by Adam LeBor
Roxana shrugged. “Information leaks. We cannot always stop it. Akerman is news. He’s shot dead outside your front door, then it turns out he was drinking and backslapping with Bosnian Serbs while they were taking the Muslim prisoners away to be shot.” She paused, ran her fingers through her hair, to no noticeable effect. “On your watch. While you were running peacekeeping. Here’s a heads-up, Fareed. This story has legs. Twenty-year-old legs, reanimated. It’s a zombie. And I cannot control it.”
Hussein’s anger seemed to suddenly evaporate, and with it, his self-confidence. His shoulders slumped, his face gray and lined under the bright lights of the hotel room. “So what should I do?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how many more unexploded mines there are, waiting to go off. I cannot plan your media strategy if you don’t tell what’s waiting out there, in the archives. Or not in the archives.”
Hussein looked around the presidential suite while he gathered his thoughts. The suite covered a thousand square feet, with a bedroom at one end and kitchen dining area at the other. It was a symphony in shades of white: walls, curtains, furniture, ceiling. Even the painting on the wall was a shade of white. The floor was dark polished wood, covered with pale rugs. The sofas and armchairs at least were a soft shade of brown.
He walked over to the glass wall that looked out across the city to Reykjavik bay and all the way to Mount Esja. He watched a six-deck cruise ship slowly pull out of the harbor, a large part of him wishing he was on board. He could tell her, he supposed. Tell her that two documents existed. One put on the record his catastrophic failure to intervene in Rwanda, to even save the UN aid workers. Another recorded that a year later, he had tried to make a second deal behind the scenes, this time with the Bosnian Serbs, again to protect the UN’s neutrality. And how, just, like in Rwanda, the Bosnian deal too had gone horribly wrong.
Hussein returned to the sofa, switched on the flat-screen television and flipped through the news channels. Akerman’s death and the files that had gone missing from the UN archives were being discussed on the BBC, Euronews, CNN, MSNBC, every news channel that he tried. He put down the remote control, picked up the list of accredited journalists and flicked through it. Roxana had spent a good part of the flight over memorizing the names and faces of reporters that she would allow to ask a question. All of them were earnest environmental reporters, completely uninterested in Akerman, Bonnet, Srebrenica, and Rwanda. “This Icelandic reporter, Rafnhildur,” he asked. “Who is she? Does she have an agenda?”
Roxana shook her head. “I am as surprised as you are. I met with her first thing this morning at seven thirty, before breakfast. I suggested a softball question about the summit putting Iceland on the map that I guaranteed that you would answer. I hinted strongly that if it went well, she could have an exclusive interview with you at the end of today about the summit. She agreed!”
Hussein sank back on the sofa, exhaled slowly. Another summit, another bland, luxurious hotel room. There would not be many more, he sensed. His time on the thirty-eighth floor was coming to an end.
The murder of a UN official, his personal envoy, outside his front door, was a very clear message. He personally did not fear assassination. There was no point. It was impossible to completely protect a dignitary from a determined killer. But he did fear the destruction of everything for which he had worked, his good name and future legacy. Reykjavik was supposed to be the pinnacle of his career. The Istanbul Summit had failed. Its vast multilateral agenda—bringing peace across the Middle East—had always been overambitious. But Reykjavik, he knew, could work. A straightforward reconciliation between two enemies whose maneuvers threatened to bring the world to the brink of war, all under the aegis of the UN. A major step toward world peace. This was to be his legacy, not the catastrophes of his time as head of peacekeeping, but now events were spinning out of control. Maybe he should give Rafnhildur that interview. Just hand over the two documents, give her the scoop of a lifetime, then sit back and watch the deluge, ending this misery of uncertainty.
But the two documents were not the worst of it. They could probably be explained away; blame shifted onto his subordinates, the wavering P5, most of all, the member states’ pusillanimity. If the USA, Britain, France, any of the P5, had really wanted to prevent the genocides in Rwanda and at Srebrenica, they would have. A few battalions of ground troops in Kigali; a wave of air strikes against the Bosnian Serbs—these were all that was needed. Either way, the media storm would eventually pass. Two UN reports had officially exonerated him. The SG was supposed to execute policy, not make it—although the reality was different. The worst of it was the recording. The recording where he had discussed—permitted, authorized—the death of five hundred people. That could not be explained away. The recording at least, remained secret.
