The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(87)

“Next time, I promise,” she said, proffering the plate of snacks. “Cookie? Once we’re done you can write another book. A thriller. What’s the phrase … ‘inspired by real events’? Hollywood will love it.”

Icelanders wrote, read, and published more books per capita than anywhere else in the world. Even Magnus had written one, a children’s saga set in medieval times. One night in Kandahar he had showed Yael a copy of the book, which was a best seller.

Olafsson grabbed a chocolate muffin and ate it in three bites. “Talk me through Friday evening again. I need to go over the background once more.”

“Why don’t we start with Al-Jazeera?” said Yael. “They were the only major network there with a camera crew. The report is accurate and gives you a good sense of what happened. It’s all online.” She reached inside her purse, took out her iPad, and started tapping. A browser window opened, followed by the Al-Jazeera website. She placed the iPad on the table, upright in its case. The screen showed the evening news anchor, Faisal, sitting in the studio and discussing the fighting in Syria with a correspondent when a graphic flashed across the screen: Breaking News.

The screen switched back to the anchor, who was touching his earpiece and nodding. A ticker was running across the bottom: Reports of shooting at UN New York event, second in 48 hours. “We are going straight to our correspondent Najwa al-Sameera, who is on the scene. Najwa?”

The camera cut to Najwa, who was standing on the steps leading to the Columbia University library, its tall Greek columns looming behind her. “Yes, Faisal. Dramatic events here in Manhattan at the UN-KZX launch of the School for International Development. A sniper has opened fire. The party is over and the whole area, as you can see, is being evacuated.”

Police were ushering a stream of guests out of the marquee. Almost all were holding mobile phones close to their heads and talking rapidly. Several looked dazed. A few were crying. Sirens wailed. A helicopter ambulance stood near the marquee.

“Has anyone been killed or injured?” Faisal asked.

“Nothing is confirmed but there are reports that Charles Bonnet, a former senior UN official, may have been shot. All the dignitaries and UN officials, including secretary general Fareed Hussein, have been evacuated.”

Faisal nodded. “This is the second UN official to be targeted by sniper fire in three days. The first, Frank Akerman, was shot dead outside the secretary-general’s residence. Are the shootings connected?”

“There is no evidence yet, but it is certainly possible.”

“Najwa, yesterday you tweeted a link to a video that showed Frank Akerman clinking glasses with a Bosnian Serb general after the fall of Srebrenica, just a few feet from the bodies of murdered civilians. Bonnet has also been in the news because of events two decades ago. Tell us about that.”

Yael glanced across the table. Olafsson, Bjornsdottir, and Joe-Don were all absorbed in the television report. She dropped her hand into her purse and took out a small pill container, opened it, took out two tablets. She swallowed the tablets with a glass of water, then slipped the container back into her purse.

Najwa was still talking. “Charles Bonnet has just been released from prison, where he had been serving a sentence for aggravated sexual assault. A judge ruled this week that the evidence was inadmissible. But more than that, it seems that Mr. Bonnet was involved in some kind of backroom deal over the UN’s greatest catastrophe, the genocide in Rwanda.”

A policeman appeared, his gruff voice cutting over Najwa’s. “Ma’am, you need to stop filming and leave the area.”

“But we are live …” she protested.

“Leave or I will arrest you all.”

The screen cut back to the studio.

Yael pressed pause. The screen froze, showing the anchor. Yael said, “The rest is speculation. The gunman missed. He didn’t fire again. Bonnet is fine. He flew to Paris the next day.”

“Why was he shot at?” asked Olafsson.

She tried not to hesitate before she answered, to put aside her emotions and thoughts of David. “Because of Rwanda, I guess. We’re coming up to the twentieth anniversary of the genocide. Anniversaries always make people look back, think what might have been. What they have lost.”

Joe-Don looked at Yael, as if to say, I’m taking over now. She nodded as he reached inside a folder and handed out four sets of three printed sheets stapled together. Joe-Don began speaking: “Let’s focus on what we know. This is the Joint Terrorism Task Force sitrep. It covers ballistics, initial analysis, and threat projection forecasts. The FBI is the lead agency, but there has been input from the NYPD, the State Department Diplomatic Security Service, the Secret Service, the CIA, and the NSA. Shall I talk you through it?” he asked, while the two Icelanders slowly read through each page. Yael scanned the report, which she had already read and discussed in detail with Joe-Don on the flight to Reykjavik.

“Please do,” said Olafsson.

Joe-Don picked up the jug of coffee on the table and looked around the table. Yael shook her head, as did the others. He slowly poured himself another cup, took a long drink, and began to speak.

“Let’s start with Frank Akerman. He was killed by a single 7N1 bullet. The 7N1 is an extremely accurate bullet, produced in small numbers especially for the Russian Dragunov sniper rifle. It has a steel core and a hollow spot in the nose with a lead knocker behind it. The knocker moves on impact into the hollow spot, causing the bullet to destabilize, spin around inside the body, and cause massive internal injury. Akerman was hit in the lower right-hand shoulder. The bullet eventually lodged in his rib cage and he died almost immediately.”