The Devil's Breath (38 page)

‘His idea?’ he said at last. ‘The décor?’

Inge reached for her bag from the back seat. ‘Red and black,’ she said. ‘His favourite colours.’

Telemann nodded, remembering some of the wilder scenes from the wooden box, the scarlet inserts in Inge’s black leather camisole, her blood spilled across the crisp white sheets, the mask he sometimes made her wear, her eyes shuttered, only the mouth visible. Telemann swallowed hard, his hands flexing. He’d picked up the combat skills that mattered in the Marine Corps, nothing text-book, nothing they’d teach you on the mats at Fort Benning, but tricks he’d had to learn to keep the bigger guys at bay. Real violence, he knew, was a matter of will. You had to be motivated. You had to mean it. Fear would do it. That was one way. But this was different. This was hatred. And hatred, face to face, was the best motivation of all.

Telemann stared at the building. The name, the red letters, drifted briefly out of focus, and he blinked, shaking his head, putting it back where it belonged, halfway up the hideous black box, a target for his rage.

‘Where do I find him?’ he said.

‘There’s an apartment on top. It’s bigger than you think. You go to a side-door. Down the street there. You’ll find security guards.’

‘Did you give me a name? On the phone?’

‘No.’

‘Then what—’

She smiled at him, opening the bag on her lap. She reached inside and pulled out a small bottle of perfume. The label on the side said ‘Orphée’. She gave it to him.

‘Show them this. Tell them you’ve come from Hannilore.’

‘Hannilore?’

‘Me.’ She smiled again. ‘Then take it up. That’s what we agreed. Otherwise—’ she shrugged, looking away ‘—you won’t get past the door.’

Telemann nodded, looking at the perfume. His hand closed around it.

‘And afterwards?’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘Same place?’

‘Sure.’ She looked at him, savouring the word, giving it the American inflection, then she leaned quickly across and kissed him on the lips. ‘Be careful,’ she said softly. ‘Please.’

Telemann got out of the car, pocketing the photos he’d chosen, and crossed the street without a backward glance. It was nearly dark now, and a light rain had begun to fall. He gazed up at Wulf’s building, and counted the storeys to the top. There were nine in all. Next door, on the adjacent site, another building was under construction, gantry cranes towering over the half-clad cage of steel girders. Telemann hesitated a moment, getting the geography right, committing it to memory, then he rounded the corner, looking for the night entrance, finding it at once. The door from the street was unlocked. Inside, a man sat behind a desk. He was flanked by a row of TV monitors and a console covered with buttons.

Telemann bent to the desk, recognizing his own movements on one of the monitor screens. ‘Herr Wulf,’ he said, not bothering to disguise his accent. ‘From Fraülein Hannilore.’

The security guard studied him for a moment. He was young, trim, alert. He nodded, fingering a key on the console, clearing his throat.

‘Herr Wulf?’

There was a moment’s silence, then a deep voice boomed back from a speaker beside the key. The security guard glanced up at Telemann and passed on the message. There was a bark of laughter and the voice demanded a description. The guard frowned, wrong-footed, and Telemann suddenly realized how nervous he was.

‘Middle-aged …’ he began in German. ‘About …’

‘Big? Is he big?’

‘Ah … no …’

‘No?’ Wulf laughed again. ‘Small? Is he small?’

The guard stood up, looking at Telemann properly, flustered now. ‘Sir?’

‘Five five,’ Telemann said. ‘Last time I looked.’

There was a pause, then Wulf came back again. He’d heard Telemann’s voice, the accent.

‘He’s American?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What has he got with him?’

‘Sir?’

Telemann produced the bottle of perfume, offering it to the guard. The guard frowned, shaking his head, out of his depth now.

‘Orphée,’ Telemann said. ‘Tell him Orphée.’

The guard nodded, still nonplussed. ‘Orphée,’ he repeated.

