by Adam LeBor
“Nothing is confirmed but there are reports that Charles Bonnet, a former senior UN official, may have been shot. All the dignitaries and UN officials, including secretary general Fareed Hussein, have been evacuated.”
Faisal nodded. “This is the second UN official to be targeted by sniper fire in three days. The first, Frank Akerman, was shot dead outside the secretary-general’s residence. Are the shootings connected?”
“There is no evidence yet, but it is certainly possible.”
“Najwa, yesterday you tweeted a link to a video that showed Frank Akerman clinking glasses with a Bosnian Serb general after the fall of Srebrenica, just a few feet from the bodies of murdered civilians. Bonnet has also been in the news because of events two decades ago. Tell us about that.”
Yael glanced across the table. Olafsson, Bjornsdottir, and Joe-Don were all absorbed in the television report. She dropped her hand into her purse and took out a small pill container, opened it, took out two tablets. She swallowed the tablets with a glass of water, then slipped the container back into her purse.
Najwa was still talking. “Charles Bonnet has just been released from prison, where he had been serving a sentence for aggravated sexual assault. A judge ruled this week that the evidence was inadmissible. But more than that, it seems that Mr. Bonnet was involved in some kind of backroom deal over the UN’s greatest catastrophe, the genocide in Rwanda.”
A policeman appeared, his gruff voice cutting over Najwa’s. “Ma’am, you need to stop filming and leave the area.”
“But we are live …” she protested.
“Leave or I will arrest you all.”
The screen cut back to the studio.
Yael pressed pause. The screen froze, showing the anchor. Yael said, “The rest is speculation. The gunman missed. He didn’t fire again. Bonnet is fine. He flew to Paris the next day.”
“Why was he shot at?” asked Olafsson.
She tried not to hesitate before she answered, to put aside her emotions and thoughts of David. “Because of Rwanda, I guess. We’re coming up to the twentieth anniversary of the genocide. Anniversaries always make people look back, think what might have been. What they have lost.”
Joe-Don looked at Yael, as if to say, I’m taking over now. She nodded as he reached inside a folder and handed out four sets of three printed sheets stapled together. Joe-Don began speaking: “Let’s focus on what we know. This is the Joint Terrorism Task Force sitrep. It covers ballistics, initial analysis, and threat projection forecasts. The FBI is the lead agency, but there has been input from the NYPD, the State Department Diplomatic Security Service, the Secret Service, the CIA, and the NSA. Shall I talk you through it?” he asked, while the two Icelanders slowly read through each page. Yael scanned the report, which she had already read and discussed in detail with Joe-Don on the flight to Reykjavik.
“Please do,” said Olafsson.
Joe-Don picked up the jug of coffee on the table and looked around the table. Yael shook her head, as did the others. He slowly poured himself another cup, took a long drink, and began to speak.
“Let’s start with Frank Akerman. He was killed by a single 7N1 bullet. The 7N1 is an extremely accurate bullet, produced in small numbers especially for the Russian Dragunov sniper rifle. It has a steel core and a hollow spot in the nose with a lead knocker behind it. The knocker moves on impact into the hollow spot, causing the bullet to destabilize, spin around inside the body, and cause massive internal injury. Akerman was hit in the lower right-hand shoulder. The bullet eventually lodged in his rib cage and he died almost immediately.”
He looked up to see three faces staring at him. Satisfied he had his audience’s attention, he carried on reading. “The 7N1 was superseded in 1997 by the 7N14, which means that the ammunition used to kill Akerman probably dates from the early or mid-1990s. The Dragunov has an effective range of almost nine hundred yards, or more than half a mile. It was the standard sniper rifle in the Warsaw Pact countries before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and was also used by all sides during the wars in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s.
“The bullet fired on Friday at Charles Bonnet was recovered. It is of the same caliber and has the same rifling patterns, so we can assume that it was fired from the same weapon. In both cases the gunman fled the scene and no trace has been found.”
Olafsson shook his head. “I cannot tell you how uneasy I am about this last-minute change to the Bessastadir schedule. What if this gunman is here? In Reykjavik? The airport is on the highest state of alert, but we are an island, with a long coastline.”
