The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(73)
Carlotta stiffened for a fraction of a second, shook her head, looked down, and began needlessly polishing the counter surface with the yellow cloth. “Never heard of her.”
Najwa smiled. Carlotta was not a very good liar. “Are you sure? Francine who worked at the UN? She was always talking about this place.”
“I told you, lady. I don’t know her. And we’re closing now.”
Najwa looked at her watch. “But it’s twelve thirty. Lunch time.”
Carlotta stepped out from behind the counter, walked over to the door, and flipped the sign around so that OPEN showed on the back before returning. “No lunch service on Saturdays.” She picked up the dishcloth and began polishing the already sparkling-clean surface again, rubbing hard at a nonexistent stain.
Najwa knew that fifty dollars would not work here. The truth, however, might. She leaned forward, changed the tone of her voice. “I really need to speak to Francine. She is in danger.”
The woman stared at Najwa, her body tense. “I told you. I never heard of her. Now go please.”
“Carlotta, if you care about Francine, let me help.”
Carlotta did not reply, but pressed a button by the cash register. The door behind her opened and a black man in a skin-tight T-shirt and jeans, revealing the overdeveloped physique of a bodybuilder, came out. He looked at Najwa, then at Carlotta. “Problem?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Najwa. “There is. My name is Najwa. I am a friend of Francine’s, from the UN. I know Francine is a regular here. I know you both know her and you probably know where she is. She is in danger. I need to speak to her.”
“The lady is leaving,” said Carlotta. She turned to Najwa. “Wayne will show you the way out.”
“But … !” Najwa protested.
“But nothing. We don’t know any Francine. We never heard of her. And we are closed.”
Wayne came out from behind the counter.
Najwa held her hands up. “I’m going. But I will leave my card with you. In case anyone comes in who does know where Francine is. You give it to them and tell her to call me. It’s just a card. Is that OK?”
Wayne looked at Carlotta. She nodded. Najwa reached into her purse for her business card holder. She had just taken one out when the narrow door opened.
“It’s OK. Let her through,” said Francine.
26
Yael quickly reread the message.
I sent you this. If you want 2 talk meet me @ Eagle statue at Battery Park memorial at 3.
<Fareed Hussein let your brother die>
She leaned back against the low stone barrier and scanned the area again. The East Coast Memorial, as it was properly known, was located on the southernmost tip of Manhattan. Two rows of four massive slabs of granite, inscribed with names of hundreds of US servicemen who lost their lives in the Atlantic Ocean, stood several yards apart on either side of an open space. At one end, a small flight of steps led down onto the seafront promenade and out to the Atlantic. At the other was a giant modernist bronze sculpture of an eagle, mounted on a black granite base, which was where Yael had been ordered to wait.
The text message had arrived a little over an hour ago. From West Seventy-Second Yael had taken the 3 express train, the fastest way to get downtown. It only stopped at Times Square, Thirty-Fourth Street, and Fourteenth Street before slowing down again for the local stops. She carried out several anti-surveillance maneuvers on the journey down from Central Park, alighting from the subway at the last moment and doubling back on herself. At Chambers Street, she had changed to the 1. During the week, the trains south were packed with Wall Street commuters, but at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon her car, and the two on either side, were almost empty. The staircase at South Ferry was the only exit, a natural chokepoint. As far as Yael could tell, nobody had followed her up the stairs. But it was impossible to know for sure.
The memorial would not have been Yael’s choice of meeting point. Although it would be impossible to eavesdrop on anyone without being spotted, there was no real cover. It was surrounded by the rest of Battery Park, and behind the greenery stood a cluster of steel and glass office blocks that marked the start of the Financial District. Any one of the offices would be a good base for an observer with high-powered binoculars. She checked her watch: it was two fifty-five. Then she looked up to see a woman walking purposefully across the plaza between the memorial slabs. She wore a red beret over her long black hair, black ankle boots, and a blue down jacket. She stopped in front of Yael and smiled nervously.
*
The back office of the Café Port-au-Prince was a small, gloomy room, about fifteen feet by twelve, next to the kitchen. The light green paint on the wall had darkened with age and the floor was covered with red linoleum. Metal shelves lined the back wall, each jammed with worn box folders holding annual accounts, correspondence, and ancient bills that poked out of the top. Although the kitchen’s extractor fan hummed in the background, the room still smelled of cooked food and oil.
Francine was sitting on an ancient sofa in the corner, its cracked beige leatherette cover revealing the yellow foam inside. Poised, smartly dressed, perfectly coiffured Madam Non was nowhere to be seen; Francine’s brown eyes were red-rimmed and her face was pale and drawn. She wore navy sweatpants and a baggy blue T-shirt. Her black hair was straggly. She stared at Najwa, trying to assess what kind of new threat the Al-Jazeera journalist represented. “How did you find me?” she demanded.