The Devil's Breath Page 8

  He looked at Laura again. ‘You ask why they fired me?’

  Laura nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘He tell you?’

  ‘Yeah. He said you’d written some stuff about the Agency, why it screwed up so much. He said he’d read it. He said it was excellent. The exact word he used was sensational.’

  Telemann nodded. His eight months at Langley had given him a focus for all his professional frustrations. For a decade, out in the field, he’d wondered why so many initiatives went wrong. Millions of dollars, thousands of man-hours, and important, indefinable things like loyalty and courage, all wasted, just piss in the wind. As a taxpayer, at the very least, he’d been obliged to act – my money, my effort. And so he’d named names, detailed specific operations, provided dates, locations, supporting evidence. After a day’s pause for thought, he’d sealed the twenty-odd pages of typescript in a plain brown envelope and sent it to a top aide at the White House. Not via the mail-room at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but by hand, after dark, to the man’s home address. Afterwards, sitting in the car on a leafy street in north-west Washington, Telemann had wondered where the gesture might lead. Now he knew.

  ‘Pete think I was dumb to do it?’

  ‘No …’ Laura hesitated.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘He thought you were dumb to send it.’

  Telemann nodded, rolling over, looking at her. ‘And you? What do you think?’

  Laura smiled up at him, her face still flushed. Then the smile faded and the other look came back, the look he’d noticed when she first came in, careful, appraising, reserved.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘I don’t care whether they’ve fired you. Or what you’ve done. I’m just wondering why we aren’t all at the beach. If what Pete says is true.’

  *

  Godfrey Friedland toyed with his pencil, two-thirds of the way through the Daily Telegraph crossword, still wondering about McVeigh.

  Ross had called mid-morning from the Private Office at Downing Street. The conversation, as ever, had been brisk. An associate from the Middle East would shortly be giving Friedland a ring. His name was Mr Al Zahra. He had substantial oil interests in the Gulf and elsewhere. He was incensed by the media coverage of the Queen’s Gate shooting, and by the general assumption that the blame lay with one or other of the Palestinian guerrilla groups. It was, he said, a gross slander, and he’d crossed his suite at the Dorchester and lifted the telephone to tell the Government so. Normally, the Private Office secretariat would have shrugged the complaint aside, but circumstances made that course of action unwise. Mr Al Zahra had a deep pocket. He was generous with political donations. It would be a shame to disappoint him.

  Friedland had made a note of the name, recognizing it at once, and enquired what he should do. Ross had grunted impatiently and told him to service the Arab as best he could. Seventy-five thousand pounds, he reminded Friedland, was a lot of money. A sum like that could matter if the next election was as sticky as the Treasury was beginning to suggest. He’d ended the conversation by enquiring about progress on the report. The seventy-two hours were up. Where was it? Friedland, still toying with the crossword, had fended him off. Enquiries were proceeding, he’d said. He’d be in touch.

  Mr Al Zahra had phoned an hour later, a quiet voice, speaking perfect English. He’d apologized for taking a little of Friedland’s time and had confirmed the gist of what Friedland already knew. The incident in Queen’s Gate was, he’d said, a tragedy, but he’d been disappointed at the way the English newspapers had simply taken Israeli accusations at face-value. In a free country one might expect a little more of a free press. Doubtless the police would apply themselves to the task in hand, and perhaps one day they’d be able to give the lie to the Zionist slur, but the fact was that most of the damage had already been done, and time for setting the record straight was fast running out.

  Friedland, listening, had agreed. But what did Mr Al Zahra want him to do?

  At this, there’d been a brief silence. Then the Arab had returned to the phone, a little sharper, a little more businesslike. He understood that Friedland ran a security consultancy. He understood that he had access to investigators, to men of integrity who would take a spade to the earth and do a little digging of their own. Friedland had smiled at this, recognizing the elaborate metaphors, the extravagant courtesies, from his own years in the Middle East. Yes, he’d said, he knew such men.

  The Arab had paused again, then given him a name. McVeigh, he’d said. A man called McVeigh. Friedland had scribbled the name on his pad, frowning, not recognizing it immediately.

