The Devil's Breath (47 page)

Emery began to rummage in the drawer. The Jiffy bag was at the bottom, under a photo feature on bondage. He pulled it out and shook the contents on to the table. There were documents inside, closely spaced lines of typescript, scientific equations, half-page diagrams. The documents were in German. The science meant nothing to Emery. He glanced at Weill. His eyes were closed again, his head back against the tan vinyl.

‘I’m taking these away,’ he said, ‘but you could still save me a day or two.’ He paused. ‘Yeah?’

Weill nodded. ‘Sure.’ He reached down for the Kleenex and wiped his eyes. ‘We’re talking Israeli radar frequencies. Missile locks. ECM. Everything he’d ever done for them.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You want the full lecture?’

*

McVeigh slept the night at a hotel beside the airport at Montreal. He awoke at four, again at six, and finally got up at eight, unrefreshed. He dressed, ordered a hire car and breakfast from room service, and put a second call through to the Arab’s room. ‘We leave at nine,’ he told him. ‘See you in the lobby.’

McVeigh was in the lobby ten minutes early. He paid for his room and filled in the form for the rental car. When he asked about taking the car into the States, the girl said no problem. She left him with the keys and a set of maps. The maps he’d ordered specially. By the time the Arab appeared, they were back inside the envelope.

They drove east, through the downtown area and over the bridge across the St Lawrence River, leaving the suburbs behind them. Soon they were deep into rural Quebec, a plump, prosperous countryside, rolling hills, small towns, neat, white-fenced farms. Ghassan sat beside McVeigh, the window down, a cigarette in his hand, pushing the conversation along, nothing obvious, none of the questions McVeigh might have expected, simply a raft of small-talk floating on the unspoken assumption that they were comrades-in-arms, fellow combatants in a shadowy war, best left undescribed. Only once did he mention Amer again, and then only to confirm that he’d known the man for years, an old friend, a trusted ally. The big grip he’d stowed
in the boot of the hire car, but the smaller holdall he kept at his feet.

Beyond a small village called St Gérard, McVeigh saw a sign for the border. The US was 57 miles away. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past eleven. He drove on a couple of miles, the countryside emptier, the traffic light. He checked in the mirror, waving on a big truck, frowning. The truck thundered past in a cloud of dust, and McVeigh began to weave the car across the road, fingers on the wheel, shaking his head. Ghassan had just lit another cigarette. His English was near-perfect.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I think we’ve got a flat.’

McVeigh checked the mirror again. The road behind was empty. He braked and pulled the car on to the broad dirt-strip at the side of the highway. Then he got out, circling the car, kicking each tyre in turn, grunting. When he got to the Arab’s side, he paused, bending quickly, his hands on the front wheel, shaking it. He heard the front door open and stood up as the Arab stepped out.

‘It’s fucked,’ he said, hitting him hard with the heel of his hand, taking no risks.

The Arab collapsed back against the car, his nose spouting blood, and sank slowly to the ground. McVeigh kicked him as he fell, a single kick with the point of the foot, midway between his armpit and his waist. He gasped with pain, reaching for the bag in the front of the car, and McVeigh stepped quickly over him, grabbing it. Inside, a gun lay under a fold of scarf. McVeigh recognized it at once. It was a Beretta, the high-powered version, .22 calibre. Security services used it worldwide for close-quarters work. It was a favourite for assassinations because it didn’t need a silencer. McVeigh took out the Beretta and threw the bag into the car. Then he knelt beside the Arab, the gun nuzzling the tight curls of black hair beside his ear. The Arab was nursing his nose, dabbing at it, staring at the blood.

‘Who gave you this?’ McVeigh said, pressing the gun against his temple. ‘Who met you at the airport?’

The Arab looked at him and McVeigh knew at once that he
was in for a long wait. He glanced down the road. The road was still empty. He looked at the Arab again. There was a certain calculation in his eyes. It had to do with fighting back. McVeigh grunted, standing up very quickly, taking half a step back, kicking the Arab again, catching him on the top of the thigh as he rolled sideways, trying to struggle to his feet. McVeigh let him get halfway there, an awkward crouch, then he kicked him again, hard this time, the centre of the chest. The Arab fell back and McVeigh drove in a third kick, lower, Ghassan’s groin unprotected, his hands way too high. The Arab screamed with pain, doubling over, his face in the dust, and McVeigh knelt beside him, repeating the question, the Beretta an inch from Ghassan’s eye.

