The Devil's Breath (15 page)

‘
Prosit
,’ he said with a smile, ‘
shalom
.’

The others lifted their glasses, amused by the toast. Then Blum leaned forward, abruptly businesslike. He indicated Klausmann with a tilt of the head, not taking his eyes off Telemann.

‘You’ve come a long way,’ he said, ‘so we thought it better not to waste your time. Dr Klausmann is a chemist. He retired
three years ago. Now he lives here, in this house. Until reunification, he lived in the East.’

Telemann nodded, looking across at Klausmann, framing the obvious question, knowing already what the answer would be.

‘Where?’ he enquired politely. ‘Where in the East?’

Blum looked at him for a moment. ‘Halle,’ he said, still smiling.

*

McVeigh arrived at Ben Gurion International Airport at half-past ten the next day.

The big El Al 747 was forty minutes late, delayed in a stack of circling aircraft. Sitting beside a window towards the back of the executive cabin, McVeigh looked down on the sprawl of Tel Aviv, trying to match the pattern of interlocking major roads with the city map he’d already committed to memory. The big roads were easy, Ben Yehuda and Dizengoff, running parallel to the seafront. There were beaches along the seafront, already dotted with sunbeds, and the long concrete arm of a marina.

The plane banked again, and the view of Tel Aviv changed, the south of the city suddenly visible, the old town, Jaffa, the walls of the ancient harbour, a single speedboat arrowing out to sea, the wake feathering away behind it. McVeigh gazed down at the deep blues and the dusty greys and browns, knowing that Jaffa was where he’d have to start, at the address in his pocket. Yakov’s apartment.

The nose dipped, and the pilot eased back on the throttles, the whine of the engines changing note. McVeigh braced as the tarmac came up to meet the big Boeing, and the wheels bit, and the grass of the airfield, scorched brown by the heat, raced past. The aircraft shuddered under reverse thrust, and McVeigh reached forward for the paperback he’d tucked into the back of the seat. Inside the paperback was a postcard. It was unstamped. Billy had delivered it personally, by hand, the previous evening. McVeigh had found it on the mat.

Now, easing his seat-belt, he turned it over. On one side was a black and white photo of Gary Lineker. On the other, in careful capitals, was Billy’s contribution to the next week or so.
Reading it, McVeigh smiled. No nonsense. No messing. Nothing fancy.

‘Good luck, Dad,’ it went. ‘Come back soon.’

*

The analysts at the Dispozall group headquarters had a result on the Newbury sample by eleven-thirty, London time.

The Executive Chemical Officer, who’d supervised the last stages of the process, checked the read-outs a final time and returned to his office at the end of the bigger of the two laboratories. He’d not been briefed on the Newbury incident until he’d arrived for work at eight o’clock.

Wearing full protective gear, he’d spent the next three hours watching the analyst run the elimination tests, but he’d seen the colour of the stuff, and he’d heard what had happened out at Newbury, and twelve years’ Army service told him the rest of the story. The result of the analysis, when it came, was the merest formality.

He closed the office door behind him and lifted the phone. A four-figure internal number took him to the group’s managing director, three floors above. The man had been up half the night. He sounded knackered. The ECO extracted a sheaf of Kleenex from the box on the desk and mopped his face.

‘That Newbury business,’ he said briefly. ‘It’s nerve gas.’

‘It’s what?’

‘Nerve gas. Tabun GA. It’s bastard stuff. We need to deal with the rest of it sharpish. It’s not nice.’

There was a long silence. The ECO gazed out through the glass walls of his office. The analyst was bent over the sample jars, sealing them again, totally airtight. Then the managing director returned. He sounded, if anything, even worse.

‘We have a problem,’ he said.

‘You’re right.’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘I meant another problem.’

‘Oh?’ The ECO frowned. Tabun was a name from the doomsday brief. The amount he was looking at down the lab could take care of most of Greater London. Five gallons properly dispersed was enough to empty the British Isles.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Newbury have been on. Half an hour ago.’

‘And?’

‘The stuff’s gone.’

Book two
           

31 August 1990

6

The way Sullivan saw it, the message was for real. ‘Kosher,’ he said. ‘For sure.’