‘Send him up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The guard released the key and told Telemann to take the private elevator to the ninth floor. The private elevator was in the lobby, through a series of three doors. Access to the elevator was controlled from the desk. He’d monitor Telemann on the TV screens. The elevator would be waiting for him when he got to the lobby.

Telemann pocketed the perfume and walked to the lobby. There was a series of framed photographs on the walls, all of them featuring Wulf. In one of them he was sharing a joke with Helmut Kohl. In another he was shaking hands with President Gorbachev. In a third he stood on a podium, dwarfing the diminutive figure of Yitzhak Shamir.

Telemann entered the elevator. The doors closed behind him. The elevator was heavily carpeted and virtually soundless. The absence of an indicator panel made it hard to gauge how fast they were going. Telemann checked his pockets. He had the photographs. He had the perfume. The next hour or so was his for the taking.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Expecting a corridor of some sort, Telemann was startled to find himself looking at a huge sitting-room. Thick white carpet lapped to the door of the elevator. A wide, shallow semi-circle of black leather sofa dominated one side of the room, a wall of glass the other. There were doors set into the glass, and beyond the patio outside was Dusseldorf, the elegant ramparts of the downtown area, towering blocks of offices, a cascade of neon signs. Telemann gazed
at it for a moment, stepping out of the lift, aware of the giant figure lumbering towards him, even bigger than the photos had suggested, a huge man, jet-black hair, heavy jowls, clothed only in a deep crimson dressing-gown, loosely belted at the waist. Telemann nodded, extending a hand, recognizing the smile from the photos on the wall downstairs. It was an expression devoid of warmth, a leer of greeting, wholly animal, simple intimidation. Wulf grasped his hand, squeezing hard, and Telemann withdrew it at once, avoiding contagion.

‘You have the perfume?’

Telemann nodded, producing the bottle of Orphée. Wulf took it, looking at it briefly, putting it in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Then he returned to Telemann, stepping closer, towering over him. Telemann felt the weight of the man’s arm around his shoulder. He smelled odd, a sour mix of after-shave and something spicy. It was on his breath when he bent to Telemann’s ear, whispering her name, Hannilore, then capping it with that same abrupt bark of laughter. Telemann stepped back, walking across the room, producing the photographs from his pocket, sitting down, laying them out, one by one, on the heavy marble-topped table. He looked up. Wulf was in the corner of the room, bending to a drinks cabinet. When he came back, he was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He uncorked the bottle, sitting down beside Telemann, ignoring the photographs. The belt around his waist had come undone, and now the dressing-gown hung loosely around him, showing his nakedness. He passed Telemann a glass of champagne and lifted his own. ‘Krug,’ he said. ‘For Hannilore.’

Telemann touched glasses. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘For Hannilore.’

He sipped at the champagne and then put the glass back on the table. There were files on the floor by the table. The labels on the backs of the files read ‘Kadenza Verlag’. Telemann glanced up at Wulf. Wulf was peering at the photos, one by one, nodding, deep growls of approval.

Finally he looked up. ‘Good fuck, eh?’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I meant me.’

‘I know.’

Wulf looked at him, beaming, then reached for the bottle. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Why are you here?

Telemann hesitated for a moment, then outlined what he knew about Littmann Chemie. He said he worked for the US Government. He said he was investigating a conspiracy to smuggle nerve gas into the US. He had reason to believe the chemicals came from Littmann. Wulf owned Littmann. He had connections in the Middle East. He—

Wulf reached forward, bringing Telemann’s little speech to an abrupt end, slapping him on the knee, keeping his hand there, not removing it. The man was full of menace, a curious electricity, part sex, part something darker. Telemann could feel it. It was far from pleasant.

‘I have connections everywhere,’ Wulf growled. ‘Your people too. They talk to me often. They come to me for advice. You should be careful, my friend, with your little stories …’

He stared at the photographs, selecting one, then another, coldly assessing each pose, the smile and the good humour gone. Finally, he turned back to Telemann. ‘What are you saying, my friend? That I sell nerve gas? To the Arabs? Me? Here? In Germany?’