  ‘McVeigh?’ he’d said.

  ‘Yes. Pat McVeigh. He lives in North London somewhere. He works for a number of clients. He has a great deal of experience. Friends of mine speak well of him.’

  Friedland had boxed the name on the pad, heavy lines, beginning to recall the name at last, an ex-Marine, Arctic and Mountain Warfare Cadre, a little outside the tight inner circle of Special Forces veterans on whom agencies like his own normally relied. McVeigh, he murmured to himself, writing down the Arab’s telephone number and promising to put the two men in touch, Pat McVeigh.

  Now, late afternoon, Friedland glanced at his watch. He’d found McVeigh’s address through an associate. He’d phoned him. He’d established his availability. Soon, traffic permitting, he would arrive.

  Friedland laid the crossword carefully to one side, got up and walked to the window. The street outside was empty. Soon, perhaps in an hour or so, the better class of secretaries and PAs would start returning home, those tall, well-educated girls with their Peugeot 205s and their pale, set faces, whose fathers could afford a flat in this area. He watched them most nights, stepping out on to the pavement, their groceries in the back of the car, plastic bags full of kiwi fruit, hand-wrapped cheeses and a bottle or two of Sainsbury’s Pinot Noir. Occasionally, he tried to imagine the way their flats would look, their choice of decor, what kind of pictures they hung, what kind of sheets they slept between. The nights he worked late, he’d take a turn round the square before getting into his own car, walking slowly, a man at war with late middle age, risking a glance at a window or two. Many of the girls had boyfriends. They’d arrive in the middle of the evening for a meal. When it was hot, they never bothered to pull the curtains, and passing by he could hear the music, and the clink of glasses, and the low hum of conversation, the faces of those same stern secretaries softened by laughter and wine. Beside one basement flat in particular, Friedland sometimes paused, stooping to do up his shoe-lace. The table stood beside the window, and the girl often ate alone. She was small, thin-boned, sharp-featured. She often played Bruckner, the later symphonies. In a certain light, she reminded Friedland of his own daughter, still down in Sussex, still in the nursing-home, as addicted now to Methadone as she’d once been to heroin.

  A taxi appeared at the head of the square. It stopped below the window. A tall, lean figure stepped out of the back, pausing to check the address and pay the driver. A face looked up, blond hair, cropped short, open-neck shirt, light cotton jacket, and Friedland instinctively withdrew into the shadows, sensing at once that it was McVeigh.

  McVeigh stayed perhaps half an hour. Friedland thanked him for coming and made a careful note of what little the man was prepared to tell him. He’d been in the Marines for ten years. He was Arctic Warfare-trained and had done the Mountain Leader course. Latterly, after a fall in Norway and a particularly nasty fracture to his left leg, he’d transferred to the Investigation Branch. It hadn’t been the kind of soldiering he’d joined up for, but he’d been surprised at his own interest in the job, and how good he’d been at it. The clerical back-up was hopeless, but so were most of the villains, so the thing had worked out OK in the end.

  After the Marines, life had been dull. He’d tried to convert a passion into a way of life, tucking away some of his gratuity on the deposit for a small flat and investing the rest in a climbing consultancy. For a fee, he’d lead mountaineeri
ng parties anywhere on earth. The idea had been great, but the overheads were crippling and the recession had killed it stone-dead. For the last two years, in the absence of anything better, McVeigh had therefore gone back to doing what he knew best: investigative work, with a modest helping of physical violence.

  Friedland, listening, had been amused. McVeigh, like so many of the Special Forces people, was nicely understated. But there was something else, too. A sense of irony and hints of a rogue mind behind the deadpan voice and the watchful eyes.

  Friedland mentioned Al Zahra. McVeigh said he’d never heard of him. Friedland looked surprised. ‘He says he knows you.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes. He says you are very good. Highly recommended.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Friends of his. Fellow Arabs. Chums.’

