by Adam LeBor
Coffee and tea was poured, cookies and muffins passed around. Yael sat back down, stifling a yawn. It was three o’clock on Monday afternoon. She drank some more tea, hoping that the caffeine would reenergize her. After a rough six-hour flight punctuated by brief bursts of snatched, uncomfortable sleep, her body clock was still on Manhattan time, five hours behind. Unlike heads of state or prime ministers, the UN secretary-general did not have his own airplane. He and his party either traveled on commercial airlines or on transport provided by the country of his destination. They had planned to fly on Icelandair, but after Friday, Olga Gunnarsdottir, the president, immediately offered her own private jet—an offer that was gratefully accepted.
The Gulfstream arrived at Teterboro, a small private airport in New Jersey, on Sunday evening at seven. The SG’s party had been airborne an hour later, landing at Keflavik at seven o’clock on Monday morning local time. There were four passengers: Yael, Joe-Don, the SG, and Roxana. The rest of the SG’s party had flown commercial. Roxana had hovered around the SG for most of the flight, but eventually she fell asleep, finally giving Yael the chance to speak with him without Roxana listening.
The flight might have been uncomfortable, but their accommodation was not. Opened in 1930, the Hotel Borg was Iceland’s first luxury hotel. Over the years it had evolved its own neo–art deco style. The walls were painted a light chocolate brown, the doors and the ceiling were white, the dark wood floor polished till it shone. Yael cast an envious eye on the chairs around the table. Their bold curves and mahogany-and-cream color scheme would fit very nicely in her apartment.
Olafsson tapped his pen on the side of his water glass. “Let’s get back to work. To recap: the United Nations Sustainability Summit started yesterday, Sunday, at the Harpa conference center by Reykjavik port at ten o’clock in the morning, on schedule. The first day ended at seven o’clock in the evening. There are nine hundred delegates here, as well as hundreds more representing various NGOs, plus the media contingent of about two hundred people. The conference is due to finish at four o’clock this afternoon. Security is at Code Red, the highest level, especially after the shooting in New York on Friday. There was pressure from your governments to cancel or postpone the conference. But Fareed Hussein and Presidents Freshwater and Kermanzade were both determined that it go ahead.”
He looked around the table. The atmosphere had eased, suspicion and hostility fading to a wary alertness. Olafsson watched the leader of the Iranian delegation reach for a tangerine and begin to slowly peel it before he continued talking. “There have been no changes in schedule or personnel since our previous briefing at eight o’clock this morning. However, I also wanted to introduce you to my deputy, Karin Bjornsdottir, as she could not attend this morning’s briefing. Karin will be your second point of contact. All her details are enclosed in your update file.”
Karin Bjornsdottir was a round-faced blond in her early thirties with high cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. She looked around the table appraising what she saw. The two Americans nearest her shook her hand, the other two nodded, as did all the Iranians.
“Fareed Hussein has now given his closing address,” Olafsson continued. “He and President Gunnarsdottir are now at the final press conference. To recap, the SG, President Freshwater, and President Kermanzade are each scheduled for a ten-minute meeting with President Gunnarsdottir at Bessastadir. Realistically, knowing that the one thing all politicians, no matter what their nationality, tend to do is run over time”—both sides exchanged knowing looks across the table—“we have scheduled their visits to allow for this. Each of the three will travel in a separate armored motorcade after their closing speech. The journey takes about twenty minutes. Fareed Hussein will arrive first at six o’clock, followed by President Kermanzade, and then President Freshwater.
“And then, my friends, hopefully, soon after seven o’clock, we can all head home.” Olafsson gathered his papers and slid them into a plastic folder. “Any questions?”
None came. “Then I thank you, gentlemen,” Olafsson finished.
“And we thank you,” said the plump Iranian.
“Copy that,” said Kent Maxwell.
Yael glanced at Joe-Don. He gave her a knowing smile. They both watched Olafsson and Bjornsdottir stand and walk the two groups to the door.