He looked at Telemann for a while, coal-black eyes. His English was barely accented, as good as Inge’s. Telemann thought of her now, out in the car, waiting.

‘I want answers,’ he said. ‘Now.’

Telemann got up. The panic button he’d already located. It was at the other end of the table, a small touch-pad secured in the angle between the leg and the table top. Wulf would have to move fast to use it. Telemann reached for the bottle of Krug. The bottle was two-thirds empty. He poured the rest on to the carpet, then up-ended the bottle, the neck in his hand, and smashed it against the edge of the table. Wulf peered at the table, running his finger along the surface, affecting indifference.

‘Take off the robe,’ Telemann said thickly.

‘Why?’

‘Take it off.’

Wulf shrugged, moving his body along the sofa, taking off
the dressing-gown, getting closer to the touch-pad. Telemann stepped forward and kicked him hard, the side of his knee, watching him collapse slowly sideways with a low groan.

‘Get up.’

Wulf eyed him, rubbing his knee, struggling into a sitting position. Then he sat back, totally naked, spreading his legs, indifferent again.

‘Is that what you want?’ he said. ‘You and your little bottle?’ He gestured down, the huge belly, the triangle of thick black curls underneath. ‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Is that it?’

He reached for one of the photographs, looking at it, establishing his contempt for Telemann. Telemann asked him again about Littmann, the chemicals, keeping the questions simple, wanting a yes or a no, but Wulf ignored him, picking up another photo, then another, murmuring her name, ignoring Telemann completely. Telemann stepped forward again, the bottle outfront, the circle of jagged glass, no ambiguities, knowing with utter certainty that he would do it, and that the man knew it, and that he didn’t care. He tried one more question, naming Assali, asking what Wulf knew, what he could tell him. Wulf reached for the dressing-gown and pulled out the bottle of perfume. He looked up at Telemann, a half-smile on his face, that same animal leer, unscrewing the top of the bottle, pressing it against the inside of his wrist, a delicate movement, a single drop glinting in the spotlights, a wholly possessive gesture, deriding Telemann’s claims. Hannilore, he was saying. My photos. My property. My woman. Littmann, he was saying. My company. My chemicals. My business. He lifted his wrist to his nose, sniffing it, enjoying it, the bottle back in his pocket, and Telemann edged away, disgusted, watching Wulf as his eyes began to roll, and his lips quivered, and his whole body stiffened on the sofa, the huge legs out straight, the man gasping for breath, reaching up, reaching out, reaching anywhere, the vomit bubbling in his throat, the erection growing and growing, his whole body twisting now, all control gone, his bowels opening, shit falling out of him.

His own vision beginning to blur, Telemann lunged towards the picture windows, willing the neon lights to stay in focus,
finding the catch on the sliding door, pulling it open, stepping outside, on to the patio, shutting the door behind him, leaning over the rail, forcing the night air into his lungs, hearing the dull thud as Wulf’s huge body rolled off the sofa and on to the floor. Nine storeys down, the face in the Mercedes gazed up for a second longer. Then the car was gone.

13

‘I have to phone him.’ McVeigh shrugged.

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s the deal. You want me to go to the States, to do whatever, then that’s the price. Either I phone, now, tonight, or you find someone else.’

‘There
is
no one else.’

‘Quite.’

Cela sat crosslegged on the mattress, her head against the wall, a small bowl of yoghurt by her side. Since midday they’d been back in the house where Amer had left them the night before. Ramallah was thick with Israeli soldiers. In the aftermath of the riot, they’d poured in from the big camps around Jerusalem, lorry after lorry grinding down the dusty roads. Sections of men had secured key points – the law courts, the bus station, the market, the main roads linking the city to the rest of the West Bank. An hour before dusk a curfew had been imposed – jeeps with loudspeakers in the streets, incessant announcements on radio and television – and now there were rumours of huge sweeps through the city, of house-to-house searches, the heavily armed soldiers tramping from door to door demanding access, asking question after question. The Israelis were looking for somebody. But no one was quite sure who.

