The Reykjavik Assignment

by Adam LeBor

  The taxi driver nodded. “Sure. My cousin is a developer. He made an app so we can keep in touch.” He pointed at the dashboard GPS and the half-dozen brightly lit cursors moving slowly across its screen, two bunched up together. “My brother, two blocks away on Amsterdam at Eighty-First, he also has a Ford Crown Victoria, most excellent car,” he said, slapping the dashboard. “My other cousin, very nearby at West End and Seventy-Ninth. He has a Mitsubishi minivan.” He shook his head and pulled a face. “Not so good. Slow.”

  Yael glanced at the television. The news anchors were gone, replaced by a shot of the White House. Part of her brain registered the news ticker: Terrorist scare in downtown D.C., car-bomb found at parking lot near White House … President Freshwater pledges Reykjavik trip will still go ahead. But the rest of her was totally focused on her next move. It was a gamble, but she had no choice.

  “Gurdeep,” she asked, her eyes on his in the mirror. “Are you a gentleman?”

  He looked back at her. “Of course, madame.”

  Yael flicked back her auburn hair and gave him her most winning smile. “I am in trouble. I need your help.”

  “More U-turns?” he replied, his thin face intrigued.

  Yael leaned forward. “Something like that.” She explained what she wanted Gurdeep and his cousins to do.

  He glanced at her in the mirror. “But that is illegal, madame. We could lose our licenses.”

  “You won’t,” said Yael. She continued talking.

  Gurdeep stared at her in the mirror, assessing her and her request. He paused for a few seconds before he replied. “You can guarantee that?”

  Yael nodded emphatically. “Absolutely.”

  *

  Michael Ortega stared at Yael’s taxi as it turned around, corrected its skid and sped off down Riverside Drive. He walked back inside the apartment building’s lobby, the wine still in his hand, concentrating fiercely on a short series of letters and numbers.

  Enrico Vasquez, his shift coworker, looked at the bottle and raised his eyebrows. Vasquez was Mexican, in his late fifties, portly and taciturn. Ortega was half his age, brawny, with dark blond hair and a soft Southern California accent.

  “Changed her mind, I guess,” said Ortega.

  A taxi pulled up by the building’s entrance. An elderly lady, laden down with Bloomingdales bags, got out. Vasquez nodded at Ortega and stepped onto the pavement to help her.

  Ortega stopped at the doormen’s desk, put the wine down, and grabbed a pen and a sheet of note paper. He quickly scribbled “EXW 2575, black SUV, spider crack in left-side rear brake light,” folded the paper, and stuffed it into the back pocket of his uniform. He glanced at the vestibule that led from the entrance into the main lobby. Vasquez was busy chatting with Mrs. Rosenberg, a wealthy widow who lived in a large apartment on her own and gave substantial tips each Christmas, as he carried her shopping toward the elevator.

  Ortega grabbed the wine and walked through to the back of the lobby. There was a fridge in the doormen’s locker room, where he placed the bottle. He walked back to the lobby and sat down at the long wooden desk, once again wondering at the turn-around in his fortunes. He strongly suspected that his good luck—if luck it was—was somehow linked to what he had just witnessed. The SUV certainly looked familiar. A car like that had brought him into Manhattan from LaGuardia airport. He would give Yael the wine back when she came home. He looked forward to the encounter, no matter how brief. Maybe he would tell her the license plate number as well. He knew an evasive maneuver when he saw one.

  *

  As Yael’s taxi sped toward West End Avenue, a sharp snap resounded across an enormous office that overlooked K Street in Washington, DC.

  Clarence Clairborne looked down at his desk. Two cracks had appeared in the phone: one across the back of the handset he had just slammed down, the other fracturing the cradle. He reached to buzz his secretary, then thought better of it. Instead he continued to watch the four New York traffic camera feeds on his outsized computer monitor.

  Moron.

  What was the SUV driver thinking? And why were they using this car?

  Clairborne had specified at least three vehicles, all unobtrusive: well-used Fords or Chryslers in bland colors, with a team communicating by radio. But no, they tailed a highly security-conscious target in a single car that looked like it had just driven out of a rap video. Of course she had spotted it. A blind cat in a dark cellar would have spotted it. On the screen the SUV was still stationary, stuck behind the cement mixer, in the middle of its 180-degree turn.

