The Devil's Breath

by Hurley, Graham

  The analyst studied the drum. It was stoutly made, thicker-gauge steel than usual. He could see no corrosion, no rust, no leaks. He and two other men lifted the drum from the secure container and walked it across the concrete floor towards the bench where he’d laid out his equipment. The weight of the drum suggested that it was full. He thanked the men and bent to examine the screw-cap on the lid of the drum. One of them, an older man, asked about the suit and mask he was supposed to wear. It was site regulations. The company was very strict. The analyst shrugged his advice aside. He still felt nauseous from the duty-frees he’d drunk the previous night. He’d wear the gloves and the thick rubber galoshes in case of floor spillages, but the rest he’d do without.

  The older man said he was a fool and left the section. The analyst returned to the drum, studying it again, reading the notes supplied by the company’s North Kent division, and the photostats of the fire brigade reports. In neither case was there any conclusion about what might be inside. The only clue was the half-line of German scrolled across the bottom of the drum. The analyst peered at the lettering. He knew a little German. ‘Property of …’ it went, then the rest of the line painted over. He looked harder. One or two of the letters were just discernible, slightly raised shapes under the layer of paint. He ran his fingertips over the word at the end, as if it were braille. There were five letters. One of them might have been an ‘H’. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be certain. He pulled on the thick rubber galoshes, bending down to tighten the laces. He reached for the gloves and wriggled his fingers inside. Then he stooped to the drum and tried to loosen the screw-cap.

  It wouldn’t give. He tried again, twisting hard, applying as much strength as he could muster. Still no movement. He turned to the work-bench and selected a small hammer. Corrosion, he thought. A little sea water under the lip of the screw-cap, the rust bonding it. Nothing that a whack or two with the hammer couldn’t shift.

  He began to tap the lid, working round it. The noise of the hammer made his head hurt. He completed the circle and turned the cap again. He felt it give, slowly at first, the barest movement, then it freed itself, turning easily between his fingers. He paused, tossing the hammer back on to the bench, then returned to the drum, removing the cap. He turned it over. There was a thin film of clear liquid on the underside. He bent low, peering into the drum, seeing the light reflected on the liquid inside. He sniffed, then sniffed again, trying to identify the smell. The smell reminded him of rotting plums.

  He sniffed again, wondering why his eyes hurt so much, why the drum was slipping out of focus, what this terrible pain was in his chest, and seconds before the darkness came, it occurred to him that hangovers were never as bad as this, and that maybe – after all – he should have listened to the older man.

  *

  Telemann, who normally slept on west–east transatlantic crossings, sat by the window all night, a glass on the arm-tray at his elbow, trying to get the letter right.

  By dawn, half an hour west of Ireland, he thought he’d finally succeeded. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t pathetic. It wasn’t bitter. It simply detailed the way he felt, what it meant to him, the shock. He called the stewardess. He ordered his fourth bourbon. He took twenty minutes to drink it, watching the clouds beneath, pinked by the rising sun. Then he reached for the pad and read the letter again, and realized that he hadn’t got it right at all. The thing was dead. It read like a medal citation. Grace under fire, determination to press on despite grievous wounds. He read it again, toying with the empty glass, then ripped the sheet from the pad.

  At the airport, he’d watched Emery drive away. The older man had wished him good luck, bon voyage, but his eyes were cold and it wasn’t at all clear which journey he meant. From a pay-booth in the terminal, Telemann had phoned Laura. Bree had answered. No, she’d said, Mummy was out, at the mall, shopping. Telemann had thanked her and told her that it was nothing important, nothing that couldn’t wait until he got over to Europe, but there was another voice in his head, loud, crude, insistent, and whatever he did, there on the phone to Bree, or afterwards, joining the queue to check his luggage, he couldn’t switch it off. Where had Laura really gone? Where had they agreed to meet? How much time did they give each other? What did they say? What did they do? And how often?