Yael waited until the security officials had left and then picked up a cookie, took a large bite, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The heavy brown drapes had been drawn tightly closed, so she opened them and looked out.
The view from the Tower Suite was captivating, bathed in afternoon sunlight of crystalline purity. Reykjavik was built on a long finger of land surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic Ocean. The sea was the color of sapphires, topped with white, foaming waves. Neat rows of nineteenth-century houses, their corrugated iron walls painted orange and blue, yellow and pink, radiated out from the city center. Tiny parks were scattered across downtown, splashes of green amid the steel and glass. The harbor was crowded with ocean liners and fishing trawlers, whalers and yachts. Lake Tjörnin rippled gray and silver, its banks jammed with great flocks of seabirds and swans. Across the square stood the Althingi, the Parliament House, a two-story building of gray stone with curved white windows. Even the sidewalks were smart, their gray edges running along a center strip of red-brown stones.
“Yael, please close the curtains and step away from the window,” said Olafsson. “We don’t want you attracting any more bullets.”
She nodded and slowly began to close the drapes, still checking the area around the hotel and giving a quick, final glance up and down Pósthússtræti, which ran in front of the hotel. Just one detail marred the idyllic scene: The dumpy, middle-aged woman sitting on a bench fifty yards from the entrance. Her pink coat, and her companions, last seen with Eli Harrari in Tompkins Square Park, had gone, Yael saw. The woman now wore a heavy black parka. But her hair, the color of straw, poked out from under a brown cap.
Olafsson poured himself a cup of coffee. “Thanks, Yael, for your help. Soon they will all head to the airport, secretary-generals, presidents, and their security guards and normal life resumes.” He checked his watch. “In just over two hours.”
Yael finished closing the drapes and turned around. “Actually, Magnus, it might be a little longer than that.”
*
Najwa stepped inside the Kaldalón auditorium and quickly looked around for Sami. He was, as instructed, sitting in the front row with his messenger bag reserving an empty seat next to him. She briskly walked in front of the seats to her place. The closing press conference of the Sustainability Summit was coming to an end, and the SG sat in the center of a steel and glass table, talking about the valuable work that had been done in the last two days. He was flanked on one side by Olga Gunnarsdottir and her press attaché, a skinny brown-haired man in a tight navy suit who looked about twenty years old, and on the other by Roxana.
Until the events of last week, the Reykjavik Summit had garnered little interest among the UN press corps. Reykjavik, they predicted, would go the way of all other UN gatherings dealing with the big issues of the day: doom-laden warnings that Something Must Be Done; behind-the-scenes wrangling over quotas for reductions or increases, as required; followed by a solemn pledge from the attending nations to implement whatever had been agreed, which would be immediately ignored as soon the delegations returned home. Sensing the lack of excitement, the SG’s press office had not even offered a “travel facility.”
But by Friday morning, after Frank Akerman’s murder, the mood had changed. If someone was shooting at the SG, then perhaps it was worth following him to Reykjavik. Any doubts were swept away by the attempted killing of Charles Bonnet. The UN was hot. Which was why the Kaldalón auditorium was standing room only. Najwa counted at least two hundred reporters sitting in the chairs and dozens more standing at the sides in between the rows of camera crews.
The Kaldalón was the smallest of the four auditoriums in the Harpa
concert center. Perched on the very edge of downtown Reykjavik, by the harbor, the Harpa complex was a hypermodern asymmetrical construct with sloping walls and windows that changed color according to the position of the sun. Like the rest of the Harpa center, Kaldalón looked like the star feature in an architecture magazine. The bare stone floor was a lighter shade of gray, matching the gray and gold fabric wall coverings. The dark gray cinema-style chairs, each with its own foldaway writing table and outlet, were laid out in stepped rows so the journalists were looking down at the table where the SG and President Gunnarsdottir were holding the press conference.