  The chairman and CEO of the Prometheus Group closed his eyes for several seconds, then picked up the Montecristo Reserva smoldering in an ashtray by his keyboard and drew deeply. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the fragrant smoke. Nobody made cigars like the Cubans. The fact that he was committing a criminal offense by smoking them made them taste even better. He slowly exhaled, opened his eyes, and peered at the computer screen again, willing the traffic to move.

  The cement mixer had moved forward a few feet. The SUV was slowly completing the turn.

  Clairborne shook his head and inhaled again on his cigar. The smoke caught in his throat and he coughed loudly. Why couldn’t they organize a simple tail? A better question was, why couldn’t he? He had insisted on getting involved, had specified how the operation would be run, but somehow it had all fallen apart. First they use the wrong type of vehicle, and only one of them, and then that one gets stuck in traffic. Step this way, ladies and gentlemen, to see one of the richest and most powerful men in the world get royally fucked by a cement mixer.

  The black SUV slowly finished its turn, headed down Riverside Drive, and turned right onto West Eightieth. Finally, the idiot was heading in the right direction.

  At least New York’s Domain Awareness System was working. The DAS took feeds from thousands of police and privately owned CCTV cameras across the five boroughs and funneled them into a central channel for the New York Police Department. Manhattan’s grid system of numbered horizontal streets and wide, vertical avenues made the city easy to divide into zones and therefore ideal for CCTV surveillance. Clairborne had lobbied hard for the technology, persuading city officials that in the post 9/11 world such a system was not a luxury but a necessity, one best supplied by the Prometheus Group’s clients and business partners. A Caribbean cruise for the developer and his girlfriend, together with a large brown envelope thick with hundred-dollar bills, had ensured that Clairborne’s computer had access to the NYPD system.

  The top two sections of his screen showed the feeds from the cameras on the corner of Riverside Drive: the top right side showed the traffic flowing uptown, the left side downtown. The bottom two sections showed the nearby cross streets that ran east to west across Manhattan, from West Seventy-Sixth to West Eighty-Second. If any of his personal drivers had executed a U-turn like that of Yael’s taxi driver they would soon be looking for a new job, but it had worked. Clairborne watched her taxi turn left and head up West Eightieth.

  He pressed a series of buttons on his keyboard. The cameras showed West End, the next avenue to the east, then Broadway. Both were jammed with traffic. Clairborne was as intrigued as he was angry. Why was she headed into the evening commuter snarl-up? Why didn’t she just take the Henry Hudson Parkway and head downtown as fast as possible? And where would she go next, uptown or downtown? Or would she cut across the Upper West Side until she reached Central Park and disappear on foot?

  Clairborne put his cigar down in an outsized ceramic ashtray emblazoned with a picture of the White House, a souvenir for presidential dinner guests. The tobacco had soothed him for a few seconds, but now he felt even more agitated. Especially as he was getting involved in what should be a minor operational matter—not a good use of his time when he had one of the most powerful companies in America to run, a barrel-load of lost contracts to win back, and more. Except nothing was minor if Yael Azoulay was involved. That much he had learned.

  Clair
borne’s fingers moved again across the keyboard. The avenues vanished from his computer screen, replaced by the cross streets. Her taxi had moved a block, but was now stationary behind a red light on the corner of West Eightieth and West End Avenue. The SUV had caught up after the U-turn, now just three cars back. The light on West End Avenue changed to green. Clairborne could see the traffic start to pull away down the avenue, flowing right and left. The taxi could go no farther.

  Clairborne rested his hand on his capacious stomach. Finally. Everything was under control. They had her.

  2

  Very few people had been kind to Michael Ortega in his twenty-seven years. He had grown up in a children’s home in a rough part of Oakland, California, abandoned by his mother, a prostitute who had died of a heroin overdose when he was ten. He had never known his father, assumed he was one of her johns. The staff at the home had been dedicated, but overworked and underfunded, and he soon learned to look out for himself. He was quick with his fists and feet and street-smart, and also intelligent. His teachers saw his potential and encouraged him to apply for university scholarships.

