The Reykjavik Assignment

by Adam LeBor

  “Your father says you haven’t spoken since your security vetting,” Barbara began.

  “He’s right,” replied Yael, her voice tight.

  She had expected her father to be proud of her when she joined the UN. Instead, he had been furious. His angry demands that she quit still resounded in her ears: the UN had taken his son and now he had to sacrifice his daughter as well? Yael tried to heal the rift. Trying to reassure him, she called and e-mailed often with detailed accounts of where she had been and what she had been doing. At that early stage in her career, her responsibilities were mostly administrative, and although she went out on occasional field missions she was in no real danger. But as Yael progressed professionally, her father became less and less communicative. Each time she was promoted, he seemed to withdraw more.

  It was hurtful of course. She tried to find out why he was pulling away from her but never got a proper answer. Eventually, she gave up. She was so busy with work that there was little time to dwell on their difficult relationship.

  Eight years ago, however, just before her vetting for the top-level security clearance she needed to join the SG’s innermost team, her father made contact. He was in Manhattan and invited her for dinner. She gladly accepted, but it was an uncomfortable, even unpleasant meeting. He’d spent most of the evening trying to persuade Yael to leave the UN. He repeatedly talked about David and what he would have wanted. At first this irritated her, then it made her angry. David, she was sure, would have wanted her to make her own path in life. She was puzzled, as well. He seemed almost scared—but of what? Then, a few days later, her security clearance arrived. Still brooding over the encounter, she had entered her father’s name into the UN database, which received information from all the main Western intelligence services and which she could now access. She could still remember what she had read. Despite his repeated efforts to make contact, she had not spoken to him since.

  “He misses you,” said Barbara.

  Yael turned to her mother, frowning in surprise. “How do you know? I thought you hated each other.”

  Barbara smiled. “We never hated each other. Our lives went in different directions. But we still have a shared history. Three children, eight grandchildren. Of course we talk.”

  “What about?”

  “You, lately.”

  Yael stopped walking and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. A young woman on Rollerblades shouted, “Hey,” as she swooshed around her, missing her by only a few inches.

  “Why?”

  “Because we are your parents. We could have been better parents, for sure. But that’s how it is. And we worry about you. We think it’s time to end your UN adventures. You’ve played the odds. So far you have won every time. But you only need to lose once. We have already lost your brother. We don’t want to lose you. It’s time to find someone nice, settle down. Give us some more grandchildren.”

  Yael stared at her mother with incredulity. “It’s a bit late for this, don’t you think?”

  Barbara softly squeezed Yael’s arm as they walked. “No, darling. It’s never too late.”

  Yael did not answer as she tried to disentangle her emotions. She was indignant, even angry. The last she had heard, her parents were only communicating through lawyers. Now they were having cozy chats about her future and trying to tell her how to live? But part of her was also pleased. Her mother’s hand on her arm felt right. She did love her. And she cared about that, very much. And another part agreed about playing the odds, although she was not about to admit that. But the secret files about her father that she had read on the UN database could not be wished away.

  “My father can mind his own business. He’s been on the wrong side of every conflict for the last decade. Kosovo, Sri Lanka, Colombia, Darfur, Iraq, Syria, shall I go on?”

  “No, there’s no need. I know what he did. But it’s not as simple as you think.”

  “Really? Tell me why not.”

  Barbara talked for some time as they continued walking. Yael listened. Absorbed in her conversation, she did not notice the electric maintenance vehicle glide by again, its minitrailer still stacked high with branches. The driver was hunched over the steering wheel talking on his cell phone, still wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses.

  “I have visual,” said Michael Ortega.

  *

  Yael’s phone beeped, interrupting Barbara as they walked. She quickly scanned the text message, her eyes widening in surprise.

  “Bad news?” asked Barbara.

  Yael shook her head. “No. Not at all. And I’ll think about what you said.” She kissed her mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve got to go. It’s nothing serious or dangerous, really. I’ll see you at home in a couple of hours. And we are going to have fun tonight. Promise.”

