The Devil's Breath (45 page)

‘Yussuf?’ he was saying. ‘Yussuf?’

*

McVeigh walked steadily on through the darkness, following the massive shape of the big Israeli. The river and the gorge were an hour behind them, and when he had time to look back he could see the lights of the kibbutz, faint and shimmering in the heat still rising from the valley. Up here on the mountain it was cooler, a keen wind blowing from the north, a smell he recognized from countless climbing expeditions. Cela had given
him a small haversack, Army issue, and he wore it now. Inside, amongst his own possessions, was the envelope from Amer and the bottle of Jordan water. Saying goodbye beside the jeep, Cela had wished him luck, kissing him again.

‘For Yussuf,’ she’d whispered, leaning into him, ‘and for you.’

Moshe strode on, his bulk filling the narrow path. There were loose stones underfoot and the path continually twisted left and right, but the man obviously knew it well, pausing from time to time, grunting phrases McVeigh didn’t understand, indicating some kind of hazard up ahead. On these occasions McVeigh would nod, equally gruff, telling him to press on. He’d been here before, he wanted to say, a hundred night route-marches, 120 pounds on his back, Dartmoor, mid-winter, a decade of tramping up and down the world’s highest mountains. Compared to that, compared to his journey from Ramallah, this was a stroll in the park.

Another hour took them higher still, sweating now, the wind much stronger. Once, they stopped to rest, squatting amongst the rocks, Moshe producing a water flask, telling McVeigh to drink, watching him swallow long mouthfuls of the pulped fruit juice. The one thing they had in common was Cela, and McVeigh regretted that he couldn’t talk about her, find out more, what kind of kid she’d been, what kind of childhood they’d all shared. The woman was beginning to obsess him, a feeling he couldn’t remember before, not like this, not as strong, as overwhelming. The fruit juice gone, Moshe shook the last drops into the darkness and clipped the flask back on to his belt. Then he reached out, a big warm hand, hauling McVeigh upright, peering into his face, then roaring with laughter at some private joke before setting off again up the mountain.

At last, past midnight, Moshe stopped, waving McVeigh into cover. McVeigh dropped silently behind an outcrop of rock. He still had the Uzi and he slipped it carefully off his shoulder, thumbing the safety catch foward. He could see nothing ahead. Moshe waited, motionless, then whistled, two notes, high-pitched, distinctive. He repeated the call, and far away McVeigh heard an answering whistle, exactly the same two notes. Moshe
grunted, looking back for McVeigh. They began to move again, more cautious this time, McVeigh off to a flank, lateral separation, the Uzi ready. Moshe stopped, and dropped on one knee. McVeigh did the same. Three men stood on a ledge of rock immediately below them. They were looking up, faint shapes in the windy darkness. Moshe whistled again, and one of them called his name softly, Moshe. Moshe stood up, revealing himself, and then they were down on the ledge, exchanging greetings, stiff handshakes. Two of them were very young, no more than boys. The other was in his late twenties, short, watchful, wearing trainers, jeans, a thick bomber-jacket. The boys were carrying guns, and McVeigh recognized the sturdy shape of the AK47, Soviet-made, the Third World’s favourite weapon.

Moshe began to talk to the older man in Arabic, gesturing at McVeigh, and the older man nodded, impatient, looking twice at his watch, tapping it forcefully, making a point. Moshe shrugged his huge shoulders, turning away, back to McVeigh. ‘You go with them,’ he said. ‘They take you.’

McVeigh stared at him. He’d been told the man spoke no English. Another of Cela’s little jokes. ‘OK,’ he said.

Moshe looked at him for a moment longer, then held out his hand. McVeigh took it. He wanted to say a thousand things. He wanted to know who these guys were. He wanted to know what might happen next. He wanted to say he was grateful. Instead, he shook Moshe’s hand.

‘Cela,’ he said. ‘Look after her.’

Moshe frowned, making sense of the phrase, then laughed again, that same abrupt bark of laughter.

‘
Shalom
,’ he said, turning away.