  Ortega had won a scholarship to UCLA to study English literature, but a week before he was due to move to Los Angeles, he changed his mind. Scared that he would be an outsider because of his childhood in an orphanage, and lack of a family, he enrolled in the Marines. After two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, he came home, another recruit to the legion of militarized young men with a skill-set not especially useful for civilian life. In his case, it was static surveillance from a concealed hide and long-distance photography. Ortega had returned to Oakland, tried and failed to get work as a photographer, drifted through a series of jobs as a waiter, bouncer, and security guard at a mall. Until the arrival, about two months ago, of his mystery benefactor. His initial assignment was a little strange: he was to move to Manhattan and pretend to be homeless, instructed to live in the lower level of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument on the edge of Riverside Drive by the corner of West Ninetieth. All he had to do was report on Yael Azoulay when she went for her morning run, and take photographs.

  After Fallujah and Kandahar, it was no hardship to sleep out in the memorial. He was protected from the weather and supplies of food arrived regularly. Sure, he felt a little creepy, but his contact had indicated that this was US government business. They needed to keep an eye on Yael because of her high-level access at the UN. He was a soldier, he told himself; he knew how to follow orders and nobody seemed to be getting hurt. He was certainly getting richer. His benefactor’s identity remained unknown, but each month $5,000 was paid into a numbered bank account at Bank Bernard et Fils in Geneva. He had checked out the Swiss bank, even spoken to the manager. The account existed and was under his control, the manager had said. Ortega then ordered some of the money to be wired to his usual account at Wells Fargo. It arrived safely. It was real.

  Ortega tapped the wooden desk in the lobby. So was this. The apartment block was certainly the most stylish place he had ever worked. The cream walls still had their original art deco lamps and fittings. The floor was black and gray marble. The polished brass handrails shone like gold. Brown leather sofas and enormous Persian rugs added to the comfortable feel. The pay was reasonable, the work was not stressful, and most of the tenants were pleasant and courteous. He even had accommodations—a small studio that looked out onto the courtyard. It was hot and noisy when the building’s air-conditioning was running, but it was free.

  But there was a price to be paid—specifically in the shape of the short, fat man with a red face who called himself Mr. Smith, who was now walking through the front door of the lobby. For the third time this week. Ortega’s stomach clenched as he watched Vasquez ask the fat man if he could help. Smith pointed at Ortega. Vasquez looked at Ortega, then back at Smith.

  “It’s OK, Enrico,” said Ortega. “Can you give me a couple of minutes? It’s personal.”

  Vasquez frowned. The rules stipulated at least two doormen on duty at all times. “Make it quick.”

  The visitor did not speak, but he didn’t need to. Ortega stood up and followed him out of the building. They crossed Riverside Drive and walked into the park.

  *

  Clairborne picked up the glass of bourbon that sat by his keyboard, his eyes still fixed on his computer monitor. The drink was specially blended for him by a boutique distillery he owned in Alabama. He grimaced slightly as he swallowed. They needed to adjust the mix. It was too sweet, cloying on his palate. Or maybe the third generous serving of the early evening never tasted as good as the first.

  He was just about to take another sip anyway when Yael’s taxi lurched forward and ran the red light. Clairborne’s grip steadily tightened on the glass. Delicate crystal from Bohemia, the oversized tumbler was part of a set gifted by a Czech arms dealer in the early 1990s. The collapse of Communism had flooded the market with Soviet weapons. The dealer had sold off a division’s worth of AK-47s to a Prometheus Group subsidiary. The guns had promptly been shipped to Sierra Leone.

  Yael’s cab raced across West End Avenue, weaving around the traffic coming from both directions, swerved sharply, and raced up West Eightieth toward Broadway.

  Clairborne watched, squeezing the glass even harder. “Fuck-a-duck,” he exclaimed.

  The taxi turned right onto Broadway, easily made the next light, and slid into the early evening traffic heading downtown. The SUV was still trapped a block away, behind a brown Ford station wagon and a pizza delivery van, not moving.

  Clairborne heard a crack. His thumb was suddenly pressing against his index finger. He looked down for a moment, turned his palm ninety degrees. Two large curved pieces of glass sat in its center, together with a small pool of bourbon. The bottom of the tumbler had fallen onto his desk, which was now drenched with golden liquid, filling the air with a sweet alcoholic stink. Then the pain hit. He gasped as he stared at his hand. It felt as though it had been dipped in acid. He carefully moved over his desk and tipped the two glass fragments into the nearby trash can, a sticky brown mix of blood and bourbon dripping off his palm.

