The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(92)

“Now what?” asked the woman.

As soon as she spoke, Yael remembered her. Michal. She had had short black hair when she joined a year after Yael. She completed the course, then had never been seen again on operations. Until now. Which meant one thing: Kidon.

Eli continued speaking. “We go ahead as planned. Everything is in place. Once the operation is completed the United States will immediately start mobilizing to attack Iran. There will be an official declaration of war. Bombing will start in a few hours. And we go home. Mission accomplished.”

“And Motek here?”

“Home, debrief.”

“And then?”

“She will have several options. None of them involve working for the UN. Or ever leaving Israel again.”

“It will be a long download,” said Michal, laughing.

“Twelve years’ worth,” said Eli.

Michal glanced at Yael in the mirror. “Are you sure she’s not awake?”

Eli reached back and opened Yael’s right eye. She did not flinch, kept her breathing rhythmic. She glimpsed the outskirts of Reykjavik. The streets had turned from picturesque to drab. They were passing through a housing estate: gray box dwellings, each with a patch of green in front.

Two seconds later Eli let go of her eyelid. The housing estate disappeared. Eli continued talking. “Absolutely. It’s a knockout for at least eight hours. The next time she wakes up it will be somewhere over the Mediterranean.”

*

Salim Massoud watched Clarence Clairborne come into focus on his computer screen.

“Sobh bekheir, old friend. You are looking older,” said Clairborne.

Massoud smiled. “That’s the plan.”

Clairborne stared at his computer. “Silver hair suits you. But you may need to lose a little weight.”

Massoud reached inside his mouth and removed two pieces of rubber. “Better?”

“Much. The girl?”

“Like a moth to a flame. Exactly as the Israeli predicted. Out of the way and on her way home, for good.”

“The statement of responsibility is written?” asked Clairborne.

“Yes. Jaysh al-Arbaeen has long arms.”

Clairborne frowned. “One thing I am worried about.”

“Speak freely, please.”

“Menachem Stein.”

*

Yael made tiny fluttering movements with her eyelids, as though as she was dreaming. It was enough to allow her to see inside the car and get a glimpse of the outside. They had turned off onto a side road a little while ago.

Eli had her iPhone in his hand and was flicking through the menus. Michal was focused on her driving. The road was empty, flanked on both sides by grass shoulders. Yael flexed her fingers, felt the plastic cuff bite her wrist. Eli whipped around.

She dived forward and yanked the hand brake up.





32

Magnus Olafsson and Joe-Don stood by the door to the presidential residence. The American and Iranian security teams patrolled, one on either side of the building. The horizon, streaked with gray clouds, had darkened. Wind gusted as though the sky itself was breathing in and out, dumping flurries of raindrops that splashed on the glimmering black stone road. The two groups of security officials regarded each other warily as they huddled under their ponchos, muttering into their earpieces. Their gazes swooped left and right and left again while they walked up and down the property.

“Any word yet?” asked Olafsson.

Joe-Don shook his head. “None. She said she needed to sleep. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging from the handle. I checked her room. She’s not there and she’s not answering her phone.”

“GPS?”

“Nothing. She’s gone dark.”

Olafsson laid a large hand on Joe-Don’s shoulder. “Don’t worry too much. She knows what she is doing. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. We are covered here.” His radio crackled with a burst of Icelandic. “I have to check in with my police colleagues. They are parked half a kilometer away. Coming?”

“Sure,” said Joe-Don, not letting his anxiety show. His own sixth sense, the one that had kept him alive through decades of war zones, told him that she was in trouble. The worst kind. Eli trouble. He looked around the flatlands as they walked to the car, as though she might suddenly appear on the tundra, or out of the sea that stretched almost to the snow-capped mountains on the horizon.

Bessastadir was only twenty minutes’ drive from downtown Reykjavik, but the sense of isolation was palpable. It was a tiny settlement, a handful of buildings and a church, built on a long, thin promontory of land that poked into the Atlantic like a crooked finger. Such isolation was not rare in Iceland, but more surprising was the lack of security at the residence. The flat terrain around it was wide open, the gray-green grass, liberally spattered with seabird droppings, turning into a swampy black mud where it met the water.

A low white gate controlled vehicular access to the black stone road, but it would barely slow a family sedan, let alone a determined attacker. There were no fences or gates or flip-up barriers to stop a vehicle crashing into the building. The windows seemed to be normal glass. Overhead a helicopter swooped low, banked steeply, and then headed out to sea. With the Americans and the Iranians coordinating with the Viking Squad, the residence was ringed with well-trained, armed agents from all three countries. But the basic topography could not be changed. Bessastadir was an assassin’s dream.