The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(78)

There have been repeated rumors about a flash of light preceding Cortez’s death, but Eva Ferguson is the first witness willing to go on the record. “It’s been nagging at me for a long time. I thought I should tell what I saw.”

The following paragraphs recounted the desperate attempts to save Eric, and his flight by medevac helicopter to the University of Colorado Hospital in Aurora, where he was pronounced dead.

Freshwater had heard about the claims, referenced in the article, that a flash of light had preceded the death of Princess Diana in a car crash in a tunnel in Paris. That had never been proven but had still triggered all sorts of conspiracy theories. She had no idea, however, that Western intelligence services reportedly considered using a similar technique to kill former Serbian dictator Slobodan Milosevic while he was attending a peace conference in Geneva. Someone, it seemed, had been working on this technique. If Eric really had been killed at such close quarters, then the danger was very close to home. Perhaps Reardon was right. But she refused to cower in the White House.

Reardon quickly read the article and handed the BlackBerry back to Freshwater.

“Do you believe it?” she asked.

“I believe it’s possible. I believe, I know, we have a problem. I don’t who we can trust. If it hadn’t been for Yael Azoulay, you might be dead. I let you down.”

“No, you didn’t. I insisted on the shopping trip, against your advice. I should have listened to you. And we need to do something for Yael. A medal. Or a dinner. Or both.”

“Sure, once you get back from Reykjavik. You will see her there. She’s replacing Akerman.”

Freshwater poured them both coffee. She picked up her cup, was silent for several long seconds.

Reardon sipped his coffee, then gave her a quizzical look. “What it is? I can hear the cogs turning.”

Freshwater looked at him directly and smiled. “Dave, you agree we are threatened from the enemy within, as well as without?”

Reardon nodded, warily.

“Good. So you are not, repeat not, to take this as any kind of slight. I put my complete trust in you …”

“Please, Renee, not a PMC.”

Freshwater shook her head. “No, no private military contractors. Not in my White House. Of course not. But I do think we need some outside help. Which is why I wanted you to be here now.”

He exhaled loudly. “Outside help from where, exactly?”

“A place with the best security in the world.”

“Yes, but …”

“Dave, I’m just asking you to listen. It’s a preliminary talk, we just hear what our visitor has to say. And then we—we—decide whether to take his advice. But I am going to Reykjavik. For all the reasons that you know about. And I plan to come home in one piece. ”

“OK …” Reardon sounded doubtful.

The phone on the coffee table trilled. Freshwater flicked a button. “Your noon appointment is here, ma’am,” said a male voice.

The door opened. A man in his late thirties walked in, a broad smile on his handsome face.

“Madam President, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Eli Harrari.

*

Najwa pressed play. Schneidermann’s voice came out of the Toshiba’s lo-fi speaker. “Is that recording now?” he asked, before muttering, “Yes.”

Najwa smiled as the image stabilized and Schneidermann’s familiar, pale features came into focus. She suddenly felt a powerful nostalgia, wishing herself back in the press briefing room, watching him duel with her pushy, demanding colleagues—and with herself as well. By the end he had become a bravura performer. He could be difficult, obstructive, and just plain bloody-minded. But he certainly had not deserved to be murdered.

She sat with her chin in her cupped hands, staring intently at her computer monitor.

“Well, you know us Belgians, we are not known for drama. Chocolate and bureaucrats. We are good at that. So please believe what I have to say. The best evidence of the truth is that you are watching this video file. If so, I am almost certainly dead.” Schneidermann looked down, blinked, then stared back at the camera. “That is not a very easy thing to say. But there you are. I have said it. And you know if it’s true or not. So who would want to kill me, and why? I am not exactly sure. But I think it’s connected to the death of Olivia de Souza. Poor Olivia, you will remember, was thrown off a balcony on the thirty-eighth floor by Mahesh Kapoor, the SG’s former chief of staff. Olivia had found out too much about the coltan plot, the details of which are now well known.”

He coughed and reached for a glass of water. The picture suddenly swerved sideways and there was a loud banging noise as the camera toppled over. The film stopped for a few seconds before Schneidermann reappeared.

“KZX’s response has been very clever: a deluge of money for scholarships, academic studies, and most of all the new school for development studies at Columbia University. But behind the scenes, the company remains as determined and voracious as ever. The coltan plot was just part of the plan. I have discovered that two senior UN officials, one in the Department of Economic and Social Affairs, and another in the Office on Drugs and Crime, recently met with a representative of KZX in Qatar to discuss the company’s future role in a global, legalized drug market.”

Najwa clicked pause while she scribbled a note on her nearby pad: KZX/Qatar/UN official. She hit play again, and the video resumed.