‘Hi,’ she whispered, ‘soldier boy.’
*
Emery studied the photograph, his Michelob untouched. Sullivan sat beside him in a discreet corner of the bar, his jacket hanging open, his belly barely contained by the bulge of striped grey shirt. They’d been at the Four Seasons for half an hour, quite long enough for Sullivan to establish the political consequences of the hunt for Abu Yussuf. Three days in Europe hadn’t warmed the relationship one degree.
‘Disaster,’ he muttered again. ‘Grade fucking A.’
Emery was still looking at the photo. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘Tel Aviv.’
‘When?’
‘Three days ago.’
Emery nodded, plotting the chronology in his head, testing the dates, one against the other. Sullivan was watching him closely. In the back of the limo, driving up Pennsylvania Avenue towards Georgetown, Sullivan had said his piece about Emery’s failure to deliver. He’d given him the inside track on every other federal bureaucracy. He’d given him limitless freedoms, limitless scope, yet all he had to show for it was a stack of unreturned phone calls and the makings of a major diplomatic incident with the Germans. What had happened over there? Had Telemann got some kind of problem? Narcotics? Senile dementia? Was it true that he was off the case? At home with a headache? Emery, surprised that the fall had come so soon to the trees around Washington Circle, had said very little, knowing that Sullivan had a reputation for outbursts like these. Like any politician, the man demanded an early return on his investment. Notions like time and patience meant nothing to him. Now, the photograph face-down on the table, Emery asked about the scale of the manhunt. How wide was the net being cast? How fine was the mesh? And most important of all, who was in charge?
Sullivan shook his head, miserable, reaching for the last of his bourbon. He had the air of a child after an especially bad Christmas, his favourite toy already broken, in pieces on the playroom floor. ‘Feds,’ he said wanly. ‘FBI.’
‘Whose decision?’
‘The President’s.’ He glanced up at Emery. ‘The business with Assali shook him badly. He’s having enough trouble with the Germans already. The last thing he needs is more blood on the sidewalk.’ He shrugged. ‘So we’re back in channels. I guess he thinks it’s safer. God knows. Maybe he’s right …’ He signalled the waitress and ordered a refill, and Emery watched him as he sank back in the chair, physically diminished, a favoured courtier resigned at last to exile.
Emery reached for his beer and sipped it. ‘What about the Israelis?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They still on the leash?’
‘No way. Bastards have mobilized. They’re talking first strike again. It’s in the papers. You can read about it. Top billing. Front page.’
‘Isn’t that a problem? For our new Arab friends?’
Sullivan shot him a look, part contempt, part despair. ‘I asked you to find the guys with the gas,’ he said, ‘not run the fucking State Department.’
There was a long silence. A group of senators across the lounge were swopping gossip. Emery, still toying with his Michelob, looked up. He’d been wondering about his feelings for Sullivan, whether or not he cared about the man. To his surprise, he discovered that he did. Sullivan was watching him, his huge hands cupping the tumbler of bourbon as if seeking warmth. ‘Well?’ he said.
Emery frowned. ‘The Israelis have found the guy with the gas.’ He shrugged, glancing down at the photo on the table. ‘You’ve got a name. A face. Why look any further?’
‘That’s what they’re saying. Word for word.’
‘Who?’
‘The Israelis.’
Emery nodded, smiling, lifting his glass, a mock toast.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ he said.
*
The old man, Abu Yussuf, saw the sign amongst the trees ‘Sugarloaf Mountain Ski Resort’ it said. ‘Houses and Condos for Rental’. He hesitated a moment, his foot easing off the accelerator. He wanted somewhere safe, somewhere with a telephone and a garage, somewhere he could hide for a couple of days and lick his wounds. The newspaper still lay open on the seat beside him. He’d been looking at it from time to time, playing tricks with himself, willing the photo to change, willing the names to disappear from the text, willing Hala back to life again. Anything, he thought grimly, anything would be better than this. Even another spell in prison. Even a night or two with the Shin Beth people. Anything. In return for Hala.
