The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(96)

33

The popping stopped. Najwa looked through the window and instantly stepped away and to the side. Four bodies lay prone, crimson streaks mixing with the rainwater trickling off their ponchos. A heavyset man wearing a dark blue suit walked slowly up to each one. He carried a pistol with a silencer attached, and quickly fired it once into each of their backs. One by one, the bodies twitched and lay still.

Najwa felt sick with fear. Fear and guilt. Forewarned of a potential murder on Friday, she had said nothing. The sniper had almost claimed another victim, she had another exclusive. She was playing with people’s lives for the sake of her career. And now, it seemed, it was payback time.

Harald turned toward her, about to speak, when the door opened. Kent Maxwell stepped inside, his gun in his hand, his suit jacket and trousers dark with rain.

“What’s happening?” Harald jumped up and strode toward him, his eyes wide.

Maxwell raised his gun. “This.”

That sound again, louder now. The back of Harald’s head exploded. He flew backward, hitting the wall by the door, sliding to the floor as bone fragments, blood, and gray jelly oozed down the wall behind him.

Najwa froze for a second, beat back the urge to vomit. She had been under fire, in Iraq, Lebanon, Gaza; seen bodies freshly killed or stinking and bloated in the heat, ravaged by torture, hands tied behind their backs, buried in shallow graves. But they were dead before she got there. She had never witnessed executions a few yards from where she was standing, then another in front of her. And witnesses were not usually allowed to live. She thought of her sister, Fatima, for a moment. It was night now in Jeddah, she would be fast asleep in her luxurious home. She was a prisoner in all but name. But she would be alive in the morning.

Najwa’s hands were clenched so tightly her nails almost drew blood. She forced herself to breathe. Ingilin sat rigid with terror. Rafnhildur bent double, coughing and spitting, her half-digested breakfast hanging from her mouth as the sour smell of vomit wafted across the room.

Maxwell lowered his gun. He glanced at the three journalists one by one, as if checking they were still there. He needed something from them. Something that, for now at least, would keep them alive. He gestured with the pistol at Najwa. “You are on screen. OK?”

Najwa nodded.

He turned to Ingilin. Her eyes were blank. “You good to film?”

Ingilin did not reply.

Maxwell jabbed her leg with the pistol. “I asked you something. Or do I need to find someone else?”

Her head bobbed up and down like a children’s toy woodpecker. “Good. I’m good.”

Finally, he pointed the gun at Rafnhildur. The Icelandic journalist wiped her mouth as she stared at Ingmarsson’s body. She swallowed hard, her shoulders shaking, tears trickling down her face. Najwa instantly understood: Harald had been her lover.

“You produce,” said Maxwell. Rafnhildur did not answer. He fired twice into the ceiling. The noise was much louder as the bullets hit the ceiling, spraying the room with chips of plaster. The Icelandic journalist flinched.

Maxwell pointed his gun again at Rafnhildur. “Are you with us? Because if you aren’t you can join your friend over there,” he said, gesturing at Harald’s body.

“Sure. I’m here,” said Rafnhildur, nodding and shaking.

Maxwell walked toward the door. He pushed Harald’s corpse aside with his foot. “Now get moving. You are live in five minutes.”

*

Yael drove Eli’s car as fast as she could on the long straight road toward Bessastadir. The tundra was empty on either side, the stubby grass rippling in the wind. Rain gusted inside the car, spattering the dashboard, her clothes and face. The crunching noise faded in and out, but was definitely getting louder. She kept one hand on the steering wheel as she tried calling Joe-Don again. Nothing. Not even a message in Icelandic saying that the call had failed. No reception bars showed on the screen. And then she remembered: her iPhone was protected by a ten-digit alphanumeric PIN. After three wrong attempts the handset locked. Eli must have tried to get in.

Thunder boomed, rolling across the flatlands like distant artillery. The sky turned nearly black as the clouds opened. Scattered raindrops became an instant deluge, the road sodden before the water could run off the sides and into the squishy mud. The car almost skidded, and Yael’s face was drenched as the wind hurled the water through the broken windshield. She could barely see fifty yards in front.

She slowed down to twenty miles an hour, steering with the sides of her knees, and entered the iPhone’s PIN plus a six-digit correction code. It lit up, and she was about to try Joe-Don when she saw a new welcome screen with a text message:

Hello, Motek.

The iPhone was useless, hacked by Eli. She dropped it on the passenger seat. But at least she still had the Nokia. Putting one hand back on the steering wheel, Yael reached around to her calf and pulled away the adhesive tape. The dark blue candy bar phone felt tiny in her hand after her iPhone, but at least it was switched on and had five bars of reception. There was only one number programmed in: Joe-Don’s. She pressed CALL. Nothing happened. She pressed the call button again.

“Come on,” she hissed aloud with frustration. She held the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. The car swerved slightly and she quickly righted it. A ringing noise began. Yael exhaled with relief and she clamped the phone back to her left ear. The ringing stopped. Eli’s voice said: