The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(71)

Three targets, three bull’s-eyes.

She follows his orders with ease, the guns an extension of her arms, firing smoothly and accurately each time.

Eventually, he bids her to stop. “Mazel tov, congratulations,” he says.

Happy and proud, she takes his arm in her hand as they walk out.

*

“Come,” said Barbara as she stood up, taking Yael’s arm in her hand. “Let’s walk.”

They stepped across the path and onto the sidewalk by West Drive. Full of Saturday morning joggers and cyclists, the tree-lined road ran along the side of Central Park. Yael idly watched a middle-aged man run past wearing a sweat-sodden singlet and loose nylon shorts, his face red with exertion. What did her mother have to tell her? And why now?

“Your father says you haven’t spoken since your security vetting,” Barbara began.

“He’s right,” replied Yael, her voice tight.

She had expected her father to be proud of her when she joined the UN. Instead, he had been furious. His angry demands that she quit still resounded in her ears: the UN had taken his son and now he had to sacrifice his daughter as well? Yael tried to heal the rift. Trying to reassure him, she called and emailed often with detailed accounts of where she had been and what she had been doing. At that early stage in her career, her responsibilities were mostly administrative, and although she went out on occasional field missions she was in no real danger. But as Yael progressed professionally, her father became less and less communicative. Each time she was promoted, he seemed to withdraw more.

It was hurtful of course. She tried to find out why he was pulling away from her but never got a proper answer. Eventually, she gave up. She was so busy with work that there was little time to dwell on their difficult relationship.

Eight years ago, however, just before her vetting for the top-level security clearance she needed to join the SG’s innermost team, her father made contact. He was in Manhattan and invited her for dinner. She gladly accepted, but it was an uncomfortable, even unpleasant meeting. He’d spent most of the evening trying to persuade Yael to leave the UN. He repeatedly talked about David and what he would have wanted. At first this irritated her, then it made her angry. David, she was sure, would have wanted her to make her own path in life. She was puzzled, as well. He seemed almost scared—but of what? Then, a few days later, her security clearance arrived. Still brooding over the encounter, she had entered her father’s name into the UN database, which received information from all the main Western intelligence services and which she could now access. She could still remember what she had read. Despite his repeated efforts to make contact, she had not spoken to him since.

“He misses you,” said Barbara.

Yael turned to her mother, frowning in surprise. “How do you know? I thought you hated each other.”

Barbara smiled. “We never hated each other. Our lives went in different directions. But we still have a shared history. Three children, eight grandchildren. Of course we talk.”

“What about?”

“You, lately.”

Yael stopped walking and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. A young woman on Rollerblades shouted, “Hey,” as she swooshed around her, missing her by only a few inches.

“Why?”

“Because we are your parents. We could have been better parents, for sure. But that’s how it is. And we worry about you. We think it’s time to end your UN adventures. You’ve played the odds. So far you have won every time. But you only need to lose once. We have already lost your brother. We don’t want to lose you. It’s time to find someone nice, settle down. Give us some more grandchildren.”

Yael stared at her mother with incredulity. “It’s a bit late for this, don’t you think?”

Barbara softly squeezed Yael’s arm as they walked. “No, darling. It’s never too late.”

Yael did not answer as she tried to disentangle her emotions. She was indignant, even angry. The last she had heard, her parents were only communicating through lawyers. Now they were having cozy chats about her future and trying to tell her how to live? But part of her was also pleased. Her mother’s hand on her arm felt right. She did love her. And she cared about that, very much. And another part agreed about playing the odds, although she was not about to admit that. But the secret files about her father that she had read on the UN database could not be wished away.

“My father can mind his own business. He’s been on the wrong side of every conflict for the last decade. Kosovo, Sri Lanka, Colombia, Darfur, Iraq, Syria, shall I go on?”

“No, there’s no need. I know what he did. But it’s not as simple as you think.”

“Really? Tell me why not.”

Barbara talked for some time as they continued walking. Yael listened. Absorbed in her conversation, she did not notice the electric maintenance vehicle glide by again, its minitrailer still stacked high with branches. The driver was hunched over the steering wheel talking on his cell phone, still wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses.

“I have visual,” said Michael Ortega.

*

Yael’s phone beeped, interrupting Barbara as they walked. She quickly scanned the text message, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Bad news?” asked Barbara.

Yael shook her head. “No. Not at all. And I’ll think about what you said.” She kissed her mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve got to go. It’s nothing serious or dangerous, really. I’ll see you at home in a couple of hours. And we are going to have fun tonight. Promise.”