The Devil's Breath

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Hey …’ He smiled, picking a shred of tobacco from his lower lip. ‘I love you. If that helps.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  Laura began to say something else, but there was another disturbance in the background, a door opening this time, and Emery heard Bree. She wanted to ride her bike. The back tyre was flat.

  Laura returned to the phone. ‘Call again,’ she said. ‘You should talk to Ron.’

  *

  It was nearly eight in the evening by the time McVeigh and the old man left the house. The bracket had taken longer than Abu Yussuf had expected, and he’d cut his hand while he was making a washer from a sheet of spare cardboard. The cut was deep, at the base of the forefinger on the left hand. McVeigh had bound it tightly, but it was an awkward place to apply pressure and the slightest movement made it bleed. Driving was out of the question, and McVeigh had taken the car-keys from the old man’s hand, helping him into the passenger seat, sliding himself in behind the wheel.

  They headed east, back down the country roads towards the Interstate, the big old car wallowing on the corners. After the conversations of the last three days – wild passionate outbursts from the old man, spasms of intense debate – there was little left to say, and McVeigh was content to drive in silence, reaching for the radio from time to time, retuning between channels, trying to find something that would ease the pain on the old man’s face. Nothing did, and nothing could, and finally McVeigh switched the radio off, leaving them with the low murmur of the big engine and the steady thrum–thrum of the tyres on the road.

  Beyond Shin Pond, for the first time, McVeigh noticed the lights behind him. They belonged to a car, too low for a truck. The car was travelling fast. McVeigh adjusted his speed a little, easing his foot on the throttle. The road was straight for at least a mile, a ribbon of tarmac flanked by trees. The car was behind them now, no more than 10 metres, and McVeigh flicked the right indicator, signalling it on. Nothing happened. He did it again. Still nothing. The old man, visibly alarmed, looked back, turning in his seat. Beyond the glare of the headlights there was only darkness.

  The two men exchanged glances, and McVeigh accelerated again, returning the car to cruising speed. For half a mile they drove in tandem, one car behind the other, then the headlights suddenly swerved out into the middle of the road, and McVeigh felt the car on his shoulder, very close, slowing again. He glanced across, certain now that something was wrong. Two faces were looking at him. On the nearside was a woman, sharp-featured, her hair drawn tightly back from her face. Behind the wheel was a man, a little older, curly blond hair, a day’s growth of beard. McVeigh stamped on the accelerator, pulling the car left, hitting the other vehicle. The old man, leaning forward, looking across at the other car, was thrown on to McVeigh by the impact. McVeigh pushed him off, fighting for control, ducking instinctively as the first bullet tore through the bodywork. The old man was on his knees under the dashboard, his body half-twisted. ‘Shlomo,’ he kept saying. ‘Shlomo.’

  ‘Who’s Shlomo?’

  ‘In the car. The one driving the car.’

  ‘But who is he?’

  ‘He’s—’

  The two cars collided again, side on, and McVeigh knew he had to get ahead before the next bend. The Beretta he’d stored in the glove-box. The two seconds he’d need to get it out was time he didn’t have. These people were pros. They’d done it before. They meant it.

  McVeigh reached down the gear-shift, taking the car out of automatic, dropping into second gear. The transmission screamed, but the big old engine responded at last, kicking the car forward, putting a metre or two of space between the two vehicles. McVeigh glanced at the dashboard. The needle on the speedo was nudging eighty. A shallow bend was approaching. The car behind was dropping back a little but soon, McVeigh knew, they’d make another run. He heard glass smash behind him, another bullet, and he braced himself against the seat as the corner came at them, a blur of pine trees, the Oldsmobile beginning to drift sideways as McVeigh applied even more power.

  Safely through the corner, he checked on the old man. Abu Yussuf was looking back over his shoulder at the other car. One hand was on the dashboard. The other was on the back of the seat. The car behind was gaining again, getting closer. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop.’

  McVeigh frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Faster. Go faster.’

