by Adam LeBor
Yael took Joe-Don’s hand in hers, his skin rough and callused against hers. “You knew what was coming. That sooner or later we would need to use the tape of Farzad. That’s why you hacked it from Clairborne’s computer and gave it to me. He is our only chance. I’ll be in and out in an hour. Then we can all go home.”
“And I am responsible for your safety,” he responded. “Which is why you are not stepping out of this car and are staying at least five hundred yards from the residence.” Joe-Don reached between the seats and pressed the central locking button. The locks thunked.
She leaned forward and pressed the same button. The doors unlocked. “Magnus?” she said.
The Icelander held a detailed map of Bessastadir over the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “This is a catastrophe. Three of mine and five American Secret Service agents dead. Half of them killed by their Iranian counterparts and the rest by Kent Maxwell. Three presidents and the secretary-general of the United Nations held hostage. At Bessastadir. Live on the Internet. All on my watch.”
“If I don’t go in, what other options are there?” asked Yael.
“Not many, I am afraid,” Olafsson replied. “Karin is the nearest, but she is two hundred and fifty yards away and cannot do anything on her own. There is a fifty-yard stretch of no-man’s-land before the terrorists’ perimeter around the house. They have lookouts checking the roads, the beaches, and the shore. All armed. We have boats patrolling, but cannot land nearby. The residence has a clear view for miles around, which means a clear field of fire out as well as in. We cannot come in by helicopter. The terrorists are on a suicide mission. So is anyone who walks into that place.”
They all knew that Yael’s plan was the only option. And that time was rapidly running out.
Yael checked herself in the rearview mirror. Eyes clear. No makeup. Skin still wet from the rain. Pale, but not sickly. She looked at Joe-Don, a half smile playing on her lips, the adrenalin flowing. “Farzad is our only chance. You know it. I know it.”
“So does Massoud,” said Joe-Don. “What if it’s a trap?”
She shrugged. “They’ve got what they want. Four high-value targets. The whole world is watching. I don’t add very much. And he wants to talk. He wants his son back. The sooner I am in, sooner we are done.”
The wind sent a fresh flurry of rain against the car windows. Yael took out both her pistols and her phone and handed them to Joe-Don.
“Ankle holster?” he asked. “Ceramic knife?”
“Nothing. You know how thoroughly they will frisk me. And send the sound file to Ortega’s phone.”
Joe-Don nodded, leaned toward her, suddenly uncertain. Yael hugged him, briefly.
Olaffson grimaced and shook his head. “I will radio to Karin.”
“Thanks,” Yael said, as she opened the car door.
Yael stepped out of the police car and began walking. The sky was dark with dense gray clouds. The wind howled and groaned across the empty grassland, thick with salt and the smell of the sea, buffeting her from side to side so hard she could barely walk. The black stone road was slick with rain, its tiny cobbles glistening. She could see Karin standing by the side of the road wearing a green parka.
Karin watched Yael approach, and quickly hugged her when she arrived. “Fara med Gudi, go with God,” she whispered in Yael’s ear.
Yael continued walking until the first Iranian security guard came into view. He was tall, at least six feet, with a long, curved nose. He wore a black rain cape, the Glock pistol in his hand tracking Yael as she came toward him. Her senses were turbocharged, her skin prickling from the rain, the adrenalin burning away her fear as the shrieks and caws of the seabirds carried on the wind. Bessastadir loomed ahead, first the steeple of the small church and then the pristine white wall and red-tiled roof of the presidential residence, ringed by more men in black rain capes.
The man with the Glock gestured to her that she should follow him. She counted six bodies lying on the ground outside the house, two Icelanders and four Americans. Two more Iranians in capes stood by the front door, but they stepped aside as the tall man escorted Yael forward. She stepped into the residence, and he gestured for her to take her coat off. He frisked her briskly, thoroughly, professionally: armpits, small of the back, ankles, even behind her ears. A few seconds later the door at the end of the corridor opened.
