The Devil's Breath (10 page)

Telemann nodded slowly, glad already that Emery was on the team, that he was spared a day and a half with the industrial chemists, that a chain of events was beginning to shape. He gazed at the paperwork on the desk. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes.’ Emery bent to the yellow pad again. ‘There’s another intercept. It’s sourced from Vortex. They’ve been targeting the EEC negotiations in Brussels. This happened into the net a coupla days ago.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a sign-off. Single phrase.’

Telemann frowned. ‘And what does it say?’

‘It says that number six went out through Antwerp. Three days ago.’

Telemann looked at the earlier intercept, the list of companies. ‘Number six?’ he queried.

Emery didn’t bother checking. ‘Littmann Chemie,’ he said. ‘Company in Halle.’

‘Halle’s East Germany. Or was.’

‘Yep.’

‘So why Antwerp? Why not Rotterdam?’ He shrugged. ‘Or Hamburg?’

Emery leaned back in his chair for a moment. ‘Drive due west from Halle, takes you straight to Antwerp. It’s a big port. Millions of tons of stuff. No one asks too many questions.’ He paused. ‘Ideal.’

Telemann nodded. ‘So what do we have on the German company?’

‘Nothing. Yet. They definitely produce the basic chemicals, but I’ve nothing specific.’ He paused. ‘The rest of the firms are in the same game. If it ain’t chemicals, it’s industrial plant, bits and pieces of the manufacturing process, expertise you’d need to make the stuff. From Baghdad, I guess it reads like a shopping list.’

Telemann rubbed his eyes for a moment, looking away, towards the window. Outside, the traffic was moving again. ‘Antwerp …’ he mused.

‘Right.’

‘And the Israelis have been there already. Is that what we’re saying?’ Emery looked at him for a moment, then his hand strayed to the pile of NSA intercepts. He lifted it several inches in the air, then let it fall to the desk. Telemann watched his coffee dancing in the cup.

‘Electronic intelligence—’ Emery shrugged ‘—There’s a limit. What we need here is a good human source.’

Telemann looked at him. ‘Me?’ he said at last.

Emery nodded, reaching for his own coffee. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You.’

*

It was three days before the harbour-master at Ramsgate heard news of his 5-gallon drum.

The local fire brigade had driven down the same afternoon, arriving within an hour of his call. They’d parked the big tender on the quayside and pulled on protective clothing before approaching the drum. Fishermen sorting out their nets had watched curiously as they bent over it, two men in one-piece yellow suits, the bulky breathing sets strapped to their backs,
their faces half-hidden behind the clear perspex masks. They’d turned the drum over, squatting beside it, noting the skull and crossbones and the terse single word, ‘Poison’, and the painted-over line of German at the base, looking for extra information. As far as they could judge, the drum was in good condition. Inset into the lid was a heavy screw-cap. One of the fireman had flexed his fingers in the thick rubber gloves and tried it. It wouldn’t budge.

The firemen delivered the drum to a warehouse on a trading estate at the back of the town. The warehouse belonged to the Highways Department. The drum stayed inside the secure container, parked between an air compressor and a neat row of traffic cones.

Eighteen hours later, a van from a company called Dispozall arrived at the Highways Department depot. Two men got out and inspected the drum. They had a brief conversation. Then one of them returned to the van and used the mobile phone to contact the local authority. Neither of them had ever seen a drum quite like this one. Better to ship it west, to the Waste Transfer Station at Newbury, than risk an on-the-spot analysis. The oil pollution officer, on the other end of the line, agreed. He’d raise the paperwork, and they’d take care of the rest of it.

Half an hour later, the contract authorized, he phoned the harbour-master. The two men had an occasionally difficult relationship. Information was one way of keeping it sweet.

‘That drum of yours,’ he said cheerfully, when the harbour-master answered, ‘we’ve sent it away.’

‘What for?’

‘Analysis,’ he said. ‘No one’s got a clue what’s inside.’

*

By the time McVeigh arrived, mid-morning, the antiques shop around the corner from Queen’s Gate was open. He stepped in through the door, closing it carefully behind him. A heatwave had settled on London, and already the temperature was in the eighties.

