The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(77)
“Reykjavik. What do you think, Dave?”
Reardon glanced down at the sheaf of papers on his lap and pulled one to the top. “What I think, Madam President—what I know—is that the last time you asked my advice I told you not to go shopping in Istanbul. But you did, and you nearly died. Two days ago a car bomb was discovered a couple of hundred yards from the White House. Frank Akerman, the UN intermediary between you and the Iranian president, has been shot dead. The Internet is seething with death threats. You are surrounded by enemies, many of them pretending to be your friends. Some even sit in your cabinet. I think you should stay here. And move away from that window.”
Freshwater laughed uneasily. “You are joking? About the window?”
“For now, yes. But that too could change. And we still don’t know where Isis Franklin got the poison from, not for certain. But we have a lead.”
“To where?”
“Tehran.”
Reardon was one of the very few people that Freshwater trusted. He and the president had known each other for twenty years, were students together at Princeton. One night a group of drunken frat boys had encountered Freshwater walking back to her dormitory alone after a late session in the library. They had hustled her back behind some trees; she managed to punch one out, but was clearly outnumbered. Reardon happened to be walking past. What happened next had been hushed up by the authorities, despite the arrival of an ambulance and the subsequent expulsion of the fraternity members, but Freshwater was not bothered again.
A stocky, black ex-Marine, Reardon had served in Iraq and Afghanistan, reaching the rank of colonel. His time on the front lines had fine-tuned his radar for threats and provided a network of useful contacts across America’s intelligence agencies. The latest he had heard regarding Renee Freshwater was not good. If he had his way, she would stay locked in a room till the end of her term. And then move to another country.
“Continue,” she said.
“Abbas Velavi, an Iranian dissident, died of a heart attack after a visit from an Iranian wearing black leather gloves like Isis Franklin’s. But there’s more.” Reardon flicked through his papers until he brought up a typewritten sheet marked TOP SECRET. “We think that Henrik Schneidermann, the UN secretary-general’s spokesman, was also murdered using the same method. There is CCTV footage of him at the Fifty-Ninth street subway station, helping up a man who appears to have slipped. A man wearing …”
She frowned, walked over to the facing sofa, and sat down opposite Reardon. A coffee pot and a tray of cookies stood between them on the low table. “I can guess. Black leather gloves.”
“So I think that you should stay here in DC, where I can look after you. But I don’t suppose you want to do that.”
Freshwater smiled. “I can’t hide, Dave, and you know it.”
She thought for a long moment. Presidents, she had soon discovered, were limited in what they could accomplish. Congress, lobbyists, the traditional media, social media, all had shackled her ambitions. But at least she could redecorate the Oval Office. She had made minimal changes: The heavy brown and cream drapes by the windows remained, as did the cream and white walls. But several paintings had gone, and on one wall a century-old tapestry showing the Native American tribes and their original homelands across North America, before they were forced into reservations, now hung. On the other was a portrait of Chief Red Cloud, one of the most adept Native American military commanders. Red Cloud had ambushed US army soldiers across Wyoming and Montana, but eventually made peace with them and lived to be eighty-eight. And she had kept the desk. Intricately carved, it was built from the timbers of The Resolute, a nineteenth-century British Arctic exploration ship. The Resolute had gone missing and was presumed lost until it was rescued by the captain of an American whaler. The recovery was well timed, as tensions were rising between United States and Britain. Diplomatic relations had been broken off, and ambassadors expelled, when a hawkish senator suddenly proposed that America refurbish The Resolute and return her to Britain as a gift. It worked. War was averted. Could Freshwater accomplish the same with Iran?
Perhaps was her best answer. But she had to try. So far, the most powerful woman in the world could not even find out why her husband had died. The investigation into Eric’s death was stuck in a morass of interagency rivalry, but her personal sources and Reardon’s contacts seemed ever-more convinced that his bindings had been tampered with. And there was more. She picked up her BlackBerry and scrolled through the saved links until she came to a story on the Newsweek website. She handed the phone to Reardon. “Read this.”
FLASH OF LIGHT PRECEDED DEATH OF PRESIDENT’S HUSBAND, CLAIMS WITNESS
By CORDELIA ADDIS
A blinding flash of light may have caused Eric Cortez, the late husband of President Freshwater, to crash into a tree while skiing off-piste at Aspen, a new witness has claimed. Cortez was killed in the accident last September, and a spokesman for the White House said the investigation into his death is still ongoing.
“I could see Mr. Cortez on the mountain. He was a very stylish skier. I was on the nearby black diamond run when there was a tremendous flash of light. I was almost blinded,” said Eva Ferguson. “At first we thought it was lightning, but there was no thunder and the skies were clear. I heard a loud crash and the next thing I saw was him lying in the snow, next to a tree. His helmet was several feet away.”