The Devil's Breath

by Hurley, Graham

  Now, standing beside the desk, the old man reached for the phone. He hadn’t had a letter from his wife, Hama, for more than two weeks, not since the beginning of the month. Himself, he’d written every day, sitting at the table in the tiny airless kitchen, page after page, the thin sheets of scribble anchored down beneath the tins of chick-peas he bought each week at the corner store. He wrote about New York, the way it felt, this new life of his. He wrote about the heat and the smell. He wrote about the money, how much he suddenly had, how many things there were to buy. And he wrote about home, too, and his family, the two surviving sons, how much he missed them. He wrote about the horses he sometimes exercised, the property of a relative, the long evening rides out towards the refugee camp at Kalandia. He wrote about the other things he missed – the food, the laughter, the endless conversation – and when his wife began to write back, the tight schoolgirl characters, the little drawings of flowers at the foot of each page, it was a little like their first years together.

  She missed him, she said. She missed his good humour and his patience, and the respect he’d always won for the family from friends and neighbours. Gone so suddenly, there were whisperings. She’d heard them, heard the rumours. They were saying that the family was al dam al wisikh, dirty, stained by the blood of the collaborator killed by the moharebbin. The old man going proved it. He’d turned his back on his family, on the Intifada. Like his dead son, he was ameel, an agent for the Israelis, a traitor. But she knew different. She knew he was strong. She knew he was sharafa, honest, a supporter of the iron man Saddam, who would drive the Israelis into the sea. This she told her neighbours. One day, she said, my husband will come back, and then you’ll see for yourself. Openly now, the neighbours disbelieved her. When, they taunted her, when will your husband come home?

  At first the letters had arrived regularly, at least three a week. Waiting for the mailman in the street, Abu Yussuf would tuck them into the pocket of his working overalls and take them to the garage, reading them during the break he took for lunch. To her question he could give no answer, but that didn’t matter. The letters were a little piece of home. In this strange new city, they reminded him of who he really was. With the letters in his pocket, walking back to the apartment in the hot, dusty evenings, he felt armour-plated, invincible. Without them, he was nothing.

  But now, for no reason, the letters had stopped coming, and in his heart, when he was brave enough, Abu Yussuf feared the worst. Hama, like his sons, had been arrested. She was being held without trial in one of the military prisons. The Israelis called it ‘administrative detention’. They’d be questioning her day and night, trying to find out what she knew, trying to trace this missing husband of hers. Probably they’d be rough with her, exasperated by her protestations of ignorance, refusing to believe the truth, that she knew nothing.

  The old man shuddered, remembering the way his sons had coped with their own spells of administrative detention, the beatings they’d shrugged aside, the hours on their haunches in freezing cells, the way they’d always brought more pain on themselves by dismissing the Israelis as outsiders, intruders, Zionist thieves who’d arrived in the night and stolen their land. One day, his dead son had said, the Israelis will be forced to leave. One day, the rest of the world will wake up to the scale of the thefts. One day, justice will be done.

  Now, the old man watched his hand crabbing over the face of the telephone, the thick fingers tapping out the numbers one by one. The dialling tone in his ear changed, became disembodied, and the final digits of the number plunged him into a strange electronic void. For a while, nothing happened. He glanced over his shoulder, imagining footsteps in the corridor. In Ramallah, he supposed it would be daytime already. That, at least, was what the girl at the Public Library had told him. Ten hours, she’d said, ten hours in front. The old man waited, bent over the desk. Ten hours ahead meant one o’clock in the afternoon. Amer Tahoul would be at his desk in the Municipality Buildings, back from lunch, consulting his big leather-bound diary of appointments. He knew the man’s hours, knew the way he worked. That was why now was such a good time to phone, a little peace, a little quiet, before the first of the afternoon’s meetings. Soon now, any second, he’d answer.

  There was a crackle on the line, and then a voice he recognized, cautious, restrained, educated. The old man smiled, reaching for the Pepsi again, relief surging through him. ‘Amer,’ he said. ‘Amer Tahoul.’

