The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(94)

The second Yael’s back was turned, Eli reached inside the left shoulder of his jacket to draw his own Jericho 941. But she saw him in the driver’s mirror, spun around, and grabbed the barrel of the gun with both hands, forcing it upward. Eli fired twice, the sound thunderous inside the vehicle as the two bullets pierced the roof. The last time she had seen Eli, five days ago on Thursday night in Tompkins Square Park, his hand had been bandaged. The bandage was gone now, but she could feel that he still lacked full strength. Now she had the advantage. She twisted her hands sideways. Either he would release the gun, or his fingers would break.

He let go.

She slipped her finger into the Jericho’s trigger guard and pointed it at Eli, while she closed the car door with her left hand.

He laughed. “You kept the antidote. Clever.”

Yael shrugged. “Not really. You are just predictable.”

“So are you.” He blinked several times, rubbed his eyes. “Now I can see you properly. Another gun? You won’t use it,” Eli said mockingly. “You couldn’t shoot me in Istanbul. You can’t shoot me here. You can’t shoot me anywhere, Motek. Come home, and we’ll make babies.”

Sensing movement outside the car, she did not answer, instead glancing at the road while still holding Eli’s pistol in her right hand, keeping it trained on him. Michal had stood up. She was unsteady on her feet but was now rummaging inside her jacket for her gun.

“Ze po, it’s here,” murmured Yael, her left hand sliding inside her jacket and taking out Michal’s pistol.

Eli laughed. “You look like a cowboy, Motek.”

“Shut up, Eli,” said Yael.

She fired once, swiveled round at Michal, fired again.

*

Najwa checked her watch. It was just coming up to five o’clock. She glanced at Harald Ingmarsson, the Icelandic president’s press secretary. What now?

He smiled back. “I’m sorry. They are running late. I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes.”

They were waiting in Bessasstadir’s formal reception room that looked out over the surrounding flatlands. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its thick wooden beams painted off-white. The cream-colored walls were covered with bright, impressionistic works by Icelandic artists. The furniture was old-fashioned, but elegant: two pale blue sofas with thin, gilded arms and legs; a green marble-topped coffee table; a dark wooden kitchen dresser, its shelves filled with glasses and porcelain; an oval side table with a black granite top. Rafnhildur sat on one sofa and her camerawoman, Ingilin, sat on the other, checking the settings on her camera. Two minutes ago sunlight had been streaming through the long windows, falling on the patterned carpet and the polished wooden floor. Now the sun had disappeared behind a wall of clouds and the rain had started again, the wind lashing the drops against the windows.

Najwa smiled for a moment, remembering the local joke, “Don’t worry if you don’t like the weather, it will change in twenty minutes.” But that was not enough to damp down her growing feeling of unease. She, Rafnhildur, and Ingilin, a petite blond in her late twenties, were the only reporters at Bessastadir. They had been promised brief, but exclusive, interviews with all three presidents and the SG about the Sustainability Summit. The topic was not very exciting, but her New York editors had been very enthusiastic about Freshwater and Kermanzade appearing together. Najwa knew she was guaranteed airtime. But where were they? Presidents were almost always late but there was something not quite right here. She watched Harald Ingmarsson stare at his watch again, his face creased with worry.

Najwa walked over to the array of framed pictures on the wooden sideboard and picked up a photograph showing President Gunnarsdottir on top of a mountain, with her arm around a blond woman of a similar age. Both wore matching all-in-one ski suits and hiking boots.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

Rafnhildur looked up from her smartphone. “Eva. Olga’s partner.”

“A gay president. Very progressive.”

“Is it?” said Rafnhildur. “It’s quite normal here. Nobody cares who you sleep with.”

“And everyone calls her Olga?”

“That’s her name. What else would we call her?”

“Madam President? President Gunnarsdottir?”

Harald laughed. “We are not very big on formality.”

“Wait,” said Najwa. “Can you hear that?”

Rafnhildur tilted her head to one side. “It sounds like people moving around outside. Must be the security teams.”

Najwa shook her head. “Not that. There’s something else. Popping sounds.”

*

Yael looked through the car window to where Michal lay on the ground, her cuffed hands clutching her leg.

It took a second for Eli to realize that the first bullet had passed through the shattered windshield and he had not been shot.

He lunged at Yael.

She instantly raised the gun in her right hand and used the stock as a club, swinging it against the side of his head as he moved toward her. Delivered hard and fast enough, it was a blow that could kill, but at the last second she pulled the blow. Eli dodged away and the gun stock only glanced against his head. Still, he slumped down against the car seat, his eyes rolling, panting erratically.

Yael lowered the gun in her left hand, about to check him, when Eli’s hand shot out for the pistol, yanking it from her hand.