‘Are you Mossad?’ he said. ‘Israeli? Is that it?’

The Arab spat blood into the dirt, still fighting for breath, shaking his head, mumbling in Arabic. McVeigh waited a moment longer, knowing that it was hopeless, that the man could be anything – Mossad, PLO, Iraqi, even CIA. They’d all have an interest in getting to the old man, and they’d all have their own ideas on what to do when they found him.

McVeigh stood up, abandoning the questions, knowing that the next logical step was unconsciousness. He hauled the Arab away from the car, propping him up by the side of the road, wiping away the worst of the blood with the broad end of the man’s tie. Pocketing the Beretta, he returned to the car. Thirty seconds later, checking in the rear-view mirror, the Arab was still slumped against the fence, his head down between his knees, a small black dot, receding into the distance.

*

Early afternoon, back in Washington, Laura took the wheel of the old Volvo and drove her husband to the Outpatient Clinic at Georgetown University. Telemann sat beside her, numbed by this new role of his, a passenger in the family car. Heading south through Rock Creek Park, he gazed out of the window, his hand on Laura’s knee, neither fretful nor morose, simply thoughtful.

Laura glanced across at him. ‘The name’s Laing. You’ve met him before. Scots guy. Neurologist.’

‘And you’ve had this fixed for a while?’

‘Yes.’ Laura nodded. ‘He needs to talk to you, to explain one or two things. I said that was fine. Just so long as I talked to you first.’

‘Yeah?’ Telemann smiled, amused at this small act of disloyalty, his wife keeping him out of the hands of the medics until she’d been able to break the news. The right time. The right place. The right circumstances.

‘What about the Agency?’ Telemann said. ‘Who tells them?’

‘Pete. He has it in hand.’

‘Sure.’ Telemann nodded again. ‘Once he’s saved the world.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

They drove on, leaving the Park, turning into the grid of streets that led to Georgetown University. Telemann had always liked this area. Lately, it had been spoiled a little by money and a tidal wave of Yuppies, but the essence of it had survived: the neat little houses, the sense of neighbourhood, the sense of an older, quieter, more reflective America, a nation less wedded to violence and wealth. Sometimes, leaving one or other of their favourite bars, mid-evening, another day spent, he’d talked to Emery about it, musing aloud on what it might be like to retire here, he and Laura, serving out a gentle dotage amongst the academics and the politicians. Emery had laughed. Georgetown was a big fat duvet. Someone like Telemann would suffocate beneath it. At the time, Telemann had protested, but now he knew that Emery had been right. What they’d look for, very soon, was space, and big skies, and horses for the kids, and cook-outs in the summer, and Laura in her element, nut-brown, barefoot, the pole in the very middle of their tent. It wasn’t what he’d ever planned, not at this age, but it would do.

The University complex loomed up. Laura indicated left, edging into the middle of the road. Telemann gazed out, wistful.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

Telemann frowned, trying to put it into words.

‘I’d have liked to have seen this thing through,’ he said at last. ‘Me and Pete. That’s all.’

*

Emery phoned Juanita again from the airport at Hyannis. The next flight to Boston was an hour away, and he had time to pause for breath.

‘The pipe I brought back from Germany,’ he said. ‘You got it to the lab?’

‘Sure.’

‘They come through with anything yet?’

‘Yes. They say there’s nothing worth analysing.’ She paused. ‘You tell them it had been in some kind of fire?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I guess they figured that for themselves. They found evidence of ash. But that’s all.’

‘No chemical?’

‘Nothing.’ She paused again. ‘But the guy still said you might be right. It fits the process. It’s what you’d need. There’s just no proof. That’s all.’

‘OK.’ Emery nodded, juggling a styrofoam cup of coffee in his other hand. ‘I need a translator,’ he said. ‘Someone with good German. Someone who knows science. Someone in the loop.’

Juanita laughed, a deep, rich laugh. ‘You kidding?’ she said. ‘There is no loop. There’s you and me and Ron and that nice Mr Sullivan. Some loop.’

Emery grinned, sipping the coffee. Juanita had a point. With Telemann out, the loop was even tighter. Tight enough to hang them all.

‘Sullivan been on again?’

