‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. You want proof? Collateral?’ He picked up the cheque. ‘That’s a BCCI account. I know these accounts. I’ve spent goddamn weeks crawling all over them. That one is Iraqi. Put my life on it.’
‘OK.’ Telemann nodded. ‘So what do they do with the chemicals?’ He peered across at the invoice. ‘Dimethyl—’
Emery smiled, looking down at the invoice. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘You put this guy with this guy. Do it in the presence of ethyl alcohol. And … hey … you know what you get?’
Telemann looked at him, nodding, remembering the German’s huge body contorting on the long black crescent of sofa.
‘Orphée,’ he said quietly. ‘You get Orphée.’
*
The old man, Abu Yussuf, sat behind the curtained window, finding some succour in the darkness, the phone to his ear, listening to Amer Tahoul. My brother-in-law, he thought bitterly. The man who lied to me.
‘What are you going to do? Yussuf?’
The old man shook his head. There were no more tears. He’d wept all the tears he had, the pillow still damp, his heart broken. ‘I don’t know,’ he said for the second time. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yussuf. Tell me. Where are you?’
‘At the motel.’
‘Which motel? Where?’
‘Somewhere. I don’t know.’
‘The same motel as last night? Is that the one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you stay there? Will you phone me again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yussuf. Listen to me. There are things we can do, you and me. Someone will come. Someone will be with you …’ He paused. ‘Yussuf? Yussuf?’
The old man sniffed. His throat ached. His head ached. Everything ached. He reached for the glass of water on the cabinet beside the bed, hearing Amer’s voice again, telling him to stay at the motel, not to move, not to go away. Everything would be all right, he kept saying, everything would get better. He’d seen his sons. Today, he’d seen them. They were fine. They were looking foward to their father’s return, to seeing him again, to being with him. They needed him. They depended on him. He owed it to them to come back.
‘Yussuf?’ he said. ‘Yussuf?’
The old man shook his head, sipping the water, knowing that his sons were probably dead too, or in prison, next to dead, and that Amer would never tell him. It was very simple now, too simple for argument or even discussion. The Israelis had done it. They’d killed his wife. They’d imprisoned his sons. And now they must pay for it. He sighed, lying back on the bed, the phone abandoned. The boy had been right, the boy he’d left in the woods. The best the Jews deserved was gas. That was the lesson of history. That was the only, the final, solution. He sighed again, getting up, pulling open the curtains, admiring the job he’d done on the car, the neatness of it, the two exhaust-pipes. For now, he’d find another place, somewhere up here, somewhere in the mountains. He’d take his time, lay his plans, make as good a job of it as he could. He smiled, a positive thought at last, and reached for the car-keys. Leaving the room, he could still faintly hear Amer, half a world away, a voice from the telephone on the bed.
‘Yussuf?’ he was saying. ‘Yussuf?’
*
McVeigh walked steadily on through the darkness, following the massive shape of the big Israeli. The river and the gorge were an hour behind them, and when he had time to look back he could see the lights of the kibbutz, faint and shimmering in the heat still rising from the valley. Up here on the mountain it was cooler, a keen wind blowing from the north, a smell he recognized from countless climbing expeditions. Cela had given him a small haversack, Army issue, and he wore it now. Inside, amongst his own possessions, was the envelope from Amer and the bottle of Jordan water. Saying goodbye beside the jeep, Cela had wished him luck, kissing him again.
‘For Yussuf,’ she’d whispered, leaning into him, ‘and for you.’
Moshe strode on, his bulk filling the narrow path. There were loose stones underfoot and the path continually twisted left and right, but the man obviously knew it well, pausing from time to time, grunting phrases McVeigh didn’t understand, indicating some kind of hazard up ahead. On these occasions McVeigh would nod, equally gruff, telling him to press on. He’d been here before, he wanted to say, a hundred night route-marches, 120 pounds on his back, Dartmoor, mid-winter, a decade of tramping up and down the world’s highest mountains. Compared to that, compared to his journey from Ramallah, this was a stroll in the park.