Fareed Hussein finished by recapping the “vital” international agreement that had been reached and thanking President Gunnarsdottir and Iceland for hosting the summit, before handing the microphone to Roxana. She did not look quite as poised as usual, Najwa noticed. Still wearing the black Prada jacket and skirt she’d had on last Friday at the New York press conference, her blue blouse was creased and she had rings around her eyes that a liberal application of makeup could not quite disguise.
“Thank you, secretary-general and President Gunnarsdottir,” said Roxana. “I am very pleased to see such a large turnout from the press for this vital international summit. I would ask you, as a courtesy to our hosts, to keep your questions related to sustainability and international development. Please state your name and the media outlet you represent.”
A sea of hands shot up. Roxana ignored all the members of the New York UN press corps and instead pointed to a thirtyish woman with cropped blond hair and rimless glasses sitting on the end of one of the middle rows.
“Thank you. Sabine Altheusser, from Environment International. How can the United Nations ensure that the countries here today will implement the quotas for the reduction of plastic bags, for example?”
Najwa glanced at Jonathan Beaufort, who rolled his eyes. She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes past three. The press conference had started at two fifty and was scheduled to end in five minutes. Both the SG and President Gunnarsdottir had been late and spoken for too long, cutting into the time allotted to the press for questions. Najwa had little interest in sustainability, but she was very interested indeed in the death—or murder, as it now appeared—of Henrik Schneidermann and Frank Akerman and the attempt on Charles Bonnet’s life. For the moment, she would keep what she had discovered about Schneidermann and the Iranian connection to herself. She had plenty of questions, but would not ask them at a press conference with dozens of other reporters present. Although, putting more pressure on now, she mused, might flush out more information.
More questions followed, all of them from environmental reporters. The UN press corps was becoming increasingly irritated by Roxana’s blunt but effective stonewalling. But even the highest, thickest stone wall could be scaled—or stepped around. Najwa knew that protocol required Roxana to take at least one question from the host country’s national television network. Which was why Najwa had invited the political correspondent of Iceland’s RUV for breakfast at her hotel that morning. The Icelandic reporters were all friendly and helpful, keen to put their island home on the international media map and flattered by the arrival of the major television networks and newspapers. Rafnhildur Eriksdottir, a vivacious brunette, had been pleased by Najwa’s interest and even more pleased when she explained her plan.
Roxana looked around the room. The clock showed three fifteen. The press conference was over time, but she still needed to take a question from RUV. Roxana looked at Eriksdottir.
The Icelandic journalist stood up. “Rafnhildur Eriksdottir, RUV. I have a question.” She paused for effect, enjoying the attention. “It’s not about the Sustainability Summit.”
The room quieted. Roxana and Fareed Hussein glanced at each other, a frisson of concern on their faces. Najwa caught Jonathan Beaufort’s eye again and smiled. He grinned back and made the thumbs-up sign.
Rafnhildur continued talking, “With all due respect to my colleagues who are focusing on sustainability, the real news about the United Nations, as we know, is the murder of the senior UN officials Frank Akerman and the attempt to kill Charles Bonnet.”
Roxana’s faced creased in annoyance. “Charles Bonnet is no longer working for the UN. This is not a question. It is a statement. Your question please. We are running out of time.”
Rafnhildur said, “Why have all the documents on Frank Akerman’s role as a military observer in Bosnia been removed from the UN archives?”
30
“Now? You are telling me this now?”
Olafsson was more puzzled than indignant, although he had every right to be angry. Presidents did alter their schedules at the last moment to squeeze an extra few minutes together or make room for an unexpected encounter. But this was an entirely different order of magnitude.
“I’m sorry,” said Yael. “But I couldn’t mention it before. And especially not with the others in here.”
Olafsson exhaled sharply. “But that was exactly when you should have raised this. Yael, I know you love to live on the edge, but really, this can’t be done. It is impossible. These are heads of states. Two states almost at war with each other. Here. In Iceland. Where we don’t even have an army. Everything to do with their visit has been planned out for weeks in advance, here and in DC and Tehran. Right down to the last minute. Last second, ideally.”
