The Devil's Breath (42 page)

He drove south, every bend in the road offering a new mountain, a fresh view. The big, broad-leaved trees by the road were ablaze with autumn, a deep russet, the branches stirring in the breeze, the air perceptibly colder through the open window. Two miles down the road, he found the village. The garage was open, an old man in denim overalls pumping gasoline into an ancient pick-up. Two women were talking outside a hardware store next door.

Abu Yussuf parked the Oldsmobile and walked across the road. He hated travelling in daylight now, uncertain what the police might or might not know, aware all the time of the telltale exhaust-pipes, one real, one not. He pushed open the door of the hardware store and stepped in. There was a special smell about the place. He could smell wax, and hemp, and wood, a pungent resinous smell. He went to the counter, explaining himself, what he wanted. The woman behind the counter looked dubious. The village was tiny. The garage didn’t do that kind of thing. He’d have to go somewhere bigger, Houlton maybe, or even back to Bangor. Best thing to do, buy a paper, look in the classified ads, places offering that kind of service. The old man nodded thanking her, taking a paper, paying for it. The door banged shut behind him, and he walked slowly back to the car, the paper folded under his arm, enjoying the brisk warmth of the sunshine, the smell of the forest in the wind.

He got into the car, sitting back, taking his time, unfolding the paper, looking for the classified ads. Foreign news was on page five. His eye drifted down the page, then stopped. There was a grainy black and white photograph. It showed a line of youths, their faces masked. There were soldiers in the foreground, nearer the camera. They had helmets and shields. Some of them carried guns. The old man frowned, gazing at the photograph, recognizing the building in the background, the
chest-high gates surrounding the Court House scrolled with barbed wire. Ramallah, he thought. He studied the photograph for a moment longer, looking for faces he might know, then his eye went to the headline underneath, his lips moving slowly, spelling out of the words, one by one. JAIL DEATH PROVOKES RIOT, the headline read.

The old man shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the headline, trying to make it go away, but seconds later it was still there. He moistened his lips. His lips were dry. He read on through the text, a stranger in the jungle, a path he didn’t know, every footfall fraught with danger. Then, abruptly, he saw her name. Hala. His Hala. His wife. The mother of his sons. Dead. Killed. In an Israeli military prison. He stared out through the windshield, seeing nothing, no trees, no autumn, no mountains, hearing the youths screaming abuse, the wailing sirens, the grim-faced Israelis with their megaphones and their broken Arabic, the smack of wood on flesh, the olive-green tide of soldiers, storming forward. He hesitated for a moment, breathless, sweating, then he reached for the ignition key, turning it, knowing what he had to do.

14

Sullivan was outside the Oval Office within a minute, answering the Presidential summons. So far the day’s news had been excellent: the United Nations, up in New York, was on the verge of voting for an air embargo of Iraq. Sources within the Security Council were predicting a near-unanimous ‘yes’. Better still, Eduard Shevardnadze, the Soviet Foreign Minister, had told the US Ambassador at the UN that Moscow was now prepared to back the use of force to free Kuwait. Nothing, no single gesture, could have pleased the President more. It was the living proof that the Cold War was over and won, the humbled Soviet superstate turning against the regime they had once backed and armed.

Sullivan knocked twice on the door and went in. The President was sitting by the fire, his long frame occupying one corner of the sofa. He glanced up from reading a brief, his forefinger anchored in the middle of the page. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Take a seat here.’

Sullivan sat down. Over the last four days, the relationship between himself and the President had cooled. It was a difficult thing to measure, but Sullivan, who had a gift for sensing the political temperature, knew it was so. The phone had stopped ringing, the spontaneous calls for advice or a minute’s conversation. His mailbag had lightened. His name was suddenly missing from the circulation list of key policy documents. And, most ominous of all, he’d been excluded from two crucial meetings in the last twenty-four hours, both of them principals-only, his kind of people, honchos with real clout. His turf, that handful of squares on the gameboard that was Washington, was definitely under threat.

