‘Eretz Israel,’ he muttered, the contempt thickening his voice.
McVeigh glanced at Cela, not understanding, and she grinned. ‘Greater Israel,’ she explained. ‘Moshe doesn’t approve. He liked it before, better.’
‘The way you were? Living on the border? In the kibbutz?’
‘No. He’d keep the Golan. He likes that. It’s all this he hates. He thinks the West Bank’s …’ She shrugged, looking at Moshe, trying to do him justice, putting a question to him in Hebrew. Moshe scowled and grunted, tipping his head towards a ragged queue of sweating pilgrims shuffling towards the Church of the Nativity. They looked American. Some of the women, overweight, wore T-shirts. Beneath a crude drawing of a spaced-out kid, one of the T-shirts said ‘I Got Stoned On The West Bank’. Moshe grunted again, giving Cela the answer she needed, and she laughed, turning back to McVeigh, translating it for him. ‘A pile of shit,’ she said. ‘That’s what he thinks.’
They got out of the truck, Moshe carefully locking both doors. Parked cars ringed a fountain in the middle of the square. The fountain was dry. They began to pick their way through the cars. One side of the square was dominated by a police station. McVeigh looked at it for a moment. It was heavily fortified with razor wire and grenade screens, and the blue and white Israeli flag hung limply from the top of a recently painted flag-pole. There were armed troops on guard outside. They had visors on their helmets, and they carried sub-machine-guns and the bigger Galil carbines, and they moved slowly back and fourth, eyes flicking constantly left and right, alert, watchful, unsmiling. Belfast, McVeigh thought, following Cela towards a small restaurant wedged between two souvenir shops.
Inside, the restaurant was crowded. There was a smell of cooking oil and cheap tobacco. Cela paused briefly, looking for a face she knew, raising a hand to a small neat man sitting by himself at a table at the back of the room. The man got up. He was wearing a dark suit, and the white shirt beneath was open at the neck. He nodded at Cela and extended a hand. He looked older than he probably was, early thirties perhaps, and he had the measured, slightly grave air of someone used to authority. Cela spoke to him briefly in Arabic, and gestured towards McVeigh. McVeigh stepped forward, shaking the man’s hand. His skin was a dark olive colour. He had black, curly hair, greying perceptibly at the temples. He bowed, a neat, formal bow, and pulled out a seat at the table. McVeigh glanced at Cela, gesturing towards the seat, but Cela shook her head, her eyes still on the Arab, completing the introductions.
‘Amer Tahoul,’ she said. ‘He’s happy to speak to you in English.’
*
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s him.’
Laura sat in the sunshine in the big picture window, fingering the small colour photograph. The man across the table wore the blue uniform of the Schutzpolizei. Thick-set, crop-haired and coldly formal, he’d been sitting in the white BMW police car when they’d arrived at the Dreisen. Emery had seen him at once, stepping out of the cab, surprised that the enquiry was still in the hands of the local constabulary. The Polizeichef had crossed the road and introduced himself, offering Laura a curt bow of welcome, addressing her by name. Now, cold as ever, he looked her in the eye.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Sure.’ She shrugged, still looking at the photo. ‘He’s my husband. I bought him that jacket. It’s his favourite colour.’
‘And your name’s Telemann? Frau Telemann?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why was your husband using the name Lacey? Why did he call himself that?’
Laura shrugged again, looking helplessly at Emery. Emery was sitting beside her, his back to the window, inscrutable as ever. He’d phoned ahead from the airport at Frankfurt when they’d landed, half-past six in the morning, trying to confirm the arm’s-length arrangement he’d made on the secure telex from Washington. The guy he was due to meet was still at home, probably in bed, but the duty clerk at Intelligence HQ in Bonn had agreed a provisional rendezvous at the Hotel Dreisen in time for lunch. The guy’s name was Franz Stauckel. He worked for the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz, the Republic’s front-line agency against terrorism. Emery knew him from way back, a friendship nurtured at a series of international conferences. He had excellent contacts and a mordant sense of humour. He’d been briefed on the Assali shooting, and he’d understand at once what was required. Unlike this man.