  Clairborne grabbed a bottle of seltzer from the bar trolley with his left hand, held his right hand over the trash can. He upended the seltzer bottle, wincing as the bubbles fizzed against the wound. He stared at his palm. There were no more pieces of glass, but blood was welling up. It needed to be dressed. He glanced at the damaged phone on his desk. He picked up the handset. Silence.

  He pressed the button several times. A soft hissing. The line was dead. He could shout for Samantha, his superefficient personal assistant who would immediately clean the wound, clear his desk, and remove the mess. And she would give him one of her looks, ever more frequent, that said, You are losing it, Mr. Clairborne, and if you carry on like this, you will lose your office, your company, and everything that goes with it. And she was right.

  Instead he rummaged in his desk until he found a Band-Aid and a heavy monogrammed white cotton handkerchief. He padded his palm dry, put the Band-Aid onto the gash, wiped up the remaining bourbon with the handkerchief, picked up the base of the tumbler from his desk, and dropped it into the trash can. He sat back for a few seconds with his eyes closed, trying to ignore the searing pain in his hand.

  He opened his eyes and glanced at the monitor. The black SUV was still stuck at the corner of West Eightieth and West End Avenue. Meanwhile Yael’s taxi was making swift progress downtown a block east on Broadway, zipping past the Seventy-Second Street subway stop, catching one green light after another.

  Clairborne slid his BlackBerry across his desk with his left hand. He put it on speaker, then punched in a series of numbers. It rang once before it was answered.

  “She’s on Broadway, heading downtown, just past Seventy-Second Street subway. Center lane,” he snapped.

  “I’m on it,” a male voice said.

  “You had better be,” said Clairborne, and hung up.

  The SUV finally turned onto Broadway. Eight lanes wid
e—four lanes uptown, four lanes downtown—the avenue was divided by pedestrian islands in the middle. The first lane was clogged with parked cars and trucks making deliveries to the shops and cafes. The SUV was heading downtown in the second lane. The taxi was four blocks ahead, back in the SUV’s line of sight.

  Then two more taxis appeared in the third lane, to the left of the SUV: A Mitsubishi minivan and, immediately behind it, a Ford Crown Victoria. Boxed in to the right by the parked traffic, the SUV signalled left, trying to nudge its way out. But the Crown Victoria kept parallel with the SUV, its bumper slightly ahead.

  A space opened in front of the SUV. The Mitsubishi darted in front, forcing its way in with inches to spare. Clairborne hunched forward, slowly shaking his head. He glanced at the top right hand of the screen. Now Yael’s taxi was speeding southward on the Henry Hudson Parkway, already in the mid-Fifties. The SUV was still stuck between the Mitsubishi and the Ford at West Sixty-Seventh. Broadway cut down through Manhattan diagonally as well as vertically, and the boxed-in SUV was already three avenues away from Henry Hudson Parkway, heading into the maze of midtown. There was no chance it would catch up.

  He picked up his cigar. The bourbon had splashed into the ashtray and the cigar had gone out. He grabbed a heavy gold lighter and held the flame to the cigar tip; it smoldered and a thin tendril of smoke appeared. Clairborne put the cigar to his mouth and drew hard. The glowing tip sputtered, hissed, and died. He stared at it in disgust, then jammed the entire cigar into the ashtray. It bent sideways. He threw it across the room and exhaled loudly, pulling a face as he got a good whiff of the bourbon on his breath, then leaned back in his $5,000 executive chair, which had a carbon-fiber frame and an inbuilt computer that automatically adjusted to his posture. He waited for the kid leather cushions to slide into the programmed position, the arms to rise slightly.

  Nothing happened. Clairborne pressed the buttons on the right arm control panel. His hand came away wet and smelling of bourbon. He pressed the buttons again. The green light faded, then went out. He reached behind and pushed the chair back away from him, but it did not move. He pushed again, as hard as he could, and there was a loud popping sound. Pain lanced his gashed palm. The chair back came loose in its holding but remained standing straight. A crimson blob was slowly forming underneath the Band-Aid. He stood up, grabbed another handkerchief from his drawer, wrapped it around his palm, gritted his teeth, and punched the chair back as hard as he could.