  *

  The Roosevelt Island Tramway carriage was packed with excited tourists and locals returning home after a morning trip to Manhattan. Najwa had a place at the front, peering through the large windows at a spectacular view over Manhattan and the East River. The tramway was certainly the cleanest, most modern public transport system that she had ever used in New York. The red metal frame shone like new, the glass walls were spotless.

  A forty-ish black man wearing wraparound sunglasses sat on a high stool in front of a control panel. “All aboard, all aboard, ready for takeoff,” he declared mock-sternly, triggering a wave of giggles among the tourists.

  The sliding doors had just begun to move when the last passenger jumped on board. Joe-Don. Najwa watched the operator press down on the green button. The doors slid shut and the carriage moved smoothly forward, climbing steadily over the riverbank. She looked around the carriage. She heard English, French, and Spanish as the carriage soared further upward, the tourists holding out their smartphones to take photographs and videos of the view. The East River was blue and gray, shimmering in the morning sunshine. Roosevelt Island beckoned, its low-rise apartment buildings spread out along the riverbank.

  Najwa glanced up. An emergency exit panel of clear plastic had been cut into the roof. The carriage was now as high as the Queensboro Bridge. Girders, ladders, crossbeams, and cables flew by. The carriage stopped for a second, swaying in the breeze. In the far corner of the carriage, a young woman, perhaps in her twenties, stood with her back to the crowd, watching the Manhattan shoreline as it retreated into the distance. Something about her posture, the way she held her back very straight, looked familiar. She wore a gray beanie hat covering her hair, sunglasses, and a denim jacket. Had Najwa seen her before?

  Joe-Don caught Najwa’s eye and looked at the far corner, nodded his head down. Najwa followed his gaze. The woman in the beanie hat was wearing blue Nike sneakers with transparent bubble soles.

  Roosevelt Island quickly came into view, a mini-Manhattan of apartment blocks, roads, warehouses, and shops. The carriage bumped slightly and began its descent. A memory flashed in Najwa’s mind, of the woman with the short brown hair who had been sitting nearby, of the flash of blue in her Gucci bag.

  Joe-Don eased his way through the crowd, loudly apologizing, until he stood next to the woman in the beanie hat. She turned to look at him, her face curious and mildly concerned. He spoke softly in her ear. Her body stiffened, and she seemed about to call out when his left hand moved inside the pocket of his leather jacket. He gently pressed something into her side while he continued speaking. The young woman nodded, rigid, still staring straight ahead as the tramway slid into the terminal.

  Najwa stepped off the tram and walked out into the open space around the terminal. She glanced forward at the shoreline of the East River and the UN building for a couple of seconds, then back at the terminal. The young woman in the Nikes came out, walked straight back inside, passed through the ticket gates and waited for the tramway to return to Manhattan. Joe-Don was nowhere to be seen.

  *

  Like many New Yorkers, whether new arrivals or native-born, Najwa had never been to Roosevelt Island. The thin strip of land was
a curious hybrid, linked to Manhattan by bridges and the tramway, yet somehow separate. There were hardly any cars on the clean, wide road. The sidewalks were spotless. The air seemed cleaner, fresher, cooled by the river. Cyclists meandered past at a moderate pace. Passers-by stopped to greet each other and chat. It was like traveling back in time. Manhattan was just a quarter of a mile away, but its frenetic energy, the sense that someone, somewhere, would always be privy to something newer, better, even more exclusive, had evaporated over the narrow channel of the East River. Even the name of the biggest thoroughfare, Main Street, conjured up a vision of an America now largely vanished.

  Najwa came to a small square ringed by modern apartment blocks, with the usual branded shops and cafés on the ground floor. She went over to Starbucks and pretended to peer inside, using the glass as a mirror, to see if she was being followed. No sign of a tail, or at least nothing obvious. Nor was there any sign of Joe-Don but she was sure he was somewhere nearby. Then Najwa walked another hundred yards until she came to the Port-au-Prince Café, and stepped inside. It was small, with a dozen Formica tables and tubular metal chairs. The tables were covered with shiny red plastic cloths and there seemed to be no menu, only a series of specials chalked on a blackboard mounted on the sidewall: a medley of goat and chicken, cod and beef. A glass display case showed fresh fish and seafood.

