daintner had recently returned from a secret meeting with Taliban leaders in Qatar. Once marijuana and hashish were fully legalized, other drugs would soon follow, and the potential market was worth billions. Which was why the KZX School of International Development had already commissioned a series of pilot studies, from several leading academics and economists, under the guise of helping the pharmaceutical industry act in a socially responsible way once legalization took place. The reports had titles like “The likely socio-economic impact on the micro-economy of an Afghan village of the potential impact of the legalization of heroin,” but buried within the touchy-feely stuff about the poor peasants were numerous nuggets of hard intelligence and financial information that would be the building blocks of the company’s future strategy. Once KZX’s links were formalized with the Prometheus Group, the two firms would be unstoppable. Prometheus would supply what was known as “force projection” to secure a market in opiates, minerals, or whatever other resources were in demand, and KZX would then take care of the business side of the global drugs market.

Daintner found Clarence Clairborne’s millenarian fantasies about the coming “Rapture” laughable. But you worked with who was available and could get the job done. Of that, he had no doubt. The coming war would shake up the old order, destabilize the Middle East, and leave the requisite power vacuum that would immediately be filled by Prometheus and KZX. The plan itself was buried so deep in cyberspace, and encrypted to such a level that even the NSA would struggle to find and decode it. However, others had sensed the coming storm: Henrik Schneidermann, for example. His instincts had been completely correct. If only Schneidermann had kept them to himself. Had he not put them into an analysis for Fareed Hussein, he might still be alive. His death had been regrettable, but even with him taken care of there were still several pieces of grit in the machine.

Daintner returned to his desk. Three files lay on the surface, each with a small passport-sized photograph stapled to the front and ULTRACONFIDENTIAL printed at angle across the cover. The top file had a photograph of Yael, the second one of Sami, and the third one of Najwa. He picked up the top file and flicked through the pages, lingering with a smile over the account of how, several years ago, Yael had arranged for US Special Forces to guard the Taliban’s opium fields so they would not blow up a gas pipeline. That was not the first time she had been unwittingly helpful. Daintner glanced at the second file. Sami Boustani was an irritant, and persistent, but essentially manageable. He would be receiving several visits from “immigration officials” in the next couple of days, officials especially interested in his family connection to an attempted suicide bombing on the Gaza border. That was more than a decade ago, but there was no statute of limitations on terrorism.

It was Najwa al-Sameera who proved more troublesome than expected. He grabbed her file and scanned the heading of the latest addition:

Report of Meeting between NAJWA AL-SAMEERA and RIYAD BAKRI

The only useful thing about the account of the meeting between Najwa and the Saudi diplomat was the fact that it had taken place. His operative had not managed to overhear any of their conversation. The giant terrace outside the Delegates Lounge was an inspired choice because it was impossible to stand close enough to anyone there to eavesdrop. All KZX’s informant could provide was the place, time, and duration of the meeting, but even that was useful. Bakri was a person of growing interest. The Saudi Mukhabarat had superb networks inside Iran.

Daintner switched on his laptop, a thin machine in a titanium case that had been custom manufactured for him by one of KZX’s subsidiaries. He entered his password and checked his secure e-mail inbox. There was a new message. No sender was shown, but the e-mail had two links. He clicked on the first. It opened a window with Najwa’s name and a list of her recent Internet searches. Daintner was alarmed to see that Najwa’s data trail led to the video interview with the widow of Abbas Velavi.

He sat staring at the screen for more than a minute, then opened the second link. The footage had been shot from above, perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet above ground, Daintner guessed. It showed Najwa doing her stand-up on First Avenue outside the UN headquarters, first from a distance, then zooming in closer. Daintner froze the frame as it focused on Najwa’s face. She was certainly attractive, if a little Rubenesque for his taste. He thumbed through her file: “Despite all the talk of a boyfriend/fiancée, al-Sameera has never been seen in public with a partner.”