  *

  Godfrey Friedland met Ross, as ordered, on the steamer pontoon beside the Westminster Embankment. The last of the flood-tide was pushing upriver, collars of creamy brown water around the footings of Westminster Bridge.

  Ross was standing on the pontoon, his body braced against the rise and fall of the water. He was wearing a dark suit and carried a folded Burberry. There was a small leather overnight bag at his feet. Friedland nodded a greeting. The last of the Librium was beginning to wear off, and try as he might he couldn’t rid himself of that final image of his daughter, the face chalk-white on the pillow, the eyes deep-set, following his every move. Afterwards, in the corridor outside, the matron had assured him that it would be all right, that she’d survive, realize how silly she’d been, get better. But the matron had said that already. Twice before.

  Ross stepped towards him, scowling. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I know.’

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, Friedland blinking in the fitful sunshine. Then Ross gestured impatiently at the waiting steamer, and Friedland followed him aboard. The phone call from Downing Street had come through at noon. Ross was due at the City Airport at four. It was already the wrong side of three.

  The steamer, half-empty, cast off and edged into the tidal stream. Ross led the way to a small, windswept area at the bow. Two men on the bridge eyed them without comment. Ross lodged his bag carefully against a pile of life-rafts. Since lunch-time, the DTI had confirmed every British order on the list handed into Downing Street. An interesting piece of kite-flying had suddenly become a political nightmare. Five missing gallons of nerve gas had been bad enough, an ample chapter in the Doomsday Brief, but proven complicity in the Iraqi arms buildup made it infinitely worse. Ross had broken the news in a brief series of personal phone calls. The political consensus, at the highest level, was unanimous. The usual Intelligence channels – MI5, MI6, Special Branch, the Military Directorate – were utterly unreliable. Referring the matter to any of them was as sensible as holding a press conference. There had to be a better way.

  Ross stood at the rail, pulling on his Burberry and turning up the collar. Friedland stood beside him, waiting. Half an hour ago, for the fourth time, he’d phoned the nursing home. His daughter was asleep again, but her blood pressure was back to normal and the prognosis was good.

  Ross glanced across at him. ‘We have a spot of local bother,’ he said. ‘I need your views.’

  Friedland said nothing, watching the Ministry of Defence slide past while Ross told him about the missing drum of chemical and the subsequent appearance of a note. They were well past Charing Cross by the time he’d finished. Friedland looked at his watch for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Action Against Armageddon?’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘Quite.’ Ross glanced across at him. ‘So who in God’s name might they be?’

  There was a long silence. Friedland said nothing, watching a pair of gulls swooping over a plastic bag. He’d never seen Ross like this before, so chastened, so fearful. It matched his own mood exactly. ‘Who says they’re not bluffing?’

  ‘No one. But we can’t afford to take the risk. The chemicals are definitely missing and the DTI list adds up. Every line of it. We’ve been arming the Iraqis for years. Raw materials. Weapons. Ammunition. The lot. God knows, we even help them pay for it. Export credit guarantees. With love from London.’

  Friedland permitted himself a smile, musing. ‘Awkward,’ he said quietly.

  �
�Very.’ Ross pulled a face, hunching a little deeper inside the raincoat. ‘So what do we do? The PM has to keep the country behind her. Has to. It’s absolutely vital. The Americans are depending on us. If we don’t hold the line, God knows what the rest’ll do.’

  Friedland nodded, knowing that it was true. Already, the first stirrings of a peace lobby were beginning to surface in the national media. With the PM intent on dragging the country to war, self-interest dressed up as some kind of moral crusade, news of the arms deals would be a real gift. That, of course, plus the nerve gas.

  Friedland glanced across at Ross. ‘So why me?’ he said. ‘What do you think I can do?’

  Ross said nothing for a while. His bag, Friedland noticed, carried a British Airways Concorde label. It looked recent. Finally he turned away from the rail, his face chilled under the beginnings of a weekend tan. ‘Tell me about McVeigh,’ he said.

  ‘McVeigh?’ Friedland frowned. The last twenty-four hours had emptied him of everything, including patience. ‘He’s working for Al Zahra. The name came from him, not me.’