  Najwa headed straight to the wooden counter at the back of the room. A plump woman in her sixties stood behind it, next to the cash register and in front of a narrow door set in the wall. Her black hair, shot through with gray streaks, was tied behind her head. She had coffee-colored skin, blue eyes, and a welcoming smile.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, a bright yellow dishcloth in her hand.

  “Nothing yet, thank you. You must be the owner, Carlotta,” said Najwa, extending her hand.

  Carlotta put her dishcloth down and shook Najwa’s hand, clearly wondering who she was.

  “My name is Najwa. I’ve heard so much about you. It all looks great. Real Haitian home cooking. I’m looking for a friend of mine. If she’s around, I hope we’ll eat together. It all looks great.”

  “Who?” Carlotta asked.

  Najwa glanced around. The restaurant was empty, apart from an elderly man sitting at a corner table, nursing a Coca-Cola as he looked out of the window. Any doubts that she—and Francine—were in danger had been erased by the events on the Tramway. “Francine,” she said. “Francine de la Court.”

  Carlotta stiffened for a fraction of a second, shook her head, looked down, and began needlessly polishing the counter surface with the yellow cloth. “Never heard of her.”

  Najwa smiled. Carlotta was not a very good liar. “Are you sure? Francine who worked at the UN? She was always talking about this place.”

  “I told you, lady. I don’t know her. And we’re closing now.”

  Najwa looked at her watch. “But it’s twelve thirty. Lunch time.”

  Carlotta stepped out from behind the counter, walked over to the door, and flipped the sign around so that OPEN showed on the back before returning. “No lunch service on Saturdays.” She picked up the dishcloth and began polishing the already sparkling-clean surface again, rubbing hard at a nonexistent stain.

  Najwa knew that fifty dollars would not work here. The truth, however, might. She leaned forward, changed the tone of her voice. “I really need to speak to Francine. She is in danger.”

  The woman stared at Najwa, her body tense. “I told you. I never heard of her. Now go please.”

  “Carlotta, if you care about Francine, let me help.”

  Carlotta did not reply, but pressed a button by the cash register. The door behind her opened and a black man in a skin-tight T-shirt and jeans, revealing the overdeveloped physique of a bodybuilder, came out. He looked at Najwa, then at Carlotta. “Problem?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Najwa. “There is. My name is Najwa. I am a friend of Francine’s, from the UN. I know Francine is a regular here. I know you both know her and you probably know where she is. She is in danger. I need to speak to her.”

  “The lady is leaving,” said Carlotta. She turned to Najwa. “Wayne will show you the way out.”

  “But … !” Najwa protested.

  “But nothing. We don’t know any Francine. We never heard of her. And we are closed.”

  Wayne came out from behind the counter.

  Najwa held her hands up. “I’m going. But I will leave my card with you. In case anyone comes in who does know where Francine is. You give it to them and tell her to call me. It’s just a card. Is that OK?”

  Wayne looked at Carlotta. She nodded. Najwa reached into her purse for her business card holder. She had just taken one out when the narrow door opened.

  “It’s OK. Let her through,” said Francine.

  26

  Yael quickly reread the message.

  I sent you this. If you want 2 talk meet me @ Eagle statue at Battery Park memorial at 3.

 

  She leaned back against the low stone barrier and scanned the area again. The East Coast Memorial, as it was properly known, was located on the southernmost tip of Manhattan. Two rows of four massive slabs of granite, inscribed with names of hundreds of US servicemen who lost their lives in the Atlantic Ocean, stood several yards apart on either side of an open space. At one end, a small flight of steps led down onto the seafront promenade and out to the Atlantic. At the other was a giant modernist bronze sculpture of an eagle, mounted on a black granite base, which was where Yael had been ordered to wait.

