The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(81)
Lacking what the invitation described as a “partner,” she had brought her mother. Yael lent Barbara one of her several black dresses, in which she looked annoyingly glamorous. Where was she? Yael scanned the crowd. Barbara was standing on the other side of the party, deep in conversation with Reinhardt Daintner. The KZX executive loomed over her like a tall, pale praying mantis. Barbara nodded thoughtfully as he spoke, apparently fascinated by everything he had to say. Yael stared in amazement at Daintner’s hand resting on her mother’s upper arm. Their proximity, and relaxed body language, indicated an easy familiarity. Until Caroline Masters strode over, when Daintner instantly dropped his hand and stepped back.
Bonnet ended his call and put his phone in his pocket. He followed Yael’s gaze. “Who is that talking to Reinhardt?”
“My mother,” said Yael, still taken aback.
“Of course. So they are still friendly,” said Bonnet, his voice amused.
“Still?”
Bonnet ignored her question. He gave Barbara a swift, Gallic appraisal. “She is very beautiful. Lucky you.” He turned and looked at Yael. “You have good genes. And you share her looks.” He sipped his champagne, tilting his head to the side before he spoke. “Ma chère Yael, I am not complaining, of course, about being in your company. There is no queue to replace you. But,” his voice hardened slightly as he continued, “I am wondering why, in a room of glamorous, successful New York movers and shakers, any one of whom would be glad of your company, you are here talking to me, a disgraced, burnt-out has-been. At least this time you have let me finish my drink. Speaking of which …” Bonnet raised his empty glass and looked around the marquee.
A waiter appeared almost instantly. Yael glanced at his face, then his name badge, and smiled; not too obviously, she hoped. The last time she saw “Miguel” had been last fall, when he and Joe-Don helped her escape from the Millennium Hotel after killing Jean-Pierre Hakizimani. Joe-Don had wanted to come with her tonight, of course, but Yael had insisted she would be safe. There was nowhere in New York more secure than the KZX reception. Still, it was a good feeling to know that Joe-Don had her back even when he was not around. Miguel filled Bonnet’s empty glass with champagne, then raised the bottle over Yael’s glass, which was still almost full. She shook her head. She needed to keep a clear head for what was coming next. Miguel winked at her and walked off.
Bonnet drank half his champagne in one go. The alcohol seemed to give him courage. “I may be vain. But I am not stupid. What do you want?”
“You saw Roger’s report on CNN last night?”
Bonnet nodded.
“He said there was some kind of deal, to do with the nine aid workers that were killed. You were on the Rwanda desk then. Was there?”
The Frenchman stiffened, almost imperceptibly. He looked at his champagne glass, raised it, then lowered it again without drinking. “Why are you interested in this? You were a teenager then.”
“I knew one of them.”
*
She is seven years old, sitting on her brother’s shoulders and giggling with delight as he strides across Central Park, pretending to be a giant, striding between the trees.
*
As far as Yael knew, only Fareed Hussein knew that David Weiss was her brother. David too became estranged from his father, wanting nothing to do with Aleph Research, and took his mother’s maiden name. The SG would likely have kept that information to himself. The last thing he’d want was any more discussion of Rwanda and his role during the genocide, especially in the office.
Yael watched Bonnet. There was no flash of recognition in his eyes, but he was suddenly wary. He looked around, stared at her for several seconds, made a decision. “Not here,” he said, and started to walk out.
She followed him through the crowd. Bonnet turned left and walked around the side of the library, through a manicured garden with low hedges. There he sat on a stone bench. A policeman walked by, his radio crackling. He glanced at Yael and Bonnet, nodded briefly in greeting, then walked on.
Bonnet waited until the policeman had gone. “It was a tragedy. We had hoped, planned, for a very different outcome.” He looked into the distance as he calmly rifled through his memories.
Yael asked, “It is true then, what Roger reported on CNN? That there was a deal?”
He sat back. “You have a cigarette, maybe?”
Yael reached inside her purse and took out a pack of Marlboro Lights. She handed him the box and her Zippo lighter. He extracted a cigarette and lit it, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, drawing deep. The tobacco crackled, the end of the cigarette glowing red as it trembled. The breeze was cooler now. Yael pulled her shawl around her. Her black minidress, the same one that she had worn for her canceled date with Sami, was designed for being inside a party. Her toes were chilled in her open sandals. She waited for Bonnet to speak.
He exhaled a long plume of smoke through his nose, then turned to her. “Fareed said it was his idea, but I don’t know if that’s true. You know how it works. A chance remark in a meeting, a proposal in a memo, then suddenly it’s policy, actually happening. Either way, it would have been a win for me, and for France, and a large deposit in Hussein’s favored bank from one of the P5.”
Yael nodded, her heart racing, but trying to seem curious but dispassionate. “How was it supposed to work?”