by Adam LeBor
“Don’t you miss Tel Aviv? Dizengoff at dawn, the sound of the waves, hummus in Jaffa?”
“Sometimes. But not enough. So thanks, but no thanks.”
“Come back for just a couple of days. You have no obligations. Just to talk.”
Yael was sorely tempted. She could see her school friends, her sister, her nephews and nieces, just be herself. Until she was sucked back into a world she had deliberately walked away from, one to which she had sworn to never return.
Yael shook her head. “We are talking now. The answer is no.”
Eli looked thoughtful, his thumb resting on the top of the cocktail stirrer. “There are more than two hundred journalists accredited at the UN. I can see the headline now, ‘The UN’s Beautiful Spy: The Secret Past of the SG’s Special Envoy.’”
She laughed out loud. “Do it, Eli. I don’t have that job anymore. I’m running the Trusteeship Council. Do you think anyone cares? I am out of the loop and so is the SG. Anyway, you have a far more interesting CV than me. It would make a much more exciting article.”
Eli’s eyes narrowed as the plastic stick bowed in and out under the weight of his thumb. “Meaning?”
“Abu Yahya, Khaled Aslan, Abbas Fahani…” Yael counted on her fingers as she stared straight at him. “I know some reporters. Any one of them could join the dots.”
“I think that would be a very bad idea,” said Eli coldly.
“Then don’t threaten me. Motek.”
“I apologize.” He looked down at his club soda, swirling the ice cubes around. “There is something else,” he continued, his voice serious. “You are not safe here. We can protect you.”
Yael was alert now. “Protect me from what?”
Eli gently touched the side of her face, then looked at his finger, now coated with a smudge of makeup. “From slipping in the bathroom.”
“I’ll buy a mat.”
He took out a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “At least memorize my telephone number. You remember how to do that? Like they taught us? Ten numbers with a single glance. Call me anytime, from anywhere in the world, if you need help.”
Yael looked down at the card. Blue letters on a thick white card said: “Eli Harrari: Chief of Staff.” She couldn’t help smiling when she saw the last five digits of the mobile number: 65232.
“Quite a coincidence, no?” said Eli, leaning toward her.
She moved back. “Sure. The last five digits are the same as our zip code when we lived together in Tel Aviv. About as much of a coincidence as you turning up here tonight.”
Eli laughed, his arms open. “Yael, we go back such a long way. We don’t have to have this discussion now. How about dinner sometime? Tomorrow? Or we could leave now. There’s great Italian two blocks away. The truth is, I have a job offer for you. They want you back.”
“Thanks, but I already have a job.”
“Why don’t we at least talk about it? That would be best.”
“For who?”
Eli continued smiling, his thumb still bending the cocktail stirrer, but now there was steel in his voice. “For both of us, I think.”
Yael stared back at him, marveling at his confidence. Only Eli could threaten her at the same time as he was trying to seduce her. Part of her wanted dinner. Dinner and everything that would follow. Just touching his back when they briefly embraced made her realize that. They were perfectly matched in bed, their bodies flowing into each other, triggering rolling waves of pure pleasure that seemed to never end. Which is why she had to shut this conversation down. For good.
She stands next to the boy, holding his hand, stroking his hair, calming him, as the bomb-disposal expert disconnects the vest. He places it to one side and orders the boy to undress. The boy looks at Yael; she nods, squeezes his hand.
The bomb-disposal expert swiftly checks the boy all over.
Sweat runs down her back and into her eyes. The previous month two soldiers had been killed here. The explosives had been inserted into the bomber’s rectum. By the time they had stripped him and seen the wire, it was too late.
The bomb-disposal expert stands back. He signals to the second man in the Jeep: the boy is clear. The man in the Jeep turns to the passenger in the back, an Arab woman.
She jumps out of the vehicle and runs forward, her head scarf flapping in the breeze. Yael lets go of his hand. The boy sprints toward her. They embrace, crying and sobbing.
The second man climbs out of the vehicle.
Yael smiles at him, happy the mission is over. He smiles back and raises his hand in greeting, but walks toward the boy and his mother.
He says something to the boy and takes his arm. The boy starts sobbing again, shaking, saying no, over and over again, holding on to his mother. The mother keens.
Yael said, “How about if you write a letter to the family of the boy at the Gaza checkpoint, explaining what happened? He would be, what, in his late twenties now?”
Eli’s smile vanished. The cocktail stirrer snapped, “Yael, it was lovely to see you. You know where to find me.”
Eli took out the two pieces of plastic from his drink, dropped them on the floor, and walked into the throng.
Yael leaned against the bar, facing the crowd, and breathed out hard. Relief mingled with regret inside her. She watched Eli join Isis’s group. He immediately started talking to a former Miss Chile, who Yael knew had just started work in the Department of Public Information. Miss Chile seemed very pleased by his attention. Yael ignored the pang of jealousy and drank her wine.
Isis walked over and stood next to her. “You let him go,” she said, wagging her finger in mock admonition as she looked over at Miss Chile. “She won’t.”
Yael shook her head. “No, he let me go. A long time ago. I’ll tell you, but not tonight.”
