The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(72)
*
The Roosevelt Island Tramway carriage was packed with excited tourists and locals returning home after a morning trip to Manhattan. Najwa had a place at the front, peering through the large windows at a spectacular view over Manhattan and the East River. The tramway was certainly the cleanest, most modern public transport system that she had ever used in New York. The red metal frame shone like new, the glass walls were spotless.
A forty-ish black man wearing wraparound sunglasses sat on a high stool in front of a control panel. “All aboard, all aboard, ready for takeoff,” he declared mock-sternly, triggering a wave of giggles among the tourists.
The sliding doors had just begun to move when the last passenger jumped on board. Joe-Don. Najwa watched the operator press down on the green button. The doors slid shut and the carriage moved smoothly forward, climbing steadily over the riverbank. She looked around the carriage. She heard English, French, and Spanish as the carriage soared further upward, the tourists holding out their smartphones to take photographs and videos of the view. The East River was blue and gray, shimmering in the morning sunshine. Roosevelt Island beckoned, its low-rise apartment buildings spread out along the riverbank.
Najwa glanced up. An emergency exit panel of clear plastic had been cut into the roof. The carriage was now as high as the Queensboro Bridge. Girders, ladders, crossbeams, and cables flew by. The carriage stopped for a second, swaying in the breeze. In the far corner of the carriage, a young woman, perhaps in her twenties, stood with her back to the crowd, watching the Manhattan shoreline as it retreated into the distance. Something about her posture, the way she held her back very straight, looked familiar. She wore a gray beanie hat covering her hair, sunglasses, and a denim jacket. Had Najwa seen her before?
Joe-Don caught Najwa’s eye and looked at the far corner, nodded his head down. Najwa followed his gaze. The woman in the beanie hat was wearing blue Nike sneakers with transparent bubble soles.
Roosevelt Island quickly came into view, a mini-Manhattan of apartment blocks, roads, warehouses, and shops. The carriage bumped slightly and began its descent. A memory flashed in Najwa’s mind, of the woman with the short brown hair who had been sitting nearby, of the flash of blue in her Gucci bag.
Joe-Don eased his way through the crowd, loudly apologizing, until he stood next to the woman in the beanie hat. She turned to look at him, her face curious and mildly concerned. He spoke softly in her ear. Her body stiffened, and she seemed about to call out when his left hand moved inside the pocket of his leather jacket. He gently pressed something into her side while he continued speaking. The young woman nodded, rigid, still staring straight ahead as the tramway slid into the terminal.
Najwa stepped off the tram and walked out into the open space around the terminal. She glanced forward at the shoreline of the East River and the UN building for a couple of seconds, then back at the terminal. The young woman in the Nikes came out, walked straight back inside, passed through the ticket gates and waited for the tramway to return to Manhattan. Joe-Don was nowhere to be seen.
*
Like many New Yorkers, whether new arrivals or native-born, Najwa had never been to Roosevelt Island. The thin strip of land was a curious hybrid, linked to Manhattan by bridges and the tramway, yet somehow separate. There were hardly any cars on the clean, wide road. The sidewalks were spotless. The air seemed cleaner, fresher, cooled by the river. Cyclists meandered past at a moderate pace. Passers-by stopped to greet each other and chat. It was like traveling back in time. Manhattan was just a quarter of a mile away, but its frenetic energy, the sense that someone, somewhere, would always be privy to something newer, better, even more exclusive, had evaporated over the narrow channel of the East River. Even the name of the biggest thoroughfare, Main Street, conjured up a vision of an America now largely vanished.
Najwa came to a small square ringed by modern apartment blocks, with the usual branded shops and cafés on the ground floor. She went over to Starbucks and pretended to peer inside, using the glass as a mirror, to see if she was being followed. No sign of a tail, or at least nothing obvious. Nor was there any sign of Joe-Don but she was sure he was somewhere nearby. Then Najwa walked another hundred yards until she came to the Port-au-Prince Café, and stepped inside. It was small, with a dozen Formica tables and tubular metal chairs. The tables were covered with shiny red plastic cloths and there seemed to be no menu, only a series of specials chalked on a blackboard mounted on the sidewall: a medley of goat and chicken, cod and beef. A glass display case showed fresh fish and seafood.
Najwa headed straight to the wooden counter at the back of the room. A plump woman in her sixties stood behind it, next to the cash register and in front of a narrow door set in the wall. Her black hair, shot through with gray streaks, was tied behind her head. She had coffee-colored skin, blue eyes, and a welcoming smile.
“What can I get you?” she asked, a bright yellow dishcloth in her hand.
“Nothing yet, thank you. You must be the owner, Carlotta,” said Najwa, extending her hand.
Carlotta put her dishcloth down and shook Najwa’s hand, clearly wondering who she was.
“My name is Najwa. I’ve heard so much about you. It all looks great. Real Haitian home cooking. I’m looking for a friend of mine. If she’s around, I hope we’ll eat together. It all looks great.”
“Who?” Carlotta asked.
Najwa glanced around. The restaurant was empty, apart from an elderly man sitting at a corner table, nursing a Coca-Cola as he looked out of the window. Any doubts that she—and Francine—were in danger had been erased by the events on the Tramway. “Francine,” she said. “Francine de la Court.”