‘Yes. He dropped by this morning. High excitement.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s talking about the English guy again.’ She paused. ‘He wants you to run checks.’

‘McVeigh?’

‘Yes.’

Emery winced, remembering the last time the name had cropped up, Sullivan sitting in the office on ‘F’ Street, telling him about Zahra’s news from London, how important it could be, a kid with a big fat candy-bar that Emery had never wanted to share. He bent to the phone, wondering why the name
should suddenly have become so critical, putting the question to Juanita, realizing too late that she’d gone.

*

It was mid-afternoon before McVeigh found the Sugarloaf Mountain Ski Resort. He spotted the sign at the roadside, newly painted, and began to slow, looking for a road. Finding it, he left the highway and drove up through the trees. The office lay back from the road. He parked outside and got out of the car, locking the Beretta in the glove-box. The Arab’s bag had yielded
Two
spare clips of ammunition and another 100 rounds in a square cardboard box. The box was Canadian in origin, standard .22 snubnose. Nothing else in the bag had been of any interest: three packs of Winston, a tablet of soap, still wrapped, from the hotel, a packet of chewing-gum and a toilet bag. With the stuff carefully laid out across the passenger seat, McVeigh was no closer to knowing who the Arab had been working for. Leaving him at the roadside had been untidy, but under the circumstances, McVeigh wasn’t sure he’d had much choice. A man carrying 140 rounds of .22 snubnose clearly had debts to settle. McVeigh didn’t want to be one of them.

Now he walked across to the office. The young man inside glanced at Amer’s photo of Yussuf and confirmed that he’d taken a rental. McVeigh looked pleased. The old man was his father-in-law. Tomorrow was his birthday. The trip up to Maine had been a present from the family. They’d recommended that he stay at Sugarloaf, and now they wanted to surprise him. McVeigh asked for directions, telling the young man not to bother showing him in person. Surprise was the key. Surprise would make the old man’s day. He’d find the place for himself.

Back in the car, McVeigh drove slowly down the mountain. Finding the road to the old man’s house, he parked out of sight amongst the trees, retrieving the Beretta from the glove-box and checking the clip. Then he reached back for the haversack, feeling inside for the letters from Amer and the bottle of Jordan water. Out of the car, the haversack on his back, he slipped into the trees. The house was about a quarter of a mile away, timber-built, Scandinavian design. The ground had been cleared around
it, but the trees pressed down to the edges of the turned earth, and there was plenty of cover.

McVeigh circled the house, moving carefully from tree to tree, stepping around the puddles of sunshine on the carpet of fallen leaves. Directly above the house, looking down on it, he settled himself. From here he could see two sides of the building. The big picture windows gave him clues to the interior layout. He could see a kitchen and what appeared to be a big open-plan lounge. Upstairs were the bedrooms and a bathroom. Of the old man there was no sign.

McVeigh waited for an hour before he spotted him, a flicker of movement in the downstairs lounge. He peered through the trees. The old man was standing near the window, a mug in his hand. He was staring out, immobile, a broad, well-built figure, not much hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and baggy jeans. He sipped at the mug once or twice, then shrugged and turned away. Analysing the movement, McVeigh couldn’t be sure whether he had company. Either way, it was best to be sure. McVeigh settled down again, still waiting.

*

Telemann sat in the tiny office, listening to the neurologist spelling it out. He was a small, round man with a ruddy outdoor face and an almost permanent smile. A decade or two of American medicine hadn’t quite erased the soft Scottish brogue.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘And here. And here.’

A folder lay open on his desk. Inside the folder were a series of black-and-white scans. They looked a little like early NASA pictures of the moon, whorls of grey, nothing distinct, nothing recognizable. They were print-outs from a Magnetic Resonance Imager, and each one represented a slice of Telemann’s brain, but in anatomical terms they made no sense at all. The only bit Telemann recognized was his own name, neatly typed on the top left-hand corner of each scan.

He looked up at the neurologist. He remembered the face from his previous visits to the clinic, the afternoon when they’d fed his body into the scanner, answering his questions with a series of soothing one-liners about precautionary checks. Since then, he’d thought no more of it. The problems with his vision,
the general feelings of fatigue, the occasional moments when he dropped his car keys or spilled his coffee, all these symptoms he’d attributed to overwork. After fifteen years in the field, to no one’s surprise, his body was slowing down. Nothing scary. No long names. Just simple wear and tear.