The Devil's Breath (50 page)

‘No. He just wants a deal for the other guy. The Palestinian.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Freedom. No violence. No rap. Just citizenship.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not? We’ve done it before …’

‘Sure.’ Emery nodded, looking away. ‘When?’ he said at last. ‘When will all this happen?’

‘Soon. I’ll call the fella in London when I get back …’ He paused. ‘There’s another thing, too.’

Emery lifted an eyebrow. He was cold. He felt empty. He wanted to go back to bed. ‘What?’ he said.

Sullivan gazed at him for a moment, then laid a land on his arm. Emery gazed at it, uncomprehending.

‘The President’s grateful,’ Sullivan said at last. ‘He wants you to know that.’

‘He does?’

‘Yeah. We were having a little problem with the Germans. Question of financial help. For our boys in the Gulf …’ He paused, smiling, squeezing Emery’s arm. ‘Appears the problem’s gone away.’

*

McVeigh and the old man got to Portland an hour before dawn, driving slowly into the city suburbs, looking for the right kind of motel. They found it almost at once, half a mile off the Maine Turnpike, 70 dollars a night with security parking. McVeigh went to the desk, paying cash for a double room, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. The woman said no problem, giving him the key to the room and confirming that there were three lock-up garages out-back, residents’ use only.

McVeigh parked the car in the furthest of the three garages. Later, he told the old man, they’d buy a replacement rear-screen. The old man nodded, agreeing. He could fit it. Then the car would look normal again, just another run-down Olds, a little rusty, a little tired, nothing special.

They went to the room. The old man lay down on one of the beds with a sigh, not bothering to undress, and fell asleep at once, his eyes closed, his hands folded over his chest. Watching him from the other bed, McVeigh thought of the handful of corpses he’d seen, men who’d died of natural causes, the same pose, the same sense of peace. Since the incident with the other car, some of the rage had gone. He’d been quieter, less fretful, less tense. Once they’d got to the Interstate, he’d even managed the beginnings of a normal conversation. He’d wanted to know about London, whether it was as bad as New York, whether it had beggars, kids sleeping in the streets. McVeigh had said yes to both, and the old man had shaken his head, wistful, not able to understand. Amongst such wealth, he muttered, such poverty.

McVeigh waited another half-hour, making sure the old man was asleep, then he rolled quietly off the bed and let himself out of the room. The woman at the desk was asleep in front of the television, her head lolling on her chest. McVeigh found a pay-phone in the lobby and dialled Friedland’s number. Friedland answered at once. McVeigh asked about the guarantee. Friedland said it was watertight. McVeigh said that was fine, but he had a gun and he’d use it on the tank in the boot if the old man was harmed. Friedland said he understood. McVeigh repeated the threat, then gave Friedland the details that mattered. Where they’d be. What time they’d arrive. The precautions the authorities should take. He wanted no grand opera, nothing dramatic, just a sensible low-key operation. That way, the thing would work. Any other way, it might get tricky. Friedland asked if there was anything else he needed, any other requests. McVeigh thought about it briefly, then nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Tell them not to shoot me. Tell them it wouldn’t be in their interests.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ He grunted. ‘Not if they’re interested in the Israelis.’

*

Telemann, hearing the knock at the bedroom door, looked up. No one knocked at bedroom doors. Not unless they were guilty. Or needed help.

‘Come in.’

The knocking went on. It sounded like a foot. Telemann swung out of bed and opened the door. Bree stood on the landing. She had a tray in her hands. Expecting breakfast, Telemann found himself looking at a huge mountain of jelly.

‘Mine,’ she said. ‘I made it.’

Telemann looked at the jelly. He hated jelly. He took the tray from her and went back to the bed. He got in, the tray on his knees. Every time he moved, the jelly wobbled. Bree was at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. ‘Eat it,’ she said. ‘It’s get-better jelly. It’ll make you well again.’

Telemann smiled. There were two spoons on the tray. One was clearly for him. He picked it up and pushed it into the jelly.
Scooping out a spoonful, the jelly made a soft, sucking noise. He put it in his mouth, swallowing it whole. It was green. It tasted of nothing.

‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Clever girl.’

Bree grinned. She liked nothing better than praise. It was the fuel that got her through the day. She could never have too much of it. She watched him take another mouthful. Then another.

‘Mummy says you might be in bed a lot,’ she said at last.

‘Did she?’