Isis smiled, a warm grin of sisterly understanding. “Whenever you are ready.”
Yael turned David’s ring around on her finger. “Isis,” she said, suddenly, absurdly, nervous, “You mentioned yesterday—”
Isis rested her hand on Yael’s. “As soon as I know anything I will let you know. Promise.”
The bar door opened and both women looked to see who walked in.
“Oh my,” said Isis, clinking her glass against Yael’s. “You are lining them up tonight.”
Yael watched the new arrivals as they sat down at a table. She laughed. “Wow. I haven’t had so much excitement for months.”
Isis shot her a friendly but sharp look. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Socially I mean. But now that I am exiled to the Trusteeship Council, I might have time to party.”
“Good. It starts here,” said Isis, beckoning Yael to come with her and join the group. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from Eli.”
“Give me a few minutes. I’ll be there.”
Isis walked away and Yael turned around, resting on the bar with her back to the crowd. She continued looking at the new arrivals in the mirror, then briefly checked herself. She had spent an hour trying on different outfits before she left the apartment, trying to find the elusive formula of understated sexiness. She had eventually settled on a tight black scoop-neck top, skinny white jeans, and black Miz Mooz ankle boots, set off by her grandmother’s onyx and silver necklace. Then she suddenly realized what had been nagging at her about her encounter with Isis yesterday morning. What was Isis doing in Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza at 9:15 in the morning? Yael knew that the US ambassador to the UN held a staff meeting every morning at 9:00 a.m. The counselor for public diplomacy was required to attend, to give a briefing on the day’s news and issues affecting the United States and the United Nations. So why hadn’t Isis been there? Yael’s telephone vibrated in her pocket, signaling that an e-mail had arrived.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected]; [email protected]
Dear Yael,
You will receive formal notificat
ion of this tomorrow, but as a courtesy I wanted to personally let you know that the decision has been made to temporarily revoke your UN laissez-passer while the Geneva and NYPD investigations continue, so please return it to the human resources department tomorrow morning. There should be no need to travel on UN business in your current position at the Trusteeship Council, but should such circumstances arise, we will discuss on a case by case basis. You will of course for the moment remain free to travel under any other passports you may own.
Sincerely,
Caroline
* * *
Masters’s e-mail was a masterpiece of UN-speak, thought Yael. What it really meant was: I am happy to ruin your evening with this news; you might still get arrested and I won’t be sorry if you are; you aren’t going anywhere under UN protection (but if you need to, you will have to beg) and I’m thinking about how to get your other passports revoked. Yael pressed the forward button, inserted an e-mail address to be used only in case of emergency, added a new title—“help!”—and pressed the send button. The game was in play. For now, there was nothing more to be done. And there was something much more interesting to watch.
Yael returned to watching the new arrivals in the mirror, checking their body language. There was certainly an easy rapport between them. But it was an almost familial kind of intimacy, not at all erotic. Yael waited until they ordered their drinks before she stepped into the throng and walked over to their table.
“Masa’ al-Khair, good evening,” said Yael. “May I join you?”
Sami looked very elegant, dressed in a clean white shirt and black linen jacket. Najwa nudged Sami as she replied. “Masa al-Noor. Sami, where are your manners?” Najwa gestured at the table. “Of course.”
“Hi,” said Sami, as Yael pulled out a chair and sat down. She was pleased to see him turn a satisfying shade of red. She looked around. “I wondered if you would be here tonight. I remember you telling me about this place. It’s pretty cool. Just like you said.”
Sami quickly recovered his poise. “It’s great to see you. Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks. I’m fine,” said Yael.
Sami turned to Najwa. “Would you give us a moment, please?”
Najwa smiled, relishing the tension in the air. “Of course.”
She stood up, ready to leave, when Yael’s hand fell on her shoulder. Yael said, “There’s really no need.” Najwa sat back down, eyes wide as she watched Yael. Yael continued talking. “I don’t want to take up your evening, so I will be quick. Don’t worry—I’m not going to make a scene.”
“You’re not?” Najwa looked disappointed.
“No. Let’s clear the air. I just wanted to say, no hard feelings. You have your job to do, and I have mine,” she said, extending her hand across the table. “A different one now, of course. But still, a job.”
Najwa’s grip was firm, the look on her face friendly, with an undercurrent of interest, definitely not professional, that Yael could not quite read. Sami held her hand for longer than he needed to, which she allowed. She saw guilt, regret, and a powerful attraction. He really would be a terrible poker player. It was quite endearing, in a way. Yael squeezed Sami’s palm twice before she let it go.
She got up.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it.” Yael paused. “For now. Enjoy the rest of the evening,” she said as she began to walk away. She turned around for a moment. Sami was still looking at her. “And mabrouk, congratulations, on your story in the New York Times today,” Yael said.
Sami was still hooked, she thought, as she walked back to the bar. The question was, was she? Either way, the evening’s seed had been planted.
