The Devil's Breath (49 page)

‘Leading us to war,’ Emery suggested drily. ‘In case we were under-motivated.’

Sullivan sat back, nodding, going over the analysis. At length he permitted himself a broad grin, infinitely benign. ‘I need proof,’ he said. ‘Evidence. Then the rest is just beautiful.’

‘Beautiful?’

‘Sure.’ He reached for a cigar. ‘We get the evidence. We give it to the Israelis—’ he shrugged ‘—and our problems are over.’

‘Whose problems?’

‘The President’s—’ he lit a cigar ‘—and mine.’

Emery nodded, fingering the intercom, checking with Juanita. The German material was en route to a translator, security cleared. It should be back by midnight. He thanked her and sat back again. Sullivan was still waiting, the cigar clamped between
his teeth. He reached for the empty coffee cup and began to crush it in one hand, then another.

‘We have some of the evidence already,’ he said. ‘Wulf is rock-solid. Even the Germans know it. That’s why they’ve been trying to bury the truth.’

‘And the rest of it?’

Emery hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded at the computer.

‘Your friend McVeigh,’ he said lightly. ‘Who else?’

16

Three days later, McVeigh picked up the telephone in the lounge of the rented house on the slopes of the Sugarloaf Mountain. The old man, Abu Yussuf, was in the garage, repairing a broken bracket on the car. After seventy-two hours together, they had a plan. The plan was simple. With a couple of maps and a tankful of Tabun GA, they were going to avenge two deaths: the murder of Hala and the murder of Yakov. The old man had shown him the car, the way it could be done. At his insistent invitation, McVeigh had lain on the cold concrete in the garage and admired the pipework, how neat it was. He’d seen the pump, the fake exhaust. He’d fingered the switch on the dashboard. He had absolutely no doubt that the system would work, and when he checked the distances on the map he concluded that two nights of steady driving were all that separated Manhattan from 5 gallons of Tabun GA.

Now McVeigh began to punch in the digits for a London number. Beside the phone was the letter from Amer Tahoul. The letter was in Arabic, the old man had read it once, grunted, and put it down. He’d never discussed it, never shared its contents, never looked at it again. Whatever it said, however hard Amer had tried, the old man had put himself beyond reach. His grief had turned to rage, and his rage had consumed him, like a fever. Nothing would touch it.

McVeigh sank into a chair, waiting for the number to connect. In three hours, once darkness had come, they were moving south, he and Abu Yussuf, sharing the Oldsmobile. The London number began to ring, then a voice came on. It sounded sleepy.

McVeigh glanced over his shoulder, checking the path to the front door. He’d wrenched the exhaust bracket out of shape. It would take a while to fix.

‘Mr Friedland?’

‘Yes?’

‘Pat McVeigh.’

‘Ah …’ McVeigh heard the click of a recording-machine. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the US.’ He paused. ‘Is that thing recording OK? You want to check it?’

He heard Friedland laugh, the sleepiness gone. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘It’s Japanese. It’s foolproof.’

McVeigh smiled, glad of the joke. The role he’d been playing for the last three days hadn’t left much room for laughter.

‘Listen,’ he said briskly, ‘this is the plan. This is what’s going to happen. But I need one guarantee.’ He paused. ‘OK?’

‘Where are you?’ Friedland said again.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Do you have the gas?’

‘Yes. And the bloke that goes with it.’

‘OK.’ Friedland paused. ‘So what’s the condition?’

McVeigh bent to the phone, speaking slowly, no ambiguities, nothing left to chance. He’d spell out every detail of the plan as long as Abu Yussuf was left unharmed. There was to be no violence, and no legal proceedings.

‘You got that?’

‘Yes.’ Friedland paused again. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. He gets citizenship. If he wants to stay in the States. Otherwise he gets enough to settle somewhere else. With me?’

‘Yes. I’ll have to check all this. Phone me again.’

‘Sure.’

There was a long silence. McVeigh could hear the old man hammering at the bracket outside in the garage.

Then Friedland came back. ‘So what’s the plan?’ he said.

McVeigh laughed. ‘You get the guarantee,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you the plan.’

‘Otherwise?’

‘The deal’s off.’

‘Meaning?’

McVeigh shrugged. Across the room, on the television, CNN were showing yet more pictures of the American build-up in
the Gulf, Navy F-14s, blasting into a pale blue sky. The set had been on for three days solid and McVeigh was sick of it. American muscle. Arab despots. No mention of the kids he’d left in Ramallah, the broken bodies en route to the mortuary fridge.

He bent to the phone again. ‘Meaning I leave him to it,’ he said, ‘my friend with the nerve gas.’