“The only way the gunman could have got here in time is by airplane. Keflavik is locked down,” Yael said.
“And if he travels on a false passport?” asked Olafsson. “And a weapon has been arranged in advance for him?”
“All we can do is our best,” Yael continued, “and minimize the risk.”
The four of them talked some more, going through the protocols and permutations. Just two reporters would be invited, they agreed, who would then pool their material: Najwa al-Sameera for the international press, and Rafnhildur Eriksdottir from RUV.
Olafsson looked down at his coffee cup. It was empty. He held it upside down. “The threat level does not alter. Only the time of exposure to danger.”
Yael nodded. “Exactly.” But she said nothing about the woman with straw-colored hair sitting on Pósthússtræti. Nor would she. She would stop Eli. And she would do it her way.
Alone.
*
Half a mile away in the Kaldi café on Laugavegur, Reykjavik’s main shopping street, Sami was trying his best to persuade Najwa to temporarily enlist him as an Al-Jazeera staffer. “I could be your….” he paused. “Assistant producer. Actually, I am already a coproducer, on the coltan film. You have to take me.”
Najwa stirred her coffee, licked her spoon, then glanced at the ceiling. “Do I? I’m just trying to remember our most recent conversation about a division of labor. In McLaughlin’s.”
Sami knew what was coming. “Yes, but—”
“Exactly. Your words. Yes, but. ‘Yes, but the last time I checked, I was employed by the New York Times, not by Al-Jazeera.’” Najwa smiled, enjoying herself. “All our vacancies are listed on our website. Habibi.”
“Well, now, I would love to be employed by Al-Jazeera …”
Najwa put her hand on his. “I’m sorry. The terms are set in stone. Two reporters for the pool. One local, and one international. And anyway, what’s the big fuss? It will just be more blah-blah about sustainability.”
He shook off Najwa’s hand. “Two television reporters. What about print?”
“Print. You are so twentieth century. You can write us up once we have broadcast our stories.”
He frowned. “This is ridiculous. My editors are calling every twenty minutes demanding updates for the website. And now the American and Iranian presidents are going to be in the same building. What if they issue a joint statement, or say something?”
“About what? Plastic bags? Freshwater visits Gunnarsdottir. Kermanzade visits Gunnarsdottir. And the SG adds his buck’s worth of platitudes. Blah, blah, recycle more, save the whales, then we are back to New York.” She looked around. “Although actually, I am getting to like it here. It’s kind of like Brooklyn without the jerks. Everyone I meet here seems to be a writer. But they actually produce books and get them published.”
From the outside Kaldi looked like a house: three stories tall, with a small front door painted white to match the large windows looking onto the street. The front of the building, and that of its immediate neighbors, was covered in sheets of corrugated iron, painted brown, to protect it from the elements. Inside it was a relaxed, comfortable place, eclectically decorated with blue walls, a white ceiling with exposed wooden beams, and stripped brickwork. A wooden upright piano stood by the long copper bar. The music of Sigur Rós, one of Iceland’s best-known groups, swirled gently around the room.
Najwa too
k another sip of her drink. “Who knew that they had such good coffee in Iceland?” She looked back at Sami. “I’m sorry, habibi. I can’t. I even have to use Rafnhildur’s cameraman. No producer. Maria and Philippe are already pissed. I can’t leave them and take you. Anyway, you have your story.”
Sami sipped his coffee. “Which one?”
“You know very well what I am talking about. The photo of Yael in Gaza. What are you going to do about it? She is here, you know. Why don’t you try and talk to her. Get her side of the story? Does she know you have it?”
“I think so. I saw her on Friday, at Columbia, before the shooting. She looked embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed is good. You can leverage that up into a full and frank account of what happened. Exploit her guilt.”
“Does she feel guilty?”
“Of course she feels guilty. She’s an Israeli liberal. You are a Palestinian.”
“It will have to wait until New York.” He picked up his messenger bag. “I’m going back to the hotel to write my story. Beaufort wants to meet for a coffee.”