‘Yes. She said you might be very sick.’

‘Oh.’ Telemann nodded. ‘I see.’

‘Doesn’t matter, though.’

‘No?’

‘No. I can make lots of jelly. Every day, if you want.’ She grinned again. ‘Then you’ll
have
to get better.’

Telemann nodded, returning the grin. Three spoonfuls had made little difference to the jelly. It still looked huge. Bree nodded absently, losing the thread of the conversation, her eyes finally leaving his face, going down to the newspaper spread on the bed, the bits and pieces lying across it. She bent down, curious, picking up a piece of heavy grey metal, weighing it in her hand, looking at her fingers afterwards, covered in a film of oil.

‘Daddy?’ she said, frowning.

‘Yes, darling?’

‘What’s this?’

She picked up another piece, the same curiosity, looking at him, the bowl of jelly long forgotten.

Telemann smiled woodenly, putting down his spoon.

‘It’s a gun,’ he said. ‘We call it a revolver.’

*

Friedland phoned Ross at midday on the private Downing Street line. A woman answered, curt, unhelpful. Mr Ross had been relocated. She gave him another number.

Friedland tried again, finding Ross on the point of leaving for lunch. He heard him sitting down again. He heard him ask someone for a pen. He heard a door close. Then Ross was back
on the phone again, eager, abrupt, impatient. Relocation had done nothing for his manners. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the plan?’

Friedland relayed the contents of his conversation with McVeigh. He detailed the location, the times, and McVeigh’s parting advice about leaving him unharmed. When Ross came back on the phone, checking the small-print, the impatience had gone. Instead, he was audibly excited, even euphoric.

‘You think we can rely on this?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Under the circumstances …’ Friedland shrugged. ‘Yes.’

There was a brief silence. Then Ross came back. ‘Any of your Curzon Street chums been on?’

‘No.’ Friedland frowned. ‘Why should they?’

‘Someone’s been telling MI5 about missing nerve gas.’ He paused, laughing. ‘Would you believe a story like that?’

*

McVeigh told Abu Yussuf to be ready for eight o’clock. It would be dark by then, and the traffic southbound would be light. With luck, without busting the regulation 55 m.p.h, they’d be in New York City by 3 a.m. The old man looked at him, sitting on the bed, newly showered, newly shaved.

‘They’ll come at that hour?’ he said. ‘The press?’

‘Of course.’

‘So late?’

‘For sure.’

The old man shrugged, another mystery, and collected the handful of belongings he’d brought with him. McVeigh had already been through his bag. Amongst the litter of 100-dollar notes, he’d found an automatic and two aerosols. He’d emptied the magazine of the automatic and peered hard at the aerosols. Neither had any markings, and he’d been on the point of giving one a trial squirt when the old man had shown signs of waking up. Now, his bag packed, he waited patiently for further orders.

They drove back to the Interstate, McVeigh at the wheel again, settling the car to a steady 55 m.p.h. The old man had spent most of the afternoon fitting the replacement rear window
and McVeigh sensed that the way the work had gone had pleased him. Now he sat quietly beside McVeigh, his hands on his lap, gazing ahead, seemingly at peace. When it was all over, he said, he’d go back to Ramallah. That was the decision he’d made. He still had two sons. His sons needed him. Ramallah was where he belonged.

McVeigh nodded, said it sounded a great idea, knowing that it was possible. After New York, after the exchange, the old man would be free to go. Courtesy of the US Government, he’d be able to fly anywhere in the world. That was what they’d agreed. That was the deal.

The old man was looking at him. The last twelve hours or so, McVeigh had sensed the beginnings of a real friendship in his face, something in the eyes, something in the slow curl of his smile. The old man liked him. The old man trusted him. Together, they’d seen off the Israelis. Together, they’d finish the job. From tragedy, the truth.

‘How many?’ the old man said. ‘How many from the newspapers? The television?’

McVeigh shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Hard to tell with those bastards.’

*

Emery picked up Telemann from the house on Dixie Street. Telemann was waiting for him on the stoop, the beginnings of a fine sunset pinking the wooden shingles. Emery saw him turn and kiss Laura. Then Bree. The other kids were upstairs, and they hung out of their bedroom windows, waving. ‘Daddy …’ they called. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Telemann waved back to them, saying nothing, shouldering a small overnight bag, walking down the path towards the gate. He got into the car without a word, lifting a hand in farewell as they drove away.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Andrews.’