*

Emery phoned Telemann the same afternoon. He’d deliberately left him alone for three days, knowing that the homecoming would be difficult enough without interruptions from the office. Now, sitting at his desk, he heard the phone answer. It was Laura.

‘Hi. Me.’

Laura said nothing for a moment. Emery heard a door close in the background. Then she was back. She said she was glad he’d called.

‘How is he?’

‘Quiet.’

‘Has he seen the doctor?’

‘Yes. We went Monday.’

‘How was that?’

‘I don’t know. He won’t talk about it. He didn’t want me there. Said he preferred it one on one.’

‘But what about afterwards? How was he afterwards?’

‘I told you. Quiet. He doesn’t talk too much. Not about that.’ She paused. ‘Not about anything, actually.’

Emery nodded, wondering what he could do, wondering what to say, relieved when Laura came on the phone again, breaking the silence.

‘There’s one thing, Pete …’

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t know whether it’s possible, but …’

‘What? Say it. Go ahead.’

‘He just … I guess … wants to be on the end of this thing.’

‘What thing?’

‘Whatever it is … you and Ron …’

‘Yeah.’ Emery nodded, non-committal. ‘Sure.’

‘I don’t know whether …’

‘Is he there now?’

‘He’s asleep.’

‘
Asleep?
’ Emery looked at his watch. ‘Shit.’

There was another silence. Emery reached for a cigarette. The material from Weill, sourced from one of Wulf’s companies, had turned out to be a detailed specification for the required Israeli ECM data. The invoices from the Hamburg flat had checked out as genuine. The German connection could now meet any standard of legal proof. But quite where the thing would end was still a mystery.

‘I dunno,’ Emery muttered down the phone. ‘It’s not too easy just now.’

‘Sure. I understand.’

‘But if there’s any way …’ He shrugged. ‘No question. I promise.’

‘Yeah … well … whatever …’ Laura trailed off.

There was another long silence. Emery lit the cigarette, pulling it deep into his lungs, letting it rest there, then expelling a long plume of blue smoke. ‘You sound really miserable,’ he said quietly.

‘I am.’

‘Hey …’ He smiled, picking a shred of tobacco from his lower lip. ‘I love you. If that helps.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I mean it.’

‘I know you do.’

Laura began to say something else, but there was another disturbance in the background, a door opening this time, and Emery heard Bree. She wanted to ride her bike. The back tyre was flat.

Laura returned to the phone. ‘Call again,’ she said. ‘You should talk to Ron.’

*

It was nearly eight in the evening by the time McVeigh and the old man left the house. The bracket had taken longer than Abu Yussuf had expected, and he’d cut his hand while he was making a washer from a sheet of spare cardboard. The cut was deep, at the base of the forefinger on the left hand. McVeigh had bound
it tightly, but it was an awkward place to apply pressure and the slightest movement made it bleed. Driving was out of the question, and McVeigh had taken the car-keys from the old man’s hand, helping him into the passenger seat, sliding himself in behind the wheel.

They headed east, back down the country roads towards the Interstate, the big old car wallowing on the corners. After the conversations of the last three days – wild passionate outbursts from the old man, spasms of intense debate – there was little left to say, and McVeigh was content to drive in silence, reaching for the radio from time to time, retuning between channels, trying to find something that would ease the pain on the old man’s face. Nothing did, and nothing could, and finally McVeigh switched the radio off, leaving them with the low murmur of the big engine and the steady thrum–thrum of the tyres on the road.

Beyond Shin Pond, for the first time, McVeigh noticed the lights behind him. They belonged to a car, too low for a truck. The car was travelling fast. McVeigh adjusted his speed a little, easing his foot on the throttle. The road was straight for at least a mile, a ribbon of tarmac flanked by trees. The car was behind them now, no more than 10 metres, and McVeigh flicked the right indicator, signalling it on. Nothing happened. He did it again. Still nothing. The old man, visibly alarmed, looked back, turning in his seat. Beyond the glare of the headlights there was only darkness.

The two men exchanged glances, and McVeigh accelerated again, returning the car to cruising speed. For half a mile they drove in tandem, one car behind the other, then the headlights suddenly swerved out into the middle of the road, and McVeigh felt the car on his shoulder, very close, slowing again. He glanced across, certain now that something was wrong. Two faces were looking at him. On the nearside was a woman, sharp-featured, her hair drawn tightly back from her face. Behind the wheel was a man, a little older, curly blond hair, a day’s growth of beard. McVeigh stamped on the accelerator, pulling the car left, hitting the other vehicle. The old man, leaning forward, looking across at the other car, was thrown on to McVeigh by
the impact. McVeigh pushed him off, fighting for control, ducking instinctively as the first bullet tore through the bodywork. The old man was on his knees under the dashboard, his body half-twisted. ‘Shlomo,’ he kept saying. ‘Shlomo.’

