The Devil's Breath (35 page)

McVeigh nodded, trying to follow the argument. His knowledge of Middle Eastern politics was far from complete. ‘The PLO?’ he said. ‘Arafat?’

Amer shook his head. ‘The kids think he’s a joke. They’ve no time for him. They think he’s gone soft. Too much
barrani
. Too much sitting on his backside in the office. No …’ He shook his head. ‘Arafat isn’t the answer. Not to them.’

‘And you?’ McVeigh smiled. ‘What do you think?’

Amer looked at him, returning the smile, not answering, then he turned to Cela and spoke quickly in Arabic. Cela nodded, looking at her watch. Moshe had left the restaurant half an hour ago, wolfing a plate of lamb stew and going back outside to guard the lorry.

Cela got to her feet. ‘Moshe’s got to move,’ she said. ‘They clear the square at nine.’ She disappeared towards the street, threading her way between the crowded tables.

Amer ordered coffee from the waiter, then turned back to McVeigh. ‘You know how many kids we’ve lost since ’87?’ he said.

McVeigh shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Over a thousand. A
thousand
.’ He paused. ‘And you know who killed nearly half of them?’

‘No.’

‘We did. Our people did. Because they thought some of these kids were
ameel
, traitors, collaborators. That’s what the Israelis have done to us.’ He paused again. ‘We live under occupation. The Israelis treat us the way the Nazis treated the French. We have identity cards. Road-blocks. Curfews. They arrest us without charge and imprison us without trial. There’s
t’azeeb
, too. Torture. That’s why the kids in the street are singing for Saddam Hussein …’ He shrugged. ‘But you know why I hate the Israelis? Why I really hate them? Because of what they’ve done to us, to the way we live. No one trusts anyone any more. Trust has gone. The Israelis have taken it away and buried it.’ He leaned back in the chair, nodding quietly, the same careful
tone of voice, the same quiet smile. ‘Has she told you about my sister? My sister’s son?’

‘Who?’

‘Cela.’

‘No.’

Amer nodded, leaning forward again. ‘My sister has three children. All sons. Her name is Hala. One of the sons was taken by the Israelis. I forget why. They do it all the time. He went to prison for a while. A month, I think. Maybe longer. Then he came out. They released him. They set him free …’ He gestured with his hand, opening it. ‘My sister is delighted. The boy is OK. Not too much torture. Not too much
t’azeeb
…’ He paused. ‘Two weeks go by. Everything is fine. Then the boy is taken away again, one night, the
moharebbin
this time, our people, my people,
Intifada
people …’

‘And?’

Amer hesitated for a moment, looking at McVeigh, visibly angry now. ‘He was killed. Tied to a car and dragged up and down the street, and killed. It’s a form of punishment. Our people do it all the time. They call it justice.’

McVeigh stared at him, imagining it, up and down the road, bone and bare flesh.

‘Why?’ he said at last. ‘Why was he killed?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. Some people will say one thing. Some another. But that’s the truth of it. Nobody knows. And soon, nobody will care.’ He paused, shrugging. ‘So … we kill each other and nobody cares. That’s what the Israelis have done to us. That’s where we are.’

McVeigh nodded, sitting back, making room for the coffees on the table. Amer didn’t move. He was looking away, out into the restaurant, preoccupied. McVeigh eased one of the coffees towards him.

‘What about the mother?’ he said. ‘Your sister?’

‘She was in prison, too.’

‘Then?’

‘Now. The last three weeks.’

‘And?’

Amer turned his head, looking McVeigh in the eye for a moment. Then he shrugged, a gesture close to defeat.

‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘She died yesterday. In prison. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I came to tell Cela.’

*

Laura lay on the bed, staring at the window, rehearsing the scene yet again.

He’d come soon, she knew it. He’d appear unannounced, walking in from the street or along the hotel corridor, a face at the table in the restaurant, a knock at the bedroom door, the big grin, the hug, the restlessness stilled for as long as it took to say ‘hi’, and catch up on the news, the kids, the house. He’d tell her how pretty she looked, how much he’d missed her, and the compliments would be all the warmer for being genuine.

It wouldn’t rest there. It never did. They’d say their hallos properly, share a night’s rest, and then there’d be the challenge of yet another day, a brand-new sheet of paper torn from the Book of Life. She smiled, thinking about it, the innocence of the man, his appetite, his energy, the brightness of the crayons in his box. That was why she’d loved him from the start, knowing how rare it was to find someone so utterly uncorrupted, so completely loyal. That was why she’d married him, tried so hard to bear his children. That was what she was doing here now, trying to buffer him from the shock, explaining what would really happen.