He indicated left, pulling off the highway up into the trees. The road was new. He could see wooden houses through the trees. They looked big, safe. Further up the road he found an office. A pleasant young man in a plaid shirt listened to his faltering English. He wanted a house for a week, maybe longer. He’d pay cash. He had lots of cash. The young man said the minimum rentals were a fortnight. Six hundred and fifty dollars would buy him three bedrooms, a double garage, colour television, and a fully automated kitchen. Low-season rates still applied because the snow had yet to fall, but there were hiking trails, and white-water rafting, and rumours of a black bear in the woods over towards Peaked Mountain. Abu Yussuf nodded, numb, giving the young man his roll of bank-notes, letting him take what he needed, following him outside. The young man asked for a lift up to the house. He’d show him over the place, talk him through the facilities. The old man nodded, not thinking, opening the passenger door for him, realizing too late how interested the young man might be in automobiles, the things you could do to customize them, the nice new switch on the dash, the mysterious twin exhausts.
They drove back down the mountain, the old man sweating gently behind the wheel. The house was in a clearing amongst the trees. It was brand-new, the earth freshly turned in the small plot out back. Inside, the place smelled of cedarwood and sunshine. Abu Yussuf followed the young man around, half-listening to him explaining everything. Finally, the tour over, the young man extended a hand and left, taking the wooden steps two at a time, pausing by the car, looking back with a cheerful wave.
*
McVeigh landed at Montreal at midnight, Eastern Standard Time. The flight had been twice delayed, held on the ground in Beirut and again in Paris. Standing up, stretching, McVeigh nodded across at the Arab, Ghassan Azrak. They’d travelled at opposite ends of the Business Class compartment, Ghassan asking for a smoking seat, McVeigh glad to be left alone. Once, somewhere over Greenland, the Arab had slipped off his seat-belt and walked forward down the aisle, but McVeigh had seen him coming and pretended to be asleep. Now, filing off the big 747, the Arab was as affable as ever. ‘I’m with you,’ he confirmed, patting the wallet in his breast-pocket. ‘We stay together.’
Travelling with hand-baggage only, McVeigh was the first through Customs. He completed his Immigration Form, had it stamped, and stepped through on to the Arrivals concourse. So late, the place was deserted, an acre or two of polished marble floor. Shouldering the haversack, McVeigh crossed the concourse to a cluster of telephones arranged in pairs of kiosks. McVeigh chose the farthest. Using the phone, he could still see the exit channels from the Customs and Immigration areas. Soon, he knew, the Arab would appear.
Checking his watch, McVeigh dialled Amer Tahoul’s office number. In Ramallah it would be ten o’clock. By now the man would be at his desk. The number began to ring, and McVeigh piled the 25-cent coins beside the slot. With luck, the conversation would be brief. Just two pieces of information, both of them vital.
The number answered, Amer’s voice, a poor line. McVeigh began to shout down the phone, his voice uncomfortably loud, his eyes still on the exit channel. So far, no one had appeared. ‘Yussuf?’ he said for the third time. ‘Where is he?’
There were more crackles down the phone, then Amer’s voice broke through. He had a new address. It was some kind of ski resort. McVeigh grunted, scribbling the details on the pad at his elbow. He read the details back, Sugarloaf Mountain, somewhere in Maine. Then he returned to the phone. The firs passengers were beginning to appear on the concourse, tr
ailing huge suitcases.
‘There’s a bloke called Ghassan,’ McVeigh shouted, ‘Ghassan Azrak.’
‘Who?’
‘Ghassan Azrak.’
Amer said something, then something else, but his voice was breaking up on the line again. McVeigh cursed, bringing his knee up beneath the phone console, shaking it, doing it a second time. The line got worse. ‘Ghassan,’ he said again, ‘Ghassan Azrak.’