Sullivan sat down and the President smiled at him, nodding
at the coffee-pot, returning to the brief. He read for perhaps five minutes, saying nothing, concentrating on the text. Sullivan poured himself a coffee, not touching it, leaving it on the low table between the two sofas. Finally the President looked up, closing the file, laying it face down on the cushion beside him.

‘Good news and bad news,’ he said brightly. ‘Both from Tel Aviv.’

‘Sir?’

‘The bad news you’ll know. Shamir is off the leash. He’s prepared to mobilize against Saddam and he’s told him so. More to the point, he’s told us too.’

‘Meaning?’

The President pulled a face, his eyes going to the buff file beside him. Sullivan could see the State Department seal on the back cover. It was a diplomatic brief, probably sourced direct, from Tel Aviv.

The President leaned forward. ‘Meaning he’ll pre-empt any moves west by Saddam. If Saddam lifts a finger, pow!’ He smacked his fist into the open palm of his other hand, a favourite gesture. ‘The guy’s history.’

Sullivan nodded. ‘But what’s he saying? Specifically?’

‘Nothing. But you wouldn’t expect him to spell it out.’ He paused, reaching for the coffee-pot. ‘The Pentagon guys are pretty clear about it. In the first place, he’d send airstrikes. He’d go for the airfields. He’d knock out his planes on the ground. Then—’ he shrugged ‘—he’d go looking for the Scuds. The Republican Guards. Any damn thing Saddam could use against him.’ He paused again, pouring the coffee. ‘You know these guys. When push comes to shove, they’re single-minded. You know what matters to them.’

‘Tel Aviv? Jerusalam?’

‘Sure. And the rest of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Regardless.’

Sullivan nodded again, reaching for his own cup. The coffee was cold, but he swallowed it none the less. The President was right. The news couldn’t be worse. The day the Israelis bombed Iraq, the coalition would be history. The Egyptians would pull out, the Syrians would go, even the Moroccans and the Spanish might send their regrets. Should that happen, it would be a very
different war. Without the backing of the UN, without a multinational Task Force, the US presence in the Gulf would be seen for what it really was: naked self-interest, the old battle for cheap oil, the First World against the Also-Rans.

Sullivan looked up. ‘And the good news?’ he grunted.

The President nodded slowly, thoughtfully, studying him across the table.

‘Our friends with the nerve gas …’ he said at last.

‘Sir?’

‘The Israelis have found them.’

Sullivan stared at him. ‘
Found
them?’

‘Well …’ The President smiled. ‘I guess not found them. But yes, they know who they are.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘They told us. This morning. Fresh stuff. Good stuff. Hot from the oven.’

‘What did they say?’

The President looked at Sullivan for a moment, the accusation plain in his face. Then he produced a yellow strip of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it, smoothing it on his knee. ‘Two names,’ he said slowly. ‘Ali Karami. And Abu Yussuf.’ He looked up. ‘Mean anything?’

Sullivan nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘The first one. Ali. He was the kid they found up in the Catskills.’ He paused. ‘We knew that already. It checks out. He was the kid who disappeared from the hotel up in New York. The night the first guy got gassed. We knew that. We had that one already. It’s under control.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

The President nodded, saying nothing for a moment. Then he glanced down at the paper again. ‘And this other guy? Yussuf?’

Sullivan frowned, shaking his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Never heard of him?’

‘No, sir.’ He reached for the paper, still frowning.

The President shook his head. ‘I’m pushing it through channels,’ he said. ‘It’s gone to the FBI, the New York State police, every damn agency. Evidently the guy’s dangerous. He has gallons of the stuff. We have a description.’

‘Of what?’

‘The car he’s driving. And the guy himself.’ He paused. ‘Evidently he’s some kind of veteran. Old guy from the West Bank. Fanatic. Been a terrorist all his life. He’s the one got this 7th June group together. One-man band.’ He paused again. ‘The Israelis have files on him. They’ve sent photographs. They came in this morning. They’re recommending we shoot on sight.’ He smiled. ‘The Feds tell me it’ll be hours. A day at the most.’