  McVeigh nodded. He’d often bodyguarded for visiting Arabs, dividing his time between a table in the shadows of various Mayfair casinos and a chair in the upper corridors of some of Park Lane’s more exclusive hotels. It was cheerless work, but it paid two fifty a day. For that money, he also ran errands, volunteering to, collect what one young sheikh from Dubai called ‘the groceries’. The groceries turned out to be a succession of expensive call-girls, some of whom McVeigh now knew moderately well. Maybe Al Zahra was from Dubai, too. Maybe it was his cue for yet another circuit of the flats off Shepherd’s Market.

  ‘What’s he want?’

  Friedland explained, briefly, what the Arab had told him on the telephone.

  McVeigh listened, expressionless. Friedland got to the end of the story.

  ‘So what does he want?’ McVeigh said again.

  Friedland shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go and see him.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Half-past seven.’ Friedland paused. ‘He’s expecting you.’

  McVeigh looked at him for a moment, then glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘Say I take the job,’ he said, ‘whatever it is …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who do I work for? Him or you?’

  Friedland leaned back in the chair, smiling, remembering Ross’s parting words. This bit, at least, was simple.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly what happens.’

  McVeigh took a cab to the Dorchester. On the way, he thought about Friedland. He’d never met the man before, never heard of him. The address had been expensive and the office looked genuine enough, but there was something about the man, a strange diffidence, that disturbed him. Most of the agencies he worked for were run by ‘Ruperts’, recently retired Regular Army officers, late thirties, early forties, good regiments, good families, nice accents, well dressed, excellent connections, urban go-getters who trawled for the fat contracts and dished out the action to the Special Forces lads. It was good business all round, and McVeigh was glad for a slice of it, but Friedland didn’t seem to fit that mould at all. Too old. Too battered. Too weary.

  The taxi dropped McVeigh at the Dorchester. He took the lift to the seventh floor. The Arab had a suite at the end of the corridor. McVeigh knocked and stood carefully back. The door was opened at once by a youngish woman, Oriental, very black hair, expensive dress cut high at the neck. McVeigh introduced himself. Recognizing the name, the woman smiled, a minor alteration to the lower half of her face. McVeigh stepped inside. The Arab emerged from the bedroom, a small man, neat. He wore a blazer over a white silk shirt. There were Gucci loafers on his feet, and his grey slacks were perfectly pressed. He extended a hand and waved McVeigh into a chair, asking him whether he’d like a drink. McVeigh said no. ‘You phoned a Mr Friedland,’ he said, ‘and Mr Friedland phoned me.’

  The Arab inclined his head, glancing at the woman. She smiled at him, touching him lightly on the shoulder, fetching champagne from a small fridge. The champagne, already-open, was a third gone. She poured two glasses and looked at McVeigh. McVeigh shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said again.

  The Arab touched glasses with the woman and sipped at the champagne. Then he told McVeigh what he’d already told Friedland. He was a wealthy man. He had a conscience. His Palestinian brothers were orphans in the Middle East, disinherited by the Israelis, penned into refugee camps, the men forced to find work away to feed their families. Fellow Arabs did what they could. There were numerous funds, many appeals. But the fact remained that the Palestinians had no homeland, no rights, no future. Half a million were crammed into the Gaza strip. Twice that number scratched for a living on the West Bank. And in the three years of the Intifada, no fewer than 60,000 children – kids – had been injured at the hands of the Israelis.

  McVeigh followed the recitation without comment. The man was passionate. He spoke slowly, clearly, his voice never rising, but with each fresh statistic his body bent a little further forward on the long leather couch until he was nearly touching McVeigh’s knee. His point made, he fell silent. The woman sat beside him, watching McVeigh.

  McVeigh smiled peaceably. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  The Arab looked at him for a moment, his eyes very black. Then he began to talk again, his voice even lower. An Israeli had been killed. It had been a tragedy. No one had been arrested. But to add insult to injury, the Israelis had only one name on their lips. They were judge and jury. Evidence, proof, was immaterial. To anyone sane, anyone Western, anyone non-Arab, it was obvious who was to blame. The Palestinians.

  He paused again, the champagne untouched. ‘Do you know how offensive that is?’ he asked. ‘To us? To me? To an Arab?’