  At Brussels Airport, Telemann stepped into the washroom by the baggage carousel before facing the day. Soaping his face in the mirror, he realized the kind of trap he’d stepped into, a trap of his own making. What you never did in the field was make assumptions. You never assumed you weren’t being followed. You never assumed that rooms weren’t wired, phones tapped. You never assumed that the casual acquaintance in the hotel bar, with his buddy-buddy smile and firm handshake, wasn’t the guy they’d sent to burn you. That way, ever-sceptical, ever-alert, you survived. But private life, your own life, your wife and your kids, hell, that was supposed to be different. There were rules there, loyalties. You’d sworn an oath. You’d built a home and tried for kids, and finally made a damn good job of bringing up a bunch of other people’s. You’d done it all, done it OK, better than OK, and now it was all ashes. The other guys, the guys he’d met in the office, in the field, maybe they had it about right after all. Whichever way you looked at it, however hard you tried, you got screwed. Telemann looked at himself in the mirror, a night’s growth, the eyes reddened with booze and exhaustion. Laura, he thought. Of all people. Her.

  He hired a car from the Hertz desk. He was travelling on a US passport under the name of Lacey. On the booking form, under the section headed ‘Business Address’, he scribbled a location in Chicago. The details had come through Juanita, the documents too. For cover, he was operating as a freelance journalist, working on assignment for a heavyweight magazine in the mid-West. He’d flown to Europe looking for background on a trade story. Would the tariff barriers close around the enlarged EC? Should the rest of the world brace itself for a trade war? The usual questions.

  He drove north to Antwerp. He was there in less than an hour. The port area lay on the other side of the city, and he drove with his eyes half-closed, trusting the big blue signs, remembering the address of the police station which had handled the incident with the Greek sailor. Overnight, Emery would have cleared a path to his door, going out of channels, bypassing the normal protocols, ensuring that Telemann got the access he needed. It was one of the last things they’d discussed in the car, waiting in the drop-off zone, Laura’s letter on the seat between them, and Telemann didn’t have the slightest doubt that Emery would do as he’d promised, and grease the wheels. Work and pleasure, as he’d always insisted, were strictly incompatible.

  At the police station, Telemann found the detective in charge. He didn’t speak English. They talked for several minutes in halting French, and the detective confirmed that they had no leads on the attack. The Greek, he said, had been badly beaten. Whoever did it had known a great deal about physical violence. The doctors at the hospital said he was lucky to have survived.

  Telemann nodded, making notes, aware of the man’s curiosity, this small, dark, intense American, walking in from nowhere. The detective offered to drive him to the hospital, take him to the sailor, but Telemann said no thanks. He had the name of the ship, the date of the attack, the confirmation that the Enoxia had left the next day. The guy he really wanted to talk to was Vlaedders, the agent.

  ‘You know him?’ he asked.

  The detective nodded. Everybody knew Vlaedders.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘OK. Rich.’

  ‘Where’d he get the money?’

  ‘From his business.’ The detective laughed. ‘Where else?’

  Telemann looked him in the eye, long enough to know that the man wasn’t bluffing, probably didn’t know about the Israeli connection, if – indeed – there was one.

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  The detective reached for a phone book, confirming the address that Emery had already given him, and explaining how to find i
t. The detective looked at his watch. Vlaedders kept rich man’s hours. If he wasn’t at his office, he’d be at home. He gave Telemann another address.

  Telemann drove away from the police station, following the detective’s directions. He took the main road back towards the city, trying to avoid the trams that clanged noisily past. In the old quarter, several blocks away from the railway station, he found a car park. The walk to Vlaedders’ office took less than five minutes. Telemann was awake now, alert, his mind emptied of everything but the next half-hour.

  Vlaedders’ office occupied the third floor of an old pre-war building beside a small hotel. Telemann went in, taking the stairs at a steady trot. Each landing was hung with fading water-colours, wide flat landscapes, candy-floss clouds. There was wooden parquet flooring underfoot. The smell reminded Telemann of school. Vlaedders’ office door was open. Inside, a secretary sat behind a desk. She looked about ninety. Telemann introduced himself, using the cover name. He explained that he had no appointment with Mr Vlaedders, but would appreciate half an hour of his time. He was a journalist on assignment from the USA. He was researching a long piece on the prospect for European trade. Mr Vlaedders was at the sharp end. He must have seen all kinds of changes. It might offer a nice angle.