She turned over, reaching for the glass of water at the bedside, hearing Emery pacing up and down the room next door. His phone had been ringing all afternoon, long conversations, on and on. She marvelled at his stamina, knowing he hadn’t slept on the flight, sensing how complex his problems had become. Like Ron, he never discussed his work with her, and like with Ron, she never asked.

She swallowed the last of the water and lay back on the bed, closing her eyes. Later, around midnight, she’d phone home. The older kids would be back from high school, six o’clock in the evening. It was a new experience for them, her not being there, and she wasn’t sure how her sister would cope. Evenings
with Bree were seldom easy, and if the child was upset by the change of routine, then it would be doubly difficult. She smiled again as she remembered Bree’s parting words as she stepped into the cab for Dulles Airport.

‘Daddy,’ she’d said. ‘Tell Daddy to come home.’

*

In the end, it was Inge’s suggestion to make the phone call.

Wulf had a number of addresses. The family home was in Berlin, a handsome eighteenth-century house in its own grounds near the Tegeler See, but he had three other properties dotted around the Republic. Weekdays normally found him in Dusseldorf, where he’d recently established a major presence, and Inge had the number of the penthouse flat on top of the new offices where he spent most evenings. If Telemann was serious, if he needed to meet Otto Wulf, then she would telephone and arrange it. Doing it himself, phoning direct, would be a waste of time. Wulf led a tightly organized life, protected by secretaries and a punishing schedule. Personal introductions were
absolut notwendig
.

Telemann agreed to the arrangement with two stipulations. She wasn’t to use his name, and she wasn’t to go into any kind of detail. He was to be a visting American, the friend of a friend, a man with a business proposition about which she knew nothing. Inge, listening, shook her head. Wulf never mixed business with pleasure. People with propositions took their turn through the normal channels. No favours. No short-cuts. It was an iron rule and he never broke it. If Telemann was to use the relationship, to take advantage of it, then the pitch had to be a great deal more intimate than that.

Telemann shrugged. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he said. ‘I date the guy?’

Inge knelt beside him, pouring a beer. Outside it was raining, early evening, a hard, steel-grey sky. Inge emptied the last of the beer and stood up. Excitement suited her.

‘You’re in love with me,’ she announced. ‘You’re crazy about me. You want me. You need to talk to him about it. Man to man. Face to face.
Ja
?’

‘You’re nuts.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll tell him we’ve talked about it, you and me. You know everything because I’ve told you everything. You know about him. You know he comes here. You know the things we do together, how close we are. You know everything. And so now it’s time for you both to talk.’

‘And what about you? What do you say?’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I tell him the same. I confirm it all. I tell him it’s very difficult. I tell him something’s got to be done.’

‘And he’ll see me? Because of that?’

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘He’ll want to see you because I’ll tell him you’re great in bed. He won’t believe it. No one’s better in bed than he is. So—’ she shrugged ‘—he’ll have to see you. Then you’re on your own.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’ She looked pointedly at the phone and Telemann nodded, as helpless as ever, hoping his German could cope with the next few minutes. He needed to follow the conversation, be at least half-convinced that he wasn’t, once again, being set up. The plan had the sole merit of getting him close to Wulf. After that, as she rightly said, he was on his own.

She dialled a number from memory, reaching for a cigarette from a pack in her bag. After a while, the number answered. Telemann heard a deep voice on the other end, sonorous, beautifully modulated. Inge smiled, murmuring a minor obscenity, provoking a rich bark of laughter. They talked for a while about nothing of any consequence, easy chatter, the tip of a real relationship, and Telemann found himself wondering about the rest of the iceberg, just how possible it might be to share that much time in bed and not establish at least the beginnings of something deeper.

At length, behind a cloud of smoke, Inge said she had a problem. She explained it briefly, matter-of-fact, this other guy, good-looking, funny, hot in bed, a chance encounter turning rapidly into something else. The way she put it, her language, her tone of voice, she might have been talking about the plumbing. She stopped, listening intently, watching Telemann
across the room. Then she nodded, frowning, her voice a little higher, a shrillness Telemann hadn’t heard before.

‘
Warum?
’ she said. ‘Why?’

She bent to the phone again, listening to his answer, visibly annoyed. ‘You think I’m lying? Is that it? You …’

She broke off, shrugging, not bothering to complete the sentence, the point made. Telemann heard Wulf at the other end, his voice low, that same rich laugh, and he watched her face soften again, pacified. She reached down for her bag, opening it, sorting quickly through it. Then she bent to the phone again. ‘The perfume,’ she said. ‘L’Orphée. OK?’