The President looked at him for a moment across the long 25-foot conference table. Sullivan had flown up to Camp David by helicopter, arriving only minutes ago. Clambering out of the big Sikorsky, ducking in the downwash from the rotor, he’d followed one of the Marine guards across the landing-strip and down through the stand of pines to the Lodge. The President had been up at Camp David since Friday night. A principals-only meeting had just finished, the flasks of juice and the five empty glasses still sitting on the table. The President looked at him for a moment longer, then read the single sheet of paper again. Underneath the Kennebunkport tan, he looked tired and irritable.

‘Amman again?’

‘Cyprus.’

‘When?’

‘This morning. 09.14 Eastern Standard Time. Early evening in Nicosia.’

‘Anything else come with it? Names?’ The President paused. ‘Any toll-free numbers we might call?’

Sullivan raised a smile at the joke, then shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘The way I heard it, the guy arrived on a motor-bike and left it at the gate. Same as last time.’ He paused again. ‘I’d have cabled the contents, but under the circumstances …’ He broke off and shrugged.

The President glanced up for a moment, not hearing him properly. He seemed exhausted, his voice low. ‘The bastard’s capable of anything,’ he said. ‘Any damn thing. You see him on CNN last week?’

Sullivan nodded. ‘I was there, sir,’ he said gently. ‘We watched it together.’

The President looked at him, frowning, and then nodded. ‘Oh, sure,’ he said. ‘You were. I forgot.’

His hand reached for the flask of juice and he filled the nearest glass. Eight days ago, Saddam had appeared on television with a group of Western kids, effectively hostages of the Iraqi regime. One of them, an English boy, he’d talked to through an interpreter, benign, smiling, reaching across to touch and reassure the child, a father-figure, the very model of concern. The boy, plainly terrified, had done his best to hide his feelings, but the President, watching the big set in the Oval Office, had paled at the sight, his fists clenched, his face ashen. Sullivan had watched him across the room, knowing yet again that the crisis in the Gulf had become – for the President at least – a moral crusade. Black and white. Good and evil.

Now the President put the single sheet of paper on the table and sank into a chair. There was a long silence. Sullivan could hear the whine of a hoover outside in the corridor. The next meeting, he knew, was scheduled for late afternoon. The J-boys were arriving, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, breaking yet another weekend to keep the President briefed on the huge military build-up now flooding into Saudi Arabia. The President wanted the details, all the details, the name and composition of every last unit heading east. After the disasters of early August – the Intelligence people wrongfooted, the Pentagon in shock – he was determined to be the playmaker, the guy who called as many of the moves as possible.

A month into the crisis, it was beginning to work. The diplomatic noose was tightening daily. Twenty-two nations had pledged forces to the UN coalition. American forces in the Gulf now topped 100,000, with thousands more en route. And God knows, at last there were signs that the pressure was beginning to work. Only days ago, Saddam had offered to free the women and children he was holding in Baghdad. The price of their freedom – US withdrawal – was totally unacceptable, but none the less the news had drawn a small ripple of applause in
Washington’s upper circle. The guy just blinked, went the word. We’ve got him by the balls and he’s starting to hurt.

The President gazed around the table at the neat row of empty seats. His right hand strayed again to the message Sullivan had brought from Washington. The message was blunt. The President had four weeks to halt the build-up in Saudi Arabia and turn the thing around. Unless the troops were heading home by the end of the month, New York would take the consequences. The President looked across at Sullivan again. ‘Who do we talk to?’ he said. ‘These June 7th guys, who are they?’

Sullivan shook his head. ‘We don’t know.’

‘
Nothing?
’

‘Nothing.’ He paused. ‘Not yet.’

‘So when?’ The President frowned, leaning forward, impatient for news. ‘This guy of yours … our fireman … is he good? Is he doing it for us? Has he …?’

Sullivan smiled, a quizzical expression, and looked away, and the President hesitated a moment and then shrugged, an implicit acknowledgement of the pact between them, obliged to accept, for once, an ignorance of the small-print. On this one, the word was deniability. If any hint of Sullivan’s operation leaked out, if the shit hit the fan, then it was crucial that none got as far as the Presidency. Sullivan would suffer, sure, but his loyalty had always been beyond question, and he’d be happy to take the fall.

