The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(75)

Rina looked confused. “I know. Me too. But I wasn’t sure what you wanted. Whether you were really interested in meeting me, or I was just another mission.”

“It started as a mission. But one I was glad to take and enjoyed very much.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Rina, I’m really glad to see you again. We can meet whenever you like. But …” Yael paused. “Your text message …”

Rina stiffened. She turned to Yael. “It’s true. I wouldn’t make up something like that. Roger Richardson was correct. There was a deal in Rwanda, and it went wrong. But it was all my father’s idea.”

Yael nodded, focused now. “Go on.”

“But the journalists will never be able to prove it. My father has pulled out all the crucial records from the archives detailing his involvement in Rwanda and Srebrenica.”

“How do you know?”

Rina pulled her beret down hard around her ears. “Because I checked the archives. According to the official record, the documents were never there, they never even existed. But they do. I have read them. I found them in his office at home, years ago, before he became SG, when he was still at Peacekeeping.”

Yael stared out to sea.

The wind was blowing harder now, sending the waves crashing against the wooden breakwaters. Yael shivered. “Where are they now?”

“In the residence, I think. He would not leave them in the office.”

Yael thought quickly. How could she get to them, and ideally for long enough to make a copy? Fareed would never release the papers to her willingly. It would have to be a trade-off, in exchange for something he valued more than his career, his name, his legacy. An idea began to form in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, appalled at herself. Yes, she would use her nascent friendship with Rina to get the truth about David. But when had she become this kind of monster? All that talk about how she had enjoyed Rina’s company. And now she was about to manipulate this vulnerable woman in the most cynical way possible.

What other option was there?

Yael opened her eyes and looked at Rina, her face softer now. “He wants to see you. He’s lonely, especially since your mother went back to Pakistan.”

Rina swallowed before she spoke. “I miss him too sometimes. He wasn’t much of a father. I always though he barely noticed me. I always thought he wanted a son, instead. But there was only me.”

“He notices you now,” said Yael. “Especially at demonstrations. And on Twitter.”

Rina laughed. “Good.”

“You know it would be the end of everything if the documents were released. His reputation, his legacy …”

Rina frowned, “I’m not so sure. He’s survived this far. He’s Teflon-coated.”

“Maybe you are right.” Yael nodded slowly. She turned to look at Rina. The strident, self-righteous activist was gone, replaced by a young, uncertain woman who missed her father. Yael knew that feeling. She ignored the rising feeling of self-disgust and tried to sound thoughtful, reasonable, as she spoke. “It would certainly clear the air once they were out. Exorcise the ghosts.”

“Yes. It would. That needs to happen.”

Yael moved a little closer. “And once he retires he would have much more time for you.”

“Would he really?” She turned to Yael, her voice eager. “What do you think? You know him, how his mind works.”

Yael steeled herself. This was the moment. It was horrible, awful, but it had to be done. At least it was for a good cause. It might even work out in the end. Fareed and Rina would be reconciled. Yael would finally have someone to hang out with. Happy ever after. Anyone would do the same to find out why their brother had died. Wouldn’t they? But Rina had to get there herself—all she needed was a little guidance.

Yael put her hand on Rina’s arm. Rina flinched, very slightly, her nerves drawn tight, then relaxed. She smiled at Yael.

Yael said, “Your dad is a diplomat. He makes deals. Offer him something he wants to release the documents. What does he want, more than anything?”

Rina drew her arm away and tightened the belt of her coat, her fingers twisting the fabric. “His daughter back.”

*

Najwa sat at her desk at home, scanning her e-mail. There was nothing new in her inbox except a confirmation from Sami that he would be over later. She could use the company. As a journalist she was excited to be on the trail of a major story—and this was major, of that she had no doubt. Two deaths, an innocent woman and her son driven from their home, a surveillance team on her, and Joe-Don with a gun on the Roosevelt Island Tramway were proof of that. But as a woman, one living alone in a large, anonymous city, Najwa was also nervous. She was poking a snake, and so far she had no means of cutting off its head. She was also using up her favor bank: Obtaining the CCTV coverage of Schneidermann and the man with the gloves at the Fifty-Ninth Street subway station had cost her much of her capital with her NYPD contact. The download may well have triggered an alarm there.

She glanced again—unnecessarily, she knew—at her front door. It was locked, bolted, and made of steel. She checked her watch: three thirty. She had stayed talking to Francine for about twenty minutes, then taken a cab home across the Queensboro Bridge, then along FDR Drive before turning down East Twenty-First and into Irving Place, where she lived. Had she been followed? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think so. There had been a black SUV with tinted windows behind her as her taxi pulled away and headed toward the bridge. She had scribbled down the number plate: EXW 2575. But when she looked around as they crossed over the river, the car had disappeared.