The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(84)
All eight men looked at their colleagues with varying degrees of alarm, murmuring in English and Farsi.
“An excellent idea,” said Olafsson. “Both of your technicians have swept this room. Nobody is watching, listening or recording. A little trust goes a long way. Especially when you are all so far from home, on a lump of rock and lava in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
Yael watched the four Iranians as Olafsson spoke. The older man seemed familiar; nothing specific, but something about his appearance nagged at her. She frowned, trying to remember if and where she had seen him before.
Maxwell shrugged, glanced around the room as if to check no camera crews had sneaked in, and tentatively reached across the table. The Iranian facing him had hooded eyes. He looked to the silver-haired man sitting next to him, as if to seek his permission. A subtle nod, and the American’s hand was grasped. Within a few seconds, all eight men were shaking hands.
Coffee and tea was poured, cookies and muffins passed around. Yael sat back down, stifling a yawn. It was three o’clock on Monday afternoon. She drank some more tea, hoping that the caffeine would reenergize her. After a rough six-hour flight punctuated by brief bursts of snatched, uncomfortable sleep, her body clock was still on Manhattan time, five hours behind. Unlike heads of state or prime ministers, the UN secretary-general did not have his own airplane. He and his party either traveled on commercial airlines or on transport provided by the country of his destination. They had planned to fly on Icelandair, but after Friday, Olga Gunnarsdottir, the president, immediately offered her own private jet—an offer that was gratefully accepted.
The Gulfstream arrived at Teterboro, a small private airport in New Jersey, on Sunday evening at seven. The SG’s party had been airborne an hour later, landing at Keflavik at seven o’clock on Monday morning local time. There were four passengers: Yael, Joe-Don, the SG, and Roxana. The rest of the SG’s party had flown commercial. Roxana had hovered around the SG for most of the flight, but eventually she fell asleep, finally giving Yael the chance to speak with him without Roxana listening.
The flight might have been uncomfortable, but their accommodation was not. Opened in 1930, the Hotel Borg was Iceland’s first luxury hotel. Over the years it had evolved its own neo–art deco style. The walls were painted a light chocolate brown, the doors and the ceiling were white, the dark wood floor polished till it shone. Yael cast an envious eye on the chairs around the table. Their bold curves and mahogany-and-cream color scheme would fit very nicely in her apartment.
Olafsson tapped his pen on the side of his water glass. “Let’s get back to work. To recap: the United Nations Sustainability Summit started yesterday, Sunday, at the Harpa conference center by Reykjavik port at ten o’clock in the morning, on schedule. The first day ended at seven o’clock in the evening. There are nine hundred delegates here, as well as hundreds more representing various NGOs, plus the media contingent of about two hundred people. The conference is due to finish at four o’clock this afternoon. Security is at Code Red, the highest level, especially after the shooting in New York on Friday. There was pressure from your governments to cancel or postpone the conference. But Fareed Hussein and Presidents Freshwater and Kermanzade were both determined that it go ahead.”
He looked around the table. The atmosphere had eased, suspicion and hostility fading to a wary alertness. Olafsson watched the leader of the Iranian delegation reach for a tangerine and begin to slowly peel it before he continued talking. “There have been no changes in schedule or personnel since our previous briefing at eight o’clock this morning. However, I also wanted to introduce you to my deputy, Karin Bjornsdottir, as she could not attend this morning’s briefing. Karin will be your second point of contact. All her details are enclosed in your update file.”
Karin Bjornsdottir was a round-faced blond in her early thirties with high cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. She looked around the table appraising what she saw. The two Americans nearest her shook her hand, the other two nodded, as did all the Iranians.
“Fareed Hussein has now given his closing address,” Olafsson continued. “He and President Gunnarsdottir are now at the final press conference. To recap, the SG, President Freshwater, and President Kermanzade are each scheduled for a ten-minute meeting with President Gunnarsdottir at Bessastadir. Realistically, knowing that the one thing all politicians, no matter what their nationality, tend to do is run over time”—both sides exchanged knowing looks across the table—“we have scheduled their visits to allow for this. Each of the three will travel in a separate armored motorcade after their closing speech. The journey takes about twenty minutes. Fareed Hussein will arrive first at six o’clock, followed by President Kermanzade, and then President Freshwater.
“And then, my friends, hopefully, soon after seven o’clock, we can all head home.” Olafsson gathered his papers and slid them into a plastic folder. “Any questions?”
None came. “Then I thank you, gentlemen,” Olafsson finished.
“And we thank you,” said the plump Iranian.
“Copy that,” said Kent Maxwell.
Yael glanced at Joe-Don. He gave her a knowing smile. They both watched Olafsson and Bjornsdottir stand and walk the two groups to the door.
Yael waited until the security officials had left and then picked up a cookie, took a large bite, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The heavy brown drapes had been drawn tightly closed, so she opened them and looked out.