‘What will?’

‘Getting to this guy. Our West Bank friend. Mr—’ he paused, looking down again, musing on the name ‘—Yussuf … Joseph—’ he shrugged ‘—whatever …’

Sullivan nodded, leaning back against the firm white cushions, abandoning the coffee. He knew a political execution when he met one, the feeling of power slipping away, the eyes turning in his direction, the voices lowered, the quiet invitation to leave the room. It had happened to him once before. It had taken him eight years to repair the damage. Reinstated, his feet under another desk, he’d vowed never to let it happen again. Yet here he was. Well and truly fucked. For the second time.

He mustered a weak smile, still looking at the President. ‘Sir …?’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Going back to the bad news. The Israelis. Saddam …’ He paused. ‘What leverage do we have?’

The President looked up, his hand reaching for a second cup of coffee. He smiled.

‘Right now,’ he said, ‘we have none. Which is why I thought you might have some ideas.’

*

It was late afternoon by the time Telemann and Emery reached the outskirts of Itzehoe. The town lay north-west of Hamburg, an hour’s journey, halfway to the border with Denmark. Still
on the autobahn, Emery slowed, easing the rental BMW into the slow lane, eyeing the blue and white indicator boards.

‘Here?’

Telemann, sitting beside him, nodded. By his calculation, they had three hours of daylight left. There was no time for a proper search, quartering the local map they’d bought, exploring the minor roads, one by one. No. If they were to find what he suspected they’d find, if it were to happen before dusk, then he had to trust his instincts.

‘Left,’ he said briefly. ‘To Wilster.’

Emery nodded, turning left, back on to the network of local roads that snaked between the flat, neat parcels of farmland. Telemann glanced across at Emery, his finger on the map. They’d left Laura at the hotel in Bad Godesburg. She’d check out, pay the bills, and head for the big international airport at Frankfurt. There were a dozen overnight flights to the US, at least three to Washington. She’d be back home in time for breakfast, getting ready for Telemann’s return. Thinking about it, Telemann smiled.

‘Crazy,’ he said for the third time. ‘She should leave me.’

‘Bullshit. You were never great at the long words.’ Emery smiled. ‘Like patience.’

‘I never thought.’ Telemann looked at Emery again. ‘Honest to God.’

Emery shrugged. They’d spent the journey north taking stock, Telemann briefing Emery, telling him exactly what had happened in the apartment in Dusseldorf, himself delivering the nerve gas, duped by Mossad for the second time in a week, Wulf convulsing in front of his eyes, the ugliest of deaths. He still had some of Inge’s photos of Wulf, and he’d shown them to Emery in the morning while Laura was taking a shower. Emery had fingered the photos, recognizing Wulf’s bull-neck, his paunch, amused at the poses, knowing that the material was priceless, the best possible way of armouring Sullivan against whatever the Germans might throw at him. The man had been an animal. Far more important, he’d chosen a Mossad plant for a mistress. What kind of judgement was that? What kind of other risks was the man prepared to take? At this point in the
conversation Laura had returned, intrigued to see what they were studying, and Telemann had changed the subject, suggesting she order coffee and Danish, three huge helpings, palming the photographs into his pocket, part of a life that was nearly over. He and Laura had spent the night in the single bed, very close, nose to nose, scarcely talking. In the morning she’d bandaged his leg, cleaning it thoroughly, wondering when they’d start talking seriously, planning for the difficult years ahead. Saying goodbye, hours later, Telemann had taken her face in his hands, telling her he’d be home in days, telling her he couldn’t wait, telling her it would all work out.

‘That’s my line,’ she’d said, kissing him. ‘My kind of cliché.’

Now, driving into Wilster, Telemann told Emery to stop, scanning a municipal information board at the roadside, looking for the Fire Department. Finding it, he told Amery where to go. ‘Left,’ he said, ‘then right, and right again.’