  McVeigh looked in the mirror. The other car was very close now, 5 yards, maybe less. The road ahead was straight. Any minute, he thought. ‘In the glove-box!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a gun.’

  The old man was concentrating on the car behind. He didn’t appear to be listening.

  ‘A gun!’ McVeigh shouted again. ‘In the glove-box.’

  The old man looked at him briefly. His right hand moved to the switch on the dashboard. McVeigh stared at him, hearing the faint purr as the auxiliary pump cut in, then he realized what the old man had done, and his eyes went to the mirror again, and he was wondering how long the stuff in the tank took to work, and whether Billy would ever get to hear the truth of it, his father a chemical warfare statistic, gassed to death on a remote country road in the middle of nowhere. The lights in the mirror began to waver, the car swerving from side to side, then – abruptly – it had gone, a squeal of tyres and a sickening thud and the sound of breaking glass as it disappeared into the trees.

  McVeigh looked at the old man. The pump had stopped now and his hand had left the switch, but he was still looking back, wild, exultant. ‘Shlomo!’ he shouted in Arabic.

  ‘Who’s Shlomo?’

  ‘Mish bani admeen.’

  ‘Speak English.’

  ‘The one who came to see me. In Ramallah. The one who betrayed my son.’ He shook his fist. ‘The devil take him.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The old man beat his fist on the dashboard, cursing him again, and McVeigh nodded, the car still topping 80 m.p.h. He had the window down now, the cold night air sluicing through the car, and for the first time he began to wonder whether they might get away with it. The gas couldn’t linger, not vapour, not at these speeds. A small town was coming up, Patten, a handful of clapboard houses, but McVeigh swept through, taking no risks, determined to put as many miles as he could between themselves and the cloud of Tabun GA. In the Marine Corps, he’d attended lectures on nerve gas. They’d always said it didn’t hang around. ‘Non-persistent’ was the word they’d used. But McVeigh had never fully trusted them. Not then. Not now. A lot of what they told you was bullshit, stuff to make you feel better, and he had no intention of putting it to the test. Only when he saw the signs for the Interstate, only when he got there, would he truly relax.

  He drove on, looking at the old man from time to time, shaking his head, part-admiration, part-disbelief.

  ‘Daft old fucker,’ he muttered, grinning at him.

  *

  Sullivan eventually found Emery at home. He bent to the security phone outside the apartment block, half-past one in the morning, a thin rain drifting in from the Bay.

  ‘I’m in the car,’ Sullivan barked. ‘Come on down.’

  Emery joined him minutes later, an old pair of yachting waterproofs thrown over his pyjamas.

  ‘Afraid of heights?’ he enquired drily, climbing into the big Lincoln. ‘Didn’t want to come on up?’

  Sullivan ignored him, waiting until he’d closed the door. The night was cold, the first real chills of autumn. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said, ‘that’s why I’m bothering with all this shit.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He paused. ‘My Brit friend has been on. About the fella McVeigh.’

  ‘You talked to him?’

  ‘No. But he’s here somewhere. He wants a deal. He has the old guy. The guy in the photo. The guy with the gas.’

  ‘A deal?’

  Emery nodded, thinking about it. New York saved b
y a bucket of money. In four busy weeks, he’d never once considered something so obvious. He looked at Sullivan. ‘How much does he want?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. He just wants a deal for the other guy. The Palestinian.’

  ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘Freedom. No violence. No rap. Just citizenship.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not? We’ve done it before …’

  ‘Sure.’ Emery nodded, looking away. ‘When?’ he said at last. ‘When will all this happen?’

  ‘Soon. I’ll call the fella in London when I get back …’ He paused. ‘There’s another thing, too.’

  Emery lifted an eyebrow. He was cold. He felt empty. He wanted to go back to bed. ‘What?’ he said.

  Sullivan gazed at him for a moment, then laid a land on his arm. Emery gazed at it, uncomprehending.

