The Devil's Breath (41 page)

Cela nodded. It was a technique they’d picked up from Lebanon. It was the securest way for Hizbollah to transport kidnap victims from location to location. They’d lie full-length at the front of the box. The back would be stuffed with oil-drums and baulks of timber, sealing them in. Fresh air would enter through specially drilled holes in the underside. The truck was in use all the time, shuttling human cargoes around the West Bank.

McVeigh shrugged, not wanting to show his fear, stuffing Amer’s envelope down his shirt, crawling into the cavity. Inside, the smell was appalling. The floor of the box was thick with oil. Wriggling forward on his belly, he could feel it on the palms of his hands, on his elbows, everywhere. There was no room for manoeuvre, nowhere to lay his head except directly on the metal floor, more oil. He made himself as comfortable as he could, peering down the length of his body, watching Cela crawl towards him. Finally she lay beside him, unwrapping the scarf from her head, folding it several times, each movement the work of a minute or so in the cramped space. McVeigh peered at her, an inch away, as she slid the folded scarf beneath his head, enough material for her own cheek, a cushion of sorts between themselves and the metal.

The driver wedged the last baulk of timber beyond their feet, shutting out the daylight, and hissed something in Arabic, very close, through the bodywork. Cela answered him with a single word, then McVeigh felt the chassis move as the driver clambered into the cab and started the engine. Almost immediately, the space around them was filled with fumes, and McVeigh began to cough, trying to get his hands to his mouth, knowing that he’d never survive the next two hours or so. Claustrophobia had been a nightmare all his life. That, in part, was why he felt so at home in the mountains, with the sense of limitless space. The truck started to move, bumping out of the warehouse, the
driver grinding up through the gears, and the exhaust began to thin a little, the taste of the air not quite so sour. McVeigh shut his eyes, willing himself to calm down, hearing Cela’s voice in his ear. ‘Small breaths,’ she was saying. ‘Just take small breaths.’

He opened his eyes again, accepting her hand in his, squeezing it, marvelling at her composure, the way she could adapt, the total absence of fear or complaint. Yakov, he thought, had been the luckiest of men, as the truck turned on to the main road, heading north.

*

Friedland had been at his desk for less than an hour by the time Ross arrived back in London. He’d stayed overnight in Portsmouth, summoned by the local police who had grounds for thinking that his daughter had gone missing in the sea. She’d been seen wading into the water at the harbour-mouth, fully clothed. A witness had phoned when she’d failed to reappear.

After a night without sleep, still numb, Friedland had risen early to meet the coastguard, a thin-faced, middle-aged man with a sour view of human foibles. They’d stood together on a tower at the harbour entrance in fitful sunshine, a strong wind blowing from the west. The ebbing tide was pouring out of the harbour-mouth, piling against the rocks at the foot of the tower, and Friedland had no trouble believing the coastguard’s gloomy predictions. His daughter’s body wouldn’t be easy to find. The sensible place to start looking was 6 or 7 miles east. After a month or so in the water, there wouldn’t be very much left.

Now, back in London, Friedland sat at the desk in the big bow-window, his chair turned towards the square, wondering about a memorial service. He’d been through the same debate when his wife had died, a long session with the priest down in Carshalton, and he’d never arrived at a real conclusion. Could suicides ever be commemorated? Could the Church ever find room in its heart for those who’d turned their backs on life and elected for oblivion? Friedland gazed down on the square, watching Ross nudge his BMW into a resident’s parking space, still none the wiser. His wife, Steph’s mother, had chosen pills. He’d found her unconscious in bed, the cats fed, the central heating off, the bills paid, the entire house newly hoovered. The
note, when it arrived through the post, had been surprisingly fond, a sentimental adieu that had further perplexed the Monsignor. Friedland shook his head, still staring out at the jigsaw of sunshine in the square, hearing Ross open the door uninvited, unannounced.

Friedland turned back into the room. Ross was standing in front of the desk, his blazer hooked over his shoulder, a busy man distracted from some important task. ‘Sullivan’s rung,’ he said briefly. ‘Wants to know about McVeigh.’

‘Oh?’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Israel.’

‘We know that.’ He paused, impatient, dismissive. ‘Where-abouts in Israel?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Has he been in touch?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘This morning.’ Friedland nodded at the phone. ‘Half an hour ago.’