15

McVeigh was still trying to make sense of
L’Orient – Le Jour
when the flight was called. He’d found the newspaper on a seat in the departure lounge. On the front page were two photographs, Saddam Hussein and Yitsak Shamir counterposed beneath a baffling headline in French. ‘
La Drôle de Guerre
’, it read. Beneath the photo were columns of text and a smaller photo of George Bush waving from the steps of a helicopter. McVeigh looked at it for a moment longer before folding it into his haversack and getting up. He was no linguist, but the phrase seemed simple enough.
Drôle
was some kind of joke.
Guerre
was war. The joke war? The war of the jokes? He shook his head, shouldering the haversack and crossing the concourse towards the lengthening queue for security checks.

The imminence of war seemed all too real. You could smell it in the air. You could see it in the faces of the women still sitting around the concourse, their luggage piled at their feet, their heads buried in other newspapers, other headlines, looking up from time to time, checking for their kids. People with sense and money were abandoning the Middle East. The area had become a combat zone, ground zero for Saddam’s Scuds, for marauding Israeli bombers, for the hit-squads of journalists and TV news crews, scenting blood and treasure.

McVeigh joined the back of the queue for security checks, one hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. It was early afternoon. The journey from the border had seemed interminable, hour after hour in a clapped-out Datsun, McVeigh in the back beside one of the youths, the older man driving. There’d been no attempt at conversation beyond an exchange of cigarettes, and McVeigh’s occasional questions had met with no response at all. The youth beside him had been nervous, sitting foward in
his seat, peering into the darkness, the AK47 held awkwardly across his lap, useless if they were to hit real trouble. Dawn had revealed a series of cracks in the windscreen and a landscape of rich physical beauty. Beyond the dusty roadside were dark fields of tobacco and tall stands of poplars, and later, when the sun came up and they wound down the windows, McVeigh could smell the sweet, tangy scent of oranges. By this time most of the tension in the car had gone, and as they bumped slowly up the Bekaa Valley, one of the men in front had taken to humming a tune. After a mile or so, McVeigh had recognized it. It was a seventies number, the New Seekers, ‘Got To Teach the World to Sing’, and McVeigh had smiled, the irony of it, the fatuous lyrics, the nervous young man with his dangerous toy, the images he’d left behind on the West Bank: the drifting clouds of tear gas, the squalling women in the hospital corridor, the purpled faces, the broken limbs. At Beirut’s International Airport, without ceremony, they’d dropped him outside the terminal. Standing at the kerb, he’d ducked into the car, shaking each of them by the hand, three wooden smiles and a paper bag produced, like an afterthought, from the glove compartment. He’d opened the paper bag as the Datsun drove slowly away, shaking out an airline ticket. The ticket had been made out in his name. Under ‘Destination’ the issuing agency had typed ‘Montreal’.

He reached for the ticket now, opening the haversack. The newspaper fell out and he stooped to retrieve it. The queue shuffled forward again, a single step, and McVeigh shook the newspaper open, aware of the man behind him, tall, well dressed, blazer, slacks, silk tie. The man was glancing at the front page of the newspaper, reading the headline, smiling. At length he looked at McVeigh, one hand appearing from beneath the folded raincoat.

‘Mr McVeigh?’ he said.

McVeigh nodded, the newspaper still open. ‘Yeah.’ he said.

‘My name is Ghassan. I’m a friend of Amer Tahoul. I shall be with you. On the flight.’ He smiled again. ‘And perhaps afterwards.’

McVeigh looked at him for a moment. ‘You can prove that?’ he said. ‘Your name? And about Amer?’

‘Of course.’ The man nodded, a nod of approval. Reaching inside his brief-case, he produced a Lebanese passport and a neatly folded letter. McVeigh glanced at the passport. Mr Ghassan came from Tyre. He was thirty-one years old. A thin black moustache adorned a younger face. McVeigh turned to the letter, reading it quickly, the single typed paragraph. Mr Ghassan was a friend of the organization. He was carrying a great deal of money. He was at McVeigh’s disposal. The letter was signed ‘Amer Tahoul’. McVeigh read it again, wondering why Amer hadn’t mentioned the man. Maybe it was a late development. Maybe something had happened, over in the States, something that McVeigh should know about. McVeigh shrugged, folding the letter, returning it with the passport.

Ghassan was looking at the newspaper again. ‘You speak French?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘You know what that means?’ He pointed to the headline.

McVeigh frowned, hesitating for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said again.