  The text message had arrived a little over an hour ago. From West Seventy-Second Yael had taken the 3 express train, the fastest way to get downtown. It only stopped at Times Square, Thirty-Fourth Street, and Fourteenth Street before slowing down again for the local stops. She carried out several anti-surveillance maneuvers on the journey down from Central Park, alighting from the subway at the last moment and doubling back on herself. At Chambers Street, she had changed to the 1. During the week, the trains south were packed with Wall Street commuters, but at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon her car, and the two on either side, were almost empty. The staircase at South Ferry was the only exit, a natural chokepoint. As far as Yael could tell, nobody had followed her up the stairs. But it was impossible to know for sure.

  The memorial would not have been Yael’s choice of meeting point. Although it would be impossible to eavesdrop on anyone without being spotted, there was no real cover. It was surrounded by the rest of Battery Park, and behind the greenery stood a cluster of steel and glass office blocks that marked the start of the Financial District. Any one of the offices would be a good base for an observer with high-powered binoculars. She checked her watch: it was two fifty-five. Then she looked up to see a woman walking purposefully across the plaza between the memorial slabs. She wore a red beret over her long black hair, black ankle boots, and a blue down jacket. She stopped in front of Yael and smiled nervously.

  *

  The back office of the Café Port-au-Prince was a small, gloomy room, about fifteen feet by twelve, next to the kitchen. The light green paint on the wall had darkened with age and the floor was covered with red linoleum. Metal shelves lined the back wall, each jammed with worn box folders holding annual accounts, correspondence, and ancient bills that poked out of the top. Although the kitchen’s extractor fan hummed in the background, the room still smelled of cooked food and oil.

  Francine was sitting on an ancient sofa in the corner, its cracked beige leatherette cover revealing the yellow foam inside. Poised, smartly dressed, perfectly coiffured Madam Non was nowhere to be seen; Francine’s brown eyes were red-rimmed and her face was pale and drawn. She wore navy sweatpants and a baggy blue T-shirt. Her black hair was straggly. She stared at Najwa, trying to assess what kind of new threat the Al-Jazeera journalist represented. “How did you find me?” she demanded.

  Najwa waited a moment, then told her the truth. That she had been
worried, that Joel Greenberg had let her into the apartment, and she had found the café’s receipts in the kitchen.

  Francine’s voice was tight with anger. “You broke in?”

  “I had a key.”

  “So what? I didn’t give it to you. Nosing around my apartment. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I wasn’t the only one.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Roxana was there with a UN security officer.”

  “Which one?”

  “Nero. I think he’s new.”

  “I don’t know him. But I do know that girl is a devil.” Francine sagged, sat back. “What do you want?”

  “To find out what happened to Henrik.”

  Francine looked away. “He died.”

  “I know,” said Najwa softly. “But how? What do you think happened?”

  “What do I think? I won’t tell you what I think. I will tell you what I know. There was nothing wrong with his heart. He was murdered. Why do you think I am here, and not at home in my apartment? A couple of weeks ago, the day after Henrik’s funeral, a woman came by. She asked me if Henrik had ever given me anything, a disc, or a USB stick, or a password.”

  “Had he?”

  Francine paused for several seconds. She looked Najwa up and down, as if making up her mind about something. “We never got on, did we?”

  Najwa smiled. “It was nothing personal. We both had our jobs to do. I thought you did yours very well.”

  Francine nodded. “Thanks. You too. I liked the way you never gave up, just kept digging till you got what you wanted. Where was I? Oh yes, I told the woman no, Henrik had not given me anything. She made me promise to tell her if I found anything.”

  “How?”

  “She showed me some video footage of Luc at college, hanging out with his friends, on the lawn. Told me how well he was doing, how healthy he looked, what a fine young man he was. As soon as she left I packed a bag and I came here.”

  “Where is Luc?”

  “Safe. Staying with relatives in Haiti. I sent him away till this blows over.”