Another hour took them higher still, sweating now, the wind much stronger. Once, they stopped to rest, squatting amongst the rocks, Moshe producing a water flask, telling McVeigh to drink, watching him swallow long mouthfuls of the pulped fruit juice. The one thing they had in common was Cela, and McVeigh regretted that he couldn’t talk about her, find out more, what kind of kid she’d been, what kind of childhood they’d all shared. The woman was beginning to obsess him, a feeling he couldn’t remember before, not like this, not as strong, as overwhelming. The fruit juice gone, Moshe shook the last drops into the darkness and clipped the flask back on to his belt. Then he reached out, a big warm hand, hauling McVeigh upright, peering into his face, then roaring with laughter at some private joke before setting off again up the mountain.
At last, past midnight, Moshe stopped, waving McVeigh into cover. McVeigh dropped silently behind an outcrop of rock. He still had the Uzi and he slipped it carefully off his shoulder, thumbing the safety catch foward. He could see nothing ahead. Moshe waited, motionless, then whistled, two notes, high-pitched, distinctive. He repeated the call, and far away McVeigh heard an answering whistle, exactly the same two notes. Moshe grunted, looking back for McVeigh. They began to move again, more cautious this time, McVeigh off to a flank, lateral separation, the Uzi ready. Moshe stopped, and dropped on one knee. McVeigh did the same. Three men stood on a ledge of rock immediately below them. They were looking up, faint shapes in the windy darkness. Moshe whistled again, and one of them called his name softly, Moshe. Moshe stood up, revealing himself, and then they were down on the ledge, exchanging greetings, stiff handshakes. Two of them were very young, no more than boys. The other was in his late twenties, short, watchful, wearing trainers, jeans, a thick bomber-jacket. The boys were carrying guns, and McVeigh recognized the sturdy shape of the AK47, Soviet-made, the Third World’s favourite weapon.
Moshe began to talk to the older man in Arabic, gesturing at McVeigh, and the older man nodded, impatient, looking twice at his watch, tapping it forcefully, making a point. Moshe shrugged his huge shoulders, turning away, back to McVeigh. ‘You go with them,’ he said. ‘They take you.’
McVeigh stared at him. He’d been told the man spoke no English. Another of Cela’s little jokes. ‘OK,’ he said.
Moshe looked at him for a moment longer, then held out his hand. McVeigh took it. He wanted to say a thousand things. He wanted to know who these guys were. He wanted to know what might happen next. He wanted to say he was grateful. Instead, he shook Moshe’s hand.
‘Cela,’ he said. ‘Look after her.’
Moshe frowned, making sense of the phrase, then laughed again, that same abrupt bark of laughter.
‘Shalom,’ he said, turning away.
15
McVeigh was still trying to make sense of L’Orient – Le Jour when the flight was called. He’d found the newspaper on a seat in the departure lounge. On the front page were two photographs, Saddam Hussein and Yitsak Shamir counterposed beneath a baffling headline in French. ‘La Drôle de Guerre’, it read. Beneath the photo were columns of text and a smaller photo of George Bush waving from the steps of a helicopter. McVeigh looked at it for a moment longer before folding it into his haversack and getting up. He was no linguist, but the phrase seemed simple enough. Drôle was some kind of joke. Guerre was war. The joke war? The war of the jokes? He shook his head, shouldering the haversack and crossing the concourse towards the lengthening queue for security checks.
The imminence of war seemed all too real. You could smell it in the air. You could see it in the faces of the women still sitting around the concourse, their luggage piled at their feet, their heads buried in other newspapers, other headlines, looking up from time to time, checking for their kids. People with sense and money were abandoning the Middle East. The area had become a combat zone, ground zero for Saddam’s Scuds, for marauding Israeli bombers, for the hit-squads of journalists and TV news crews, scenting blood and treasure.