  The secretary, who spoke excellent English, listened to him without comment. Then she got up and went into another office, shutting the door behind her. When she emerged again, she held the door open. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said. ‘He has another appointment at three.’

  Telemann thanked her and went in. Vlaedders was standing at the window. Expecting someone older, Telemann found a small, neat figure in his early thirties. He was wearing a dark, two-button suit, the jacket hung carefully over the back of his chair. He had thick, gold-rimmed glasses, and steady eyes, and an almost permanent smile.

  He waved Telemann into a seat in front of the desk and sat down. Telemann explained who he was, what he’d come for. He sketched in enough background to justify the surprise call and then tried to narrow the focus. How long had Vlaedders been working in the shipping business? What kind of clients did he represent? Where were the real opportunities for a man who wanted to make serious money? What kind of changes would German reunification bring?

  Vlaedders answered his questions one by one with an easy fluency. Like the secretary, he spoke perfect English. He knew a great deal about the shipping world. He indicated where the trends might lead. He agreed that reunification might make a major difference. Unless they were very foolish indeed, the Europeans would soon have the rest of the world by the throat.

  The conversation went on, Telemann jotting the occasional note, Vlaedders watching him, ever-patient, ever-polite, the smile rarely leaving his lips. When Telemann enquired about particular cargoes, he conceded that there might be a problem. Bulk goods were sometimes a headache. Paperwork on finished products like televisions and fridges could be a nightmare. Telemann nodded, clearing the path ahead, picking his way carefully towards the Cypriot freighter, the consignment of pesticide, the source of the stuff.

  ‘I understand you handle chemicals?’ he said.

  Vlaedders nodded. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Occasionally. Sailors are born clumsy. Stowage isn’t always perfect. Containers are damaged in transit. You get gales. Bad weather—’ he shrugged ‘—leaks.’

  ‘Anything recent? Anything you can remember?’

  There was a long silence, and Telemann wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark, changed gear too clumsily, hit a bump in the road. Vlaedders was still watching him. He had the expression of a man for whom life held few surprises.

  ‘You want to know about the Enoxia?’ he said. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  Telemann looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Vlaedders smiled at him. Then he reached forward and took a single sheet of paper from a pad. He produced a pen from his pocket and scribbled a name and an address.

  ‘There’s someone a journalist like you ought to talk to,’ he said, ‘to save us both a great deal of time.’

  Telemann nodded. ‘Here?’ he said. ‘In Antwerp?’

  Vlaedders looked at him for a moment or two, speculative, curious, bored with the game they’d been playing. Then he shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You have to go to Hamburg.’

  *

  McVeigh finally found the Arab in a small restaurant in Mayfair. He was sitting alone at a small table at the back, reading a copy of Newsweek. He had a bread roll in one hand and a glass of something alcoholic in the other. He invited McVeigh to sit down.

  McVeigh looked at him across the perfect square of white damask. ‘I need some answers,’ he said, ‘and you may have them.’

  ‘I may?’

  ‘Yes.’ McVeigh leaned forward across the table. ‘Last night my flat was done over. Two guys. One white. One black. They were still there when I got back. They left shortly afterwards.’

  The Arab nodded. ‘Breaking and entering,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that the phrase?’

  ‘Sure. But explain this.’

  McVeigh’s hand went to his jacket pocket. He produced a small metal object, about the size and thickness of a shirt button. Tiny whiskers of wire curled from one side, soldered in place. McVeigh put the object on the table-cloth. The Arab looked at it, reaching for another bread roll.

  ‘It’s a bug,’ McVeigh said, ‘I found it in the telephone.’ He paused. ‘My telephone.’

  ‘You think these … men … put it there?’

  ‘I know they did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The phone was still in pieces. When I had a good look round, there it was, on the floor, under the window.’

  ‘Ah …’ The Arab nodded. ‘Telephone engineers.’

