The Devil's Breath (36 page)

Cela was talking to Amer. She glanced back at McVeigh and signalled for him to get into the car. They drove after the truck, same direction, then pulled left at the next junction. Soon they were back in the outskirts of a town, flat-roofed houses in stony orchards, areas of wasteland littered with wrecked cars and abandoned fridges, a half-built block of apartments, a hand-painted sign in Arabic hanging drunkenly from one of the
scaffolding poles. Amer slowed at a traffic light and indicated left. He and Cela had been talking in the front of the car, their voices low. The car slowed again, then stopped outside a small, flat-roofed house.

Cela glanced round, unsmiling. ‘Come with us,’ she said.

McVeigh got out, joining them on the street. Across the road, graffiti reached 7 feet up the store-front shutters. Black paint, spray-canned. Amer ground his cigarette out on the pavement and led the way to the front door. He knocked twice, then knocked again. The door opened at once, a small woman, young. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She looked exhausted. Amer kissed her on both cheeks and said something in Arabic. She nodded, standing aside, inviting Cela and McVeigh into the house with a tired smile. Amer stayed on the doorstep, a few more words of Arabic, then turned and left.

McVeigh followed Cela into a small, low-ceilinged room at the back of the house. There was a table and two small chairs and a sofa in brown vinyl, covered with embroidered cushions. A man sat on the arm of the sofa watching a television in the corner. There was a football match on the television and an empty video-box lying beside it on the floor. McVeigh smiled, recognizing the label on the box. ‘Great Wembley Finals’ it said. ‘Pick of the FA Cup’. Billy had one, exactly the same. The man on the sofa glanced up. He looked the same age as the woman, late twenties. He was wearing an old sweat-shirt over a pair of jeans. His feet were bare. He nodded at McVeigh but said nothing, his eyes returning at once to the television.

Cela touched McVeigh lightly on the arm. ‘Come,’ she said.

McVeigh followed her from the room. Next door, in another room, she switched on the light. The room was tiny. Most of it was occupied by a big double mattress. There were two blankets on the mattress, no sheets. Beside the mattress, a late addition, were three plastic flowers in a chipped vase. The vase was dark green, and whoever was responsible for the gesture had taken the trouble to fill it with water.

McVeigh smiled, looking at the vase. ‘What now?’ he said.

Cela nodded at the mattress. She’d already taken off her shirt. Now, she was unzipping her jeans.

‘We sleep,’ she said.

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

McVeigh looked at her for a moment. Then she stepped out of the jeans and reached for the light switch. The window, uncurtained, looked on to the street. In the half-darkness, McVeigh stripped to his underpants and joined her underneath the top blanket. She was lying on her side, her face to the door, her knees up and her back to McVeigh.

‘What now?’ he said for the second time. ‘What’s going on?’

Cela said nothing for a moment, then she half-turned, rolling over, looking at him, her face pale against the rough nap of the underblanket.

‘We were lucky with the soldiers,’ she said simply. ‘It could have been worse.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘It could have been the Shin Beth.’

‘The security people?’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

She looked at him a moment longer, then reached out, a single finger, touching him on the lips, the gesture you’d make to a child, wanting the questions to stop. McVeigh gazed at her, stirred, knowing that he wanted her, knowing this wasn’t the time, then she smiled, white teeth in the half-darkness, and turned over again, telling him to go to sleep. McVeigh said nothing, scenting her body beneath the blanket, an earthy, female smell. Then, next door, there came the roar of the crowd and a high-pitched whirr as the video-machine went into reverse again. McVeigh closed his eyes, sighing. Another goal, he thought. More excitement.

*

Telemann awoke at four in the morning, the bedroom in darkness, the curtains tightly closed. He lay still for a moment, getting his bearings, plotting his route to the door. The girl lay beside him, sprawled on her back, twitching slightly. She slept like a child, limbs everywhere, a physical candour totally at odds with the careful image she presented to the world outside
Telemann had noticed the contrast before, and put it down to breeding. Now he knew different. The woman was a born actress. What the world saw was a piece of careful fiction. What lay beside him was the real thing. Somewhere in between, he didn’t quite know where, lay the animal in the photos in the wooden box.