“Hello, Ms. Azoulay,” said Salim Massoud. “Come with me, please.”
35
The Iranian guard made to follow Yael, but Massoud shook his head and waved him off. She walked after Massoud alone, through the house to the lounge in President Gunnarsdottir’s private quarters. He sat down at the head of the long wooden table, Yael at a right angle next to him. They sat in silence for several seconds as the grandfather clock ticked loudly and steadily.
His silver hair, his cheek implants, had gone. Here was the man whose face Yael knew well from photographs. Intelligent, calculating brown eyes; well barbered, with a salt-and-pepper beard; skin the color of cappuccino; generous, almost sensual lips.
She said, “We don’t have much time. I will be brief, and direct, if I may.”
Massoud inclined his head.
Yael started speaking: “Your demands are absurd. A verbal commitment from the president, vice president, and Senate majority leader to the withdrawal of all American forces and military advisers from Iraq. The removal of Hezbollah from the list of terrorist organizations. The cancellation of all military aid to Israel and the ending of all intelligence cooperation. Shall I go on?”
A flicker of a smile crossed Massoud’s lips. “No need. There is no expectation that they will be met. They do not need to be, for now. But they are out there, being discussed on Twitter, talk shows, blogs, and in the newspaper comment sections. And once Iran and the United States go to war, they will become part of America’s conversation. Soon the body bags will start coming home, and the American people will ask why their sons and daughters are dying, and for what? Each pillar of American foreign policy will crack. Then they will collapse. There is nothing to discuss.”
Yael slid her chair back and started to stand up. “You will guarantee me safe passage back to the police line?”
“Wait.”
“For what?” asked Yael. She stood behind the chair but did not move.
Massoud said, “You did not come empty-handed.”
Yael pressed a button on Ortega’s iPhone and then passed it to Massoud. A video window showed a thin young man pacing back and forth in a gray concrete cell. His face was blank but he scratched ceaselessly at his back, his shoulders, his neck, his limbs twitching. Yael glanced at Massoud. The assassin had vanished, replaced by a father. She watched the emotions flow across Massoud’s face: the anguish of a parent who is watching his child suffer; the fury that he, as a parent, cannot prevent it; the pure, animal lust for revenge against whoever had done this.
Massoud’s fingers were locked solid as he gripped the phone. “How long has he been there?”
“Five years. Since the Americans picked him up. He is in reasonable health, considering.”
“Where is he?”
“Utah. In a private prison run by a black ops division of the US government known as the Department of Deniable, or DoD. One hundred miles from the nearest human settlement.”
“Who put him there?”
Yael gestured for the phone, and Massoud handed it back. She called up a sound file and played it.
“Now you make sure to do a real good job with that photograph,” said Clarence Clairborne. “We want him looking just right for his daddy’s birthday card.”
Yael glanced at her watch, careful not to reveal her tension. It was 6:21. By her calculation, they had six minutes. “The guards, security and catering services are all provided by the Prometheus Group. Clarence Clairborne personally oversaw the tender for the work, the negotiations, and the fine detail of the contract.”
Massoud asked, “You can get him out?”
Yael
nodded.
Massoud said, “What do we do now?”
A wave of relief coursed through her as Massoud spoke, although she did not let it show on her face. “We” was the smallest but most important word of any negotiation. It showed that the two opposing parties now shared a common agenda. In Massoud’s mind, he and Yael were working together. She just had to guide him further down her path. “You stop this. Order your men to stand down. Will they do that?”
“Of course. Then what? How will you get Farzad released?”
“That’s the easy part, Salim. The United States is a land of many, and competing, law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The DoD is not popular. It is especially unpopular with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose agents have long been waiting to take it down as soon as the right political conditions arise. They raid the prison. Farzad will be freed immediately. He has committed no crimes.”
“When will this raid take place?”