Abruptly, the President got up, folding Sullivan’s note into his pocket. Sullivan was on his feet across the table, buttoning his jacket. The President paused by the door, opening it, and then changed his mind and closed it again. With people he trusted, he had a habit of thinking aloud. He looked down at Sullivan, very close. ‘We have a problem with the Israelis,’ he said. ‘You may have gathered.’

‘Sir?’

‘They’ve torn up the April deal. They ain’t on board any more. They’re contemplating a little action of their own.’

Sullivan nodded. Months before the invasion of Kuwait, back
in April, Saddam had sought assurances that neither the US nor Israel would move against him. The President, after a little thought, had twisted arms in Tel Aviv and given the Iraqis the guarantees they wanted. At the time, there’d been no reason to withhold the pledge. Given a choice, the President didn’t want to fight anyone.

The Iraqis, four months later, had used the President’s assurances for their own ends, throwing the weight of the Iraqi army against Kuwait – in the south – and leaving their western flank unprotected. Even now, there was still no real threat against Israel, but the Israelis had a notoriously short fuse. Year-long rumours that Baghdad was on the verge of producing a nuclear weapon, and now the move against Kuwait, were making them very nervous indeed – and provoked, they tended to favour action and not words. Intelligence reports were indicating a measure of quiet mobilization in Tel Aviv, and Sullivan knew all too well that any Israeli attack against Iraq, however justified, would shatter the Saudi-based coalition the President had so carefully assembled.

Sullivan frowned. ‘You’re talking to them regularly?’

‘Every night.’

‘They listening?’

‘They hear what they want to hear but the bottom line never changes. If push comes to shove, they’ll do it their way.’

‘You believe them?’

‘No question. They’re unilateralists. Always have been.’ He paused, his hand still on the door-knob. ‘And they have a point. If it was you or me in Tel Aviv, we’d be thinking offensive too. You know the range of a Scud missile? The ones Saddam’s had modified?’

Sullivan nodded.
Newsweek
had been publishing the facts for weeks. ‘Six hundred kilometres.’

‘You got it.’ The President grimaced, nodding at the empty conference room. ‘The fellas come up here with the maps and the little models. They draw it all out. Scuds are a dime a dozen. Stick a bunch in Western Iraq, out there in the desert some place, and you’re in Tel Aviv in a coupla minutes. And
remember—’ he bent towards Sullivan, his voice low, almost conspiratorial ‘—you only have to get lucky once, just once, and the coalition’s history. Drop a Scud in downtown Tel Aviv, kill women and children, and the Israelis will do the rest.’ He snapped his fingers, making the point. ‘Can you imagine what a party that would be? Shamir’s boys over Baghdad? Our Arabs lining up alongside the Israelis?’ He shook his head, leaving the question unanswered, opening the door instead.

In the hall, a woman in grey overalls was bending over the hoover. The President gave her a wave and led Sullivan towards the big swing-doors that led to the lobby. Outside, for mid-September, it was still hot, a light wind off the mountains stirring the tall stands of pine. The President paused for a moment, blinking in the sunlight, then took the path back towards the landing-pad. The helicopter was still there, the fat blue hull visible through the trees. Sullivan fell into step beside him, still listening, still waiting for instructions. The note, he thought. The deadline.

The President glanced down at him. ‘You know what the Israelis fear most of all?’

Sullivan nodded. Historically, the answer wasn’t hard to guess. ‘Gas?’

‘Sure. Strap a gallon or two on top of a Scud, and you’re back at Auschwitz. That’s the line they’re taking.’ He paused, watching a group of off-duty Marines jogging slowly through the trees. ‘You know what one of their guys at the Embassy said to me yesterday?’

‘No, sir?’

‘He said we wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. Hadn’t been through it. He said we’d be a whole lot more concerned if it was our city, our folks on the receiving end. He said geography made us simple-minded.’

The President paused again. He pulled out Sullivan’s note, flattening it against his knee, reading the stark, simple message. Then he glanced over at Sullivan, the worry back in his face, and the impatience. ‘I don’t want his name,’ he said, ‘but I hope to God your guy’s good.’

*

In Hamburg, Telemann awoke at noon, strong sunlight through the thin calico curtains, the rumble of traffic from the street below. He rolled over and reached for the phone, grunting an acknowledgement to the receptionist.