Telemann heard Wulf grunt assent, then Inge was blowing wet kisses down the phone, bringing the conversation to an end. The phone back on the floor, she looked up. ‘Tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘He’ll see you at eight o’clock.’

‘Where?’

‘Dusseldorf.’

Telemann nodded. ‘And the Orphée?’ he said, looking at the bag. ‘The perfume?’

Inge’s face clouded for a moment, then she shrugged. ‘He’s a very careful man,’ she said. ‘You have to take something from me. Something that proves it’s you. I said the perfume.’ She shrugged again. ‘And he said yes.’

12

The old man, Abu Yussuf, looked at his watch again, knowing that he musn’t leave it too late. Nine hours, he thought. Ramallah is nine hours ahead. He checked the watch a second time, half-past five in the evening, the traffic pouring out of New York City, a breaking wave of automobiles all round him, flooding up the Connecticut Turnpike towards Rhode Island.

Beside him, in a bag on the seat, was the money he’d taken from the cache in the boy’s room. He’d counted it between stop-lights, inching across Manhattan Island. In all, he had 16,000 dollars. For the last hour, he’d been looking at the big billboards along the turnpike, checking the room rates in the motels. His needs were modest: a bed, a lock on the door, a telephone. Sixty dollars would buy him all three, with change for a meal. If he had to, if there was no other way, he could live like that for months.

He saw another sign up ahead, half a mile before the next exit. Ramada Inns. Sixty-eight dollars. He checked the mirror, signalling right, knowing that the last thing he could afford was a traffic accident. If he was shunted from behind, even a minor blow, the tank could unseat, rupturing the pipework, spilling the liquid inside, releasing the deadly vapour. He shuddered, imagining the consequences, somewhere busy, women and children on the sidewalk, his mind’s eye returning again and again to the horses belly-up in the paddock, and the body of the boy sprawled amongst the leaves. If the stuff in the tank could do that, he thought, then an accidental spill could kill hundreds. Thousands. His hand reached across to the bag, feeling inside, finding the two aerosols. These too, he thought. These too I must guard.

The motel, when he found it, was brand-new, the contractors
still tidying a corner of the car park. The old man checked in, ticking ‘Cash’ on the registration form, leaving a 100-dollar deposit with the clerk behind the desk. When he asked her about the phones, whether he could call abroad, she nodded and gave him a small booklet with the international codes and asked him to double the deposit. He did so gladly, peeling off the notes, returning the booklet, telling her he knew the number already. No problem, she agreed, eyeing the white plastic bag as the old man shuffled away down the corridor.

The room was huge, over-chilled, curtained from the sun by a thick blue drape. The old man sat on the bed, the white plastic bag between his feet, punching out the numbers on the phone. The number began to ring. The old man peered at the bedside clock in the gloom, trying to calculate the time in Ramallah, coming up with several different answers, all of them way past midnight. Finally, the number answered. It was a woman’s voice. Hala’s sister. Amer’s wife. She sounded half-asleep.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Abu Yussuf. I want to talk to Amer. It’s urgent. Hurry.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘No?’

‘No. He’s away in Bethlehem.’

‘Oh.’

The old man blinked, suddenly close to panic. He’d begun to rely on these calls, being able to find Amer at the end of a phone. It was a real comfort. It was like having him in the next room, a conversation he could stop and start at will, sixteen thousand dollars in his pocket, America full of telephones. The old man shook his head, hearing Amer’s wife again, asking what he wanted, where he was, how she could help. Amer would be back, she said, back very soon. The old man nodded, muttering his thanks.

‘Tell him I called,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’ve done what he said.’

*

Peter Emery sat in a corner of the bar at the Hotel Dreisen, half-past ten at night, listening to Stauckel spell it out. The German had been back from Bonn for nearly an hour, ample time to clarify the worst of the news from the Ministry of the
Interior. He’d been pushing all day to get the Assali investigation transferred to the BfV, but after a series of shouting matches and a meeting with the Deputy Minister, the answer – emphatically – had been no.

Emery sat back in his chair, his head against the wood panelling. ‘Why?’ he said again. ‘Just tell me why.’

Stauckel eyed the glass of schnapps Emery had ordered for him from the waiter. So far, he hadn’t touched it.

‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I guess it’s political.’

‘We know it’s political. These things are always political. That’s why it was a reasonable request. What do the Schupo know about the Middle East? The Palestinians? Peace talks? Mossad?’

‘Nothing. But that’s not the point.’

‘No?’

‘No. There’s bad blood just now. Bonn and Washington. Baker’s been round with the begging-bowl. He came last week. He’s due again soon. He wants serious money. He thinks we owe him.’