McVeigh had a shrewd idea. Half a day’s conversation with Cela had established that Yakov had died because he’d known too much. One of a tiny Mossad command cell, he’d been tasked to set up an elaborate Intelligence sting. Successive Israeli governments had been haunted by the Iraqi arms build-up. They’d been tracking the flow of weapons and know-how to Baghdad for years. They’d known what the stuff could do, and
they’d known where most of it came from. One day, they were quite certain, Saddam would use it.

Thus far, Cela had been privy to the Government’s thinking. Year by year, the situation had worsened. But what could be done? How could Saddam be dissuaded from using such dangerous toys? Operational suggestions had flowed from the desks in the Research Department at Mossad headquarters. Cela occupied one of them, and she’d helped keep the files as the stakes crept steadily higher. In the early days, the operations had been comparatively crude. Kai Sarut, the network of Intelligence officers at Israeli embassies abroad, had regularly filed the names of key foreign personnel – scientists, businessmen, arms dealers – suspected of helping Iraq. Some of them had been placed under surveillance. The names of a handful were forwarded by the head of Mossad to the Prime Minister’s office. Only he could authorize assassination.

Some, Cela said, had died. An Egyptian scientist, his throat slit in a Paris hotel room. A Canadian ballistics expert, shot through the head in the corridor outside his Brussels apartment. A French prostitute, intimately linked to an Iraqi procurement network, run down and killed by a car in the Boulevard St Germain. Each execution had sent a message to the other names on the hit-list, and to some degree the policy had worked. Frightened for their lives, many of Iraq’s old allies had backed off.

But money talks, and Iraq had lots of it, and by the end of the eighties the operational suggestions going through Cela’s computer were becoming monthly more elaborate. Some of them were wild, and owed more to Hollywood than real life. Others were too long term. Finally, one surfaced which caught the attention of the new head of Metsada, the top-secret directorate in charge of sharp-end operations. The man, said Cela, was very ambitious. He had powerful right-wing friends in the Government. He had equally high-grade assets in Baghdad. He had no doubts about the potential of Saddam’s new weapons. And he had no qualms about countering them. Whatever was necessary, whatever it took, Mossad should do it. Otherwise Israel would pay the price.

At this point, abruptly, the operation had gone underground. Cela would normally have been privy to the early planning stages, but all she knew for sure was that the operation was to involve chemical weapons. The Metsada boss, whom she wasn’t prepared to name, had identified chemical warfare as the West’s waking nightmare. Worst weapon of all was nerve gas. If the West could truly be convinced that nerve gas was a reality, that the technology was simple, that the stuff could be easily smuggled between countries, and that Iraq had hundreds of tons of it ready for use, then Israel might – at last – put an end to the build-up. The chemicals for nerve gas came from the West. Only if the wind blew in their direction would supplies cease.

That, Cela was convinced, was the root of it, an elegant, beautifully crafted plan for holding the West finally accountable for its greed and its hypocrisies and its total lack of responsibility. A cell within Metsada would come up with a plan. The plan would infiltrate nerve gas and hit squads into a number of leading Western democracies. The plan would be code-named ‘Looking Glass’. It would, in one bold stroke, discredit the Iraqis, expose Western suppliers, and make the West think twice about any future deals with Saddam Hussein. At this point, Cela’s direct knowledge ran out. But the plan went operational, and a year later, only months back, she finally caught up again.

Listening, McVeigh had looked at her. ‘Yakov,’ he’d said. ‘Yakov was part of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Because of you? Because you knew so much already?’

‘Maybe, yes. But also because he was good. He had a lot of experience. He’d been in Kidron.’

‘In what?’

Cela had looked at him, hesitating a moment, and McVeigh had repeated the question, sensing her reluctance, telling her there was no point holding back. If she wanted help, there was a price. And the price was a certain candour.

‘Kidron?’ She’d shrugged. ‘Kidron means bayonet. It’s another department. They kill and they kidnap.’

‘And Yakov was one of them?’

‘Yes. For two years.’