He shook his head, still disturbed by the rawness of her sexual appetite, easing himself out of bed. Last into the room, he’d made sure the door wasn’t properly closed. Now he opened it without a sound, stepping along the hall to the lounge. In the lounge, he collected the telephone, detaching it from the socket in the wall. Furthest from the bedroom was the kitchen. He’d already located the telephone point, a simple plug-in socket next to the fridge. He padded across to it, the telephone in his hand, closing the door behind him. He put the telephone on the side, reaching for a row of recipe books. He pulled out one on oriental cuisine. Amongst a set of glossy photos of Korean stir-fries, he found the slip of paper he’d hidden earlier. He laid the paper on the work surface, memorizing the digits in the number, plugging in the phone, checking the door a final time.

Sullivan answered on the fourth ring. Telemann could hear voices in the background and then the sound of canned studio applause. Game shows, he thought, recognizing the opening bars of the signature tune. After all this, the man spends his evening watching game shows.

‘Who is it?’ Sullivan said.

‘Telemann.’

‘Who?’

‘Telemann. Ron Telemann.’

Telemann heard a door close. Abruptly, the game show had gone. Then the man was back again, a voice rasping in his ear.

‘Where the fuck are you?’

‘Germany.’

‘I know that. But where in Germany?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Listen. I need to know what Emery’s been telling you. We need to touch base.’

‘Who?’

‘You and me.’

‘Fucking right.’ He paused, then came back. ‘You had the guy shot. Right?’

‘Who?’

‘The Palestinian guy. Assali. You had him shot, or you shot him, or some goddamn thing, and now half the fucking world’s at my door wanting to know why.’ He paused again. ‘Any of that sound familiar?’

‘Not at all, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Is that what Emery’s been telling you?’

‘It’s the goddamn truth, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

Telemann said nothing for a moment, holding the phone away from him, listening hard for steps along the hallway, the creak of a door. Hearing nothing, he returned to the conversation, finding Sullivan in mid-flow.

‘You talk to him,’ he was saying. ‘You talk to the guy.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Emery, your buddy.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That hotel. The place you stayed. Bad Godesburg.’

‘The Dreisen?’

‘Yeah. That’s it. He phoned me tonight. Two hours ago. More good news. I told him—’

Telemann frowned, staring at the phone. ‘He’s at the Dreisen? Emery’s at the hotel?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Alone? By himself?’

‘No.’

‘Who with?’

‘Your wife. As I understand it.’ He paused, then began to talk again, telling Telemann it was time to come back, to return to the States, file a report, help build the dyke he’d need to keep the water out. He was still talking when Telemann put the phone down, unplugging it at the wall, returning it to the table
in the lounge, stepping carefully back down the hall towards the bedroom. Inge lay where he’d left her, still on her back, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said, reaching for him.

Telemann got into bed beside her, roused again.

‘They’ve come,’ he said. ‘They’ve come across to tell me.’

*

The old man, Abu Yussuf, phoned again at midnight, a different number, Amer’s office at the Municipality buildings. He lay in the bed in the motel room, the blanket tucked around his chin, waiting for the number to answer. The plate of food he’d ordered from room service lay where he’d left it, on the floor beside the bed, half-eaten. The sauce on the salad had made him feel sick.

A woman finally answered, Amer’s secretary. The old man told her who it was and she recognized the name at once, telling him not to go away, explaining that Amer needed to talk to him and that she would interrupt the meeting he’d just begun.

The old man looked at the phone, pleased and surprised. If life was a queue, he was always at the back. Something must have happened. Something must have changed. He lay in the bed, waiting for Amer. He’d spent the day re-reading his wife’s letters. He wanted to know more about the Israeli woman. He wanted to know why she’d made three visits. And most of all he wanted to know that his wife was safe and well and – praise God – back home.

There was a series of clicks on the line as the secretary transferred the call. Then the old man heard Amer’s voice, clearer than ever.

‘Where are you?’

The old man blinked. Amer sounded anxious. He peered at the pile of promotional literature at the bedside, looking for a name.

‘Moosup,’ he said. ‘I’ve done what you said. I’ve left New York.’

‘Moosup where?’