Emery reached for the photograph. The damage was worse than he’d thought. In his real name, Ron had left his US passport, his Maryland driving licence, and what looked like a sheaf of credit cards. Offhand, Emery couldn’t think of a rule he hadn’t broken.
‘Herr Telemann is a very private individual,’ he murmured, looking up at the Polizeichef. ‘He often goes to some lengths to protect that privacy.’
‘He’s a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Emery smiled thinly, knowing there was no point in playing games. The answer was there on the table, the grey plastic card that gave Ron Telemann access to the big car park out at Langley.
‘I work for the Government,’ he said. ‘In Washington.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Office work.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing to get excited about.’
The German looked at him for a moment, and Emery wondered quite where the interview was headed. He’d spent most of the flight worrying about Sullivan. The vehemence of his reaction to the news from Bad Godesburg had shaken him, and for the first time he was beginning to wonder about the real status of the ‘F’ Street operation. What had started life as a sensibly covert enquiry was fast developing into something far more political. To date, at Sullivan’s insistence, he’d successfully insulated the operation from every other arm of government. Officially, the set-up on ‘F’ Street didn’t even exist, a phenomenon known in the bureaucracies as ‘ghosting’, but when things went wrong, ghosting could give you real problems, and the man in the immaculate blue uniform was currently one of them.
Emery smiled, reaching for his cup again, lightly conversational. ‘I thought the investigation had been handed over to the BfV,’ he said. ‘That was my understanding.’
The Polizeichef shook his head. ‘A man was shot dead yesterday,’ he said. ‘Shooting people is against the law.’
‘Of course, but—’ Emery shrugged ‘—sometimes these things are more complex than they seem.’ He smiled benignly at the Polizeichef, recognizing at once that he’d made a mistake, questioning his relevance, suggesting that there were areas of public order to which he had no access. He reached for Laura’s hand, changing the subject, trying a new tack. ‘Mrs Telemann is naturally worried about her husband,’ he said. ‘She wants to find him.’
‘So do we.’
‘She has reasons to be anxious about his health. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Oh?’
Emery glanced sideways at Laura, seeking confirmation, and she nodded. The policeman leaned forward, openly sceptical. ‘You think he’s sick?’
‘I think he may be.’
‘But why would he disappear?’
‘I don’t know.’
Laura shrugged, turning a little in the chair and staring sightlessly out of the window. She’d sat awake in the plane all night, no conversation, accepting the barest mouthful of shrimp salad from the four-course Executive Class dinner. Now, her face grey with fatigue, she seemed to have lost interest in the exchange.
Emery returned to the Polizeichef. ‘You’re looking for Herr Telemann?’
‘Of course.’ The policeman nodded at the table. ‘We have his photograph. His details. Both passports. The photograph will be circulated. People here read the papers, watch television …’ He offered Laura a thin smile. ‘It’s simply a matter of time.’
Laura looked at him briefly, saying nothing, and Emery marvelled at how quickly the incident had got out of control. Ron’s face at every street corner, Uncle Sam on the rampage
. He reached for his cup again, wondering what Sullivan would make of it all, then there was a hand on his shoulder, the familiar squeeze, the smell of Dutch cigars, and he looked up, recognizing Stauckel at once, a big, untidy man, leather jacket, full beard, reddish hair, a face weathered by overtime and alcohol. Emery got to his feet, accepting the damp, meaty handshake, introducing Laura. Franz Stauckel beamed at her, one of life’s optimists, ignoring the uniformed Polizeichef. ‘Welcome,’ he said in perfect English.
Laura nodded. ‘Hi,’ she said.
