The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(86)
More questions followed, all of them from environmental reporters. The UN press corps was becoming increasingly irritated by Roxana’s blunt but effective stonewalling. But even the highest, thickest stone wall could be scaled—or stepped around. Najwa knew that protocol required Roxana to take at least one question from the host country’s national television network. Which was why Najwa had invited the political correspondent of Iceland’s RUV for breakfast at her hotel that morning. The Icelandic reporters were all friendly and helpful, keen to put their island home on the international media map and flattered by the arrival of the major television networks and newspapers. Rafnhildur Eriksdottir, a vivacious brunette, had been pleased by Najwa’s interest and even more pleased when she explained her plan.
Roxana looked around the room. The clock showed three fifteen. The press conference was over time, but she still needed to take a question from RUV. Roxana looked at Eriksdottir.
The Icelandic journalist stood up. “Rafnhildur Eriksdottir, RUV. I have a question.” She paused for effect, enjoying the attention. “It’s not about the Sustainability Summit.”
The room quieted. Roxana and Fareed Hussein glanced at each other, a frisson of concern on their faces. Najwa caught Jonathan Beaufort’s eye again and smiled. He grinned back and made the thumbs-up sign.
Rafnhildur continued talking, “With all due respect to my colleagues who are focusing on sustainability, the real news about the United Nations, as we know, is the murder of the senior UN officials Frank Akerman and the attempt to kill Charles Bonnet.”
Roxana’s faced creased in annoyance. “Charles Bonnet is no longer working for the UN. This is not a question. It is a statement. Your question please. We are running out of time.”
Rafnhildur said, “Why have all the documents on Frank Akerman’s role as a military observer in Bosnia been removed from the UN archives?”
30
“Now? You are telling me this now?”
Olafsson was more puzzled than indignant, although he had every right to be angry. Presidents did alter their schedules at the last moment to squeeze an extra few minutes together or make room for an unexpected encounter. But this was an entirely different order of magnitude.
“I’m sorry,” said Yael. “But I couldn’t mention it before. And especially not with the others in here.”
Olafsson exhaled sharply. “But that was exactly when you should have raised this. Yael, I know you love to live on the edge, but really, this can’t be done. It is impossible. These are heads of states. Two states almost at war with each other. Here. In Iceland. Where we don’t even have an army. Everything to do with their visit has been planned out for weeks in advance, here and in DC and Tehran. Right down to the last minute. Last second, ideally.”
Yael stirred her tea for several seconds before she spoke. A former UN civil affairs officer, Olafsson was a grandson of a former president of Iceland. He had spent much of his childhood at Bessastadir and knew the building better than anyone else alive. Olafsson and Yael had first met in Afghanistan. There he had been training the Afghan police force in human rights and anticorruption measures, a task he once described to her as like trying to melt a glacier with a candle.
The Icelander continued talking. “You are telling me that the president of the United States of America and the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran are going to hold an impromptu press conference at the residence of their Icelandic counterpart, where they will announce the resumption of diplomatic relations, the lifting of sanctions, and the release of all Iranian political prisoners?” Olafsson looked at his watch. “In just over two hours, without telling either of their security details? Or their governments?”
Yael nodded. “That’s it. But what’s changed? You already knew that the three of them were getting together in the same place. The Americans are handling the security for Freshwater, the Iranians for Kermanzade. Each president will tell their people they are staying at Bessastadir longer than they planned. The only difference is—”
“That the leaders of two countries who are deadly enemies will be making an announcement that will make a lot of people very angry indeed,” he interrupted. “This love-in will take place inside or outside the residence?”
“First inside, then they will take a walk outside.”
Olafsson groaned out loud.
Yael gave him her brightest, and, she hoped, most convincing smile. “Magnus. This is history in the making. Like Gorbachev and Reagan at their summit that ended the Cold War. This will prevent a hot war between America and Iran. It will put Iceland on the map again.”
Olaffson shook his head. “Especially if one of them, or Fareed Hussein, gets shot. Which seems to be happening quite frequently nowadays.” Olafsson looked at his deputy.
Karin Bjornsdottir slowly moved her head from side to side, her blond ponytail swinging as she chewed her lip. “Well … it is only an extra hour. And they will all be there anyway.”
Olafsson poured himself some more coffee. “The longest hour of our lives.” He sat still for several seconds. “It seems I cannot refuse. If that is what the three presidents want. Although a heads-up would have been nice.”
Yael grinned. “I just gave you one.”
“From them. And slightly more notice would have been appreciated.”