Yael stirred her tea for several seconds before she spoke. A former UN civil affairs officer, Olafsson was a grandson of a former president of Iceland. He had spent much of his childhood at Bessastadir and knew the building better than anyone else alive. Olafsson and Yael had first met in Afghanistan. There he had been training the Afghan police force in human rights and anticorruption measures, a task he once described to her as like trying to melt a glacier with a candle.
The Icelander continued talking. “You are telling me that the president of the United States of America and the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran are going to hold an impromptu press conference at the residence of their Icelandic counterpart, where they will announce the resumption of diplomatic relations, the lifting of sanctions, and the release of all Iranian political prisoners?” Olafsson looked at his watch. “In just over two hours, without telling either of their security details? Or their governments?”
Yael nodded. “That’s it. But what’s changed? You already knew that the three of them were getting together in the same place. The Americans are handling the security for Freshwater, the Iranians for Kermanzade. Each president will tell their people they are staying at Bessastadir longer than they planned. The only difference is—”
“That the leaders of two countries who are deadly enemies will be making an announcement that will make a lot of people very angry indeed,” he interrupted. “This love-in will take place inside or outside the residence?”
“First inside, then they will take a walk outside.”
Olafsson groaned out loud.
Yael gave him her brightest, and, she hoped, most convincing smile. “Magnus. This is history in the making. Like Gorbachev and Reagan at their summit that ended the Cold War. This will prevent a hot war between America and Iran. It will put Iceland on the map again.”
Olaffson shook his head. “Especially if one of them, or Fareed Hussein, gets shot. Which seems to be happening quite frequently nowadays.” Olafsson looked at his deputy.
Karin Bjornsdottir slowly moved her head from side to side, her blond ponytail swinging as she chewed her lip. “Well … it is only an extra hour. And they will all be there anyway.”
Olafsson poured himself some more coffee. “The longest hour of our lives.” He sat still for several seconds. “It seems I cannot refuse. If that is what the three presidents want. Although a heads-up would have been nice.”
Yael grinned. “I just gave you one.”
“From them. And slightly more notice would have been appreciated.”
“Next time, I promise,” she said, proffering the plate of snacks. “Cookie?
Once we’re done you can write another book. A thriller. What’s the phrase … ‘inspired by real events’? Hollywood will love it.”
Icelanders wrote, read, and published more books per capita than anywhere else in the world. Even Magnus had written one, a children’s saga set in medieval times. One night in Kandahar he had showed Yael a copy of the book, which was a best seller.
Olafsson grabbed a chocolate muffin and ate it in three bites. “Talk me through Friday evening again. I need to go over the background once more.”
“Why don’t we start with Al-Jazeera?” said Yael. “They were the only major network there with a camera crew. The report is accurate and gives you a good sense of what happened. It’s all online.” She reached inside her purse, took out her iPad, and started tapping. A browser window opened, followed by the Al-Jazeera website. She placed the iPad on the table, upright in its case. The screen showed the evening news anchor, Faisal, sitting in the studio and discussing the fighting in Syria with a correspondent when a graphic flashed across the screen: Breaking News.
The screen switched back to the anchor, who was touching his earpiece and nodding. A ticker was running across the bottom: Reports of shooting at UN New York event, second in 48 hours. “We are going straight to our correspondent Najwa al-Sameera, who is on the scene. Najwa?”
The camera cut to Najwa, who was standing on the steps leading to the Columbia University library, its tall Greek columns looming behind her. “Yes, Faisal. Dramatic events here in Manhattan at the UN-KZX launch of the School for International Development. A sniper has opened fire. The party is over and the whole area, as you can see, is being evacuated.”
Police were ushering a stream of guests out of the marquee. Almost all were holding mobile phones close to their heads and talking rapidly. Several looked dazed. A few were crying. Sirens wailed. A helicopter ambulance stood near the marquee.
“Has anyone been killed or injured?” Faisal asked.