‘He gave you a number? Some point of contact?’

‘No.’

‘He’ll get in touch again?’

Friedland shrugged, leaning back in his chair, half-turning towards the window, still thinking about his daughter. He’d tried to teach her to swim once, in Carshalton Baths. He’d bought her a pair of armbands and a new rubber duck. The child had cried, water in her eyes, the puzzling sting of chlorine. After a second attempt he’d given up. He yawned.

Ross was waiting, more impatient than ever. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will McVeigh be phoning again?’

‘He may.’ Friedland shrugged. ‘Or he may not.’

‘He
has
to.’

‘
Has
to?’ Friedland looked up, amused. ‘
Has
to?’

‘Yes.’ Ross frowned, one hand in his pocket. ‘Otherwise …’

‘What?’

‘Otherwise we’ll be looking for other ways of—’ he shrugged ‘—shortening the chain.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like that son of his.’

Friedland looked up at him, the smile wider, enjoying Ross’s impatience, his belief that the world existed to do his bidding. ‘What would you like me to do?’ he said. ‘Kidnap him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You were serious?’

Ross looked down, surprised. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Of course.’

Friedland nodded. Then he stood up and extended a hand. Ross was staring at him, his own hand still in his pocket. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘It’s goodbye,’ Friedland said, advancing around the desk, shepherding Ross towards the door.

The phone began to ring. Friedland paused, glanced at Ross, murmuring an apology, stepping back towards the desk and lifting the phone. He listened for a while, nodding, then thanked the caller and hung up. Ross was back in front of the desk, staring at the phone. ‘McVeigh?’ he queried.

Friedland looked at him and smiled. ‘He says the stuff is safe. He says you have no problems. I assume that means the gas.’ He paused. ‘You should give your American friend the same message. Evidently they have a similar problem.’ He paused again. ‘McVeigh says he has the situation in hand. I gather he knows where the gas is.’

Ross stared at him. ‘What else?’ he said, nodding at the phone. ‘What else did he say?’

‘Just then?’ Friedland smiled again. ‘That was the coastguard. At Portsmouth. They’ve found my daughter. Washed up on a beach.’

*

McVeigh knew the journey was over because Cela told him so, her mouth to his ear, her arm cradling his head. ‘Nazareth,’ she whispered. ‘We’re there.’

McVeigh nodded, grunting. He’d been sick three times, vomiting quietly into the darkness. The stench had stayed with them, the sweet-sour smell penetrating the haze of diesel exhaust. Half an hour into the journey, McVeigh had known with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t survive. The endless
pumps, the endless gear changes, the endless whine of the transmission. Twice they’d been stopped for checks, the truck lurching off the road, the engine still on, the compartment filling with exhaust. Cela had lain beside him, listening intently to the voices of the soldiers circling the truck, her body pressed to his, simple reassurance. On both occasions the stops had been brief, the driver joshing with the troops, an exchange of insults and a warning to take it easy as he engaged gear again, hauling the truck back on to the highway, resuming the journey north.

Once, the journey more than half-done, the truck had slowed on a long hill, the engine labouring down through the gears, the exhaust fumes thicker than ever, curling around them. McVeigh had shut his eyes, gasping for air, the vomit rising again in his throat, and Cela had calmed him, whispering in his ear, telling him that this was the worst of it, that no hill lasted for ever, that the top would come, and the fresher air afterwards, the long downhill stretch, nothing quite so bad any more. Listening to her, concentrating hard on the words, McVeigh had nodded, thinking of the men and women they’d left behind them, the scenes at the hospital, the broken heads and broken lives, knowing that their journey would be infinitely longer than his.

Now, in Nazareth, the truck stopped, reversed, stopped, reversed again and finally came to a halt. The driver killed the engine, and in the silence that followed, McVeigh heard him pulling the key from the ignition. Then he was down beside the cab, the door slammed shut behind him, voices at the tailgate, the sound of oil cans being wrenched out, the first glimmers of daylight penetrating the thick blue haze.