Meanwhile, he had to make a choice, a choice that could not be finessed, side-stepped, or delegated. It was his, and his alone.
Yael had told him of Rina’s offer—her demand—on the flight to Reykjavik. He had lost his brother. His wife had left him. His only child had disowned him. Even Yael had not been able to get Rina back—until now, when she would reconcile but only on her terms: release the two documents about Rwanda and Srebrenica. So which would he sacrifice? His good name or his daughter?
The choice, he sensed, was being made for him. The ghosts that haunted the thirty-eighth floor, the whole of the Secretariat Building, were coming to life. The Tutsi families slaughtered at the Hutu checkpoints, the Bosnian men and boys lined up in a field, they were all rolling down the corridors, calling his name, demanding a reckoning. But why here, of all places?
Hussein said, “An Icelandic political reporter is suddenly up to speed on the inner workings of the UN archive? Who prepped her?”
“James Beaufort, maybe. Or Najwa. I will find out,” said Roxana.
Hussein held his head in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I have done what I could. I will resign on our return to New York.”
“No, Fareed! You will not. You will stay in office, until you hear otherwise.”
He looked at her with amazement. “Who are you, to threaten me? And what with?”
Roxana took out a small blue digital recorder from her pocket and pressed play.
Charles Bonnet’s voice said, “We need at least five hundred. That will have maximum impact.”
Hussein heard himself reply. “No, no, that is unnecessary. It’s far too much. A couple of hundred at most would be sufficient for our purposes. Less would suffice. Even a few dozen.”
*
Yael surfaced slowly, rotating through her senses, one by one, focusing on keeping her breathing deep and even, her limbs soft and relaxed. She was sitting in a car being driven carefully, no sudden acceleration or stops. Nothing to draw the attention of the police. Her hands, tied together with a plastic cuff, rested on her lap. The thin band cut into her skin. She moved her feet, subtly, and realized they were unbound. Her fingers, too, responded.
There were two voices in the car, Eli’s and a woman’s. Yael opened her eyes a tiny fraction for a second. The car was a gray four-door Ford family sedan, well used, with sagging blue upholstery. A good choice, unobtrusive. The woman was driving. She had straw-blond hair and wore a black parka. Eli was sitting next to her, close enough to Yael that she could smell his Issey Miyake cologne.
“Now what?” asked the woman.
As soon as she spoke, Yael remembered her. Michal. She had had short black hair when she joined a year after Yael. She completed the course, then had never been seen again on operations. Until now. Which meant one thing: Kidon.
Eli continued speaking. “We go ahead as planned. Everything is in place. Once the operation is completed the United States will immediately start mobilizing to attack Iran. There will be an official declaration of war. Bombing will start in a few hours. And we go home. Mission accomplished.”
“And
Motek here?”
“Home, debrief.”
“And then?”
“She will have several options. None of them involve working for the UN. Or ever leaving Israel again.”
“It will be a long download,” said Michal, laughing.
“Twelve years’ worth,” said Eli.
Michal glanced at Yael in the mirror. “Are you sure she’s not awake?”
Eli reached back and opened Yael’s right eye. She did not flinch, kept her breathing rhythmic. She glimpsed the outskirts of Reykjavik. The streets had turned from picturesque to drab. They were passing through a housing estate: gray box dwellings, each with a patch of green in front.
Two seconds later Eli let go of her eyelid. The housing estate disappeared. Eli continued talking. “Absolutely. It’s a knockout for at least eight hours. The next time she wakes up it will be somewhere over the Mediterranean.”
*
Salim Massoud watched Clarence Clairborne come into focus on his computer screen.
“Sobh bekheir, old friend. You are looking older,” said Clairborne.
Massoud smiled. “That’s the plan.”