Across the concourse, the Arab had appeared. He carried a small overnight bag and a larger grip. He was looking around. McVeigh moved sideways into the cover of the phone kiosk, his eyes on Ghassan. He could still hear Amer, his voice faint. It was impossible to make any sense of what he was saying. It was like listening to a man in a high wind. McVeigh fed another three dollars into the console, praying for the line to get better, watching the Arab’s every move. The Arab was still looking round. Then he signalled, a barely perceptible movement of his right hand, and McVeigh saw another man crossing the concourse towards him. He’d come from the front of the building. He was wearing a big coat. He looked local, white-skinned, not an Arab. Ghassan had retreated a little into the mêlée of arriving passengers, making himself less conspicuous, and McVeigh watched as the two met, a small brown package changing hands, the work of a couple of seconds before the newcomer turned on his heel and made for the big sliding doors that led to the pick-up area. McVeigh watched him disappear into the night, then his eyes went back to the concourse, looking for Ghassan, finding him almost at once, standing slightly apart from the crowd, still looking round. The package had disappeared into his bag. Abruptly, Amer’s voice came through the static. ‘You can hear me?’ he kept saying. ‘You can hear me?’
McVeigh smiled, his body in full view now, the Arab spotting him, waving, walking over towards him. ‘It’s OK, Amer,’ he said, ‘I think I get the picture.’
*
Next morning found Emery back in Boston. He stepped off the Eastern shuttle and phoned Juanita from a call-booth in the baggage hall.
‘I found him,’ she said briskly. ‘He’s at home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘East Falmouth,’ she said. ‘There’s a neat little plane goes out to Hyannisport. You’re booked for 9.45. Terminal D.’
Emery thanked her, checking his watch, sprinting for the transfer bus. Fifteen minutes later, he was in the air again, gazing down at the brown waters of Boston Harbor as the ancient DC-3 droned south-east, towards the long curve of Cape Cod. At Hyannisport, Emery walked through the tiny terminal building and stepped into a cab. By midday he was in Falmouth.
Weill lived out on the coast on the edge of town, a rented place, one of a row of white timbered houses facing the sea. Paying off the cab, Emery stood on the sidewalk for a minute or so, smelling the air. The place had a quiet, low-rise, end-of-season feel to it. The wind blew in off the ocean, bowing the stands of maram grass on the sand-dunes, driving a fine yellow dust across the road. There was a good sea running, the deepest blue, the tops of the waves white-laced by the wind. Nice place to live, thought Emery, turning his back, pushing in through the broken gate, thinking again about Sullivan.
Weill, when he came to the door, looked terrible. He was wearing the bottom half of a pair of pyjamas and an old white T-shirt. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was the colour of putty. He peered into the strong sunlight, trying to make sense of the stranger at the door. Emery stepped inside, introducing himself. The house was a wreck. Empty flagons of wine stood in a row by the kitchen door. Plates of decaying food were piled on the draining-board. One of the taps needed mending, dripping noisily on to an upturned saucepan. Weill stared at it. ‘Washer’s gone,’ he said hopelessly. ‘Been fucked for months.’
They went into the living-room, ancient rugs on a bare lino floor. The place was unheated, and Weill sank on to the vinyl-covered sofa, pulling a blanket around himself, settling back into the corner, his knees drawn up to his chin, shaking visibly.
‘You cold?’ Emery asked. ‘Or sick?’
‘Both.’
‘What’s the matter?’
Weill shook his head, not answering, and Emery looked pointedly at the bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor by the window. The top was off and the bottle was three-quarter empty. Weill pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself, only his face and toes visible.
‘Gold,’ Emery said. ‘I want to know what happened.’
‘I told you.’
‘You told me zip.’ He paused. ‘This can take ten minutes or ten years. Your choice.’
Weill blinked. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘Yes.’
‘You serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘You really do work for the Government? One of those guys?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Try me.’
Emery nodded, getting up, crossing the room, heading for the bottle, replacing the top. For some reason, it bothered him. He put the bottle on the table. Weill shut his eyes. For a moment, Emery thought he was going to be sick.
‘Gold stayed here a couple of times,’ he suggested, ‘before he died.’
