The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(93)
*
Olga Gunnarsdottir led her visitors through a corridor from Bessastadir’s formal reception room into her personal living quarters. The family sitting room was long and narrow, with pale wooden floors and lined on two sides with crowded bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. The other walls, hung with old maps and lithographs of historic Iceland, were painted cream, the ceiling a darker brown. More books were piled up on one side of an antique desk. A well-worn long wooden table was flanked by a sofa on one side and half a dozen padded dining chairs on the other. It was a comfortable, lived-in space, silent but for the loud ticking of a wooden grandfather clock in the corner next to her desk.
Gunnarsdottir was a tall blond in her early sixties with shoulder-length hair, green eyes, and the brisk, no-nonsense manner on which Icelanders prided themselves. A former diplomat who had once served as Iceland’s ambassador to the United Nations, she knew Fareed Hussein of old. This should have been a day of triumph for him, but she had never seen him looking so unsettled. He was normally so fastidious, but today his trademark Nehru jacket was creased, his shirt collar bent.
She had seen the television coverage of the press conference of course, and the deluge of coverage that followed. But Hussein was an experienced operator. He had been here before, knew enough about the media cycle to know that interest in the fate of Akerman’s UNMO reports, indeed in that of Akerman himself, would soon fade away. So why was he looking so worried?
For now, though, she had more important matters on which to concentrate. Gunnarsdottir gestured at the table. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” she instructed, as she took the seat at the head.
President Freshwater sat on one side, Shireen Kermanzade on the other. Dave Reardon stood by the wall, tense and alert, his eyes sweeping the room. Freshwater was dressed in a dark blue business suit and white blouse that accentuated her dark hair and eyes. She wore silver earrings and a simple silver necklace with a black stone. Kermanzade was older, her dark brown hair graying. She wore her trademark green and gold headscarf, pulled far back from her forehead and a white high-necked blouse buttoned to the top. The two women, Gunnarsdottir was pleased to see, seemed at ease with each other. Kermanzade had waved away her security detail, asking them to stay outside the room.
“There is no written agenda for what happens next,” said Gunnarsdottir, “but let me say how pleased and honored I am that you both”—she looked at Freshwater and Kermanzade—“have chosen my country to announce a historic reconciliation that will change the face of not just the Middle East, but the world in which we all live.”
President Freshwater gestured to her Iranian counterpart that she should reply.
“Thank you, Madam President,” said Kermanzade, her voice light and musical.
Gunnarsdottir smiled. “Please, call me Olga. You are guests in my house.”
Kermanzade seemed about to continue when a phone rang inside Gunnarsdottir’s purse. She pulled out the handset, looked at the number, and took the call. “Ja, ja, yes, yes. Nu, now? OK.” She hung up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure there is nothing to be alarmed about,” she said, her face drawn and tense.
*
Yael pulled harder on the hand brake with all her strength, her cuffed hands locked onto the grip as the car instantly decelerated. Suddenly deprived of its forward momentum, the vehicle skidded round and round, the G-forces throwing Eli and Michal—neither of whom were wearing seatbelts—against the wall and the windows, giving Yael a second’s advantage. She knew what was coming. She used the hand brake to stabilize herself, pushed her knees against the side of the front seats, ducked low and braced herself. The front of the car careened into a tree and bounced off, sending the vehicle into a spin. Michal flew forward, her head smashing against the windshield, which shattered.
Eli went sideways, crashing into Michal. He tried to sit up but the car was still sliding across the road and he fell forward. Yael, shaken but unhurt, looked up to see Michal unconscious, blood streaming from a gash above her right eyebrow. Eli spun around so he was facing Yael and flailed at her with his right fist. She dodged the blow, let go of the hand brake, moved under Eli’s arm and opened her palms as far as she could. She drove both her thumbs up into Eli’s eye sockets, feeling the bone against her fingers as she pushed hard under the orbs. He yelped in pain and fell away. Yael slid back and kicked him hard in the stomach, slamming him back against the dashboard. The car’s spins slowed, then stopped, and it came to rest on a grass shoulder at the side of the road.
Eli sat back, panting hard, holding his hands over his eyes. “Kusemmak, f*ck your mother, what have you done to me?”
“You’ll survive. And so will your eyesight.”
She glanced at Michal, who slowly stirred and moaned. Yael swung her arms around to grab Michal’s hair and banged her head, once, hard against the steering wheel. She slumped forward. Then Yael reached across to the broken windshield and rapidly sawed the plastic cuff around her hands against a sharp edge of glass. The cuffs sprung apart. She reached inside Michal’s coat and took out a Jericho 941 pistol, slipping the gun into her own jacket pocket. She pulled out a plastic cuff from her left boot, wrapped it around Michal’s limp wrists, pulled it tight. She reached across to the door handle, opened it, then sat back and put her foot against Michal’s thigh and pushed. Michal hit the ground on her side and lay still.