There was a brief pause while Stauckel summoned the waiter, then he was sitting down with them, sifting through Telemann’s documents, helping himself. The Polizeichef watched him for a minute or two, then stood up and said something brisk in German. Stauckel shook his head, contemptuous, dismissing the point, and when the two men got up and left the room Emery could see them outside, in the ante-room, arguing. The waiter arrived with a large bottle of schnapps. The Polizeichef turned on his heel, storming towards the street, and Stauckel was suddenly back with them, dispensing the schnapps, raising his glass. They drank to Telemann’s health – Stauckel’s innocent toast – and Laura found herself looking quickly away, out at the long barges on the river, while the two men drained the glasses and Stauckel’s hand reached for the bottle again. By the time Laura was back with them, her eyes dry, the documents on the table had gone. She looked at Emery, the question plain on her face, and he smiled back, nodding at the brief-case he’d left on the floor.
‘How come?’ she said. ‘How come you could get rid of the guy like that?’
Stauckel leaned back in his chair, legs outspread, dismissing the question with a massive shrug, telling her that the man was a fool, a prisoner of his uniform. The problem with the shooting was the lack of evidence. Responsibility, in the first place, lay with the Schupo, the local police, and although everyone knew that Assali’s death was the work of the Israelis, they hadn’t left a single clue worth the name. On the contrary, the only firm lead was the American, Lacey, and the discovery that his name was an alias made his involvement doubly significant. For the time being, Stauckel had been able to outrank the Polizeichef and reclaim the documentation, but he knew the reprieve he’d won was only temporary. The locals would be back, probably within hours, and at that point anything might happen.
At this, Stauckel roared with laughter, lifting his glass, emptying it, telling Emery that the uniformed guys had a lot to get off their chests, that they hated the BfV, and that the Assali affair might just become the battle that would decide the war. The only sure way of stopping the investigation in its tracks would be an intervention from the Ministry of the Interior in Bonn, and there was, to date, no sign of that.
Emery nodded, listening, then leaned forward, offering his own perspective, nothing too specific but enough to make Stauckel understand the delicacy of his position, the prisoner of an operation so covert that it bypassed every known channel.
Stauckel listened to him with a quite different expression, intent, thoughtful, curious. At the end of it he leaned across, patting Emery on the shoulder, settling back into his chair. He’d dealt with politicians all his life. Their intentions were awful. Their manners were worse. Sensible men had nothing to do with them.
‘So how do you feel?’ he said finally.
Emery pulled a long face, swallowing the last of the schnapps. ‘Abandoned,’ he said.
Laura, listening, nodded. ‘Sure,’ she said quietly. ‘Just like Ron.’
*
Telemann sat on the balcony, enjoying the midday sun, watching a young couple in a rowing boat sculling slowly across the Aussenalster. The girl sat in the stern, a plump white dot, while the boy pulled manfully on the oars. His right arm was stronger than his left, and the boat described endless wide circles on the blue water, getting nowhere.
The big french doors to the lounge opened, and Inge stepped out. They’d been back in Hamburg for a day and a half now, and she hadn’t left the apartment once, staying with Telemann, cooking him meals he didn’t want, washing his clothes, watching him across the lounge when he sat in front of the television, half-asleep. Telemann recognized this new life for what it was, a benign form of imprisonment, but for the time being he was content to accept it. Given the tracks he’d left at the Dreisen – one passport lodged at reception, another abandoned in his room – he knew he’d be a sitting target the moment he stepped back into the street. Better, on balance, to retire for a while, upwind, out of sight, waiting for the moment when he knew he’d have to make a decision.
Inge settled on the balcony, sitting on a rug on the warm concrete, her back against the door. Around midday, she sunbathed out here, naked except for a pair of briefs, her face tipped up, her eyes closed, a long glass of mineral water at her side.
Telemann reached for the glass and took a sip of the water. He was still watching the rowing-boat.
‘That stuff you told me about Wulf,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The affair you had. Your son. Nikki. How much of it was true?’
Inge opened one eye. They hadn’t discussed Wulf since Bad Godesburg. In fact, they hadn’t discussed anything.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I don’t believe you.’
She smiled, not answering for a moment, her eyes closed again. ‘No?’ she said at last.
Telemann glanced round at her. ‘You told me lies about the Dreisen. About Assali. So why should I believe you? Tell me. I’m interested.’
