The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(74)

Najwa waited a moment, then told her the truth. That she had been worried, that Joel Greenberg had let her into the apartment, and she had found the café’s receipts in the kitchen.

Francine’s voice was tight with anger. “You broke in?”

“I had a key.”

“So what? I didn’t give it to you. Nosing around my apartment. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I wasn’t the only one.”

“Meaning?”

“Roxana was there with a UN security officer.”

“Which one?”

“Nero. I think he’s new.”

“I don’t know him. But I do know that girl is a devil.” Francine sagged, sat back. “What do you want?”

“To find out what happened to Henrik.”

Francine looked away. “He died.”

“I know,” said Najwa softly. “But how? What do you think happened?”

“What do I think? I won’t tell you what I think. I will tell you what I know. There was nothing wrong with his heart. He was murdered. Why do you think I am here, and not at home in my apartment? A couple of weeks ago, the day after Henrik’s funeral, a woman came by. She asked me if Henrik had ever given me anything, a disc, or a USB stick, or a password.”

“Had he?”

Francine paused for several seconds. She looked Najwa up and down, as if making up her mind about something. “We never got on, did we?”

Najwa smiled. “It was nothing personal. We both had our jobs to do. I thought you did yours very well.”

Francine nodded. “Thanks. You too. I liked the way you never gave up, just kept digging till you got what you wanted. Where was I? Oh yes, I told the woman no, Henrik had not given me anything. She made me promise to tell her if I found anything.”

“How?”

“She showed me some video footage of Luc at college, hanging out with his friends, on the lawn. Told me how well he was doing, how healthy he looked, what a fine young man he was. As soon as she left I packed a bag and I came here.”

“Where is Luc?”

“Safe. Staying with relatives in Haiti. I sent him away till this blows over.”

“What was the woman like?”

“Fifties, maybe. Short brown hair. Blue wraparound coat.”

“She knows you’re here. I was followed here, on the tramway. She was at the Manhattan terminal. There were two of them, her and a younger one. The younger one got on the tramway with me. So did Joe-Don.”

Francine smiled for the first time since Najwa arrived. “Joe-Don? He’s here?”

Najwa nodded. “Somewhere. I’m not sure exactly where, or why, but yes.”

“Then don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. In any case my friends will look after me. Now you should go.” Francine stood up and shook Najwa’s hand. Her grip was light, almost delicate, so as not to push the small object in her palm any harder into Najwa’s.

*

“Let’s walk,” said Yael.

Rina Hussein fell into step next to her as they headed toward the promenade. Yael sensed Rina watching her, suspicious and wary. A row of benches stretched along the seafront, wooden slats on iron frames with no backs. There the two women sat down, facing the sea. The Statue of Liberty was visible in the distance. Giant wooden breakwaters, each the size of several tree trunks, stood in front of a metal fence. A Coast Guard launch flew by, white spray in its wake. Yael opened her mouth to speak, but for once the words would not come.

What was she scared of? Finding the truth about how and why her brother died? She had sought it for years, telling herself it was the one reason why she stayed at the UN and, especially, why she continued to work for Fareed Hussein. One reason, perhaps, but not the only one. The SG had chosen Yael from the mass of ambitious UN employees, made her his protégé. She knew of numerous occasions when Hussein had watched her back, sometimes even gone out on a limb. Knew too, that there was a limit to his patronage. He had sacked her during the coltan scandal, tried to blame her in part for the mess. But when the SG had welcomed her back, made the right kind of reassuring noises, she had returned willingly. Part of her, she sometimes thought, was still the dutiful daughter helping with office duties; the teenager on the firing range, seeking her father’s approval.

But what if, as she sometimes suspected, the trail that connected the SG with David’s death led to tawdry sacrifice and betrayal—and betrayal by Hussein? How could she carry on working at the United Nations? She could not. She told herself that she would bring Hussein, and anyone else responsible, to justice. But if she left the UN, what would she do? Many of her contemporaries were married, settled with a family. She told herself that she too wanted love, domesticity, stability. But did she, did she really? Or did she prefer the dark thrill of touching evil? Either way, she certainly would like a friend. Olivia de Souza was dead. So was Isis Franklin. At least Rina Hussein was still alive, and making contact.

Yael went into work mode, put her emotions aside. There was a job to be done here. The first priority was to get the truth about Rina’s text message and David. She knew that until she broke off contact, Rina had enjoyed their time together. That was the way in to the conversation.

Yael turned to Rina. “It was fun hanging out, you know. I don’t have a lot of friends. I would have been happy to see you even if your father had not sent me.”