Ghassan looked up. ‘
La Drôle de Guerre
,’ he said. ‘It means “The Phoney War”.’

*

Later the same day, 16.48 Eastern Standard Time, Telemann and Emery landed at Dulles Airport, Washington. They took separate cabs from the pick-up area, Telemann going north, towards Rockville, Emery heading in towards the Beltway. Against the rush-hour traffic flooding back to the suburbs, he made excellent time. By half-past six, the cocktail hour, he was sitting at his desk on ‘F’ Street, gazing at the messages from the West Coast.

There were three of them. Ever blunter, they asked him to contact a Los Angeles number. The name at the end of the yellow priority form was Andy Fischer. Emery reached for the telephone and punched in the numbers. Fischer answered at once and Emery smiled, imagining him at the spotless desk in
Century City, shaping up to the computer, a battle he seemed to wage day and night.

Emery glanced at his watch. ‘Just back from lunch?’ he enquired.

‘Emery? That you?’

‘It is.’

‘Listen. Get a pen.’

‘Got one.’

‘We’re talking Gold here. You with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I finally got a trace on the payments. The last set. The last payments he got before it all went zip.’

‘Yeah?’ Emery frowned, reaching for a pad. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘shoot.’

‘The payments came in three tranches. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars twice. And one of one hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars. That was the final instalment. Dates, we’re talking October ’89, November ’89, and June ’90.’

Emery nodded, scribbling the dates first, the most important items, sitting back, doing the arithmetic, smiling to himself. June, ’90. Six hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars. Perfect.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So what’s the source?’

‘No problem. It’s a New York Corporation. Ready?’

‘Go.’

‘Vivace International. Got that?’

‘Yeah.’ Emery was frowning. ‘What do they do?’

‘It’s a media conglomerate. They do everything. Publishing. Television. Co-productions. It’s Arab money. Not Japanese.’

Emery, busy writing again, grunted. Then he bent to the phone. ‘You been through their drawers too?’

There was a brief silence, and Emery could hear Fischer chuckling at the other end. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Well now …’ He paused, pure effect. ‘… This wouldn’t stand up in court because it’s three per cent supposition, but I’m telling you it’s rock-solid.’

Fischer paused again, a longer silence. Emery, examining his pen, suddenly realized how excited he was.

‘Well?’

‘The money came into Vivace in three equivalent tranches, a week in advance of each payment to Gold. Vivace washed it.’

‘OK.’ Emery sat back. ‘So what was the originating currency?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Deutschmarks?’

‘You got it.’

Emery nodded, plesed with himself, the pen in mid-air. One question to go, he thought, one space left on the board.

‘OK,’ he said again. ‘And the source company?’

‘Kadenza,’ Fischer said, ‘Verlag.’

There was a long silence. Then Emery heard Fischer chuckling again. ‘That surprise you?’ he said. ‘The big bad Wulf?’

Emery shook his head. Kadenza had been preparing a bid for Vivace. It made perfect sense. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not at all.’

He glanced at the pad at his elbow, checking the figures, then Juanita appeared at the door, five fingers outspread, her private code for a priority incoming call. Emery bent forward towards the desk, muttering a hasty goodbye, and hung up. Juanita was still at the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Sullivan.’ She smiled. ‘He’s waiting in the limo downstairs. Threatening cocktails.’

*

It was nearly dark by the time Telemann stepped back into the house on Dixie Street, taking his sister-in-law by surprise. She was sitting at the table, playing the usual game with Bree’s food, cutting the broiled fish steaks into bite-sized pieces. Telemann coughed politely, the watcher by the door. Bree looked round, recognizing him, swallowing the fish whole, running across the room, arms out.

‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘Daddy …’

Telemann hugged her, squeezing her, big fat kisses, the kind she loved.

‘Me,’ he agreed, wiping her face.

‘Mummy said …’

‘Mummy said what?’

‘Mummy said you’d be back. She promised. Mummy’s in
bed. Quick.’ She caught Telemann by the hand and began to drag him across the room, and Telemann semaphored a greeting to Laura’s sister, still sitting at the table, a fork in her hand, the last cube of swordfish speared on the end. ‘Asleep,’ she mouthed, ‘she’s asleep.’