They drove into the town. It was compact, old, attractive, streets of half-timbered houses, shops still open in the late afternoon. The Fire Department, by contrast, was a modern building, concrete and glass. Two appliances were parked inside the folding double doors.

Telemann, limping badly, led the way to the office, a door at the side of the building. A uniformed official glanced up as they came in. He was smoking a small cigar and reading an old paperback.

Telemann did the introductions, plucking names from nowhere. ‘Mr Stuart,’ he said, ‘and Mr Wallace. We’re touring.’

The official nodded, getting up, shaking hands, listening courteously while Telemann explained what he wanted. He had friends in the area. They had some kind of cottage. He’d heard there’d been a fire. He wondered whether it was true. The official looked at him for a moment, speculative. His English was excellent.

‘Fire?’

Telemann nodded. ‘Some kind of cottage. Small farm, maybe.’

‘When?’

‘Recently. This week.’

The official nodded slowly, his eyes going to Emery. He said nothing for a moment. Then he beckoned them across the office. On the wall was a large-scale map of the area. The area was bounded in the north by the Kiel Canal, to the south by the Wilster–Itzehoe road. In between was a lattice of fields and smallholdings, houses marked by tiny black squares. Three of the houses, miles apart, were ringed in red, with dates pencilled beneath. Telemann looked at each of them. The dates went back to the beginning of the year. He looked again, selecting the most recent fire.

‘September twenty-first,’ he said. ‘Four days ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What kind of place is that?’ He put a finger on the map.

The official peered at the map. ‘It’s a farmhouse,’ he said at last.

‘What happened?’

He shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. We were called by a farmer—’ his finger went to the map ‘—here.’

‘Was it badly damaged?’

‘It was burned down. The house. The buildings attached. Everything.’

‘Nobody knows why?’

‘No.’

‘Nobody suspects?’

The official shrugged again. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But we are firemen. Not the police.’

Telemann nodded, knowing that his instinct had been correct, looking at the map again, memorizing the route, where the farmhouse lay in relation to the town. Then he turned to the official, extending a hand, hearing Emery muffling a polite cough behind him.

Emery stepped forward. ‘Our friends,’ he said, ‘were they badly hurt?’

The official smiled, still looking at Telemann. ‘No, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘The house was empty. Nobody has been in touch with us.’ He paused. ‘Strange, don’t you think?’

Telemann found the farmhouse in minutes, bumping down
track from the main road, recognizing the distinctive shape of a copse of trees beyond the hedgerow.

‘There,’ he said. ‘The house is through the trees.’

‘This is where you came?’

‘Yes. Look …’ Telemann pointed. Half a mile away across the fields, the top half of an ocean-going freighter was moving slowly across the skyline, smoke bubbling up from the single funnel aft.

Emery nodded, impressed. ‘Kiel Canal,’ he said. ‘You must have been awake.’

They parked in the shadow of the trees, walking the last 100 metres to the farmhouse, the same path Telemann had trodden a week earlier, before Halle, before Bad Godesburg, before his brutal rendezvous with Otto Wulf. The long grass was wet from an earlier rain shower. Telemann could feel his trousers sticking to the bandage on his leg.

They emerged from the trees and paused for a moment. The farmhouse had been razed to the ground, only the walls left, knee-high. Inside, the place was a mess, a black porridge of charred remains, everything either burned by the heat or pulped by the firemen’s hoses. Telemann and Emery stepped through it, looking for something recognizable, finding pieces of cutlery, empty bottles, the metal shell of a refrigerator, display panels from an audio stack. Telemann stood over it, poking it with his foot, remembering the German, Klausmann, sitting in his armchair, pipe in his mouth, listening to Brahms. It was Klausmann who’d first told him about Littmann Chemie, about the Iraqi connection. It was Klausmann who’d talked about chemicals, about nerve gas. It was Klausmann who’d sent him to Halle. He shivered in the autumn wind, walking on through the wreckage, the divisions between the rooms unrecognizable, looking round, knowing that the place must have been torched, that the Israelis had been here, covering their tracks, wiping the record clean.