Emery smiled, fingering the glass of lager at his elbow. US Secretary of State James Baker was criss-crossing the world, raising funds for the Gulf War. It was an interesting proposition, hatched in the White House. You pay. We fight. Emery raised the glass to his lips.

‘Maybe you do,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe you do owe him.’

‘Yeah.’ Stauckel nodded. ‘And maybe we don’t.’ He paused. ‘You know how much the East has cost us? To date?’

‘Millions.’

‘Double it.’

‘Billions.’

‘Closer.’

Emery lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. And that’s just the hors d’oeuvre. The main course is real money. Trillions of Deutschmarks. The way I see it, we end up paying everyone. Even the Russians. So—’ he shrugged ‘—why should we sign up for the Gulf? Pay for your wars as well?’

Emery looked at him. ‘Are you serious?’

Stauckel nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And so is Bonn. Since you ask.’ He paused. ‘The Schupo want your friend. They think he has some questions to answer. They believe they have a right to find him.’

Stauckel shrugged again and looked away, his face quite expressionless. There was a function in the ballroom next door, a big formal party to celebrate a wedding, and couples kept drifting in and out of the bar. Emery had been watching them for most of the evening, handsome women, exquisitely dressed, good-looking young men, self-confident, monied, already successful. This was the Germany Emery read about weekly in the heavier Washington magazines. It was Otto Wulf’s Germany, the Germany of the nineties, and watching the couples at the bar, listening to the music spilling in from the ballroom, it was impossible not to wonder where it all might end, this energy, this rude vigour. He looked across at Stauckel again, knowing in his heart that the man had tried his best, old debts, old favours.

‘So what happens now?’ he said. ‘With our uniformed friends?’

‘They’ve given it to the Kripo. The Kripo have issued a warrant.’

‘What for?’

‘Telemmann’s arrest.’

Emery frowned, leaning forward. The Kripo were the plainclothes version of the Schupo. They had an uncomfortable reputation for not giving up.

‘Already?’ he said.

Stauckel nodded. ‘He’s all they’ve got. Apart from the forensic on the Palestinian guy.’

‘No witnesses?’

‘No.’

‘Just Ron?’

‘Yes.’

Emery nodded, closing his eyes, running a tired hand over his face. The band next door were playing a march he vaguely recognized, the tempo adjusted for a vigorous quickstep. The bar had emptied in seconds.

‘You know who he’s after next?’ he said quietly. ‘Ron?’

Stauckel frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who?’

‘Wulf.’

‘
Otto
Wulf?’

‘Yes.’

Stauckel stared at him. The music was louder now, the band pushing the tempo even faster. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why Wulf?’

‘He think he’s doing stuff with chemicals.’

‘Who for?’

‘The rag-heads.’

Stauckel nodded. ‘Wulf does stuff with everybody,’ he said. ‘That’s what he trades for power. That’s why he’s Otto Wulf.’ He paused. ‘What kind of chemicals?’

Emery looked at him, toying with the remains of his lager. So far, he’d told Stauckel very little about the Washington operation.

‘Off the record?’

‘Sure.’

‘Nerve gas.’

Stauckel gazed at him. Then he shook his head, a quick, emphatic gesture. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Not nerve gas. Not Wulf. The man’s got plans for himself. Why wreck them?’

Emery shrugged. ‘You might be right,’ he said. ‘But it hardly matters. The point is Ron. Ron thinks Wulf’s involved. And he might just go ask him.’

‘He’d never get near him.’

Emery shrugged again. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Then Wulf has no problems.’ He paused, listening to the band driving hard for the finale. He could feel the floor shaking beneath him. ‘What’s that music?’ he said at last.

Stauckel stared at him, still thinking about Otto Wulf. ‘Sorry?’

‘The music. The tune they’re playing. What is it? Where does it come from?’

Stauckel listened for a moment, saving Wulf for later, reaching for his glass at last, his feet beginning to tap in time with the rhythm. Next door, the music came to an abrupt end, drowned in wild applause.

Emery looked at Stauckel. ‘Well?’ he said.

The German lifted his glass, a toast. He was smiling again.

‘To Marshal Radetsky,’ he said, ‘our second favourite Austrian.’

*

Moshe saw the Army check-point first, 200 metres ahead, a shallow dip in the road, shadows with guns crouching in the ditch on either side. He began to brake at once, dropping down through the gear-box. Unladen, the big truck had been travelling at speed. At three in the morning, the roads were empty.

McVeigh, sitting by the door, glanced down at Cela. He could feel the tension in her body. She’d stiffened the moment she’d seen the road-block, the moment Moshe had gestured ahead into the darkness, cursing their luck.

