The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(65)
His ringing phone interrupted his reverie. He looked at the number and immediately took the call.
A female voice with a French accent said, “We have a situation, sir.”
*
Yael dipped the tea bag in the cup. The water turned a pale brown. She dipped the tip of her index finger into the drink and kept it there. “Why can’t Americans make tea? It’s really easy. You just put boiling water on a tea bag and leave it for a couple of minutes. I’ve had baths hotter than this.”
Joe-Don’s face was tight with anxiety. He stared at Yael, who looked surprisingly calm. Her skin was soft and relaxed, gently flushed. Her eyes were shining. “Are you going to tell me what happened in there?” he demanded.
She pressed a teaspoon against the tea bag, tasted the drink, and scowled. “They made me wait. Pretended they had never heard of Eli. Eventually they let me in. He was there. We talked in his office for a while.” She paused, looked down at her drink, suddenly shy. “Quite a while.”
Joe-Don stared harder. A thin film of perspiration covered her upper lip. He exhaled long and hard. “Tell me you didn’t …”
Yael caught his eye, blushed. She put her hand on his. “I did what was needed.”
He quickly withdrew his hand from under hers. “I don’t believe it.”
She smiled. “Hey. It worked. We made a deal.”
Joe-Don shook his head in mock despair. “Which was?”
Yael turned to face him, her voice businesslike now. “I promised to wipe the file I have of Eli’s movements and the dead people that keep turning up wherever he does. I also agreed to be ready in the foyer of my apartment at three o’clock with my bags packed, awaiting my transport to the airport, on Monday for my brief holiday in Tel Aviv. In exchange he guaranteed Noa’s safety.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I am not sure. But I told him that I had informed my father about his threat. And that if anything happened to Noa or any of her children, Eli knew what to expect. He is one of the few people in the world that scares Eli.”
“And where will Eli be next week?”
“That is the tricky part,” said Yael.
“Where?” demanded Joe-Don.
“Reykjavik.”
23
“You promised to tell me about your date,” said Barbara.
Yael smiled ruefully. “Sure. Have you got five seconds?”
It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. Yael and her mother were standing on Bow Bridge in the middle of Central Park, looking out over the water. Barbara’s flight had been late coming into LaGuardia and she had not arrived until after midnight. They had woken late, grabbed lox bagels and coffee from Zabar’s, and walked to the park.
Bow Bridge spanned a narrow stretch of the lake, surrounded by trees and greenery. It was a minor landmark, a graceful arch of pale gray stone popular with tourists and New Yorkers alike. The sky was bright blue, studded with puffy white clouds. A gentle breeze blew over the water, ruffling the gray-green surface of the lake. The air smelled clean and fresh. Beyond the edge of the park, granite apartment blocks pointed skyward, the bright morning sun glinting on their windows.
“I’m sorry,” said Barbara. “I know you were looking forward to it. What happened?”
Yael turned to look at her mother. She was just the right side of seventy, but looked several years younger. Barbara Weiss—she had reverted to her maiden name after her divorce—was tall and still slender. She had blue-green eyes and gray hair cut short in a stacked bob that subtly emphasized her graceful neck. She was dressed in a blue turtleneck sweater and jeans and a gray American Apparel zip-up jacket. This was the first time Yael had seen her mother for three years. One part of her wanted to hug her, be hugged, and never let go. The other wanted to up-end her and tip her over the bridge and into the water.
“It’s a long story,” said Yael. She watched a white electric park maintenance vehicle silently glide by, the minitrailer stacked high with branches and leaves. She instinctively checked the inside compartment. The driver, the only one inside, wore wraparound sunglasses and a baseball cap. Was it a deliberate attempt to obscure his face? Or was she being paranoid? She had not sensed any surveillance that morning, but that was no guarantee that there was no threat.
Barbara took Yael’s arm, breaking her chain of thought. She beckoned her daughter to a nearby bench. “Tell me. We have time. All day, if you need.”
Yael sat down. The park vehicle was now several hundred yards away. She relaxed. The wooden slats felt familiar against her back. Perhaps they had both sat on this very bench at some point in the past. Yael had spent much time in Central Park, with her parents when she was still a child, and later with David. Her parents had met in 1969, at a New York reception for former Israeli prime minister Golda Meir. Barbara was then a reporter on the Metro desk of the New York Times, and assigned to cover the event. They fell quickly, deeply, in love, and when Barbara got pregnant they had married. David was born in 1970. Barbara ran the business and administration side of Aleph Research, Yael’s father’s company that supplied business intelligence to governments, firms, and select individuals, but that was a poor substitute for the buzz of the New York Times newsroom.
Aleph was not listed in the phone directory or on corporate contact lists, but it never lacked for clients. It was known for accuracy, both of its research reports and its forecasts. Yael’s father brought in much of the information, together with a team of researchers, most of whom seemed to be Israeli or to have lived in Israel. There was a stream of visitors from all over the world. Yael got used to hearing French, German, Spanish, Russian, even Arabic. When she asked her parents who the visitors were, they told her they were “clients.” As a child of eight or nine, Yael had delighted in helping with the filing. She even had her own desk with a small brass nameplate inscribed: “Yael Azoulay: Office Manager.” By her teenage years, she believed that Aleph was either a front company for the Israeli intelligence establishment, or was so close to it that it didn’t matter.