The Devil's Breath (51 page)

Emery nodded. ‘We had some,’ he said. ‘On the plane.’

Telemann looked at him briefly, then lifted the night glasses again as Benitez began to unpack his gas mask.

‘Correction,’ he said quietly. ‘You had some.’

*

McVeigh emerged from the tangle of freeways at the foot of Interstate 95 and eased the car on to the Bruckner Expressway. From here he could cross the East River and head south, down the eastern shore of Manhattan Island, a route that would take him directly towards the UN building. He had the radio on now, scanning the local stations, curious to know whether the authorities had made any kind of announcement. In their place, he wasn’t at all sure what he’d do. A life-time of Hollywood movies told him that 5 gallons of nerve gas was the Doomsday scenario. Just the threat of it would be enough to empty most major cities, and this one was surely no exception. He sat back as the old car rumbled west, watching the cliffs of steel and glass get closer, the buildings taller, the sheer scale of the place more unlikely. He glanced at his watch again. 02.46. Exactly on schedule.

*

A NYPD helicopter saw them first, 500 feet, flying slowly up the East River. The observer, in the left-hand seat, motioned the chopper down, his glasses trained on a car travelling south down the Roosevelt Driveway. He fumbled for the switch that gave him access to the command net.

‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘We have them.’

*

McVeigh, watching the helicopter as it dipped towards the river, flicked his lights twice, the agreed signal. Beside him, the old man was staring at the bulk of the Queensboro Bridge.

‘You think they’ll understand?’ he said at last.

‘Who?’

‘The people. When they read the papers. When they watch the television. When they see what we’ve done. When we tell them about the gas, and the Israelis.’

McVeigh glanced across at him. Choosing the UN building for the rendezvous had been his idea. After two days of listening to the old man, of letting his rage break like a wave around them, he’d suggested that they call a press conference, middle of the night, as private a time as any in New York. At first the old man, still bent on vengeance, had shaken his head. He wanted bodies on the sidewalk, Israeli bodies, Jewish bodies. He’d heard that New York was a Jewish city. Jews everywhere. Hala was dead. The Jews must die. He’d do it himself. Broad daylight. Rush-hour. Dying himself in the process. Who cared? Who cared what happened? As long as the Jews finally understood that they, too, must suffer. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

McVeigh had nodded, making the obvious points. Many of the people on the street wouldn’t be Jews at all. Some of them would be women and children. Some of them, even, might be Palestinian, immigrants, exiles. Was that the kind of justice the old man believed in? Was that the kind of death they deserved?

At this the old man had faltered, not quite so sure any more, retiring to his bedroom to rest and think, and hours later, when he re-emerged, McVeigh was able to talk about a different kind of justice, the Israelis exposed, forced to account for themselves in front of the entire world. The old man had been right. The place to go was New York. But not Broadway or Park Avenue. Not six o’clock in the evening, the middle of the commuter rush-hour. Somewhere quieter. A place where they could meet the press and the cameras, a place where they could show the world the evidence, the car, the tank in the boot, the gallons of
waiting nerve gas. The UN building, somewhere close, somewhere near by, would be the perfect spot. That was the nerve centre. That was where the world had decided to solve its problems. How better to punish the Israelis?

Now, McVeigh looked across at the old man. He’d promised him the media. He’d promised they’d be there. Operationally, it was a lousy combination, a mixture of showbiz and armed force, and after some thought he’d made a private decision to defer the press conference, to call it later, once the car had been impounded, once the danger had gone. The old man would be disappointed, sure. He might even try and take a little unilateral action of his own. But McVeigh was prepared for that, too. He had the Beretta tucked inside his belt, the mechanism checked, the magazine full. If necessary, if it had to be, he’d separate the old man from the car at gun-point.

*

Telemann, sitting in Benitez’s car, leaned foward, listening to the exchanges on the command net. The Oldsmobile had made contact with the helicopter. The car was two blocks from the UN. The Englishman was at the wheel and the Palestinian was sitting beside him. The observer in the helicopter estimated visual contact with the ground units in two minutes. Telemann lifted the glasses again, twisting round in his seat, sweeping the stretch of highway that fed traffic south into the underpass in front of the UN building. Even at three in the morning, the road was busy, a succession of cabs and private cars, none of them Oldsmobiles. He racked the focus, panning right again, the route they’d probably take, the feeder road that looped in towards the giant shadow of the UN building. With luck, they’d come here, journey’s end, half an acre of tarmac barely 100 metres from where he was sitting. Telemann smiled, scanning left again with the glasses, back towards the road.

*

McVeigh began to slow, remembering the details on the map. Before they got to the UN building, there was an exit. At the end of the exit road, near the Douglas MacArthur Plaza, was the spot he’d chosen. He peered ahead, ignoring the driver of the cab behind, his hand on the horn, his fist raised. Up ahead
was the UN building. The old man was staring at it, shaking his head again, awed.

McVeigh saw the exit road at last. He indicated right, hauling the old car off the highway, looking already for the tell-tale signs of a stake-out. The Plaza was coming up now, empty except for a car in the shadows. There were three figures inside. Two of them were wearing gas masks. The one in the back had a pair of binoculars. The binoculars were trained on the Oldsmobile.