  McVeigh nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you realize how bored we get? The same old tune? And how angry? Our people? Our land? Our children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Arab nodded slowly, still looking at him. The woman had turned away, curling her lip, shaking her head, a gesture of contempt.

  McVeigh studied them both. ‘So what do you want,’ he said at last, ‘from me?’

  The Arab was silent for a moment, then he relaxed, letting his whole body go limp, leaning back on the couch, sipping again at the champagne. He smiled, apologetic. ‘This man who died. His name is Arendt. Yakov Arendt.’

  McVeigh nodded but said nothing. For as long as he could remember, he’d had a profound suspicion of coincidence. Things never simply happened. There was always a reason, a cause and a consequence. This belief had served him well. Twice, in the mountains, it had saved his life. Now he watched the Arab.

  The Arab glanced up. ‘I want you to find out about this man,’ he said. ‘I want you to talk to his friends. His wife, if he has one. Maybe his bosses, the people he worked for. I want to know how he died, and why he died, and maybe who killed him. People I know say you’re very good. They say you know where to go, where to look.’ He paused. ‘I suggest you go to Israel. Israel is where it begins and ends.’

  McVeigh frowned. ‘Israel’s a fair way,’ he said slowly.

  The Arab nodded, toying with his glass, rolling the stem carefully between two fingers. ‘Five hundred pounds a day,’ he said, ‘plus expenses.’

  McVeigh blinked. It was an absurd sum, nearly twice the going rate. It meant that Yakov Arendt had been a great deal more than a gifted amateur footballer. And it meant that finding out about him would be never less than dangerous. McVeigh studied the Arab for a moment, wondering who he really was, and why he was brokering the deal.

  ‘I knew Yakov,’ he said slowly. ‘He was a friend of mine.’

  The Arab inclined his head, a wholly ambiguous gesture, his eyes still on McVeigh. ‘Then I imagine there’s no question about you taking the job,’ he said softly.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, standing up, extending a hand. ‘Where I come from friendship carries certain obligations …’ He smiled. ‘And this would be one of them.’

  4

  Back in Washington on the early shuttle from New York, Telemann drove to his new suite of offices on ‘F’ Street.

&
nbsp; The offices were three blocks down from the Intelligence community headquarters near the old Executive Office Building beside the White House. The offices came with a large, capable woman called Juanita. Juanita was Sullivan’s idea. She’d worked for him in a variety of posts. She was Puerto Rican, discreet, clever and totally loyal. She’d organize the office, answer the phone and access whatever facilities Telemann might need. She had Sullivan’s clout and Sullivan’s temper. Telemann had liked her on sight.

  Now, nudging 20 m.p.h. on the Beltway, Telemann dialled Sullivan’s home number on the mobile phone. The extra day in New York had locked the Manhattan Plaza investigation away for good. Benitez would keep looking, but the core-team was tiny. No chance, Telemann thought, that the story would leak any further.

  Sullivan answered the phone. It was a quarter after six. He was already late for work.

  ‘It’s me,’ Telemann said, ‘I need the ULTRAS.’

  Telemann slowed the car to a crawl as the commuter traffic thickened even more. ULTRAS were the daily digest of communications intercepts acquired and decoded by the National Security Agency out at Fort Meade. They were routed into the US from listening posts world-wide, and from specially assigned satellites. They came in buff files, edged in red. They were classified Top Secret. Sullivan was breathing hard on the phone. Telemann could hear him. Must have run in from the drive, he thought.

  ‘You got ’em,’ Sullivan said. ‘They went to Juanita last night. You get choice cuts from the PDB, too. Courtesy the Chief.’

  Telemann whistled, eyeing a break in the nearside lane. PDBs were the Presidential Daily Briefs, ten beautifully printed pages of premium Intelligence yield that had the tightest circulation of all. Only half a dozen men in Washington were cleared to read the Brief, and while Sullivan wasn’t parting with the whole lot, it was the clearest possible indication of the status of Telemann’s assignment. Access to the PDB was the Presidential arm around his shoulders. It meant they trusted him. And it meant they were waiting.