The Devil's Breath (23 page)

Emery looked at him, beginning at last to understand. ‘Since when?’

Fischer smiled, reaching for the door-handle. ‘A year ago,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the cuttings.’

8

Sullivan took the call mid-morning, Washington time, in the back of a Government Chrysler, en route to yet another meeting. On his lap, open, were the latest updates from the Joint Chiefs. Six weeks of the heaviest staff work he could remember had finally proved, beyond doubt, that the US would be in no shape for a land war in the Gulf for at least two months. Sealift for the heavy M-1 Abrahms battle-tanks had been chaotic. Elderly ships’ engines were constantly breaking down. Supply schedules were in tatters, and – even worse – the stuff that had made it as far as the desert was, in the cold prose of the Department of Defense, ‘subject to heavy environmental attrition’.

Sand in the goddam helicopter engines, thought Sullivan, reaching for the proffered telephone, irritated that this small moment of peace between the White House and the Pentagon should have proven so brief. Hunched in the corner of the car, he put the phone to his ear. The voice, when it came, was English. The guy from Number Ten. Ross.

‘Hi,’ Sullivan said wearily. ‘How ya doin’?’

Ross spoke for perhaps a minute. Listening, Sullivan reached inside his jacket pocket and began to make scribbled notes on a small jotter. When Ross finished, Sullivan grunted. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Al Zahra’s a generous guy …’ He paused. ‘So this McVeigh. Who the fuck is he?’

‘Ex-Marine. Freelancing in the security business.’

‘And where’s he gone?’

‘Zahra says Israel …’ Ross paused. ‘Evidently the man’s a bit of a loner. Only gets in touch when he has something to say. So far we assume he has nothing to say.’

Sullivan, watching a group of tourists rubber-necking the
Lincoln Memorial, frowned. The name McVeigh he’d seen only days ago, a passing reference in one of the digests sent over from ‘F’ Street. At the time, he’d thought nothing of it. But now he began to wonder. He bent to the phone again.

‘You say stuff’s gone missing?’

‘Yes. Five gallons of nerve gas.’

‘How hard are you looking?’

‘Hard enough, under the circumstances …’ He paused. ‘The real problem is the threat. Just a rumour would be disastrous. As you may know …’

‘Yeah?’ Sullivan grunted again, refusing to take the conversation any further, refusing the implicit invitation to share the news about New York.

Ross came on again, as persistent as ever. ‘You think I should come over again?’

‘No point. Unless you’ve got something to say.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘No?’

‘No. I was wondering whether a briefing might be in order. You to me. It would certainly help my end. Anything you feel you might be able to share.’

‘You bet.’

Sullivan shook his head, scowling. He’d known Ross now for a couple of years, a strictly informal relationship, the product of a Downing Street dinner during one of his frequent trips to Europe. He had no great regard for the man, too ambitious, too eager, too easily impressed, but a presence in Downing Street was a useful asset, certainly a better bet than having to rely on the usual channels. Sharing any kind of information with the Brits had, for years, been tantamount to full disclosure. Their Intelligence services leaked night and day, a steady drip of other people’s secrets, and when he’d bothered to think about it properly, to ask himself why it should be so, he’d had to put it down to something in the national character, a by-product of the class system, yet another sign – if one was ever needed – that the place was utterly fucked. He bent to the phone again, assuring Ross that nothing of importance had happened, that he
was better off staying his side of the Atlantic, that he’d doubtless be in touch. Then, without waiting for a reply, he rang off.

Minutes later, turning into the huge Pentagon car park, he was still thinking about Ross’s news, the missing drum of nerve gas, and he reached for his pad again, scribbling a reminder to himself, the name of the Arab in London, Al Zahra.

*

McVeigh awoke late, some formless dream broken by a sudden pain in his right hand. He opened his eyes, blinking in the sunlight filtering through the mesh door. His hand had become twisted under the weight of his body. He rolled over and sat up, swinging out of bed, planting his bare feet on the cool tiles.

Outside the wooden hut, through a wall of shrubs, he could see grass and the long curve of a cindered path. Further away, out of sight, he could hear the regular ticking of a water-sprinkler. He glanced at his watch. Already, barely seven, it was hot.