The shop appeared to be empty, and for a moment or two McVeigh browsed amongst the tapestries and the discreetly
mounted brass lantern-clocks. There were very few pieces of furniture, but the stuff looked good. In the middle of the shop stood a large mahogany dining-table. There were eight chairs arranged around it, upholstered in pale yellow. McVeigh looked at it for a moment, trying to guess the price. Foreigners and royalty, George had told him on the phone, no riff-raff.

There was a movement at the back of the room and McVeigh glanced up. A small, slight man stood at an open door. McVeigh could see a flight of stairs, carpeted in red, behind him.

‘Can I help you?’

McVeigh nodded, and crossed the room towards him. The man stepped out of the shadows. He looked sixty, maybe older. The suit was nicely understated, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses hung by a chain from his neck. Latvian Jew, George had said. Third-generation import from Riga.

‘Mr Enders?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s McVeigh. I wondered if you could spare me a little of your time.’ He paused. ‘It’s about last week. The shooting …’ McVeigh inclined his head towards the door. Yakov had died ten paces down the street.

Enders eyed him for a moment, expressionless. ‘Are you a policeman?’

‘No.’

‘A reporter?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you here?’

McVeigh glanced round. He’d already decided on the table. Close to, the piece was beautifully preserved. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and generations of French polishers had given the surface a rare depth. McVeigh stood beside it, running his fingers along the reeded edge. Enders was watching him carefully. He hadn’t moved an inch.

McVeigh glanced up. ‘Chippendale?’

‘Regency.’

McVeigh nodded, musing. There was a long silence.

‘I understand you saw what happened,’ McVeigh said at last. ‘Before the bloke got shot.’

He glanced up. Enders had shuffled forward into the shop. His shoes were like the table, immaculate. He was still watching McVeigh, still waiting for some clue or other, some fragment of information that would explain this tall stranger with his battered leather jacket and his patient eyes. Then, abruptly, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was here. In the shop.’

‘Was the door open?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there some kind of row?’

‘Yes, there was.’

‘And they weren’t speaking English?’

‘No.’

McVeigh nodded, looking at him, direct, appraising. ‘What were they speaking?’

‘Hebrew.’

McVeigh nodded again, and began to circle the table. A small, discreet card, handwritten, indicated the price. Fourteen thousand pounds. He picked it up and looked at it and then put it down again. Then he pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and laid them carefully beside the card. There were two Yale keys on the big brass ring, sawtoothed on the underside, a statement of intent. Enders walked quickly across the thick Wilton carpet, light, soundless footsteps, no longer shuffling. He reached for the keys, and McVeigh stopped him, his own hand closing over the thin, pale fingers. Enders withdrew, as if he’d been scalded. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’

McVeigh looked at him. ‘The man who died was a friend of mine,’ he said carefully. ‘I want to know what happened.’

‘A friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of friend?’

McVeigh said nothing for a moment. Then he reached for the keys.

Enders watched him for a moment. Then he shrugged, weary. ‘He got shot,’ he said, ‘your friend.’

‘I know that.’

‘The man pulled a gun and—’ he shrugged again ‘—it was
such a shock. It was terrible. Here of all places …’ He trailed off, and gestured hopelessly at the street, a tired, resigned movement of the right hand.

McVeigh was still watching him. ‘He was a very close friend,’ he said at last. ‘I need to know whether he said anything before he was shot. Out there. In the street.’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ McVeigh leaned forward across the table, his fingers splayed, aware of his own reflection in the deeply polished surface. ‘So think about it. Think hard. Try and remember what he said …’ He paused, recalling the chronology, the way the guy from Harry’s team had detailed it on the Scenes of Crime report. ‘Two men meet outside your shop. There’s an argument. Voices are raised. Then one of them turns away. My friend. He steps across the street there, way across to the other side, and the other bloke goes after him. You’re in here. The door’s open. You see it all. So …’ He paused, easing back, his fingertips leaving tiny sweat marks on the table. ‘What did my friend say? Before he got shot?’

Enders looked at him for a long moment. Given a choice, McVeigh knew, he’d bring the conversation to an end. He’d phone the police, or try and throw McVeigh out, or simply turn on his heel and disappear up those perfectly carpeted stairs. But just now he didn’t have the choice, and both men knew it. Enders closed his eyes for a moment. The keys lay between them, mirrored on the table. McVeigh was watching his hands. They were shaking.

‘Your friend,’ he began. ‘What was his name?’

‘Yakov. Yakov Arendt.’