  McVeigh said nothing, looking at him, the accusation plain in his face. He and Billy had spent hours putting the flat back together again. They’d finally got to bed past midnight, McVeigh swearing the boy to secrecy, all too aware of what might have happened had they both walked in together. Alone, he could cope with most of life’s surprises. Having Billy around, it was very different. He was vulnerable.

  McVeigh leaned forward, making his point, still angry. ‘Checking up on me, were you? Making sure you get your money’s worth?’

  The Arab frowned, an expression of genuine pain. ‘For £500 a day,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect to be cheated.’

  ‘Then why do it?’

  ‘I didn’t do it. Neither would I do it. My friend, we have a contract. You’ve agreed to find out certain facts, ask certain questions. A wise man makes his choice and then stands back. I expect results, Mr McVeigh. Not abuse.’

  McVeigh looked at him for a long time. He was a good judge of character, of when someone was lying, and now he knew that he’d got it wrong, badly wrong. He sat back in the chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I had to be sure.’

  The Arab shrugged. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘you made a mistake. Nothing worse.’ He paused. ‘I thought you were flying to Tel Aviv?’

  McVeigh nodded. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be packing?’ the Arab said mildly. ‘Making your phone calls? Earning your money?’ He paused again, his voice soft, the subtlest of reprimands.

  McVeigh nodded again, getting up. He’d dropped Billy off at his mother’s at eight, waiting in the car outside while the boy ran upstairs and looked through the drawer where he kept his secrets. He’d found the piece of paper in less than a minute, Yakov’s writing, the address in Tel Aviv, the place where Yakov told him he could write. They had an apartment, he and his wife, an oldish place with a distant view of the sea.

  McVeigh stood at the table for a moment. The Arab raised his glass.

  ‘Shalom …’ he said drily. ‘And good luck.’

  *

  The first time she phoned, Emery said it was impossible. The second time, an hour later, she was in tears.
He listened to her for perhaps a minute, and checked his watch. His car had been fitted with a secure mobile. He could work en route. He’d be out there within the half-hour. She wasn’t to worry about lunch.

  He drove fast, against the last of the late morning traffic, out through the lush acres of Chevvy Chase, out towards Rockville. Telemann had a house on the eastern edge of the town, modest white clapboard, big shuttered windows, extended out the back. It stood in half an acre of ground, mostly grass that Laura cropped weekly with an ancient power-mower. There was a barbecue pit, and a couple of apple trees, and a swing for Bree.

  Bree met him in the drive, hearing the burble from the Chrysler’s holed exhaust when Emery was still a hundred yards away, turning into Dixie Street. She ran out of the house and jumped up at him as he got out of the car. She was slightly retarded, and it showed in her eyes, a look of total trust, almost doglike. At ten, she could barely read or write.

  ‘Peter,’ she said, ‘Uncle Peter.’

  Emery kissed her, taking her hand and following her into the house. The house was cooler after the heat of the street. All the windows were open, and the curtains stirred in the breeze.

  Laura emerged from the kitchen. She was wearing an old pair of Telemann’s shorts and a singlet. Her legs were bare, and the strap had broken on one of her sandals. Every time she moved, the metal buckle banged on the wooden floor. She was carrying a tall glass, something golden topped with ice cubes. She gave it to him, kissing him as she did so. ‘Apple and soda,’ she said, ‘no booze.’

  Emery sipped at the drink and put his mobile phone on the window-sill. Bree clattered downstairs with a drawing book. She had two pens in her other hand, and she began to pull Emery towards the table. Laura shooed her away, promising a treat later. Then she glanced at the phone. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, ‘I know you’re busy.’

  Emery shrugged and said nothing. He took her by the arm and led her to the sofa. She was a big woman, broad, well made. Kids suited her, and so did this house of theirs, the vessel that contained their lives. It was spacious, and chaotic, and friendly, a house without pretence or formality. It had resilience, and warmth, and character, so different to the neat, charmless apartment he and his wife tried to call their own. It was a big place, bigger than it seemed from the road, and Laura filled it all with her smile, and her laughter, and her limitless patience.