The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(9)

“M—” he started to say.

“No names,” said a male voice.

“Sorry. Of course.” What was he thinking? The line was secure, an encrypted satellite phone, but even the rawest recruit knew that nobody used real names while talking on a phone.

The voice was clipped and angry. “One car. And highly visible. What were you thinking?”

Clairborne bristled. “I ordered three to be deployed. With a team of drivers.”

“Where were they? Starbucks?”

“I don’t know. I will find out.”

“Should I come to Manhattan and organize this myself?”

“I know, I’m sorry,” said Clairborne. “They will be disciplined.”

“Sorry does not advance our objectives.” The man paused for several moments. Clairborne could hear static echoing down the line. “Still, that was a neat trick with the taxis.”

“Sure. Meanwhile, what do you want me to do with her?”

“Just watch. We are inside her apartment?”

“We will be.”

“When?”

Clairborne glanced at his Rolex Submariner. “In about ten minutes.”

“I can be sure of that?”

“Sure as a cat can climb a tree.”

The line went dead.

He pressed a button on his phone cradle, then jabbed the adjacent one. The voices squealed for several seconds until he lifted his finger.

“… a neat trick with the taxis,” the man’s voice said. And it had been, even Clairborne had to admit.

But in his words was something more than just one operative admiring another’s technical skills. There was an undercurrent there, almost of admiration. Clairborne played the recording again. It was greater than admiration. It was pride.





4

Yael took out a makeup compact from her bag and flipped open the mirror. She contemplated what she saw: auburn hair loose to her shoulders, light blush, red lipstick, and moderately thick mascara that emphasized her green eyes. A cropped leather motorcycle jacket. Her new dress—black, short enough—fitted perfectly. Red shoes to stir up the mix, and to match her lipstick. It was a vampier look than she usually adopted, but why not?

This would be her third date with Sami. They had been to an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, and had dinner together at a Korean restaurant in midtown. He was witty and extremely intelligent company. Even his dress sense had lately improved from his habitual outfit of Gap shirt over a T-shirt and slouchy jeans. Yael suspected—no, she knew—that was partly because he was smartening himself up for her. As she had dressed up for him.

She snapped the compact closed and slipped it back into her purse. To be more accurate, this would be their second attempt at a third date. The first, a few days before the Istanbul summit, had ended in disaster. Yael had spent all day shopping, cooking dinner and tidying up her apartment. Sami was due over at 7:30 p.m. By eight o’clock he had still not turned up. Yael had switched on the television to see him on Al-Jazeera with Najwa al-Sameera, the network’s UN correspondent. The two journalists were discussing a video clip of Yael, dressed as an escort, at the Millennium Hotel, a few block from the UN. Sami had got his dinner the following morning—spread all over his office. After a while her anger abated and she rationalized Sami’s actions. He was a journalist, covering the UN. They were not together, had not even kissed. He had no choice but to stand her up. So Yael told herself and she forgave him, more or less. The remnants of her anger even added a little extra spice to their date tonight.

The sound of a piano followed by a long, poignant trumpet note floated over the park. The bubble man was still blowing giant, quivering creations to the sounds of Miles Davis. The sky was turning purple, the breeze picking up. Yael watched a pigeon land on a tree branch and start to coo. A second bird landed next to it, before both flew off together. She had even packed a toothbrush in her bag, just in case.

But part of her—a large part, if she was honest with herself—asked why she was pursuing this potential romance. The risk-to-reward ratio was tilted heavily toward the former. There were at least two large obstacles. The first was that she was a UN official and Sami was the UN correspondent for the New York Times. His job was to dig out and expose the UN’s scandals and secrets. Of those, Yael knew more than most. The suspicion nagged that Sami was only interested in her for the insider information she had. She could never let her guard down about her work or colleagues—the Al-Jazeera episode had taught her that.

But there was also the personal one, which was much more difficult to avoid. Sami was a Palestinian and she was an Israeli. And not just any Israeli. One with a past linked to his—a past that would, if discovered by Sami, blow any potential romance to pieces. For good.

So why was she drawn to him? Partly because she enjoyed his company and partly because she liked a challenge. But also, perhaps, because she knew it would never work, which meant she would never become too involved and therefore never deeply hurt. But that kind of dead-end masochism was too depressing to contemplate. She would just enjoy the evening. Perhaps it would lead somewhere, perhaps not. But either way, it was better than another night sitting in her apartment on her own. And if it didn’t work, well … she was still only thirty-six. She was determined not to become another UN widow, one of the attractive, intelligent women working at the Secretariat headquarters with nobody to go home to and nothing to spend their substantial salaries on except ever-larger wardrobes of designer clothes. How long since she had been invited to a guy’s apartment for dinner in New York? She could not remember. Although someone had bought her lunch not so long ago.