Enders nodded, some private question answered, some fear stilled. His eyes were open now, looking at the keys. ‘He said it would make no difference,’ he said slowly.

‘What would make no difference?’

‘I don’t know. He just said that and then …’ He stared out at the road, the line of parked cars, gleaming in the sun.

McVeigh nodded, patient now, his voice softer, more intimate. ‘OK. You heard what he said across the road. So now tell me the rest.’

Enders was still gazing out of the window. ‘The rest?’ he said vaguely.

‘Yes. The argument. Here. On this side of the road. Outside your shop. Hear one, you’d have heard the other.’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

Enders looked at him for a moment. ‘I didn’t tell the police,’ he began, ‘but they said that wouldn’t matter.’

‘Who?’

‘Your people. The Embassy people.’

‘Oh.’

Enders looked at him, frowning, wanting confirmation.

McVeigh obliged. ‘They won’t come back,’ he said. ‘The police.’

‘OK.’ Enders nodded. ‘They were arguing about the case. The brief-case. Your friend’s case. The other man said it didn’t belong to him. He said it wasn’t his. He wanted your friend to give it back.’

‘And?’

‘Your friend wouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘He just wouldn’t. “
Ney maas, li
…
ney maas, li
…” That was the phrase he used.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means—’ He frowned, breaking off, looking McVeigh full in the eyes for the first time. ‘“
Ney maas, li
…” You don’t know what it means?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not from the Embassy?’

‘No.’

‘But—’ Enders shook his head, hopelessly confused ‘—you said he was your friend.’

‘He was. But I’m still not from the Embassy.’ He paused. ‘Does that matter?’

Enders, ashen-faced, began to back slowly away, his eyes still on McVeigh’s face, oblivious now of the keys, and the table, and the five-figure price-tag.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Of course it matters.’

*

Emery drove Telemann to Dulles International with an hour and a half to spare for the Sabena overnight to Brussels.

They’d spent most of the day in the office on ‘F’ Street, reviewing the hard data, ever-mindful of Sullivan’s brisk mid-morning admonition on the dedicated point-to-point phone link with his White House office. ‘I ain’t into micro-managing,’ he’d barked, ‘but for Chrissakes keep it out of the hands of the Feds.’

Emery and Telemann had exchanged glances at this. Counter-terrorism within the USA was the responsibility of the FBI. Their beat. Their call. Yet here was Sullivan saying they had no right to a single fucking square inch of the picture. In one respect, of course, it made perfect sense. The FBI leaked worse than a sieve, always had, and if word of the Tabun threat got out, then the public order consequences would be awesome. But keeping it really tight, a handful of guys in an office on ‘F’ Street, had its downside. Whenever they needed back-up – Intelligence, analyses, technical information, simple footwork – then they had to acquire it piecemeal, covering their tracks, camouflaging the real thrust of the mission, turning themselves into the Intelligence equivalent of the stealth fighter. The latter image had been Emery’s, a caustic aside, typically elegant, and Sullivan had loved it. Of course the fucking thing was risky, but risk-taking was an integral part of the job. Indeed, in most respects it
was
the job. That was the point he wanted to get across. That was why they’d been chosen. They had to give some to get some. There’d be limits, sure. But he’d bought their sense of judgement, and their love of the flag, and he knew – deep down – that they’d do a fine job. Just now, they owed it to him. Later, if there was such a time, America would owe them.

Afterwards, the line dead, they wondered aloud about how much he’d really told them, how much they really knew. It was perfectly conceivable that Sullivan had set up a number of discrete teams, cells, each one separately tasked, insulated laterally, need-to-know, sworn to secrecy. There might be one up in New York. Another in the Middle East. A third over in Europe. Telemann had tested him on the secure line. He was
going to Brussels, he’d said, and Antwerp. Afterwards, he’d fly to Tel Aviv. There were leads to pursue, bases to touch, friendships to renew, debts to call in, arms to bend. He’d left it at that, deliberately vague, bread on the water, listening hard for any sign of wariness or alarm, but Sullivan had simply grunted his approval and wished him luck. Time belongs to the enemy, he’d said. The President had yet to receive a deadline, but doubtless it would come. US troops out of Saudi by such and such a date, or else. That was the whole point of the exercise. That was why the rag-heads were going to so much trouble. So, he’d said, let’s go get the cock-suckers. Let’s crank it up, move it on. Jesus, ride the fucking Concorde if you have to.