Yael said nothing, but gave him a pointed look and then glanced at her watch.
“I need a guarantee,” Massoud insisted.
“I give you my word.”
Massoud stared at her. “Your word. OK. And Clairborne?”
“He will be taken care of.”
*
Yael and Massoud walked into the front reception room, Massoud with his pistol in his hand. The air was fetid, thick with the smell of blood, fear, and vomit. Everyone stared at them: Kermanzade, Gunnarsdottir, and the Icelandic journalists with a glimmer of hope, and Freshwater, Hussein, and Najwa with amazement. Yael smiled back, as reassuringly as she could, and looked at the clock on the bomb between the four chairs. The timer showed three minutes and fourteen seconds.
Massoud gestured to Ingilin. “Turn off the camera.”
She pressed a button and nodded. “It’s off.”
Kent Maxwell turned to Massoud. “What’s she doing here? And it’s time I left. Like now. That was part of the deal.”
“You may leave. In fact, I will speed you on your way.” Massoud raised his gun and shot the American in the chest.
Maxwell stumbled backward, slid to the floor, blood bubbling in his mouth. Massoud then turned to the journalists. Najwa watched him, wondering if she could grab the gun and somehow turn it on him. The Iranian smiled, as if reading her mind. “You may go. All three of you.” He glanced at the timer. “If you run fast enough you will make it to safety.”
Najwa and the two Icelandic journalists glanced at each other, a current of understanding passing between all of them.
“No. We’ll leave when this is over,” Najwa said.
“As you wish,” replied Massoud. “But the camera stays off.”
“Absolutely.” Najwa resisted a powerful urge to touch her lapel, check the thin wire that led to the mobile telephone in the inside pocket of her jacket.
Massoud turned to Freshwater. “Madam President. I will be brief. Even if I were to cut all of your bonds, and those of your colleagues, by then it would too late to reach a safe distance. But, I can defuse the bomb in time.”
“What do you want?” asked Freshwater.
“Three things. One: my son is released from your DoD prison. Two: my team is allowed to leave.”
“Your son, OK. But your people here, no. Absolutely not. They killed American citizens.”
Massoud shrugged. “Casualties of war.”
Freshwater refused to meet his eyes, stared ahead, duty struggling with self-preservation—and the lives of her fellow hostages. “No.”
Massoud turned on his heel, toward the door.
Kermanzade squeezed her eyes closed.
Hussein said, “Renee … please.”
Freshwater looked up, swallowed hard, exhaled. “OK. Anything else?” Massoud spoke softly into her ear, and she nodded. “That part would be a pleasure. And now, if you would please …”
Massoud walked around to the bomb. The timer showed fifty-eight seconds. He bent over the small keyboard and started entering a series of numbers.
A loud pop. The Iranian tumbled forward, red seeping from his chest.
Najwa instantly turned to Ingilin. “Get this!”
Ingilin swung the camera around.
Maxwell smiled, then suddenly shook as more blood poured from his chest. He jammed his gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. A thunderous boom, and he slumped forward.
The timer showed forty-nine seconds.
Yael crouched down next to Massoud. “The code, Salim, tell me the code.”
“Farzad …”
“We will free him, I gave you my word, so did President Freshwater. Tell me the code.”
“Farzad….” Massoud grimaced. “My son’s …”
Yael gently shook Massoud. “The code. Please.”
“Birth …” said Massoud. He shuddered and went limp.
Yael wheeled around. The clock showed thirty-six seconds. Farzad’s birthday. But when was it? She knew, she realized. Her mind flashed back to her breakfast with Joe-Don in La Caridad.
*
“Every year his father gets a birthday card from him. Same as yours—August twenty-first,” said Joe-Don.
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-six. So he was born when?”
*
Born when? She had the day, the month, but what year? She couldn’t remember. She looked at the clock on the bomb. Thirty seconds.
Focus.
