The Devil's Breath (11 page)

Now, twenty minutes out of Dulles, Emery went through it again. The Iraqis had a known nerve gas capability. They’d taken the decision to go chemical back in ’74 when the Israelis refused to sign the Nuclear Proliferation Treaty. Wary of Israel, wanting parity, lacking the technical know-how to make a bomb of their own, they’d sensibly opted for the poor man’s nuke: poison gas. They’d scoured the world for Arab scientists. They’d recruited engineers. They’d paid millions of dollars to Western firms for site plans and equipment. And by 1988, they were producing tons of the stuff a month, mainly mustard gas and nerve agents. Some of it they dropped on Iranian front-line troops during the eight-year war. More of it fell on the luckless Kurdish town of Halabja, killing thousands of women and children. The West, too late, imposed export bans on key constituent chemicals, but by the end of the decade, the Iraqis had acquired what they needed.

There were now five plants producing poison gas. The biggest, at Samarra, north of Baghdad, was huge. Telemann had seen the black-and-whites from the National Reconnaissance Office that very afternoon, sheaves of photos, perfect resolution, hand-carried across Washington in the big red folder marked TOP SECRET TALENT KEYHOLE. Spread out on the carpet beneath the window, they showed mile after square mile of plant and storage facilities, heavily masked by thick concrete revetments. The Iraqis had given the place a name, the
Muthanna State Enterprise for Pesticide Production, but it was nothing more than a blind. Every two-bit country with a chemical capability called the stuff ‘pesticide’. It was simply a code, a convention, the blackest of jokes. Spray this on the bad guys, went the theory, and wipe them out for good.

And there was lots of it. Mustard came out of Samarra at the rate of 60 tons a month, and they’d been stockpiling for years. Of the nerve agents – Tabun and another gas called Sarin – there was admittedly far less, but in terms of strict lethality, that didn’t matter. A dose the size of a cube of sugar would, given the distribution, kill two and a half thousand people.

‘Delivery,’ Telemann muttered, watching a distant 747 riding the glide-path into Dulles. ‘They have to deliver.’

Emery nodded. His consumption of Camel cigarettes was peaking around fifty a day. Telemann had never seen him so fired.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And there’s a body in the Bellevue morgue says they can. That was smart. They knock off a guy who’s been feeding the Israelis. And they send us a message, too.’ He nodded again, approving. ‘Neat.’

Telemann glanced across at him. ‘You get any more on Gold?’

‘Not yet. I’ve got guys on it now. IRS guys. One’s out in LA crawling all over the estate. I told them they’re owed.’ He grinned. ‘Big bucks.’

Telemann nodded. Investigators from the Internal Revenue Service were legendary, the enforcement equivalent of pit bull terriers. They could wreck a man’s career in eight hours. They asked all the right questions for as long as it took, and they viewed sleep or weekends as a form of weakness. Telemann glanced across at Emery. Emery was trying to hide a yawn. Telemann reached forward and turned the air conditioning to cold boost.

‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘where’s the even money? They bring the stuff in? Or they brew it here themselves?’

‘Bring it in. Dime to a dollar.’

‘How?’

Emery shrugged, dipping his head for the last Camel and
crushing the empty pack. ‘I’d say seaborne. A gallon or two slipped into a part-load. It wouldn’t be difficult, and you might risk pressurization problems if you tried to air-freight it over. No—’ he shook his head ‘—my guess is Boston, or New York, or one of those dinky little places up in Maine.’ He paused. ‘Department of Commerce are accessing some data, though we might get old waiting for it.’

Telemann nodded, gazing out of the window. He’d been away from the office most of the afternoon. Emery had picked him up at home. ‘Anything new on Antwerp?’

Emery said nothing for a moment. Then he took a long deep pull at the cigarette and held it for a second or two. ‘Yes,’ he said, the car suddenly full of smoke again.

‘What?’

Emery glanced at him. He wasn’t smiling. ‘Langley came through. Operations have some assets over in Brussels. Good local boys. Nicely placed.’

‘And?’

‘I gave them the dates. I asked them to bracket two weeks around the Israeli sign off …’ He paused for a moment, picking a shred of tobacco from his lower lip. ‘They had an odd little incident four days back. The local cops picked up a Greek guy in the middle of the night. Someone had been beating the shit out of him. He’s still in hospital.’

‘So what?’