McVeigh smiled, pulling the Oldsmobile into a tight turn, applying the brake, switching off the engine. Beyond the underpass was the river. Beyond the river, the lights of Queens. The two men sat in silence for a moment, waiting. On the phone, McVeigh had stipulated that the Americans must make the running. Their operation. Their first move. The clock on the dashboard read 03.02. The old man was frowning. The bag was on his lap. ‘Where are they?’ he said.

Telemann steadied his elbows on the tops of the front seats, the night glasses to his eyes. The man behind the wheel had a lean, square face. His hair was cropped short. He was talking to the other man but not looking at him, his eyes scanning the Plaza, left to right. The other man was much older, smaller, balding. His skin was dark. He was wearing an open-necked shirt. He looked nervous. He kept shaking his head.

On the command net, Telemann could hear the units reporting their readiness, one after the other, their voices distorted by the gas masks they were wearing. The officer in charge was querying the wind speed. Evidently the wind had dropped. Under the circumstances, it seemed utterly academic. What did the wind speed matter when the guys were here? Waiting?

‘Go,’ Telemann muttered. ‘For Chrissakes, go.’

The old man was angry again. The darkness and the silence had unnerved him. McVeigh knew it, easing the Beretta, loosening it in his belt, hearing the whump–whump of a big helicopter, somewhere off to the right, flying low up the river.

‘They’ll come soon,’ he said, trying to sooth the old man. ‘They’re always late.’

‘You said three.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s important, this story.’

‘Of course it is.’

The old man looked at him a moment, the accusation plain in his face. ‘You lied to me? About them?’

‘No.’

‘Then why …?’ He gestured out at the darkened Plaza and as he did so the car was suddenly flooded with light. It came from everywhere, high-intensity, the beams criss-crossing in the darkness, pooling on the car. The helicopter was much louder now, the noise of the rotors coarsening as the pilot flared into the hover. The car was beginning to rock in the downwash, and McVeigh peered up through the windscreen, shielding his eyes against the blinding light, seeing nothing. They’re doing it to disperse the gas, he thought. They’re doing it in case we hit the pump.

He looked across at the old man. Abu Yussuf was terrified, his eyes huge in his face, the noise, the lights, the voice on the megaphone, harsh, metallic, booming across the Plaza.

‘Get out of the car,’ the voice said. ‘Get out of the car. Put your hands on your head.’

The old man looked at McVeigh. His hand went to the switch on the dashboard. McVeigh got there first, stopping him, leaning over, opening the door, pushing him out of the car. The old man rolled on to the tarmac, still holding his bag, and McVeigh followed him, drawing the Beretta, falling on top of him, shielding his body from the downwash of the helicopter.

Watching, Telemann shook his head.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Holy Jesus.’

The two bodies on the ground were motionless for a moment. Then the younger man struggled upright, pulling the Palestinian after him, fighting to stay on his feet in the turbulence. They began to stagger towards the shadows. The Palestinian seemed to have hurt his leg. He was pulling away from the younger man. He had a bag. There was something else in his hand. Telemann stared at it through the binoculars, hearing Benitez talking rapidly into a microphone, recognizing the shape of the canister. ‘Shit,’ he said again. ‘He’s got an aerosol.’ He dropped
the binoculars, wrenching open the door, beginning to run, his body in the half-crouch, a revolver in his hand.

McVeigh knew they were in trouble. Semi-blind, deafened by the helicopter, buffeted by the downwash, he headed into the light, hauling the old man after him. Abu Yussuf was resisting now, fighting back, his lips moving, the words impossible to catch. He had something in his hand, an aerosol of some kind, and he kept waving it, shouting some question or other. McVeigh shook his head, wading on through the squall, the old man in one hand, the Beretta in the other.

Abruptly, ahead, a figure appeared, small, silhouetted against the light. It dropped to one knee. McVeigh faltered for a moment, confused. Then he saw the arms come up, both hands out, and he was still turning back towards the old man, trying to shield him, when his body went suddenly limp, a dead weight. He looked at him for a moment, sprawled on the tarmac. His left eye had gone, and bits of the back of his head lay glistening on the tarmac. McVeigh turned, dropping into a half-squat, a mix of training and rage, bringing up the Beretta. The figure in the searchlights hadn’t moved, the arms still out, pointing at the old man. McVeigh’s first shot dropped him, and he ran forward, crouching over his body, emptying the rest of the magazine, point-blank range, into his head.

Watching from Benitez’s car, Emery heard Sullivan’s voice on the command net. ‘No one shoot,’ he was saying. ‘No one shoot. Anyone shoots, I’ll have them off the fucking planet. You hear me?’

Abruptly, the lights went out. The helicopter dipped its nose and then climbed away into the darkness over the East River. Emery got out of the car. He could hear footsteps on the tarmac. He began to walk towards the Oldsmobile. The Englishman was kneeling beside the Arab, taking off his jacket, laying it gently over his face. The footsteps got louder, Sullivan appearing, flanked by two policemen. They were both armed, pump-action shotguns. Sullivan was taking off his gas mask, smoothing his hair. The group paused for a moment by Telemann, looking down. Emery joined them. There was nothing left of Telemann’s face. Emery knelt quickly, loosening
the ring on Telemann’s finger, taking off his own jacket. Then he stood up.

Sullivan was standing over the Englishman. ‘McVeigh?’ he grunted, extending a hand.

The Englishman nodded, saying nothing, turning away.

Epilogue
       

10 June 1991