  ‘But what do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much. Marine Corps background. Low profile. Keeps himself in work, by and large …’ He paused. ‘Why?’

  Ross said nothing for a moment, turning away, gazing down at the brown water folding away from the hull. ‘You think he’s any good?’ he said at last.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘But you think he might be?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘It’s possible.’

  Ross said nothing, hunched over the rail, and Friedland suddenly realized what was new about the conversation, what he hadn’t seen before. Ross, like everyone else in the world, was finally vulnerable. Friedland turned away, permitting himself a small, cold smile, amused by the thought.

  Ross stirred. ‘McVeigh was my idea,’ he said at last. ‘He has a boy called Billy. The child wrote to the Israelis. Evidently he and McVeigh knew Yakov Arendt.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Arendt.’ Ross turned away from the rail, buttoning his coat. ‘The Israeli who got himself shot. Last week. In Kensington.’

  ‘And?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘There has to be a connection with the video business. Has to be.’ He paused. ‘So I needed a ferret. To put down the hole. McVeigh’s the ferret, hired through our Arab friend.’ He paused again. ‘It seemed a good idea,’ he said wearily, ‘at the time.’

  Friedland looked at him. ‘There are better ways,’ he said softly.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like telling me in the first place.’ He paused. ‘Why use the Arab? Why did you need a cut-out? Why not use me to hire McVeigh?’

  Ross shook his head, saying nothing for a moment. Then he shivered, pulling his coat around him. ‘Zahra’s been offering his services for years. He’s happy to pay the bills and he says he’ll keep his mouth shut. From where I sit, that’s a nice relationship.’ He hesitated for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned away, his voice low. ‘We’re in a mess …’ he said slowly. ‘We’re losing ground. Every week we’re losing ground. It’s been bad for a while. Now it’s close to critical.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The management.’ He shrugged. ‘Poll tax. Europe. ERM. You name it.’ He paused. ‘The war will help. But only for a while …’

  Friedland looked at him, surprised at how quickly the conversation had changed track, curiously flattered that Ross should be so open. As far as Downing Street was concerned, of course, he was right. After eleven years of government by diktat, the stockade was well and truly under siege. Friedland stepped across to the rail. Shooting London Bridge, he could suddenly smell the cold dank breath of the river.

  ‘The key to this thing is the Americans,’ Ross said softly. ‘There’s a man called Sullivan. You may have heard of him …’

  Friedland shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘He’s a White House staffer. Extremely well placed. Pulls lots of serious strings.’ He paused. ‘His phrase. Not mine.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes …’ He hesitated. ‘It was a social thing at first, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Ross shook his head, emphatic, refusing to answer, and Friedland, studying him, suddenly realized the truth of it, what the man had been up to all these years, guarding the back passage to the White House, bypassing the usual channels, securing for his political mistress what all politicians sought: an independent power-base, free from the deadening hand of the Establishment. Now, of course, the link was all the more important. With Thatcherism dead in the water, Ross badly needed a lifeboat.

  Friedland leaned forward. His tone of voice was deliberately light. The best interrogations, as ever, were a conspiracy. ‘Why would the Americans need us?’

  ‘Because they’re facing a chemical threat. Must be. You’ve seen the video. That’s Manhattan. Not Oxford Street.’

  ‘So what have we got that the Americans might need?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet.’

  ‘But you think that might change?’

  ‘With luck, yes.’

  ‘Because of McVeigh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Friedland nodded. ‘You should have come to me,’ he confirmed. ‘Not the Arab.’

  Ross frowned, visibly irritated, his judgement questioned. ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘Because Al Zahra works for the Americans too.’ He smiled. ‘Has done for years.’

  *

  It was three in the afternoon by the time McVeigh arrived at the bus station.