He got dressed slowly, standing in front of the mesh door, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his bare flesh. He’d arrived the previous evening, unannounced. The kibbutz had been bigger than he’d expected, dozens of small chalets, windows lit in the darkness, doors open, the sounds of conversation, laughter, music. Shadows trod the paths between the lines of chalets, and he’d walked around for a while, trying to get a feel of the place, before stopping someone, an older man, barrel-chested, hooped T-shirt, ancient shorts. He’d asked the man where a stranger should go, and the man had listened patiently to the question and then, totally incurious, pointed wordlessly to a group of buildings further up the hillside.

McVeigh, none the wiser, had followed the man’s directions, taking his time, savouring the rich smells, released by the cool of the evening. It reminded him of expeditions years back, Kashmir, Nepal, the first few days or so when you plodded through the foothills and took your reward in the evening, sprawled by the camp fire, blanketed by the smells of yak dung and wild flowers. It was similar here, the warm, pungent breath of the earth, and he felt immediately at home.

At the top of the kibbutz he’d found a dining-hall and a couple of offices. In one of the offices, a woman in her early-thirties had listened to his story. He was a tourist. He had the name of a friend of a friend. He’d like to stay a couple of days, meet the person he’d come to see, find out a little about how the place worked. The woman had listened to him, impassive, and then reached for a pencil and paper. He wrote down the name for her, Cela Arendt, and she’d looked at it for a moment or two before risking a brief smile of recognition. ‘Cela,’ she’d said finally. ‘Cela Eilath.’

McVeigh had apologized at this point, saying he’d known her husband, and the woman had looked up again, the smile gone, an unvoiced question on her lips. McVeigh had shrugged and grinned, offering no further information, and the evening had ended with his occupation of an empty hut in a row reserved for students from the city. The kibbutz, the woman said, had no facilities for tourists. If he wanted to stay, then it would be possible for a few days, but he’d have to work, like everybody else. McVeigh, ever-courteous, agreed at once. If everyone worked, then Cela worked. Perhaps he could do whatever she did. That way, they’d have more time together. The woman had shaken her head and said that wouldn’t be possible. Cela helped in the schoolhouse. Newcomers picked apples. Perhaps McVeigh should come to the office again, next morning, when things might be a little clearer.

Now, fully dressed, McVeigh left the hut and took the path up through the kibbutz towards the dining-hall. In daylight, the place was even bigger than he’d thought, spread over the gentle folds of hillside, each row of chalets bedded into the landscape, gloved in creepers and a spectacular mass of flowers. There was little sign of activity, and when he got to the cluster of buildings that housed the dining-hall and administration, the place was nearly empty, five long tables, set with knives and forks, big metal jugs of iced fruit juice, pearled with condensation, bowls of sliced water melon, the flesh pink and glistening.

McVeigh was still debating whether to sit down when he heard the growl of diesel trucks in the dirt yard outside. Then
there were footsteps, and the big double doors burst open, and the place was suddenly full of people, all ages, dressed for outdoor work. They sat down at once, without ceremony, reaching for the fruit juice, spreading thick pats of butter on the bread, heaping slices of apple and banana on bowls of creamy yoghurt, and McVeigh watched for a moment before joining them at the furthest table, an empty chair near the end. He was still eating when the dining-hall emptied again, some secret signal, noise outside as the engines restarted, then the crunch of tyres on the dirt road, and the grinding of gears, and the slow receding whine of big trucks heading back towards the valley floor.

An hour later, McVeigh found the woman he’d met the previous evening. She was standing in the shade of a plane tree beside a row of older chalets. She was holding a pen and a clipboard and she was deep in conversation with an older man. Seeing McVeigh, she signalled him over. She nodded at the older man. ‘Cela’s father,’ she said briskly. ‘Avram Eilath.’

McVeigh smiled at the old man and extended a hand. The old man shook it briefly. He had big hands, weathered and calloused by years in the fields. Evidently he spoke no English, the woman talking to him in Hebrew. After a while he looked at McVeigh and shook his head, and McVeigh felt vaguely uncomfortable, the victim of a conversation he couldn’t understand. He glanced at the woman. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said you were a friend of Yakov. I said you’d come from England. To see Cela.’

‘And?’

‘He doesn’t want to talk to you.’

‘Why not?’