‘Sure.’ Weill nodded, his eyes still shut. ‘Place was better then. Things were OK. You know—’ he shrugged, hopeless again ‘—OK.’
‘He’d picked up a contract.’
‘Yes.’
‘Big money. Six hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars.’
Weill opened his eyes. Surprise put colour in his face. ‘You know that?’
‘Yes.’ Emery paused. ‘And I know where the money came from. I know who paid him.’ He paused again, leaning back against the table. ‘You speak German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Read it well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Technical standard?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ Emery said. ‘Then tell me what Gold was paid for.’
There was a long silence. Gulls swooped and soared in the sunshine outside, and Emery could hear the wind pushing in through cracks in the shingles. Emery shifted his weight slightly, still looking at Weill. Weill was mustering the courage to say no.
‘Gold brought documents here,’ Emery suggested. ‘Stuff in German. Scientific stuff. You knew the science. You understand German.’ He paused. ‘Don’t bother telling me you don’t know what he was selling.’
Weill gazed up at him, the rabbit on the pike at midnight, transfixed. He began to blink, rapid blinks, then he shook his head. ‘Can’t,’ he said, ‘can’t do it.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Sure. Won’t. Same thing.’
Emery shrugged, reaching for the bottle, picking it up, looking at it. ‘I can do you a favour,’ he said slowly. ‘I can have you out of here within the hour. I can have you behind bars. I can save your liver. I can save your life. Like I say, I can guarantee you ten years. Maybe more.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, you’re on your own …’
Weill swallowed a couple of times, then licked his lips. His eyes hadn’t left the bottle. ‘I loved the guy,’ he said quietly. ‘You pick any of that stuff up? Amongst all the other shit?’
‘No,’ Emery said coldly, ‘I didn’t.’
‘It’s true.’ Weill nodded. ‘He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. We never did it. But he let me touch. Just sometimes.’
‘Often?’
‘No.’ He smiled for the first time, a bitter-sweet curl of the lip. ‘Twice, if we’re counting.’
Emery shrugged again, indifferent. ‘OK,’ he said.
There was another long silence. A car drove past. Emery felt inside his jacket and produced a small black and white photo, Abu Yussuf, a copy duped from Sullivan’s print. He held it up, inches from Weill’s face. ‘Ever see this guy?’
Weill frowned, looking at it. The sunlight glinted off the thick pebble-glasses. ‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘No.’ He looked up. ‘That’s an Arab guy.’ He looked up. ‘You think Lenn
ie was some kind of terrorist? Is that it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Lennie was an engineer. Pure and simple.’
‘So what was he selling?’
‘You know. You’ve gotta know. You know the rest of it, you know what he was selling …’ He paused, blinking, then his face collapsed and he started to sob, his whole body shaking under the blanket. Emery said nothing for a moment, letting the sobs subside. Then he uncorked the bottle and offered it. Weill looked at it, sniffing, shaking his head.
‘I told him they’d kill him,’ he said, ‘I know those bastards. I know the way they work. I told him. He didn’t believe me. He said he’d worked for them all those years. He said he had the right contacts. He said they’d leave him alone.’ He shook his head, still sniffing, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘And I was right, wasn’t I? They did kill him …’
Emery nodded, saying nothing, and Weill looked at him for a long time, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet. Then he produced a box of Kleenex from under the blanket and blew his nose. ‘How did they do it?’ he said at last.
‘They gassed him.’
‘Gassed him?’
‘Yeah. Nerve gas.’ He paused, ‘You want the pictures? Him and his lady friend?’
Weill shook his head, shutting his eyes. A shudder went through his body. ‘Over there,’ he said at last.
‘Over where?’
‘There.’ He nodded at a sideboard across the room. ‘Middle drawer.’
Emery went to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer. It was full of gay magazines, some colour, some black-and-white. One or two were folded open, explicit poses, not much left to wonder about.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘A Jiffy bag.’ Weill smiled weakly. ‘German stamps. Dusseldorf postmark.’
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.
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