Clarence Clairborne flipped between the news channels. A day after the terrorist attack, coverage from Reykjavik was still rolling 24/7. He switched to CNN. A male reporter in his forties stood against a familiar, bleak landscape ringed with guard posts and razor wire. His voice faded in and out as helicopters roared overhead, each with the letters FBI painted on the side. A SWAT team ran across open ground toward the perimeter fence.
Clairborne’s expression did not change. He poured himself a generous measure of bourbon, and took a long swallow, then opened the second drawer in his desk and took out a Colt .45 revolver. He checked the cylinder: six bullets in place. A commotion suddenly erupted in his office anteroom: raised voices, male and female. His office door started to splinter.
He picked up the gun, placed the photographs of his son and daughter in the center of his desk, and raised the barrel to his head.
*
Yael felt a soft touch on her shoulder, felt the change in the engines’ vibrations as the airplane slowly banked. She opened her eyes. The dream was still with her.
*
She is seven years old, sitting on her brother’s shoulders as he strides across Central Park, pretending to be a giant, walking between the trees. Her mother prepares the picnic, her father is play wrestling with Noa. Her little sister is shouting with delight. The sun is shining, the air is warm, and it smells of summer.
*
The voluptuous brunette flight attendant smiled kindly. “Please lift your seat back up, madame, we are preparing for landing.”
Yael nodded, pressed the button on the side of the seat, felt its back spring into place. She dropped her hands to her legs. She could still feel her brother’s shoulder muscles under her thighs as the familiar yearning swelled inside her.
She swallowed and wiped her eyes, reached inside her purse, and took out the brass nameplate that her father had given her.
Yael smiled as she ran her fingers over the indented letters: “Yael Azoulay: Office Manager.”
She turned the nameplate over in her hands. She had not seen it for more than twenty years. The metal had been polished to a golden shine. She would think about her future and her father’s offer. But not today, and probably not tomorrow.
She yawned softly, stretched her legs, looked out the window. The Bosporus shone in the summer sunshine, Istanbul spread along the coastline, beckoning.