A trace of a frown ghosted across Emery’s face. He hated being hurried. ‘The guy came off a boat. The
Enoxia
. Small freighter. She left Antwerp three days ago. I got them to check back. I asked for the manifest.’

‘What was she carrying?’

‘Amongst other stuff—’ he paused ‘—pesticide.’

Telemann nodded. ‘Was the Greek guy replaced?’

‘Yep. They picked up a deckhand through the agent.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I don’t know …’ He looked across at Telemann. ‘Yet.’

Telemann eased the seat an inch or two back and closed his eyes. ‘You think I should talk to the agent?’ He opened one eye
and looked at Emery. Emery had already produced an envelope from his pocket. He laid it carefully on the dash.

‘His address and phone number,’ he said. ‘And his name.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘He’s half-Flemish, half-Jewish. Brussels think he’s
sayanim
.’

Telemann looked at the envelope for a moment, then closed his eyes again. If the shipping agent was a
sayan
, then he worked for Mossad part-time, one of a network of sympathizers worldwide. These were the guys who did it for Israel, the true believers, greasing the wheels of the Mossad machine. Often they were prominent local figures, trusted in their community. From time to time, on request, they provided funds, cover, safe houses, introductions, the countless favours that good Intelligence depended on. If he was
sayan
, if it was true, then it was the worst possible news. It meant that Mossad really was involved. It meant taking on the Israelis.

‘Tough call,’ Telemann murmured.

Emery glanced across at him, agreeing. ‘The toughest,’ he said.

Telemann pulled a face, knowing already that it was true. He’d been phoning contacts in Tel Aviv all morning, private numbers as well as the big headquarters switchboard on King Saul Boulevard, but so far no one had returned his calls. Personally, he’d always got on with the Israelis, kindred spirits, but he knew, too, that they had little respect for the CIA. The Americans, they thought, were barely in the game. They regarded them as amateurs, well intentioned, sincere, but hamstrung by their own naïvety, by the huge bureaucracies back in Washington, by the ceaseless need to answer to the politicians on the Hill. They pulled their punches. They thought too hard about democracy. They refused to meet like with like. In a wicked world, they behaved like virgins. The sun on his face, his eyes still closed, Telemann shook his head and sighed. Despite his birthright, and his passport, he had to agree. Too damn right, he thought.

Emery eased the big Chrysler off the pike and joined the feeder road that led to the airport. Telemann, upright in his seat
again, could see the graceful tent-like shape of the terminal, and the tailplanes of the evening Jumbos waiting on the tarmac beyond. He’d made this journey hundreds of times, flying out, field assignments in Europe and the Middle East. More often than not, the operations had run into the sand, over-managed, over-controlled. For years, he’d chafed at the frustrations, the pages of careful ground-rulers, promising assignments wrecked by the senseless protocols. Now, though, the brakes were off. He had complete freedom, total responsibility. He could do whatever he liked to whoever he liked, just as long as he got a result. He thought of the Israelis again and wondered how he would cope. It wouldn’t be easy. He knew it.

Emery slowed to join the queue for the departures ramp. Telemann felt inside his jacket pocket, checking for his passport and his ticket, automatic gestures, some small comfort. The car rolled up to the terminal building and coasted to a halt beneath the Sabena sign. Emery coughed. He had another envelope in his hand. It was small and white. He passed it across. ‘From Laura,’ he said. ‘She made me promise.’

Telemann gazed at it. He’d seen Laura barely an hour ago. He’d driven over to the little white house in Maryland to pick up his bag. She’d packed it, like she always did. It was lying there on the bed, waiting for him. They’d spent a little time together. They’d talked about an autumn vacation. They’d said goodbye on the stoop, the kids too, little Bree all teeth and giggles.

He blinked, still looking at the envelope. ‘What is it?’ he said blankly.

‘I don’t know.’

Telemann reached for the envelope and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, and a small flower. Laura pressed them between the pages of the kids’ encyclopaedias. She was always doing them. They were never less than beautiful. Telemann looked at the flower for a moment. It was tiny, with purple leaves. He’d seen one before but he didn’t know the name for it. He put it carefully to one side and unfolded the sheet of paper. A black porter had appeared with a trolley. His shadow fell over the car. Telemann bent to the paper, two brief
sentences. ‘I love you,’ it went, ‘and so do the kids. Which is why I don’t think we can go on like this much longer.’

Telemann blinked and read the note again. Then he looked across at Emery. Emery was leaning against the door, one hand on the wheel, watching a Grey Line bus. He might have been a million miles away. Telemann gestured at the letter. ‘You know about this?’

