The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(98)

He reached inside the door compartment, handed Yael an iPhone. Yael quickly went online and found Al-Jazeera’s website. The station was running the same live feed from Bessastadir as the Icelandic radio station. Najwa was speaking to camera from Bessastadir. There was no sign of Fareed or the presidents. Yael switched off the radio and turned up the volume on the iPhone.

Najwa’s voice could be heard. “OK. Understood.”

Faisal asked, “Najwa, are you safe and well?”

“I am fine, but I am also being held hostage, together with my Icelandic colleagues Rafnhildur Eriksdottir and Ingilin Sigisdottir. ”

“Najwa, can you tell us who has captured you and what do they want?”

“Yes, Faisal. Jaysh al-Arbaeen, the Army of Forty, the same group which claimed responsibility for the car bomb found last week in Washington, DC. We don’t yet know what they want. I am not in a position to speculate.”

Maxwell’s voice said, “Stop talking. Camera—right corner.”

Yael stared at the phone screen as the camera moved across the room. The three presidents and Fareed Hussein were gagged and plasti-cuffed to gilt chairs, Freshwater back-to-back with Kermanzade and Hussein with Gunnarsdottir. The chairs had been tied together. A block of plastic explosive was in Fareed Hussein’s lap. The attached timer showed 19 minutes and 53 seconds, counting down steadily. Hussein trembled, his face pale. Dave Reardon sat a few feet away, blood seeping down the side of his neck from a gash on his forehead. His arms were wrapped around his legs, his wrists plasti-cuffed to his ankles.

“Fuck,” said Yael.

Ortega looked at her. “How bad is it?”

“As bad as it gets. They are tied together. Fareed is wired. There’s a timer. Nineteen minutes. How far out are we?”

Ortega glanced at the GPS. “Five miles or so.”

“Speed up.”

Ortega put his foot down. The Lada was built for clambering up dirt tracks, not racing down wet motorways. The wind buffeted the vehicle as it hit eighty miles an hour, then nudged ninety.

Yael looked back at the iPhone screen.

“Najwa, our thoughts are very much with you,” Faisal said. “What do the terro—Jaysh al-Arbaeen actually want?”

“They have not issued any demands. However, our captors have made it clear that any attempt to storm the residence or free the hostages will result in the bomb being detonated. As will any helicopter overflights or the appearance of any vehicles within one kilometer. They say they have the residence completely surrounded. There are …”

Maxwell raised his hand. “Enough. I told you, no details.”

The screen split, one half showing the scene at Bessastadir, the other the Al-Jazeera studio in Washington, DC.

Now Yael understood. Eli and Michal were a diversion, tasked with getting Yael out of the way and taking her back to Israel. There was no Kidon team here, and there did not need to be. The threat was already inside the residence. It always had been. Kent Maxwell, taking care of the Americans. The silver-haired Iranian and his team were not Kermanzade’s security detail, either. They were the threat. For a moment she was back at Patsy’s Pizzeria on Second Avenue, with Joe-Don.

Yael stares closer at the photograph of the Iranian man. She points at the side of his right eyebrow where an inch or so of skin was ridged and puckered. “What’s that?”

Joe-Don looks down. “A scar, from the Iran-Iraq war. He was a commando. Three of his brothers were killed. He is the last one of his family. Apart from his son.”

The plump, silver-haired man she had seen at the Hotel Borg meeting was not really plump, nor did he have silver hair. He was Salim Massoud.

Ortega glanced at Yael. “What now?”

Yael said, “How many phones have you got?”

“Three. One iPhone, two burners.”

Yael held out her hand. “Give me a burner, please.” A plan was forming in her mind. She called Joe-Don, his number memorized, and this time it went through. He answered, and she sagged with relief as she spoke.

“Tell me you are not here,” he said. “Tell me you just got back to the hotel with some new additions to your shoe collection.”

Yael looked at her Timberland boots, caked with mud and bird shit. “That’s next. Meanwhile, I’m heading your way.”

“Don’t do that. Turn around. There is a major terrorist incident here.”

“I know. I just saw Najwa on the net. She looked pretty calm, considering.”

“It’s the scoop of a lifetime. If she lives to tell it. Fareed is wired. If he goes, they all die.”

“I saw. Where are you?”

“Go back to the hotel.”

“You know I won’t. And you really don’t want me blundering around the site of a major terrorist incident without your help.”

“Hotel. You are not needed. They are mustering the Marines from the embassy. And what’s left of Freshwater’s Secret Service detail. The Viking Squad are giving them a chopper.”

“What use is that? They’ll blow the hostages to bits as soon as they hear it.”

“Hotel.” Joe-Don sounded less convinced each time he said the word.

“Either I find you or I force you to come shoe-shopping with me.”

“This is it. The last time.”