McVeigh had nodded, thinking of the gentleness of the man, the way he’d been with the kids, with Billy. Then he turned to Cela again, pushing the story on. Yakov had been part of the Metsada cell, key to the ‘Looking Glass’ operation. How had she known? How had she found out?

‘He told me.’

‘When?’

‘A month before he died.’

‘On the phone? By letter?’

‘Of course not. He was being watched. So was I. We both knew it. We met in Ireland.’ She shrugged. ‘He flew to Paris. Then he went to Le Havre. Then he took the ferry to Cork. I flew to Amsterdam. Then Belfast. Then Londonderry. Then the south.’

She’d smiled, remembering the journey, the three days they’d shared in a farmhouse on the Dingle Peninsula. She’d talked about the wind, and the views, and the smell of the place, peat fires, and soda bread, and the horses the farmer had lent them, away on their own all day, flat out across the huge empty beaches. It had been like the kibbutz, except colder, a world apart. At night, in the tiny annexe next to the farmhouse, they’d huddled together under thick blankets. He’d told her everything about ‘Looking Glass’, wanting her to know, a precaution in case they pushed him too far, and he did something foolish, and they took the appropriate action, adding yet another name to the Prime Minister’s list. At this McVeigh had nodded, remembering how strange Yakov had seemed, those final days, how resigned. He told her about it, the night Yakov had come to the flat in Crouch End to say goodbye to Billy, no travel plans, no posting home, just goodbye. Listening, she’d nodded. ‘He knew,’ she’d said. ‘He knew they’d do it. He knew they’d kill him.’

‘But why? Why did they kill him?’

‘He’d had enough. “
Ney maas, li
…” You know the phrase? Up to
here
?’

She’d raised a level hand above her eye. McVeigh had smiled.

‘Sure,’ he’d said. ‘Well pissed-off.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He’d paused. ‘So where was he off to? Where was he going?’

Cela had shrugged at the question. ‘I don’t know where he was going. He may have been going nowhere. Knowing Yakov, he hadn’t made up his mind. But they couldn’t take that risk. I told you. He knew too much. They had to kill him.’ She’d paused. ‘He was the wrong generation. He had the wrong ideas. He’d do things for Israel of course. For his country. He’d even kill people. But not this. Not gas. He thought it was crazy. The number of things that could go wrong. The number of people …’ She’d shaken her head. ‘He phoned me two days before he was killed. He knew it was going to happen.’

‘He say that?’

‘Of course not. But I could tell from his voice. Nothing he said. Just the way he talked.’

McVeigh had nodded. ‘And you?’

‘I was told to resign. Two weeks before, they told me to go. Not to talk. To say I knew nothing. To go back home and be a good kibbutznik. In this country, if you’re bad, they send you to pick apples.’ She’d smiled. ‘There are lots of apples.’

McVeigh had nodded again, thinking of the flat in Tel Aviv, the wreckage of the bedroom. ‘So who was in your flat? Who did it?’

Cela had shrugged. ‘Someone from the Mossad. Two or three people could have done it. It was a message they were sending.
Zhod shelanu. Zhod K’mous
. Keep our secrets to yourself.’

‘But the things they did. Your clothes.
That
personal?’

‘Yes.’ She’d shrugged again. ‘I was alone most of the time. People liked the look of me. Often they tried …’ She’d shaken her head, turning away, not wanting to discuss it.

Now, past midnight, McVeigh sat back against the wall, still wanting a phone, still waiting for an answer. ‘Looking Glass’ had gone horribly wrong. The point-man, the man they’d sent, was on the run. He had a car, and a tankful of nerve gas, and a lifelong grudge against the Israelis. His minder, a Mossad plant, was dead. His one point of contact, the one man he trusted, was Amer. Amer had a location in the States, and a description of
the car. To date, as far as Amer knew, the old man hadn’t heard the truth about his wife. When he did, when he learned that she’d died in an Israeli prison, provoking a riot in his home town, then anything could happen. Someone had to get to him first. And that someone was McVeigh.