Dazed, McVeigh tried to help Cela slide out, feet first, finally joining her on the concrete outside. The truck had parked in a yard. The yard was surrounded by low, flat-roofed buildings. McVeigh, blinking, looked around, taking his first real lungfuls of air, marvelling at the sensation, an almost liquid taste. He looked at Cela. She was covered in oil and dirt, and parts of Hala’s
thoub
were caked in vomit. He reached out, apologizing, meaning to brush it off, but his knees began to buckle and the ground came up to meet him, his fall cushioned by someone
stepping quickly forward. McVeigh shook his head, apologizing again, peering up at the huge face, the black beard, the gruff smile.

‘Moshe,’ he said thickly.

An hour later they were driving north again, back in Moshe’s truck, three of them in the driving compartment, the windows open, the hot wind flooding in. Water from a bucket in the yard had returned McVeigh to real life, but even now he could still taste the diesel and the vomit. Getting into Moshe’s truck, he’d caught sight of himself in the big wing-mirror, a creature from some horror movie, his hair matted with oil, his face caked in dirt, his eyes bloodshot. Cela, already in the cab, had extended a hand, helping him up, smiling, giving his arm a squeeze. Bucketing north to the roar of the engine, orchards and fishponds flanking the road, McVeigh had let the slipstream sluice through him, emptying his mind of everything but the moment when he could strip off his clothes, and raise his face to the shower, and feel whole again.

They reached the kibbutz in early afternoon, the hottest part of the day. Moshe swung the big truck off the road, bumping down a dirt track beside the chicken-houses. Out of the truck, Cela led McVeigh to a chalet he’d never seen before, a remote corner of the kibbutz. The front door was unlocked. They stepped inside, stirring a brief melody from the hanging chimes beside the door. The chalet was cool and dark after the heat outside. A fan revolved slowly in the ceiling. Cela walked across the big living-room, immediately at home, and disappeared through a door at the back. McVeigh heard the splashing of water from a shower, then Cela was back again, beckoning him, the long
thoub
discarded, clad only in her knickers. McVeigh joined her in the shower, stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor while she soaped him, head to toe, and then busied herself with a coarse flannel, rubbing and rubbing, loosening the oil and the dirt, massaging his scalp with her fingers, tender gestures, wholly intimate. McVeigh watched her at work, motherly, sisterly, doing what a best friend would do, without embarrassment, and he realized that his was what life must had been like for them all, years back, Yakov, Moshe,
Cela, on this same kibbutz. Briefly enrolled, a stranger passing through, he’d joined this strange fraternity.

Clean again, exhausted, he let her rub him dry, more intimacy, her expert fingers, the rough nap of the towel in the smallest, wettest places. Afterwards she led him by the hand through to a bedroom, the single sheet already turned down.

‘Sleep,’ she said.

McVeigh lay on the bed, still naked, smiling up at her, and she ducked her head, kissing him on the lips, pulling up the sheet, promising to wake him later, promising to be there. The last he remembered, shutting his eyes, was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and that same sweet song from the chimes inside.

*

Abu Yussuf woke late, the curtains still tightly drawn, the motel room in darkness. He lay in the bed for a moment or two, staring at the crack of light down the middle of the big picture window. He could hear the whine of a chain-saw near by. Further away, the growl of a truck, getting fainter all the time. Apart from that, there was nothing.

The old man got out of bed, padding across the room, tugging on the cord at the side of the window, opening the curtains. Arriving in darkness, he’d had an impression of trees and water. He’d heard the water, walking in from the car, and he’d smelt it, the chill breath of a river or a stream. It had been quiet, too, miles from the Interstate, no traffic on the empty country roads.

The curtains open, he gasped at the view, blinking in the sudden light. The hotel was surrounded by mountains. They towered above him, peak after peak, the dark greens of the pine forest turning to bare rock, blacks and browns, above the tree-line. He shook his head, marvelling at the transformation, a day and a half at the wheel, New York to up here, Maine, the very top of the US, the last page on the map. He turned away from the window, reaching for his clothes, remembering the decision he’d taken the previous evening. They might be looking for the car. They might have a description. Time to change the number-plate. Time for a different colour.

He dressed quickly, stepping out of his room, skipping
breakfast, going straight to the car. Driving in the previous evening, he’d noticed a garage and a couple of stores in a village down the road. He’d go there first, find out where he could hire equipment, make some enquiries. Later, midday, he’d phone Amer again, tell him where he’d got to, tell him what was happening.