The man in black slipped the pistol and the silencer into his backpack. He slid the loose parquet slat back into place, and was about to put the coin back in his pocket when his telephone rang. He put the coin down on the floor and looked at the screen: a DC number. He silenced the call. It was nothing he could not deal with later. The rules said that once his mission was accomplished, he should leave immediately. Instead he walked over to the sideboard. An art deco mirror in a black and silver frame was mounted on the wall, above a display of family pictures. One showed a young girl with auburn hair, perhaps seven or eight years old, holding hands with her father in Central Park. The colors were faded, from the pre-digital age, and the picture was slightly out of focus. The child looked happy, her father proud. He reached for the photograph and looked at it for a long time before he carefully put it back in its place. He turned on his heel and started to walk out but suddenly stopped, and walked back to the sideboard. He picked up the photograph again and kissed it. He glanced at himself in the mirror—only his eyes were visible, one blue and one brown. Finally, he left.
17
The band stepped forward and started to play. Fustat, named for a city in Egypt, was a six-piece Arab African fusion group. The vocalist, a short, plump woman in her twenties, with wild curly black hair, had the most extraordinary voice Yael had ever heard. It soared, plunged, purred, and howled. By the end of the first song, conversation was fading away. By the end of the second nobody was talking anymore.
Yael looked at her arm. The soft hairs were standing erect. She looked around the room. Even Eli was tapping his feet. The vocalist launched into a funked-up version of “Baladi,” an Arabic favorite that meant “my country” or “my city,” and the audience started to sway in time with the music. Yael stepped forward and walked through the crowd.
Sami and Najwa watched Yael head over to their table.
“Let’s dance,” said Yael.
“Sure,” said Sami, smiling with pleasure as he started to stand up.
Yael shook her head. “Not you.” She turned to Najwa and extended her hand.
Najwa stood up and let Yael lead her onto the floor. The crowd made way for them, until they found a space in the center.
The music flowed through Yael’s body. She lost herself in the beat, swayed and shimmered, her unbound hair flying behind her. Najwa was the perfect partner, sometimes following, at others leading. She felt Najwa’s body heat, Najwa’s legs sliding against hers, Najwa’s breasts brushing against her chest, the grip of their entwined fingers, Najwa’s eyes locked on hers. Najwa’s scent rose in the heat, of musk and spices, perfume and wine.
The music sped up and the vocalist seemed to break the limits of the sounds a human could produce. Yael dissolved into the music, aware but completely uncaring that every eye in the room was on her and Najwa. The music stopped and Yael came back to earth. The air around them had turned thick, charged. So now she knew she could still turn heads, but she had drawn enough attention to herself. She saw Eli staring at her, felt the strength of his desire for her. She half-smiled at him and looked back at Najwa.
“Shukran,” said Yael, letting go of Najwa’s fingers.
Najwa stood close to Yael. She looked at her with a frank, appraising gaze, her fingers trailing against Yael’s palm. “Afwan. I never knew you were such a sexy dancer. We should hang out more often.”
“Thank you. It’s up to you, habibti. You choose. Stories about me or dances with me.”
“I’ll think about that,” said Najwa.
Yael glanced at Sami. He looked away but she knew he had been watching her. The hook was in.
Salim Massoud switched off the Canadian news channel on the television and picked up the black leather briefcase on his desk. He traced his fingers around the brass letters on the front flap. H and S. A gift, probably. Perhaps from a parent? He felt the familiar pang of guilt. The man’s death was regrettable. Massoud did not enjoy taking a life, and it had caused a flurry of media interest, which was never welcome. But Iran was at war. This was not a military struggle, fought on front lines or battlefields. This war was waged in secret, a struggle for the soul of the revolution, and for the souls of those newly seduced by the Great Satan. And he would do whatever was necessary to win.
Massoud put the briefcase down and
walked over to the window. The house was small, but comfortable enough, a two-room summer residence that looked out onto the edge of a small lake outside Montreal. He was safe here. The nearest neighbors were a mile away. A car with two of his men inside was parked at the end of the drive. Another man patrolled behind the house, where the garden stretched away into the forest. Massoud watched the water, shimmering in the moonlight. A heron hovered above. There was a sudden flash of silver, then another a few yards away. The heron dived, but the fish were too fast.
The drive from New York had gone smoothly. He had even slept some of the way. The border post, on a little-used dirt road, was unmanned, just as promised. But there had been a leak: in Geneva, in Tehran, in New York, or somewhere along the way. The problem was that once it was out, information took on a life of its own—especially in the digital age. He had headed off the threat from Schneidermann. The papers from the briefcase had long been burnt. But that still left several loose ends, most of all Fareed Hussein himself. How did he find out about Nuristan Holdings and the payment from Omega? What else did he know? What did Schneidermann tell the journalist? And who else had a copy of the payment record?
The journalist needed to be silenced and Hussein needed to be removed from the picture. The Americans had promised to take care of the journalist, which left Hussein. Perhaps his blackouts could become worse? Even permanent? Massoud shook his head to himself. Too obvious right after the death of his spokesman. The press would be all over the story. And what about the girl?
Massoud stared at the heron, waiting, patient. Its beak was a marvel, thin, curved, perfectly engineered. The water flashed silver again. The heron dived, flew up, the fish flapping uselessly. Massoud smiled. He knew what to do.