It was now May 2014. If someone was born in August and was twenty-six then they were born in … she punched in 2181986.
The countdown continued.
She inhaled hard, entered 218198 when her finger slipped.
The clock showed twenty-five seconds. She heard the sound of her own breathing, murmured prayers in English and Icelandic. Hussein was silent, sitting slumped.
Najwa looked at Ingilin, then at Yael crouched over the bomb, checking that they were getting the footage.
Yael wiped her right hand on her jeans, running the numbers through her head again. If he was twenty-six now, he was born in 1987. August 21, 1987. That was it. She tapped in 2181987. The clock continued ticking down.
Fareed Hussein closed his eyes.
The clock showed twenty seconds.
What was wrong? She had the math now, she was sure.
She tapped in 2181987 again, glanced at the clock.
Fifteen seconds.
Format.
Yael tapped in 1987218.
Ten seconds.
She entered 1987821.
Five seconds.
She tapped in 8211987.
The clock stopped.
36
Yael watched with amusement as Fareed Hussein brushed aside the attentions of the paramedic. The tremulous hostage with a bomb in his lap was gone, replaced by the world’s most important diplomat, one with a mission to accomplish. The SG briskly waved away an intravenous drip, his arm still tangled in the gray rubber tubes that led to the blood pressure monitor, sat up on the gurney, pulled out his phone, called Roxana, and started to dictate a statement for a press conference that evening.
The ambulance was making steady progress on Altnesvegur, heading back across the flatlands to downtown Reykjavik. The wide road was almost empty and they were still some way from the outskirts of the city. The sky darkened, layered with thick gray clouds, and rain spattered the windshield. There were five of them inside: Fareed, the paramedic, and the driver, while Yael and Joe-Don perched on passenger seats at the rear next to a gray steel oxygen tank. Yael glanced behind her: a police car followed ten yards or so behind, while another led the way in front.
She leaned against the rear door, feeling the engine’s vibration against her back. She had never felt so exhausted, as though every reserve of her energy had been burned through, then further stocks she had not known existed. Every few minutes she shivered from the aftershocks of the adrenalin as it slowly seeped from her system. All she wanted was to get back to her room at the Hotel Borg, lie in a long, hot bath, eat somet
hing, and sleep. She watched through the windshield as the gray blur in the distance slowly turned sharper. The outskirts of Reykjavik came into focus, a now familiar vista of a tangle of highways and low-rise apartment blocks.
The driver’s baseball cap was pulled so low over his head she was surprised he could see where they were going. The rain flurries were hitting harder now and the light was fading. There was no need for his wraparound mirrored sunglasses, but that was his business. Yael looked at the paramedic. He was dark for an Icelander, and strikingly good-looking, with black hair, ice-blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Something about his appearance seemed almost familiar, but she could not place him.
Hussein finished his call to Roxana and put his phone down. The paramedic untangled the blood pressure monitor cables, removed the sensor pad from Hussein’s arm.
“One hundred and thirty-five over eighty. Very good, considering what you have just been through,” he said, as he carefully packed away the monitor.
Hussein nodded his thanks, a curious look on his face as he came to the end of his conversation with Roxana. Yael looked again at the paramedic. He had an accent, and it was not Icelandic. He smiled at her. And then she remembered. The Belgrade Hyatt. Waiting for David.
*
Three more women emerge from the Jeep, followed by six children and two teenage boys. One catches Yael staring at him. He is tall, older than she first thought, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He has high Slavic cheekbones and striking ice-blue eyes. He smiles, shyly.
*
He looked much older, wearier, but it was definitely him. What was he doing here posing as a paramedic?
The connections crackled in her mind. Suddenly she was back on the concrete bench at the KZX reception at Columbia University, pushing Bonnet aside, diving to the floor as the brick fragments exploded around her. She remembered his name, and its later appearance in reports from the UN and various intelligence agencies. The special, deadly skill set that he had developed.