The truck squealed to a halt. There was a metal contraption across the road, a metre wide, hinged, with spikes protruding upwards. Soldiers emerged from the roadside, their faces daubed with camouflage cream. They moved slowly, with great care, circling the truck, prodding recesses in the bodywork, making a note of registration, and McVeigh watched them, taking a professional interest, peering into the darkness, wondering exactly where they’d cited the support teams, the guys in the gunpits with the big M-60s. They were good, he could sense it, the way they covered each other, the state of their weapons immaculately clean. Northern Ireland, he thought again. A quiet night in bandit country, down in South Armagh.

‘What do they want?’ he said.

Cela shook her head. ‘It’s routine,’ she said. ‘It happens all the time. Especially at night.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’

One of the soldiers approached the driving cab, signalling Moshe to get out. There was nothing to distinguish him from the rest, no badges of rank, but McVeigh guessed he was in charge. Moshe opened the door and jumped out. In the lights of the truck he cast a huge shadow. The soldier peered at him, making a gesture with his hand. Moshe fumbled in the breastpocket of his shirt, giving him his identity card. The soldier studied it, saying something in Hebrew, glancing up at Cela and
McVeigh still sitting in the cab. Moshe nodded, walking back to the cab.

‘He wants to see our ID,’ Cela said quietly. ‘Show him your passport.’ McVeigh produced his passport from the bag at his feet. Cela hadn’t moved.

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Your ID?’

‘I haven’t got any. I left it at the kibbutz.’

McVeigh looked at her. She was lying. He knew it. He’d seen her ID card in the restaurant. She’d opened her bag to pay for the meal. It was in there, beside her purse. The soldier was still looking up at them, gesturing for them to join Moshe. They did so, climbing down from the driving cab, standing in the warm darkness. The soldier said something in Hebrew, nodding at Cela, the whites of his eyes visible beneath the rim of his helmet. Cela began to talk to him in rapid Hebrew, using her hands a lot, shrugging. The soldier frowned, saying something sharp to Moshe when the big man stepped forward. Moshe glowered at him, not the least intimidated, then gestured at McVeigh. The soldier stared at McVeigh. McVeigh stared back.

‘He’s English,’ Cela said. ‘A friend from the kibbutz.’

The soldier nodded, asking McVeigh his name in broken English. McVeigh told him, offering his passport, spelling the name out, letter by letter, watching while he wrote it down. The soldier looked up at the truck a moment, then turned to another man behind him. The other man began to mutter into a radio. There was silence. The soldier was looking at Cela.

‘What’s your name?’ he said.

‘Cela.’

‘Cela what?’

‘Cela Eilath.’

He nodded, and fell silent again, waiting for some message or other. McVeigh looked at him, wondering why Cela had abandoned her married name, and ID card, and why something as routine as a road-block should have made her so anxious. There was a crackle from the darkness and the sound of a voice on the radio. The soldier listened, staring at the ground, then nodded, handing Moshe his ID card, gesturing mutely to a
soldier beside him. The soldier bent to the metal spikes, folding them up, dragging them to one side, and Moshe glanced at McVeigh, jerking his head towards the truck.

Minutes later, bumping through the suburbs of Jerusalem, Moshe began to row with Cela, shouting at her over the roar of the big diesel, his right hand chopping up and down in the darkness. Cela said very little, a word here and there, a shrug, staring forward through the windscreen, her eyes never leaving the road.

Finally, past Jerusalem, the truck began to slow again. McVeigh could see a crossroads ahead. Beside the crossroads a car was parked. The truck coasted to a stop beside the car, and looking down, McVeigh recognized the face behind the wheel.

‘Amer,’ he said aloud.

The name provoked another gruff outburst from Moshe. He was stabbing the dashboard with his forefinger this time. Cela let him finish, then leant towards him, very quickly, planting a deft kiss on his cheek, murmuring something in his ear. Then she turned away, pushing McVeigh out of the truck. McVeigh jumped down to the road, catching Cela as she did the same. Amer was standing beside the car now, lighting a cigarette. McVeigh nodded at him, peering around. Beyond the road, he could see houses, white cubes in the darkness, dotted at random across the bare hillside. Behind them, a glow in the sky, was Jerusalem. He looked back at the truck. Moshe was revving the engine, making a final point, ignoring Cela’s departing wave. He slipped the handbrake and roared away, a cloud of pungent diesel, a pair of red lights receding into the darkness. Soon he was gone, and a kind of silence returned, the chatter of insects at the roadside, the sigh of the wind through the tiny grove of olive trees immediately below them.