‘Yeah?’ He smiled for the first time. ‘Then where?’

‘New York.’

Emery headed south, then east on the Beltway. Within an
hour they were turning into Andrews Air Force Base. Emery stopped at the first of the security check-points and produced a letter with his CIA pass. The guard scanned the letter, then bent to the window, giving Emery directions, snapping a salute as he drove away.

Sullivan was waiting in the ten-seat executive jet, sprawled in a rearward-facing chair at the front of the cabin. All three men shook hands, Emery and Telemann settling themselves into seats facing Sullivan. The doors closed and the pilot started the engines. Five minutes later they were airborne, a steep left turn, climbing out of Andrews, setting course for New York.

Level at 28,000 feet, Sullivan chaired the brief conference. McVeigh, the Brit, was driving the Arab point-man to New York. Where from, no one knew. The car had several gallons of nerve gas on board and some kind of diffuser but the Brit seemed to have everything under control. A key group of New York people had been briefed, and they’d been conferencing all day on a range of contingency plans. The car was to appear in the vicinity of the UN building on East River Drive. The Brit would be at the wheel. The guy Yussuf would be with him. To the best of their knowledge, he wasn’t armed. The meet was fixed for 3 a.m.

Emery, gazing out of the one of the windows, nodded. He could see most of Baltimore, necklaced with street lights. ‘What then?’ he said.

‘The Brit hands him over.’ Sullivan paused, his fingers outspread, tallying the items one by one. ‘We have helicopters, NYPD, Fire Department, para-medics, and a non-specific all-hospitals alert. Beyond that, New York isn’t prepared to go. They say it’ll be counter-productive.’ He paused. ‘Plus there’s an issue of pyrido bromide all round.’ He smiled. ‘Had trouble finding enough of the stuff. Most of it’s gone to the Gulf …’

Emery nodded again. Pyrido stigmine bromide, taken every eight hours, offered a little protection against nerve agents. Supplemented with other chemicals, immediately after exposure, a man might even survive.

‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘What’s our interest?’ He looked at
Sullivan. Then at Telemann. Telemann was sucking a cube of barley sugar, the bag in his lap, his eyes half-closed.

Sullivan smothered a cough. ‘McVeigh,’ he said simply.

*

McVeigh saw Manhattan first. ‘There,’ he said, pointing through the windshield. ‘Straight ahead.’

The old man awoke with a jerk, rubbing his face, peering forward. They were still on Interstate 95, skirting the Bronx, the black waters of Long Island Sound on the left. Ahead, plainly visible, were the towers of Manhattan Island, a city from another world, a Hollywood fantasy, millions of lights. McVeigh slowed, checking his watch. It was 02.12. He’d said 3 a.m. Looking at the map, and the near-empty freeway, it would take twenty minutes at the most. He began to slow, signalling right, taking the next exit.

The old man stared at him. ‘What are we doing?’ he said.

McVeigh smiled, patting him on the arm, reassuring him.

‘We’re early,’ he said. ‘We need to kill a little time.’

*

Emery and Telemann sat in the back of an unmarked police car in the shadow of the UN building. The building was ablaze with lights, yet another round of Security Council meetings, focus for the world’s attention. Across the East River Drive, the lights danced on the black surface of the water, and through the open window, Emery could hear the faint buzz of a helicopter, high in the darkness.

Telemann was talking to the man behind the wheel, small, dark, wistful. He’d recognized him at once, Benitez, the guy he’d met last time he’d been up here, getting the brief on the body in the fridge in the Bellevue morgue. Benitez was talking about him now, wondering aloud where the investigation had led, too experienced to push for real detail, too curious to leave it alone. Telemann told him what he could, what little Emery had been prepared to share, knowing all too well that there was much, much more.

Benitez smiled. ‘Aerospace guy, eh? One of those?’

‘Sure.’

‘Didn’t do him any good, though, eh? Trip to Bellevue? Couple of days in the fridge?’

‘No.’

Telemann nodded, falling silent. He had a pair of night binoculars in his bag, Marine issue, and he lifted them from time to time, scanning the shadowed recesses on the north side of the building. So far, to their credit, Telemsnn hadn’t spotted a single player in the stake-out. Benitez, monitoring the radio net, glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty before three,’ he said. ‘They give you any of that bromide stuff?’ He licked his lips and made a face. ‘Tasted lousy. Tasted of rusty nails.’