  ‘The President’s grateful,’ Sullivan said at last. ‘He wants you to know that.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘Yeah. We were having a little problem with the Germans. Question of financial help. For our boys in the Gulf …’ He paused, smiling, squeezing Emery’s arm. ‘Appears the problem’s gone away.’

  *

  McVeigh and the old man got to Portland an hour before dawn, driving slowly into the city suburbs, looking for the right kind of motel. They found it almost at once, half a mile off the Maine Turnpike, 70 dollars a night with security parking. McVeigh went to the desk, paying cash for a double room, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. The woman said no problem, giving him the key to the room and confirming that there were three lock-up garages out-back, residents’ use only.

  McVeigh parked the car in the furthest of the three garages. Later, he told the old man, they’d buy a replacement rear-screen. The old man nodded, agreeing. He could fit it. Then the car would look normal again, just another run-down Olds, a little rusty, a little tired, nothing special.

  They went to the room. The old man lay down on one of the beds with a sigh, not bothering to undress, and fell asleep at once, his eyes closed, his hands folded over his chest. Watching him from the other bed, McVeigh thought of the handful of corpses he’d seen, men who’d died of natural causes, the same pose, the same sense of peace. Since the incident with the other car, some of the rage had gone. He’d been quieter, less fretful, less tense. Once they’d got to the Interstate, he’d even managed the beginnings of a normal conversation. He’d wanted to know about London, whether it was as bad as New York, whether it had beggars, kids sleeping in the streets. McVeigh had said yes to both, and the old man had shaken his head, wistful, not able to understand. Amongst such wealth, he muttered, such poverty.

  McVeigh waited another half-hour, making sure the old man was asleep, then he rolled quietly off the bed and let himself out of the room. The woman at the desk was asleep in front of the television, her head lolling on her chest. McVeigh found a pay-phone in the lobby and dialled Friedland’s number. Friedland answered at once. McVeigh asked about the guarantee. Friedland said it was watertight. McVeigh said that was fine, but he had a gun and he’d use it on the tank in the boot if the old man was harmed. Friedland said he understood. McVeigh repeated the threat, then gave Friedland the details that mattered. Where they’d be. What time they’d arrive. The precautions the authorities should take. He wanted no grand opera, nothing dramatic, just a sensible low-key operation. That way, the thing would work. Any other way, it might get tricky. Friedland asked if there was anything else he needed, any other requests. McVeigh thought about it briefly, then nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Tell them not to shoot me. Tell them it wouldn’t be in their interests.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He grunted. ‘Not if they’re interested in the Israelis.’

  *

  Telemann, hearing the knock at the bedroom door, looked up. No one knocked at bedroom doors. Not unless they were guilty. Or needed help.

  ‘Come in.’

  The knocking went on. It sounded like a foot. Telemann swung out of bed and opened the door. Bree stood on the landing. She had a tray in her hands. Expecting breakfast, Telemann found himself looking at a huge mountain of jelly.

  ‘Mine,’ she said. ‘I made it.’

  Telemann looked at the jelly. He hated jelly. He took the tray from her and went back to the bed. He got in, the tray on his knees. Every time he moved, the jelly wobbled. Bree was at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. ‘Eat it,’ she said. ‘It’s get-better jelly. It’ll make you well again.’

  Telemann smiled. There were two spoons on the tray. One was clearly for him. He picked it up and pushed it into the jelly. Scooping out a spoonful, the jelly made a soft, sucking noise. He put it in his mouth, swallowing it whole. It was green. It tasted of nothing.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Clever girl.’

  Bree grinned. She liked nothing better than praise. It was the fuel that got her through the day. She could never have too much of it. She watched him take another mouthful. Then another.

  ‘Mummy says you might be in bed a lot,’ she said at last.

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes. She said you might be very sick.’

  ‘Oh.’ Telemann nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I can make lots of jelly. Every day, if you want.’ She grinned again. ‘Then you’ll have to get better.’