‘I didn’t tell you about the Dreisen. Nathan told you about the Dreisen.’ She shrugged, reaching for the glass. ‘So maybe he lied. Not me.’
‘OK.’ Telemann nodded. ‘You and Wulf then. Easy question.’
‘What?’
‘Prove it.’
‘Prove what?’
‘Prove you ever knew the man. Even met him.’
Inge looked at him over the glass, saying nothing. Then she got up and disappeared into the lounge. When she came back she was carrying a small wooden box. She sat down on the rug again, the box beside her. She took the lid off and scooped out a handful of photos. The photos were all the same size, four by six, colour. Telemann watched as she began to riffle through them, smiling from time to time. Then he reached forward, his hand outstretched, wanting to see them.
She glanced up. ‘You know what he looks like? Otto?’
Telemann nodded. Everyone knew what Wulf looked like. Everyone who read newspapers or magazines. Everyone who’d ever queued at a news-stand, or sat in a dentist’s waiting-room. Even in the States.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know what he looks like.’
Inge laughed, handing him a pile of photos, watching them spill across his lap. Telemann glanced down. The top photo showed a side-view of a large, middle-aged man, tanned, muscular, overweight. He was kneeling on a bed. He was naked. The shaft of a huge erection disappeared into Inge’s backside. She was kneeling in front of him, her face turned towards the camera, her eyes closed, her mouth open. Her hands were outstretched, the knuckles white, gripping the rail on top of the bedhead. Telemann recognized the pattern of the wallpaper, the colour of the dressing-gown hung on the back of the door. Her dressing-gown. Her bedroom. He picked up the top photo and looked at the one underneath. Same bedroom, same camera angle, Wulf on his back this time, Inge straddling him, her bum in his face, her mouth and hands wrapped around him. He went on through the pile, the camera angles changing, front shots, back shots, Wulf doing the whole repertoire, every conceivable orifice, a man who never once appeared to smile. Some of the shots looked like snaps from a picnic, the bed littered with discarded fruit and empty bottles of wine and open tubs of yoghurt, spoonfuls of the stuff dripping down Inge’s belly, a feast for the hungry industrialist. In some of the other shots, blood was evident on the sheets. Telemann held one up, Inge on her back, her legs apart, each ankle strapped to a post at the foot of the bed. Between her legs, the sheet was puddled with blood, a deep rich scarlet, and Wulf was k
neeling beside her, limp for once, his eyes on the television in the corner.
Telemann, revolted, showed her the picture. ‘Whose idea?’ he said.
She looked at it for a moment, her face quite blank. ‘Mine,’ she said.
‘You enjoy that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he?’
She smiled at him, sympathetic, indulging his ignorance. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Telemann nodded, packing the photos up, returning them to the box. ‘You got the place fitted?’ he said. ‘The bedroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘I counted three cameras.’
‘Four. One never worked.’
‘He knew about these?’ He gestured at the prints.
‘Of course not.’
Telemann nodded, thinking of the set-up again, the trouble they must have gone to, the Mossad boys, the technical people, installing the cameras.
‘Neat,’ he said. ‘They still there? The cameras?’
‘Of course.’
‘Working?’
‘Yes.’
Telemann nodded again, wondering what his own snaps would look like, where they’d end up, the girl on his face, Uncle Sam well and truly fucked. He shook his head, part wonder, part admiration, part disgust.
‘What about the rest of it?’ he said at last. ‘Did you feel anything for him? Was that true?’
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘He was good in bed but … no.’
‘What about him? Was he in love with you?’
‘In love with me? The man was an animal.’ She shrugged again. ‘We fucked a lot. That’s all.’
Telemann nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said.
He looked away, out across the lake. The wind had risen a little and the water was feathered with white caps. Of the rowing-boat there was no sign.
‘But didn’t he wonder?’ he said at last, lifting the photo in his lap, giving it back. ‘Exposing himself like that? Taking those kinds of risks?’
The Devil's Breath Page 31