‘Tell me,’ he said slowly, ‘why this old man?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know how he was recruited, why they chose him. He was a car mechanic. That’s all I know.’

‘Did Yakov know?’

‘No.’

‘How much did Yakov know about America?’

‘Only what I’ve told you. That’s the way they plan these things. Stage by stage. So nobody has the whole picture.’

McVeigh frowned. ‘So where did Yakov fit?’

‘In England. There was an English plan, too. They put a drum of nerve gas in the sea. They studied the tides. They wanted it to wash ashore.’

McVeigh blinked. ‘
Nerve gas?
’

Cela nodded. ‘That’s what Yakov thought. His team had to follow it. Wherever it went. Once the English knew what it was, they had to get it back. Steal it. Make it disappear again. It was a game. They wanted the English to trace it back to the factory. And then they wanted to make them look very foolish.’ She paused. ‘I told you. Yakov thought it was crazy.’

‘But what happened? Where’s the stuff now?’

‘I don’t know.’ She paused again. ‘Yakov chose good people. Once they’d got it back, it would be very safe. They’d play games with it, political games, but it would be OK. He made sure of that.’

‘Where did the stuff come from?’

Cela shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Europe somewhere.’

McVeigh fell silent for a moment, the decision more pressing than ever. ‘A phone,’ he said again.

Cela, looking at him, shook her head. ‘There is no phone,’ she said. ‘Not here.’

‘Then we find one. We go to Amer’s. He’ll have a phone. Bound to.’

‘There’s a curfew,’ she pointed out. ‘They’ll take us.’

McVeigh thought about it for a moment. All evening, he’d heard the Israeli jeeps whining up and down the street outside. They had searchlights mounted on top of the cabs, and they swept the fronts of the houses as they rolled past. The locals had a phrase for it, part of the new language of occupation. They called the searchlights
kamar Israeli
, the Israeli moon. McVeigh looked up, easing his body on the mattress. Cela was watching him carefully, licking the remains of a bowl of yoghurt from a spoon.

‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘Why have you told me all this? Why all the detail?’

‘Because you should know.’

‘But why?’

‘Because …’ She shrugged, ducking again as yet another jeep rounded the corner down the street, the searchlight stabbing towards them. McVeigh let his body slide down the wall, lying flat on the mattress. Cela did the same. The room was suddenly bright, flooded with a harsh white light. Then the jeep was past the house, changing gear for the crossroads, and the light had gone. McVeigh looked at Cela in the half-darkness. She was about a foot away. She had yoghurt on the end of her nose. He reached out and wiped it off, licking the end of his finger.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘who are they looking for?’

‘Me.’

McVeigh nodded, thinking about it. ‘And what will they do if they find you?’ he said at last.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you can guess?’

‘Yes.’

McVeigh nodded again. He could still taste the yoghurt, creamy and bitter. ‘Say the worst happened. Say they took you away and locked you up.’ He paused. ‘Who’d know then?’

‘About what?’

‘This.’ McVeigh gestured loosely at the space between them, the rumpled blankets, the conversation, the empty bowl of yoghurt, the last half-day.

Cela looked up, a smile on her face. ‘You,’ she said.

‘Which is why you told me?’

She nodded, the smile widening.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

*

Laura was asleep in bed when the phone rang. She woke up, the hotel room in darkness. She rolled over, looking for the digits on the bedside clock. The clock said 01.59. The phone was still ringing. She lifted it to her ear, propped up on one elbow, thinking vaguely of the house in Rockville. Eight o’clock in the evening. One of the kids returning her earlier call.

‘Laura Telemann,’ she said automatically. ‘Who’s that?’

There was silence at the other end of the phone, then – unmistakably – the sound of someone breathing.

‘It’s Laura,’ she said again. ‘Who is this, please? Can you hear me?’ She blinked in the darkness, willing a voice from the silence, frightened. She tried once more, quieter, more matter-of-fact. Then, abruptly, the phone went dead.