‘I don’t know,’ the old man faltered, blinking again. ‘I’m
going north. Towards Canada. Things have been happening. Bad things …’ The old man fell silent.

‘OK.’ Amer sounded suddenly brisk. ‘Abu Yussuf, please listen. You have money?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Thousands. Tens of thousands.’

‘OK.’ He paused. ‘Tomorrow, go north again. Then phone me. Same time. Same number. OK? You can hear me? Understand me?’

The old man nodded. ‘Same time,’ he said. ‘Same number.’

‘Good.’ He paused. ‘You have a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of car?’

The old man frowned, confused. He hadn’t expected a conversation like this. He wanted to talk about his wife. About Hala. How she was.

‘It’s an Oldsmobile,’ he said.

‘What colour?’

‘Tan.’

‘What’s the registration?’

The old man shook his head, swamped by the questions. ‘The registration?’

‘Yes. The plates. What’s the number on the plates?’

‘I don’t know. RHX I think. Then three numbers.’ He paused, trying to picture the plates. He’d had to take them off several times, back in the garage in Newark, making adjustments to the pipework in the trunk. He shut his eyes, frowning in concentration. The plate was yellow. The numbers were white. ‘781,’ he said at last, ‘RHX 781.’

There was a silence on the line for a moment and the old man began to panic, knowing that the conversation had got nowhere, that he hadn’t had time for a single question about his wife.

‘Hala,’ he said, the moment Amer lifted the phone again. ‘How is she?’

There was the briefest pause, then Amer was back, his voice softer, kinder, less anxious.

‘She’s fine,’ he said.

‘Is she back?’

‘Back where?’

‘Back home.’

‘Yes, yes she is. She’s back and she’s OK.’

‘Did they beat her?’

‘No, no they didn’t.’

‘Did they hurt her?’

‘No. She’s away from them now. They can’t touch her. Everything’s fine. Everything’s OK. Believe me.’

‘Thank God.’ The old man shook his head, feeling the tears running down his cheeks, the hot salty taste in his mouth. ‘Thank God.’

He put the phone down, ashamed of his grief, the way he couldn’t contain it, the way it made his voice break, thinking of his wife, back home in the tiny house in Ramallah, safe at last. He looked down the long hump of his body, down to the foot of the bed, the half-eaten tray of food, the dirty plate that was America. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he’d drive to Canada. Tomorrow he’d start the long journey home.

*

Telemann had never seen himself on television before. He sat in the lounge, half-past eight in the morning, watery sunshine flooding in through the big picture windows. He was wearing Inge’s dressing-gown and drinking coffee, freshly brewed, half an eye on the television in the corner.

The photograph had been lifted from his passport, an old shot, the harsh lighting favoured by the Agency’s documentation people making him look vaguely Mediterranean. Inge saw it too, coming in from the kitchen with a plateful of hot rolls. She paused in the middle of the room, listening to the reporter’s voice-over as the picture cut to shots of the Dreisen. Police in Bad Godesburg were looking for an American. An appeal had been issued for the man to come forward. He might have important information regarding the murder of a Palestinian diplomat. The American was travelling under a variety of names. Two of them were Telemann and Lacey. A telephone
number flashed on to the screen. Members of the public were to phone if they had information.

Telemann glanced at the number on the screen, remembering Sullivan’s voice on the phone, the man outraged.

‘Diplomat?’ he queried.

He looked round at Inge. She was stooped over the low table beside the sofa, arranging the rolls on two plates. She smelled like the dressing-gown he was wearing, an expensive scent underscored with something far earthier.

‘Diplomat?’ he said again. ‘The guy was a diplomat?’

Inge shook her head, not looking at him. ‘He was a terrorist,’ she said. ‘He killed women and children. That’s why he fled. That’s why he left Israel. That’s why he came here.’

‘But they’re calling him a diplomat.’

‘They’re wrong. They must have their reasons, but they’re wrong.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I was in Israel when it happened.’ She straightened up from the table, angry now. ‘They took the bus near Ashkelon. There was a bomb on board and it blew up. The bomb was on a timer. They were following in a car. Some of the people on the bus managed to get out …’ She shrugged, tight-lipped. ‘They shot them by the roadside. I saw the bodies. There were lots of bodies.’