  It lay in the heart of Tel Aviv, an acre or so of oil-stained tarmac off the Petah–Tikvah Road. He’d walked the mile and a half from the hotel where he’d stayed for what remained of the night, the single bag looped over his shoulder. His hands were still swollen and painful, but the American doctor at the clinic three blocks from the hotel had given him two tubes of a special anti-inflammatory cream and assured him that the damage was largely superficial. The blisters would soon burst, and he should be careful of infection, but his hands would be back to normal within a fortnight. McVeigh had thanked him and enquired briefly about the kibbutz named on the back of Cela’s photo. The doctor had never heard of it, but the young Israeli nurse who’d tended McVeigh’s hands picked up the name and drew McVeigh a map. Shamir was in the north, at the top of the Galilee. You followed the coast road up to Haifa and then you went inland, beyond Rosh Pinna, to a new town called Kiryat Shemona. The journey took about seven hours. With hands like that, she recommended the bus, rather than a hire car.

  The bus roared north, along the coast road, the heat bubbling in through the open windows, the driver crouched over the wheel, hunting for news stations on the radio. McVeigh sat at the back, gazing out at block after block of office buildings, stained concrete and crooked lintels, as the city gave way to the suburbs and the traffic began to thin. Tel Aviv had taken him by surprise, the noise and the ugliness, and he hadn’t liked it much. There was a jumpiness about the place, a note in the pitch of public conversations too complicated to put into words, though the English-speaking newspaper he’d picked up at the hotel had tried hard enough. ‘UN EMBARGO TIGHTENS’ went the headline in the Jerusalem Post, ‘SADDAM THREATENS WAR’.

  An hour and a half later, the bus squealed to a halt at the terminus in Haifa. The city climbed the slopes of Mount Carmel, terrace after terrace of tall apartment blocks, windows ablaze with the late afternoon sun. McVeigh, changing buses, liked the place at once. It had height, space, a certain dignity. It behaved the way a city should.

  A second bus, slower, more crowded, drove inland, up into the mountains. Away from the sea and the endless sprawl of the coastal strip, the land began to reassert itself, the bare, stony hillsides shouldering down to the road. The driver swung the long bus into bend after bend, oblivious to oncoming traffic, drawing a long tail of dust across the grey folds of the mount
ains. Occasionally, at a raised arm or a pointed finger by the roadside, he’d stop to pick up yet more passengers. Some of them were plainly Arabs, the men prematurely aged, the women girdled with sundry baggage. There were kids with them, too, with dirty faces and deeply black eyes, gazing at McVeigh as the bus ground north.

  Once, near Safed, the bus picked up a soldier. He fought his way down the aisle and sat down at the back next to McVeigh, sweating, unshaven, dishevelled, his uniform shirt unbuttoned to the navel. He started a conversation at once, loud, heavily accented English, telling McVeigh what a pain the Iraqis had become. Like everyone else in the country, he was liable for military service. He’d done his three years and now he was in the reserve. The last year, he’d been trying to expand his business. He worked as a plumber, self-employed. Prospects, at last, were good. Yet here he was, shuttling back and forth every day from the barracks on the coast to his home in the mountains, trying to do two jobs at once. When the bus stopped again to let him off, some unvoiced arrangement with the driver, the soldier stood up, his hand on McVeigh’s shoulder. ‘Let the bastard come tomorrow,’ he said, ‘then we can spend October in peace.’ McVeigh grunted, non-committal, watching the man body checking his way towards the front of the bus. The back of his shirt was blotched with sweat, and his boots had seen better days, but the shoulder-slung Uzi sub-machine-gun was spotless, the working parts glinting with newly applied oil.

  Past Safed, the road descended to a valley floor, dead straight, flanked on either side by rows of dusty trees. McVeigh gazed out of the window. The bus was emptier now, and in the gathering twilight he could glimpse fields beyond the trees, and apple orchards, and the occasional neat rectangle of water. The girl at the clinic had told him about this valley. The land had been settled by immigrants from Eastern Europe. They’d lived in tents for years, working every daylight hour, clearing the stony hillsides by hand, turning malarial swamp into thousands of acres of productive farmland. She’d seen it herself, on trips to her boyfriend’s relatives, and it was a fine achievement, though given the choice she infinitely preferred the noisy bedlam of downtown Tel Aviv.