Najwa put her cup down. “Beaufort?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Jonathan Beaufort. The correspondent for the Times of London. I believe you know him,” said Sami dryly.
“What does he want?”
“It’s not what he wants. It’s what he’s got.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “He says he has a lead that he really wants to talk about, maybe share the story.”
“A lead on what?”
“Akerman. Or Bonnet, I guess. Or both.”
Najwa stared at him. “Beaufort and you? Sharing?”
“What’s the big surprise? You and I used to share.”
Najwa was alarmed. “Used to?”
“Yes,” said Sami, looking at his watch. “Until I applied for a job.”
“I’ll talk to HR. Why would Beaufort share with you?”
She stared at Sami. He looked relaxed, in control. Was he playing her? She thought so. But now, after the shootings, there were so many rumors flying around the UN building and the press corps that it was best not to rule out anything, no matter how outlandish it sounded. Everyone sensed the web drawing more tightly around Fareed Hussein. His and Roxana’s blustering performance in the press conference would only fuel the fire. Neither had a decent answer to Rafnhildur’s question about Akerman’s records. They had kept looking at each other uncertainly, and eventually took refuge in a bromide about investigating the claim.
“It’s a swap,” said Sami. “I give him the Yael photo. He gives me what he’s got. He breaks his story first. I have my follow-up already written as soon as his goes online and vice-versa when I write the Yael story. Do you want in?”
“Of course.”
Sami handed her a mobile phone. A tiny microphone was attached to the handset by a thin black cable. “You clip this to your jacket, put the phone in the inside pocket. You call me as soon as you arrive at Bessastadir, and leave the line open.”
Najwa slowly stirred her coffee. “First you retweet and favorite my tweets. And you include my handle in all of your tweets. For ten minutes. Then you can use whatever you hear to send your own.”
Sami paused for a moment. “OK for the retweets and the favorites and your handle. But two minutes max. Then it’s open season.”
“Eight.”
“Four.”
“Six.”
Sami extended his hand across the table. “Deal.”
31
She is walking down Yefet Street, deep into Jaffa, far from the tourist shops and restaurants. She treads carefully on the cracked sidewalks, past the kebab stands, the car repair workshops, the drug dealers idling in the doorways. She turns right at the bakery, heading toward the dilapidated villas overlooking the beach. It is a bright autumn afternoon, still warm enough for bathers. The sunshine sparkles on the waves, the air carries the smell of salt. A boy, twelve or thirteen, leads a foal across the sand, its hooves leaving delicate, precise imprints.
She is on the way to meet a new friend. Khamis is an Arab Israeli, a postgraduate student at Tel Aviv University, studying the 1948 war. A handsome, quiet man with long eyelashes, he is already captivated by the beautiful, wide-eyed American student newly arrived in Israel and yearning for justice for the Palestinians, whose hands keep brushing against him. He wants to take her to his favorite hummus restaurant.
She glances up and down the road. She has been to Jaffa many times, but never this far south, into the rundown side streets. A gang of teenagers sits on a low wall, smoking, whistling, and cat-calling when they see her. A car drives past, missing her by inches, Arab music blaring from the windows. The acrid smell of hashish mixes with the scent of the sea.
Eli’s words echo in her head. “You won’t see us. But we see you, wherever you are. Don’t worry. We are watching.”
*
Yael stood at the railing on the bank of Lake Tjörnin, watching the seabirds soar and swoop. The lake was in the heart of downtown Reykjavik, just a few minutes’ walk from the Hotel Borg. The shore was lined with large, detached houses painted in bright colors, their reflections shimmering on water the color of gunmetal. The sky was a patchwork of clouds, daubs of white on a vast gray canvas. The wind gusted back and forth, sending gentle waves lapping at the shore.