Clairborne stared at his computer. “Silver hair suits you. But you may need to lose a little weight.”
Massoud reached inside his mouth and removed two pieces of rubber. “Better?”
“Much. The girl?”
“Like a moth to a flame. Exactly as the Israeli predicted. Out of the way and on her way home, for good.”
“The statement of responsibility is written?” asked Clairborne.
“Yes. Jaysh al-Arbaeen has long arms.”
Clairborne frowned. “One thing I am worried about.”
“Speak freely, please.”
“Menachem Stein.”
*
Yael made tiny fluttering movements with her eyelids, as though as she was dreaming. It was enough to allow her to see inside the car and get a glimpse of the outside. They had turned off onto a side road a little while ago.
Eli had her iPhone in his hand and was flicking through the menus. Michal was focused on her driving. The road was empty, flanked on both sides by grass shoulders. Yael flexed her fingers, felt the plastic cuff bite her wrist. Eli whipped around.
She dived forward and yanked the hand brake up.
32
Magnus Olafsson and Joe-Don stood by the door to the presidential residence. The American and Iranian security teams patrolled, one on either side of the building. The horizon, streaked with gray clouds, had darkened. Wind gusted as though the sky itself was breathing in and out, dumping flurries of raindrops that splashed on the glimmering black stone road. The two groups of security officials regarded each other warily as they huddled under their ponchos, muttering into their earpieces. Their gazes swooped left and right and left again while they walked up and down the property.
“Any word yet?” asked Olafsson.
Joe-Don shook his head. “None. She said she needed to sleep. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging from the handle. I checked her room. She’s not there and she’s not answering her phone.”
“GPS?”
“Nothing. She’s gone dark.”
Olafsson laid a large hand on Joe-Don’s shoulder. “Don’t worry too much. She knows what she is doing. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. We are covered here.” His radio crackled with a burst of Icelandic. “I have to check in with my police colleagues. They are parked half a kilometer away. Coming?”
“Sure,” said Joe-Don, not letting his anxiety show. His own sixth sense, the one that had kept him alive through decades of war zones, told him that she was in trouble. The worst kind. Eli trouble. He looked around the flatlands as they walked to the car, as though she might suddenly appear on the tundra, or out of the sea that stretched almost to the snow-capped mountains on the horizon.
Bessastadir was only twenty minutes’ drive from downtown Reykjavik, but the sense of isolation was palpable. It was a tiny settlement, a handful of buildings and a church, built on a long, thin promontory of land that poked into the Atlantic like a crooked finger. Such isolation was not rare in Iceland, but more surprising was the lack of security at the residence. The flat terrain around it was wide open, the gray-green grass, liberally spattered with seabird droppings, turning into a swampy black mud where it met the water.
A low white gate controlled vehicular access to the black stone road, but it would barely slow a family sedan, let alone a determined attacker. There were no fences or gates or flip-up barriers to stop a vehicle crashing into the building. The windows seemed to be normal glass. Overhead a helicopter swooped low, banked steeply, and then headed out to sea. With the Americans and the Iranians coordinating with the Viking Squad, the residence was ringed with well-trained, armed agents from all three countries. But the basic topography could not be changed. Bessastadir was an assassin’s dream.
*
Olga Gunnarsdottir led her visitors through a corridor from Bessastadir’s formal reception room into her personal living quarters. The family sitting room was long and narrow, with pale wooden floors and lined on two sides with crowded bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. The other walls, hung with old maps and lithographs of historic Iceland, were painted cream, the ceiling a darker brown. More books were piled up on one side of an antique desk. A well-worn long wooden table was flanked by a sofa on one side and half a dozen padded dining chairs on the other. It was a comfortable, lived-in space, silent but for the loud ticking of a wooden grandfather clock in the corner next to her desk.
Gunnarsdottir was a tall blond in her early sixties with shoulder-length hair, green eyes, and the brisk, no-nonsense manner on which Icelanders prided themselves. A former diplomat who had once served as Iceland’s ambassador to the United Nations, she knew Fareed Hussein of old. This should have been a day of triumph for him, but she had never seen him looking so unsettled. He was normally so fastidious, but today his trademark Nehru jacket was creased, his shirt collar bent.