  Telemann nodded, returning the grin. Three spoonfuls had made little difference to the jelly. It still looked huge. Bree nodded absently, losing the thread of the conversation, her eyes finally leaving his face, going down to the newspaper spread on the bed, the bits and pieces lying across it. She bent down, curious, picking up a piece of heavy grey metal, weighing it in her hand, looking at her fingers afterwards, covered in a film of oil.

  ‘Daddy?’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘What’s this?’

  She picked up another piece, the same curiosity, looking at him, the bowl of jelly long forgotten.

  Telemann smiled woodenly, putting down his spoon.

  ‘It’s a gun,’ he said. ‘We call it a revolver.’

  *

  Friedland phoned Ross at midday on the private Downing Street line. A woman answered, curt, unhelpful. Mr Ross had been relocated. She gave him another number.

  Friedland tried again, finding Ross on the point of leaving for lunch. He heard him sitting down again. He heard him ask someone for a pen. He heard a door close. Then Ross was back on the phone again, eager, abrupt, impatient. Relocation had done nothing for his manners. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the plan?’

  Friedland relayed the contents of his conversation with McVeigh. He detailed the location, the times, and McVeigh’s parting advice about leaving him unharmed. When Ross came back on the phone, checking the small-print, the impatience had gone. Instead, he was audibly excited, even euphoric.

  ‘You think we can rely on this?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Under the circumstances …’ Friedland shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Ross came back. ‘Any of your Curzon Street chums been on?’

  ‘No.’ Friedland frowned. ‘Why should they?’

  ‘Someone’s been telling MI5 about missing nerve gas.’ He paused, laughing. ‘Would you believe a story like that?’

  *

  McVeigh told Abu Yussuf to be ready for eight o’clock. It would be dark by then, and the traffic southbound would be light. With luck, without busting the regulation 55 m.p.h, they’d be in New York City by 3 a.m. The old man looked at him, sitting on the bed, newly showered, newly shaved.

  ‘They’ll come at that hour?’ he said. ‘The press?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So late?’

  ‘For sure.’

  The old man shrugged, another mystery, and collected the handful of belongings he’d brought with him
. McVeigh had already been through his bag. Amongst the litter of 100-dollar notes, he’d found an automatic and two aerosols. He’d emptied the magazine of the automatic and peered hard at the aerosols. Neither had any markings, and he’d been on the point of giving one a trial squirt when the old man had shown signs of waking up. Now, his bag packed, he waited patiently for further orders.

  They drove back to the Interstate, McVeigh at the wheel again, settling the car to a steady 55 m.p.h. The old man had spent most of the afternoon fitting the replacement rear window and McVeigh sensed that the way the work had gone had pleased him. Now he sat quietly beside McVeigh, his hands on his lap, gazing ahead, seemingly at peace. When it was all over, he said, he’d go back to Ramallah. That was the decision he’d made. He still had two sons. His sons needed him. Ramallah was where he belonged.

  McVeigh nodded, said it sounded a great idea, knowing that it was possible. After New York, after the exchange, the old man would be free to go. Courtesy of the US Government, he’d be able to fly anywhere in the world. That was what they’d agreed. That was the deal.

  The old man was looking at him. The last twelve hours or so, McVeigh had sensed the beginnings of a real friendship in his face, something in the eyes, something in the slow curl of his smile. The old man liked him. The old man trusted him. Together, they’d seen off the Israelis. Together, they’d finish the job. From tragedy, the truth.

  ‘How many?’ the old man said. ‘How many from the newspapers? The television?’

  McVeigh shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Hard to tell with those bastards.’

  *

  Emery picked up Telemann from the house on Dixie Street. Telemann was waiting for him on the stoop, the beginnings of a fine sunset pinking the wooden shingles. Emery saw him turn and kiss Laura. Then Bree. The other kids were upstairs, and they hung out of their bedroom windows, waving. ‘Daddy …’ they called. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Telemann waved back to them, saying nothing, shouldering a small overnight bag, walking down the path towards the gate. He got into the car without a word, lifting a hand in farewell as they drove away.