Seabirds and swans hopped along the cobbles of the path, chirping and cawing. Yael had only been in the country a few hours, but she was already captivated. She had been to many remote places, ones that could only be reached by propeller planes landing on airstrips hewn from the jungle. Keflavik International Airport was like any other—slick, modern, full of shops. But the landscape, almost lunar in its rawness, was not. The road into Reykjavik wound through great fields of black lava. There were no trees or bushes; the sole vegetation seemed to be a hardy orange-brown grass. Iceland was part of the modern world, with mobile phones, American hotel chains, bearded baristas, and high-speed Internet, yet still there was something elemental about the place, almost primeval. A reminder that the daily squabbles and struggles of human existence—all the striving, intrigue, plots, and cabals—were ultimately pointless and irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the planet itself, a chunk of rock spinning through space.
Yael looked down at the row of framed pictures on the railing that showcased the avian varieties. Who knew bird-watching could be so engrossing? A whooper swan glided across the water, its long white neck regally straight. A short and stubby greylag goose bobbed past, its beady black eyes looking from side to side. A mallard watched her warily from the stone bank, its green head tucked into its curved body. The sun suddenly emerged and the lake shimmered. The breeze faded away. The air was cool and fresh.
She was a long way from Jaffa. But part of her was still walking down Yefet Street, knowing that Eli was watching. Khamis, she later learned, was really called Mahmoud, and he was not from Jaffa. There had been signs: Arabs from Jaffa were usually fluent in Hebrew, their Arabic inflected with slang from neighboring Tel Aviv, and he could not speak Hebrew properly. At times he seemed not to know his way around the backstreets. This was because he was from Gaza, Eli had revealed. He had infiltrated Israel and was part of a Hamas cell that planned to kidnap Yael and hold her hostage in exchange for several high-ranking political prisoners. So he told her. Then, at least, she had believed Eli.
A small part of Eli’s story was true. Mahmoud really was from Gaza, she’d eventually discovered. The rest was a lie. He was gay and had fled to Israel, the only country in the region where it was possible to live freely as a homosexual. But there was a price for admittance: in Gaza they called it collaboration, and in Tel Aviv they called it cooperation. Mahmoud was to make himself useful in training exercises. Word soon trickled back to the refugee camps, and Hamas issued a death sentence. Mahmoud refused to carry on working with Eli. He hanged himself in his prison cell the night before he was to be sent back.
Yael watched the mallard uncurl its neck, admiring the
bird’s smooth confidence as it slid into the water and paddled out into the lake. She was prepared: a Nokia burner was taped above her ankle inside her right boot. Two pairs of plastic cuffs were jammed down the side of the left. She knew what Eli would use and she had taken the antidote in the hotel. She did not feel nervous. Rather, she felt a calm certainty that Reykjavik would be where she finished her business with Eli. For good.
Her mind drifted back to the meeting with Magnus and Karin. Then she remembered what had been nagging at her. The portly man with the silver hair, the head of the Iranian delegation. An inch of skin by his right eyebrow, puckered and scarred. She had seen that scar before. She took out her phone and called up Joe-Don’s number. Nothing happened. Joe-Don did not know she was out by the lake. She had told him she needed a nap for an hour before they headed to Bessastadir, and he had believed her, more or less. She had slipped the DO NOT DISTURB sign on her door and snuck out of the back entrance of the hotel. He would be furious, she knew, especially after the shooting at Columbia University.
She looked down. There were no bars on the network connection indicator. She tried again. Still nothing. There was no point trying to use it. Something was blocking the signal. It was starting.
An insect bit her neck. She raised her hand to swat it away.
“Hello, Motek,” said a familiar voice behind her.
Yael wheeled around and her legs gave way.
*
Three miles away, Fareed Hussein paced back and forth across the presidential suite at the Hilton Reykjavik Nordica, his face twisted in anger as he gripped a sheaf of papers.
“How?” he demanded. “How could you allow that—that fiasco—to happen?”
“I resent that,” said Roxana, her eyes glittering dangerously. “It was not a fiasco. Everything was fine until the last question.”
Hussein sat down by the desk, pointing the papers at Roxana like a weapon. “Exactly. The last question. How did that Icelandic journalist know about Akerman’s documents?”
He stared at Roxana. He had never seen her like this before. She was rattled, disheveled, her hair in disarray. She even smelled different, a heavy application of Zest barely disguising yesterday’s sweat.