The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(88)

He looked up to see three faces staring at him. Satisfied he had his audience’s attention, he carried on reading. “The 7N1 was superseded in 1997 by the 7N14, which means that the ammunition used to kill Akerman probably dates from the early or mid-1990s. The Dragunov has an effective range of almost nine hundred yards, or more than half a mile. It was the standard sniper rifle in the Warsaw Pact countries before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and was also used by all sides during the wars in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s.

“The bullet fired on Friday at Charles Bonnet was recovered. It is of the same caliber and has the same rifling patterns, so we can assume that it was fired from the same weapon. In both cases the gunman fled the scene and no trace has been found.”

Olafsson shook his head. “I cannot tell you how uneasy I am about this last-minute change to the Bessastadir schedule. What if this gunman is here? In Reykjavik? The airport is on the highest state of alert, but we are an island, with a long coastline.”

“The only way the gunman could have got here in time is by airplane. Keflavik is locked down,” Yael said.

“And if he travels on a false passport?” asked Olafsson. “And a weapon has been arranged in advance for him?”

“All we can do is our best,” Yael continued, “and minimize the risk.”

The four of them talked some more, going through the protocols and permutations. Just two reporters would be invited, they agreed, who would then pool their material: Najwa al-Sameera for the international press, and Rafnhildur Eriksdottir from RUV.

Olafsson looked down at his coffee cup. It was empty. He held it upside down. “The threat level does not alter. Only the time of exposure to danger.”

Yael nodded. “Exactly.” But she said nothing about the woman with straw-colored hair sitting on Pósthússtr?ti. Nor would she. She would stop Eli. And she would do it her way.

Alone.

*

Half a mile away in the Kaldi café on Laugavegur, Reykjavik’s main shopping street, Sami was trying his best to persuade Najwa to temporarily enlist him as an Al-Jazeera staffer. “I could be your….” he paused. “Assistant producer. Actually, I am already a coproducer, on the coltan film. You have to take me.”

Najwa stirred her coffee, licked her spoon, then glanced at the ceiling. “Do I? I’m just trying to remember our most recent conversation about a division of labor. In McLaughlin’s.”

Sami knew what was coming. “Yes, but—”

“Exactly. Your words. Yes, but. ‘Yes, but the last time I checked, I was employed by the New York Times, not by Al-Jazeera.’” Najwa smiled, enjoying herself. “All our vacancies are listed on our website. Habibi.”

“Well, now, I would love to be employed by Al-Jazeera …”

Najwa put her hand on his. “I’m sorry. The terms are set in stone. Two reporters for the pool. One local, and one international. And anyway, what’s the big fuss? It will just be more blah-blah about sustainability.”

He shook off Najwa’s hand. “Two television reporters. What about print?”

“Print. You are so twentieth century. You can write us up once we have broadcast our stories.”

He frowned. “This is ridiculous. My editors are calling every twenty minutes demanding updates for the website. And now the American and Iranian presidents are going to be in the same building. What if they issue a joint statement, or say something?”

“About what? Plastic bags? Freshwater visits Gunnarsdottir. Kermanzade visits Gunnarsdottir. And the SG adds his buck’s worth of platitudes. Blah, blah, recycle more, save the whales, then we are back to New York.” She looked around. “Although actually, I am getting to like it here. It’s kind of like Brooklyn without the jerks. Everyone I meet here seems to be a writer. But they actually produce books and get them published.”

From the outside Kaldi looked like a house: three stories tall, with a small front door painted white to match the large windows looking onto the street. The front of the building, and that of its immediate neighbors, was covered in sheets of corrugated iron, painted brown, to protect it from the elements. Inside it was a relaxed, comfortable place, eclectically decorated with blue walls, a white ceiling with exposed wooden beams, and stripped brickwork. A wooden upright piano stood by the long copper bar. The music of Sigur Rós, one of Iceland’s best-known groups, swirled gently around the room.

Najwa took another sip of her drink. “Who knew that they had such good coffee in Iceland?” She looked back at Sami. “I’m sorry, habibi. I can’t. I even have to use Rafnhildur’s cameraman. No producer. Maria and Philippe are already pissed. I can’t leave them and take you. Anyway, you have your story.”

Sami sipped his coffee. “Which one?”

“You know very well what I am talking about. The photo of Yael in Gaza. What are you going to do about it? She is here, you know. Why don’t you try and talk to her. Get her side of the story? Does she know you have it?”

“I think so. I saw her on Friday, at Columbia, before the shooting. She looked embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed is good. You can leverage that up into a full and frank account of what happened. Exploit her guilt.”

“Does she feel guilty?”

“Of course she feels guilty. She’s an Israeli liberal. You are a Palestinian.”