McVeigh joined the back of the queue for security checks, one hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. It was early afternoon. The journey from the border had seemed interminable, hour after hour in a clapped-out Datsun, McVeigh in the back beside one of the youths, the older man driving. There’d been no attempt at conversation beyond an exchange of cigarettes, and McVeigh’s occasional questions had met with no response at all. The youth beside him had been nervous, sitting foward in his seat, peering into the darkness, the AK47 held awkwardly across his lap, useless if they were to hit real trouble. Dawn had revealed a series of cracks in the windscreen and a landscape of rich physical beauty. Beyond the dusty roadside were dark fields of tobacco and tall stands of poplars, and later, when the sun came up and they wound down the windows, McVeigh could smell the sweet, tangy scent of oranges. By this time most of the tension in the car had gone, and as they bumped slowly up the Bekaa Valley, one of the men in front had taken to humming a tune. After a mile or so, McVeigh had recognized it. It was a seventies number, the New Seekers, ‘Got To Teach the World to Sing’, and McVeigh had smiled, the irony of it, the fatuous lyrics, the nervous young man with his dangerous toy, the images he’d left behind on the West Bank: the drifting clouds of tear gas, the squalling women in the hospital corridor, the purpled faces, the broken limbs. At Beirut’s International Airport, without ceremony, they’d dropped him outside the terminal. Standing at the kerb, he’d ducked into the car, shaking each of them by the hand, three wooden smiles and a paper bag produced, like an afterthought, from the glove compartment. He’d opened the paper bag as the Datsun drove slowly away, shaking out an airline ticket. The ticket had been made out in his name. Under ‘Destination’ the issuing agency had typed ‘Montreal’.
He reached for the ticket now, opening the haversack. The newspaper fell out and he stooped to retrieve it. The queue shuffled forward again, a single step, and McVeigh shook the newspaper open, aware of the man behind him, tall, well dressed, blazer, slacks, silk tie. The man was glancing at the front page of the newspaper, reading the headline, smiling. At length he looked at McVeigh, one hand appearing from beneath the folded raincoat.
‘Mr McVeigh?’ he said.
McVeigh nodded, the newspaper still open. ‘Yeah.’ he said.
‘My name is Ghassan. I’m a friend of Amer Tahoul. I shall be with you. On the flight.’ He smiled again. ‘And perhaps afterwards.’
McVeigh looked at him for a moment. ‘You can prove that?’ he said. ‘Your name? And about Amer?’
‘Of course.’ The man nodded, a nod of approval. Reaching inside his brief-case, he produced a Lebanese passport and a neatly folded letter. McVeigh glanced at the passport. Mr Ghassan came from Tyre. He was thirty-one years old. A thin black moustache adorned a younger face. McVeigh turned to the letter, reading it quickly, the single typed paragraph. Mr Ghassan was a friend of the organization. He was carrying a great deal of money. He was at McVeigh’s disposal. The letter was signed ‘Amer Tahoul’. McVeigh read it again, wondering why Amer hadn’t mentioned the man. Maybe it was a late development. Maybe something had happened, over in the States, something that McVeigh should know about. McVeigh shrugged, folding the letter, returning it with the passport.
Ghassan was looking at the newspaper again. ‘You speak French?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘You know what that means?’ He pointed to the headline.
McVeigh frowned, hesitating for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said again.
Ghassan looked up. ‘La Drôle de Guerre,’ he said. ‘It means “The Phoney War”.’
*
Later the same day, 16.48 Eastern Standard Time, Telemann and Emery landed at Dulles Airport, Washington. They took separate cabs from the pick-up area, Telemann going north, towards Rockville, Emery heading in towards the Beltway. Against the rush-hour traffic flooding back to the suburbs, he made excellent time. By half-past six, the cocktail hour, he was sitting at his desk on ‘F’ Street, gazing at the messages from the West Coast.
There were three of them. Ever blunter, they asked him to contact a Los Angeles number. The name at the end of the yellow priority form was Andy Fischer. Emery reached for the telephone and punched in the numbers. Fischer answered at once and Emery smiled, imagining him at the spotless desk in Century City, shaping up to the computer, a battle he seemed to wage day and night.
Emery glanced at his watch. ‘Just back from lunch?’ he enquired.
‘Emery? That you?’
‘It is.’
‘Listen. Get a pen.’
‘Got one.’
‘We’re talking Gold here. You with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I finally got a trace on the payments. The last set. The last payments he got before it all went zip.’
‘Yeah?’ Emery frowned, reaching for a pad. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘shoot.’
‘The payments came in three tranches. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars twice. And one of one hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars. That was the final instalment. Dates, we’re talking October ’89, November ’89, and June ’90.’
Emery nodded, scribbling the dates first, the most important items, sitting back, doing the arithmetic, smiling to himself. June, ’90. Six hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars. Perfect.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘So what’s the source?’
‘No problem. It’s a New York Corporation. Ready?’
‘Go.’
‘Vivace International. Got that?’
‘Yeah.’ Emery was frowning. ‘What do they do?’
‘It’s a media conglomerate. They do everything. Publishing. Television. Co-productions. It’s Arab money. Not Japanese.’
Emery, busy writing again, grunted. Then he bent to the phone. ‘You been through their drawers too?’
There was a brief silence, and Emery could hear Fischer chuckling at the other end. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well now …’ He paused, pure effect. ‘… This wouldn’t stand up in court because it’s three per cent supposition, but I’m telling you it’s rock-solid.’
Fischer paused again, a longer silence. Emery, examining his pen, suddenly realized how excited he was.
‘Well?’
‘The money came into Vivace in three equivalent tranches, a week in advance of each payment to Gold. Vivace washed it.’
‘OK.’ Emery sat back. ‘So what was the originating currency?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Deutschmarks?’
‘You got it.’
Emery nodded, plesed with himself, the pen in mid-air. One question to go, he thought, one space left on the board.
‘OK,’ he said again. ‘And the source company?’
‘Kadenza,’ Fischer said, ‘Verlag.’
There was a long silence. Then Emery heard Fischer chuckling again. ‘That surprise you?’ he said. ‘The big bad Wulf?’
Emery shook his head. Kadenza had been preparing a bid for Vivace. It made perfect sense. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not at all.’
He glanced at the pad at his elbow, checking the figures, then Juanita appeared at the door, five fingers outspread, her private code for a priority incoming call. Emery bent forward towards the desk, muttering a hasty goodbye, and hung up. Juanita was still at the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Sullivan.’ She smiled. ‘He’s waiting in the limo downstairs. Threatening cocktails.’
*
It was nearly dark by the time Telemann stepped back into the house on Dixie Street, taking his sister-in-law by surprise. She was sitting at the table, playing the usual game with Bree’s food, cutting the broiled fish steaks into bite-sized pieces. Telemann coughed politely, the watcher by the door. Bree looked round, recognizing him, swallowing the fish whole, running across the room, arms out.
‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘Daddy …’
Telemann hugged her, squeezing her, big fat kisses, the kind she loved.
‘Me,’ he agreed, wiping her face.
‘Mummy said …’
‘Mummy said what?’
‘Mummy said you’d be back. She promised. Mummy’s in bed. Quick.’ She caught Telemann by the hand and began to drag him across the room, and Telemann semaphored a greeting to Laura’s sister, still sitting at the table, a fork in her hand, the last cube of swordfish speared on the end. ‘Asleep,’ she mouthed, ‘she’s asleep.’
Telemann nodded, understanding, already on the stairs. The bedroom was across the landing at the top. The door was shut. Bree half-fell against it, singing already, a hymn she’d learned only recently, her voice high and pure.
‘O Sabbath rest by Galilee …’
One of the cats was asleep on a chair in a corner of the landing. It woke up, disturbed by the noise, arched its back, stretching lazily, and disappeared into another room.
‘O calm of hills above
Where Jesus knelt to share with thee …’
Bree wrestled open the bedroom door, ignoring Telemann’s whispered plea to be quiet, and tugged him inside. The bedroom was small, built into the eaves. Light from the street spilled in through the single window. Telemann stood at the foot of the bed, gazing down at Laura. She lay like a comma under the sheets, her knees up, her body curled. She was still asleep.
‘The silence of eternity …’
Laura opened one eye, the beginnings of a frown, trying to make sense of the shapes in the middle of the room. Then Telemann was sitting on the bed, the back of his hand against her cheek, her breath warm on his flesh. He smiled in the half-darkness, and Laura reached up, pulling him down, his body beside hers. It was an old greeting, a hug they’d shared for two decades, and Telemann began to murmur something, an apology for waking her up, but she shook her head, her fingers tracing the shape of his mouth.
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