She had seen the television coverage of the press conference of course, and the deluge of coverage that followed. But Hussein was an experienced operator. He had been here before, knew enough about the media cycle to know that interest in the fate of Akerman’s UNMO reports, indeed in that of Akerman himself, would soon fade away. So why was he looking so worried?
For now, though, she had more important matters on which to concentrate. Gunnarsdottir gestured at the table. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” she instructed, as she took the seat at the head.
President Freshwater sat on one side, Shireen Kermanzade on the other. Dave Reardon stood by the wall, tense and alert, his eyes sweeping the room. Freshwater was dressed in a dark blue business suit and white blouse that accentuated her dark hair and eyes. She wore silver earrings and a simple silver necklace with a black stone. Kermanzade was older, her dark brown hair graying. She wore her trademark green and gold headscarf, pulled far back from her forehead and a white high-necked blouse buttoned to the top. The two women, Gunnarsdottir was pleased to see, seemed at ease with each other. Kermanzade had waved away her security detail, asking them to stay outside the room.
“There is no written agenda for what happens next,” said Gunnarsdottir, “but let me say how pleased and honored I am that you both”—she looked at Freshwater and Kermanzade—“have chosen my country to announce a historic reconciliation that will change the face of not just the Middle East, but the world in which we all live.”
President Freshwater gestured to her Iranian counterpart that she should reply.
“Thank you, Madam President,” said Kermanzade, her voice light and musical.
Gunnarsdottir smiled. “Please, call me Olga. You are guests in my house.”
Kermanzade seemed about to continue when a phone rang inside Gunnarsdottir’s purse. She pulled out the handset, looked at the number, and took the call. “Ja, ja, yes, yes. Nu, now? OK.” She hung up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure there is nothing to be alarmed about,�
� she said, her face drawn and tense.
*
Yael pulled harder on the hand brake with all her strength, her cuffed hands locked onto the grip as the car instantly decelerated. Suddenly deprived of its forward momentum, the vehicle skidded round and round, the G-forces throwing Eli and Michal—neither of whom were wearing seatbelts—against the wall and the windows, giving Yael a second’s advantage. She knew what was coming. She used the hand brake to stabilize herself, pushed her knees against the side of the front seats, ducked low and braced herself. The front of the car careened into a tree and bounced off, sending the vehicle into a spin. Michal flew forward, her head smashing against the windshield, which shattered.
Eli went sideways, crashing into Michal. He tried to sit up but the car was still sliding across the road and he fell forward. Yael, shaken but unhurt, looked up to see Michal unconscious, blood streaming from a gash above her right eyebrow. Eli spun around so he was facing Yael and flailed at her with his right fist. She dodged the blow, let go of the hand brake, moved under Eli’s arm and opened her palms as far as she could. She drove both her thumbs up into Eli’s eye sockets, feeling the bone against her fingers as she pushed hard under the orbs. He yelped in pain and fell away. Yael slid back and kicked him hard in the stomach, slamming him back against the dashboard. The car’s spins slowed, then stopped, and it came to rest on a grass shoulder at the side of the road.
Eli sat back, panting hard, holding his hands over his eyes. “Kusemmak, fuck your mother, what have you done to me?”
“You’ll survive. And so will your eyesight.”
She glanced at Michal, who slowly stirred and moaned. Yael swung her arms around to grab Michal’s hair and banged her head, once, hard against the steering wheel. She slumped forward. Then Yael reached across to the broken windshield and rapidly sawed the plastic cuff around her hands against a sharp edge of glass. The cuffs sprung apart. She reached inside Michal’s coat and took out a Jericho 941 pistol, slipping the gun into her own jacket pocket. She pulled out a plastic cuff from her left boot, wrapped it around Michal’s limp wrists, pulled it tight. She reached across to the door handle, opened it, then sat back and put her foot against Michal’s thigh and pushed. Michal hit the ground on her side and lay still.