The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(99)

Yael smiled. “You and me. Promise.”

“The road to Bessastadir is blocked by two Icelandic police cars. I’m sitting in one next to Magnus.”

“On my way,” said Yael, and hung up.

Next she needed a phone number. She tapped out a text message, added the prefix +90 697 before the number and pressed send. The Lada slowed down and she looked up to see that their car was approaching a roundabout. The turnoff on the right, to Bessastadir, was blocked by a line of police cars, their blue lights flashing under the darkening sky. Yael grabbed the GPS and expanded the digital map. The road ahead and to the left both led to housing estates.

They were almost at the roundabout when Ortega asked, “Where to?”

Now she had a chauffeur, it seemed. “Left at the crossroads.” Ortega may not be a threat, but she still needed to understand what was happening here.

Ortega did as he was instructed, and they drove for two minutes.

“Left again,” said Yael.

Ortega turned onto a side road leading to a housing estate. There were no other moving vehicles or people around.

“Pull over, please,” said Yael.

He parked by the side of the building. The phone beeped. She checked the message. The number started with +90 697. The text was two letters, SM, followed by a series of numbers. The phone beeped again. A photograph this time. She opened the picture file: Istanbul’s shoreline sparkled in the summer sunshine.

She smiled, for a moment thought of Yusuf, the way his black hair fell over his forehead. Soon, told herself. She forced herself to focus, and put the phone in her pocket. Her fingers curled around the Jericho. In an instant the barrel was pushing against the side of Ortega’s head.

He winced, his face twisted in pain. “There’s really no need—”

“I’ll decide that. Was it you?” she asked. “In my apartment, the tell on the coffee table?”

“Yes.”

“Who sent you?”

“Clairborne.”

“Why?”

“To bug your place.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because someone else told me not to. Someone even scarier.”

“Who?”

“I think you know that.”

“I like you, Michael. Something tells me I can even trust you. That’s why I got you the job as a doorman. And that’s why you are still alive.” Yael pushed the gun barrel harder against Ortega’s head. “But don’t get cute. Who?”

This time he did not flinch. “Your father.”





34

Kent Maxwell ripped the duct tape from President Freshwater’s mouth and held a sheet of paper in front of her.

“What is this?” she demanded. A trickle of blood seeped from her upper lip.

“Our demands. You are going to read them on television.”

Freshwater stared at him, her black eyes pulsing with fury, her body straining against her bonds. “You are a traitor. You will be taken alive. You will be put on trial. You will spend the rest of your life in a super-max prison with no visitors and the lights on in your bare, concrete ten feet by seven feet cell twenty-four hours a day.”

Maxwell smiled. “Read them, Madam President. Practice the sentences. Know the words, so you don’t stumble when the world is watching.”

She spat on the paper. Saliva and blood trickled down onto Maxwell’s shoe.

Maxwell turned slightly. He pointed his gun at Dave Reardon and pulled the trigger. Reardon slammed backward, his face contorting in agony, his ankle shattered.

Freshwater turned pale. “Bastard,” she said, her voice shaking.

Maxwell smiled. “The choice is yours. Read and we will get a medic to treat his foot. Refuse and I will shoot the other one. Then his knees.”

“Give me the paper,” she said.

Maxwell put the sheet on her lap. He gestured at Najwa and Ingilin. “Camerawoman, over here please. We are back on air.”

*

“Ortega’s news was no great revelation to Yael. She had sensed her father’s presence recently: in her apartment, perhaps in Central Park, on the roof of the bazaar in Istanbul. Her father, she was sure, had shot the gun out of Eli’s hand while he was chasing her. Nor was it a coincidence that her mother had reappeared in her life. “Is he here, in Iceland?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Ortega. Yael pushed the gun back against his head. His eyes widened in alarm. “Really. I don’t know. Probably. He is a ghost. He appears, disappears, reappears. Can you put that down, please?”

A ghost. It was as good a description of her father as any. Yael glanced in the rearview mirror. There were no other cars passing by or entering the housing estate. If Ortega wanted to kill her he would have done it by now. He couldn’t kidnap her on his own. Clairborne would have sent a team, in multiple vehicles. Who else would have sent him but her father? She lowered the Jericho. Ortega exhaled with relief.

Yael stared across the road. A white split-level villa stood surrounded by a well-maintained garden. The walls were freshly painted, the windows shining. She could see inside the kitchen, a packet of breakfast cereal still on the table. Two cars were parked in the drive, and a children’s bicycle lay on its side on the path. Normality. Meals eaten in company. Holidays. Trips to the beach. What did her father want? And why was he back now?