Emery’s eyes left the bus. He looked at the letter. He didn’t try to read it. Then he looked at Telemann. Telemann bent towards him, urgent now, his plane waiting, the Israelis waiting, God knows what in store. ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘
Do
you?’

Emery looked pensive for a moment, and Telemann had a sudden glimpse of it, the sailboat, the wide gleaming spaces of Chesapeake Bay, the photos the kids had taken, the whole family aboard, the picnic hamper, the half-empty bottles of wine, the wet towels draped over the boom, Bree naked, summer-brown, Emery at the tiller, inscrutable, his wife beside him, her smile. The older man was gazing out of the window again, his fingers softly tapping on the steering-wheel. The Grey Line bus had disappeared.

‘Your plane goes at seven,’ he said softly, ‘and it’s six already.’

*

Billy phoned McVeigh with the news. He’d been dialling the flat since four. He sounded pleased with himself, a little breathless, real excitement. ‘Dad,’ he began, ‘I got it. I did it.’

McVeigh threw his leather jacket on to the sofa. He’d just come in himself. He hadn’t seen Billy for two days, hadn’t even spoken to him, and now he was going away.

‘What, son? What’ve you got?’

‘Picked. I got picked.’

‘What for?’

‘Hornsey Schools. They’re training pre-season. We get shirts and socks and everything …’ He paused, gulping with excitement. ‘I’m the only one ever from our team.
Ever
, Dad. Isn’t that brilliant?’

‘Yeah. Wazza.’

‘What?’

‘Wazza. It means the same thing. It means brilliant.’ McVeigh
grinned. He hadn’t used the old Marine term for years. Wazza. Billy was telling him about the training, who they’d be playing in the first game, how he’d been promised the centre-forward spot. ‘
Promised
, Dad. They promised me. Striker.’ He paused. ‘What do you think?’

‘Wazza,’ McVeigh said again, checking his watch. It was ten past seven. He told Billy well done and asked to speak to his mum. There was a bang as Billy dropped the phone and then a brief conversation in the background. When McVeigh’s ex-wife came on, she sounded surprised. They rarely talked.

‘It’s me,’ McVeigh said.

‘I gathered.’

‘Great news. About the boy.’

‘Yes, it is. It’s done him the world of good. He’s almost normal again.’ She paused, awkward. ‘Was there anything else?’

McVeigh hesitated for a moment, then said that he was away for a while, on a job. He’d quite like to see the boy. It was seven. Why didn’t they go out for a meal?

‘He’s eaten,’ she said at once.

‘I meant all of us.’

‘Ah …’ There was another silence, longer this time, and McVeigh pictured her standing by the phone amongst the Habitat furniture and the Afghan rugs and the heavy velvet curtains she’d inherited from her mother, trying to work out how to say no.

She returned to the phone. ‘He’s quite keen,’ she said, reluctant.

McVeigh grinned again. ‘La Dolce Vita,’ he said, naming an Italian restaurant he knew she liked, ‘I’ll see you there in half an hour.’

McVeigh got to the restaurant first. He knew the owner, a small, talkative Italian from Naples. Like Billy, he was football-mad. They discussed the talents of Maradona for a minute or two, McVeigh pretending a knowledge he didn’t possess, and the owner was still bodychecking around a line of empty chairs when Sarah appeared at the door. She was tall, a year older than McVeigh, with long blond hair. She spoke Knightsbridge English and wore expensive clothes with a practised languor. In
the early days, transfixed by appearances, McVeigh had worshipped her.

Now he stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Billy ran in from the car, tripping on the mat at the door. They sat at a table in the window, McVeigh on one side, Billy and Sarah on the other. Sarah sipped a Perrier water, looking wary. ‘Nice surprise,’ she said, without obvious enthusiasm.

They ordered seafood and a modest salad, pizza for Billy. A bottle of champagne arrived, and a huge glass of Coke. McVeigh poured the champagne and toasted Billy’s news. The boy raised his glass of Coke, his eyes shiny. He said he thought he might play for England one day. Then he got up and excused himself, and disappeared towards the loo.

Sarah put her glass down. ‘Who’s Yakov?’ she said carefully.

McVeigh explained. He said he’d been a coach with the football team. He’d taken the team to the top of their league, and he’d got on especially well with Billy. This season they might have done even better, only Yakov wasn’t around any more.