‘Who’s Shlomo?’

‘In the car. The one driving the car.’

‘But who is he?’

‘He’s—’

The two cars collided again, side on, and McVeigh knew he had to get ahead before the next bend. The Beretta he’d stored in the glove-box. The two seconds he’d need to get it out was time he didn’t have. These people were pros. They’d done it before. They meant it.

McVeigh reached down the gear-shift, taking the car out of automatic, dropping into second gear. The transmission screamed, but the big old engine responded at last, kicking the car forward, putting a metre or two of space between the two vehicles. McVeigh glanced at the dashboard. The needle on the speedo was nudging eighty. A shallow bend was approaching. The car behind was dropping back a little but soon, McVeigh knew, they’d make another run. He heard glass smash behind him, another bullet, and he braced himself against the seat as the corner came at them, a blur of pine trees, the Oldsmobile beginning to drift sideways as McVeigh applied even more power.

Safely through the corner, he checked on the old man. Abu Yussuf was looking back over his shoulder at the other car. One hand was on the dashboard. The other was on the back of the seat. The car behind was gaining again, getting closer. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop.’

McVeigh frowned. ‘What?’

‘Faster. Go faster.’

McVeigh looked in the mirror. The other car was very close now, 5 yards, maybe less. The road ahead was straight. Any minute, he thought. ‘In the glove-box!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a gun.’

The old man was concentrating on the car behind. He didn’t appear to be listening.

‘A gun!’ McVeigh shouted again. ‘In the glove-box.’

The old man looked at him briefly. His right hand moved to the switch on the dashboard. McVeigh stared at him, hearing the faint purr as the auxiliary pump cut in, then he realized what the old man had done, and his eyes went to the mirror again, and he was wondering how long the stuff in the tank took to work, and whether Billy would ever get to hear the truth of it, his father a chemical warfare statistic, gassed to death on a remote country road in the middle of nowhere. The lights in the mirror began to waver, the car swerving from side to side, then – abruptly – it had gone, a squeal of tyres and a sickening thud and the sound of breaking glass as it disappeared into the trees.

McVeigh looked at the old man. The pump had stopped now and his hand had left the switch, but he was still looking back, wild, exultant. ‘Shlomo!’ he shouted in Arabic.

‘Who’s Shlomo?’

‘
Mish bani admeen
.’

‘Speak English.’

‘The one who came to see me. In Ramallah. The one who betrayed my son.’ He shook his fist. ‘The devil take him.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

The old man beat his fist on the dashboard, cursing him again, and McVeigh nodded, the car still topping 80 m.p.h. He had the window down now, the cold night air sluicing through the car, and for the first time he began to wonder whether they might get away with it. The gas couldn’t linger, not vapour, not at these speeds. A small town was coming up, Patten, a handful of clapboard houses, but McVeigh swept through, taking no risks, determined to put as many miles as he could between themselves and the cloud of Tabun GA. In the Marine Corps, he’d attended lectures on nerve gas. They’d always said it didn’t hang around. ‘Non-persistent’ was the word they’d used. But McVeigh had never fully trusted them. Not then. Not now. A lot of what they told you was bullshit, stuff to make you feel better, and he had no intention of putting it to the test. Only when he saw the signs for the Interstate, only when he got there, would he truly relax.

He drove on, looking at the old man from time to time, shaking his head, part-admiration, part-disbelief.

‘Daft old fucker,’ he muttered, grinning at him.

*

Sullivan eventually found Emery at home. He bent to the security phone outside the apartment block, half-past one in the morning, a thin rain drifting in from the Bay.

‘I’m in the car,’ Sullivan barked. ‘Come on down.’

Emery joined him minutes later, an old pair of yachting waterproofs thrown over his pyjamas.

‘Afraid of heights?’ he enquired drily, climbing into the big Lincoln. ‘Didn’t want to come on up?’

Sullivan ignored him, waiting until he’d closed the door. The night was cold, the first real chills of autumn. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said, ‘that’s why I’m bothering with all this shit.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ He paused. ‘My Brit friend has been on. About the fella McVeigh.’

‘You talked to him?’

‘No. But he’s here somewhere. He wants a deal. He has the old guy. The guy in the photo. The guy with the gas.’

‘A deal?’

Emery nodded, thinking about it. New York saved by a bucket of money. In four busy weeks, he’d never once considered something so obvious. He looked at Sullivan. ‘How much does he want?’

‘Nothing.’

‘
Nothing?
’