Telemann nodded, understanding, already on the stairs. The bedroom was across the landing at the top. The door was shut. Bree half-fell against it, singing already, a hymn she’d learned only recently, her voice high and pure.

‘
O Sabbath rest by Galilee
…’

One of the cats was asleep on a chair in a corner of the landing. It woke up, disturbed by the noise, arched its back, stretching lazily, and disappeared into another room.

‘
O calm of hills above

Where Jesus knelt to share with thee
…’

Bree wrestled open the bedroom door, ignoring Telemann’s whispered plea to be quiet, and tugged him inside. The bedroom was small, built into the eaves. Light from the street spilled in through the single window. Telemann stood at the foot of the bed, gazing down at Laura. She lay like a comma under the sheets, her knees up, her body curled. She was still asleep.

‘
The silence of eternity
…’

Laura opened one eye, the beginnings of a frown, trying to make sense of the shapes in the middle of the room. Then Telemann was sitting on the bed, the back of his hand against her cheek, her breath warm on his flesh. He smiled in the half-darkness, and Laura reached up, pulling him down, his body beside hers. It was an old greeting, a hug they’d shared for two decades, and Telemann began to murmur something, an apology for waking her up, but she shook her head, her fingers tracing the shape of his mouth.

‘Hi,’ she whispered, ‘soldier boy.’

*

Emery studied the photograph, his Michelob untouched. Sullivan sat beside him in a discreet corner of the bar, his jacket hanging open, his belly barely contained by the bulge of striped grey shirt. They’d been at the Four Seasons for half an hour, quite long enough for Sullivan to establish the political consequences
of the hunt for Abu Yussuf. Three days in Europe hadn’t warmed the relationship one degree.

‘Disaster,’ he muttered again. ‘Grade fucking A.’

Emery was still looking at the photo. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘Tel Aviv.’

‘When?’

‘Three days ago.’

Emery nodded, plotting the chronology in his head, testing the dates, one against the other. Sullivan was watching him closely. In the back of the limo, driving up Pennsylvania Avenue towards Georgetown, Sullivan had said his piece about Emery’s failure to deliver. He’d given him the inside track on every other federal bureaucracy. He’d given him limitless freedoms, limitless scope, yet all he had to show for it was a stack of unreturned phone calls and the makings of a major diplomatic incident with the Germans. What had happened over there? Had Telemann got some kind of problem? Narcotics? Senile dementia? Was it true that he was off the case? At home with a headache? Emery, surprised that the fall had come so soon to the trees around Washington Circle, had said very little, knowing that Sullivan had a reputation for outbursts like these. Like any politician, the man demanded an early return on his investment. Notions like time and patience meant nothing to him. Now, the photograph face-down on the table, Emery asked about the scale of the manhunt. How wide was the net being cast? How fine was the mesh? And most important of all, who was in charge?

Sullivan shook his head, miserable, reaching for the last of his bourbon. He had the air of a child after an especially bad Christmas, his favourite toy already broken, in pieces on the playroom floor. ‘Feds,’ he said wanly. ‘FBI.’

‘Whose decision?’

‘The President’s.’ He glanced up at Emery. ‘The business with Assali shook him badly. He’s having enough trouble with the Germans already. The last thing he needs is more blood on the sidewalk.’ He shrugged. ‘So we’re back in channels. I guess he thinks it’s safer. God knows. Maybe he’s right …’ He
signalled the waitress and ordered a refill, and Emery watched him as he sank back in the chair, physically diminished, a favoured courtier resigned at last to exile.

Emery reached for his beer and sipped it. ‘What about the Israelis?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They still on the leash?’

‘No way. Bastards have mobilized. They’re talking first strike again. It’s in the papers. You can read about it. Top billing. Front page.’

‘Isn’t that a problem? For our new Arab friends?’

Sullivan shot him a look, part contempt, part despair. ‘I asked you to find the guys with the gas,’ he said, ‘not run the fucking State Department.’

There was a long silence. A group of senators across the lounge were swopping gossip. Emery, still toying with his Michelob, looked up. He’d been wondering about his feelings for Sullivan, whether or not he cared about the man. To his surprise, he discovered that he did. Sullivan was watching him, his huge hands cupping the tumbler of bourbon as if seeking warmth. ‘Well?’ he said.