‘Fraülein Hecht,’ she said in flawless English. ‘Waiting for you in the bar.’

Still numb with jet-lag, Telemann shaved at the tiny basin, scrolling his face with foam, tidying his memories of the last twelve hours. He’d stayed out at the cottage for the best part of the night, picking his way back through the trees to the Mercedes as the sky began to lighten in the east. Klausmann, the German, the one they’d taken him to see, had done most of the talking, sitting in the armchair beside the tallest of the four bookcases, his body bent slightly forward, his arms on his bare knees, the bowl of his pipe cupped in one hand. The man had immense presence. He spoke slowly. He paused often. He took care with the words. He wasn’t afraid of silence. He asked for nothing except attention, and by the time he’d finished, Telemann realized that most of what he was saying was probably true. He’d been an industrial chemist, supervising parts of the East German chemical warfare programme. And he had, during his last days in office, developed profound doubts about some of the clients that reunification had brought to the sprawling, ash-grey plant on the northern edges of Halle.

The evening had finished on a strange note. Telemann, notebook in hand, had asked for names, leads, phone numbers. He’d abandoned the fiction that he was some kind of visiting journalist, and substituted a simple list of questions. Who, exactly, were these ‘clients’? What, specifically, had they wanted to acquire? How recent, and how reliable, was the best of the Intelligence? These enquiries, terse, hardened by fatigue and a certain impatience, Klausmann had waved aside. His information was at least a year old. His memory for precise details was uncertain. Yes, they were talking nerve gas: constituent chemicals and the ready-made, take-out version. And yes, the clients certainly included Iraq. They’d set up a number of front organizations in Europe. They had addresses in Switzerland, Brussels and the UK, and money – to his knowledge – had
never been a problem. They’d used an international bank headquartered in Luxemburg. They’d brought tons of the stuff – hundreds of gallons – and shipped it back to the Gulf. But that wasn’t the point.

No? Telemann had stared at him, his eyes playing tricks again, two versions of the German swimming out of focus. No?

At this, Klausmann had sighed, an expression of mild disappointment, a patient teacher handicapped by a slightly backward child. Then he’d looked across the room towards the woman, an appeal for help, and she had stood up and checked her watch, and shepherded Telemann towards the door. Tomorrow, she’d explained in the windy half-darkness outside the cottage, they’d drive east, to Halle. Herr Klausmann was where the story began. Herr Klausmann had been more than generous with his time. Tomorrow would progress events to Telemann’s satisfaction.

Now, in the hotel, Telemann checked out and paid his bill. He could see the woman in the mirror behind the reception desk. She was sitting at the tiny bar, a coffee at her elbow, reading a magazine. On the drive back from the cottage, she’d finally offered him a name. ‘Inge,’ she’d said simply, ‘Inge Hecht.’ Whether Inge was her real name hardly mattered. What was beyond dispute was the fact that she worked for the Israelis, for Mossad, for Nathan Blum, the
katza
who’d picked Telemann up from the airport. Mossad, as ever, had the inside lane. And for once they appeared to want to share it.

Telemann and the girl drove east out of Hamburg, a hot cloudless afternoon, the sliding roof on the Mercedes wound back, Inge’s eyes invisible behind the big Ray-Ban sunglasses. She was wearing a thin cotton dress, low-cut, with a pleated skirt. Her legs were bare. There was a fine silver chain around her neck, and her skin was a dark, tawny gold. Looking at her, aware of her presence beside him, Telemann realized that he hadn’t thought about Laura since waking, an almost conscious act of self-defence, the putting away of a bad smell, the shutting of a box and the turning of a key. They drove fast, the promise of Berlin on the big overhead indicator boards, Inge’s hand on the leather-rimmed wheel, long fingers, a single ring, perfect
nails. From time to time she reached for the radio, changing channels, looking for music, jazz or rock. She seemed happy not to talk.

Ten kilometres short of Wittenberge, suddenly hungry, Telemann reached back for his holdall and rummaged for a bar of chocolate. He peeled back the silver foil and offered the girl a piece. She nodded, smiling, her hands still on the wheel. Telemann broke the bar in half and then halved it again. She glanced sideways at him and opened her mouth. He fed in the chocolate, three squares, licking his fingers afterwards.