The woman looked at the older man for a moment, translating the question, nodding vigorously when the man shrugged and gave her a muttered answer. ‘
Ney maas, li
…’ he said, shaking his head. ‘
Ney maas, li
…’

McVeigh stared at him, recognizing the phrase, the shape of it, through the broken shards of Hebrew. Enders, he thought, the little Jew in the antique shop, the conversation he’d
overheard the day Yakov Arendt got shot. Same phrase. Same tone of voice. McVeigh didn’t take his eyes off the old man, who was still shaking his head.

‘What did he say?’

The old woman looked at him sharply. Her English was excellent, barely accented at all. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘What did he say?’ McVeigh nodded at the old man. ‘Just then. That phrase he used. What does it mean?’

The woman frowned. ‘
Ney maas, li
?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s means he’s had enough. It’s what people say when they want to be left alone. It’s …’ She paused, trying to find exactly the right words. ‘It’s just that he’s had it. It’s become something too much for him.’

‘What’s something too much for him?’

‘All the people coming to see Cela. All the questions.’

‘What people? People like me? From England? English-speaking people?’

The old man looked up, shaking his head. He knows more English than he admits, thought McVeigh. The old man turned to go, and McVeigh stepped towards him, wanting him to stay, but then he felt the woman’s restraining hand on his arm and thought better of it. The old man walked slowly away, his sandals flap-flapping on the paving-stones. McVeigh watched him disappear into a chalet at the end of the row, making a mental note of the location. Then he turned back to the woman. ‘Cela’s had lots of visitors? Recently? Since Yakov …’ He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished, and the woman looked at him, not answering, the frown back on her face, and McVeigh knew that he’d gone too far. He was a tourist from England. He’d come to see a friend of a friend.

‘The place where Cela works,’ he said carefully, ‘the school. Where is it?’

‘You can’t see her there. Not until she’s finished.’

‘Where does she go afterwards? Where does she live?’

The woman said nothing, but nodded in the direction the old man had taken, the chalet at the end of the row. There was a
child’s tricycle upturned on the lawn. Draped over it, drying in the sun, was a towel and a woman’s one-piece swimming-costume.

‘She lives with her father?’

‘Yes.’ The woman paused. ‘Whenever she visits.’

‘She’s just visiting?’

‘Of course.’

‘She hasn’t moved back? Come home?’

‘No.’

‘But she could? If she wanted to?’

‘Of course.’ The woman turned away, bringing the conversation to an end, heading back towards the dining-hall, but McVeigh fell into step beside her, glad that one supposition, at least, had proved correct. Cela Arendt was a kibbutznik born and bred. McVeigh strode up the hillside, thinking of Yakov again, his body sprawled in the Kensington street, the photograph in the evening paper. ‘
Ney maas
…’ he mused aloud.

The woman kept walking, saying nothing, refusing to help him out by finishing the phrase, pretending she hadn’t heard.

McVeigh persevered. ‘What kind of phrase is it?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘You’ve told me what it means. I want to know why you’d use it.’

The woman said nothing for a moment, still walking. The sun was hot now, and McVeigh was beginning to sweat.

‘It’s crude,’ she said at last.

‘Offensive?’

‘A little.’

‘What else?’

The woman stopped and looked up at him. She was at least a foot shorter than McVeigh, an indoor face, paler than most he’d seen. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘It’s important, that’s all.’

‘Is it to do with Cela?’

McVeigh hesitated a moment, weighing the value of an honest answer. Then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’ He paused. ‘So why would her father say it?’

The woman looked away again, down the hillside towards
the old man’s chalet. Finally, she shrugged. ‘He loved Yakov like a son,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s why it’s so hard for him. The people who come from Tel Aviv. The questions they ask. How unhappy they make his daughter.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not a world he understands.’

McVeigh nodded, sympathetic. ‘And the phrase?’ he said. ‘What should that tell me? About someone’s state of mind? About the way you have to feel to use it?’

The woman gazed at him, a look of frank appraisal, and for a moment McVeigh wondered whether she, too, might be related to Cela. Perhaps she was. Perhaps everyone was related in these strange collectives. If not by blood, then by some other bond. The woman began to walk again, more slowly, her head down.

‘It’s not an easy thing to answer,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a phrase people never use. Not here, at least.’