‘whatever it is …’
‘Yes?’
‘Who do I work for? Him or you?’
Friedland leaned back in the chair, smiling, remembering Ross’s parting words. This bit, at least, was simple.
‘Me,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly what happens.’
McVeigh took a cab to the Dorchester. On the way, he thought about Friedland. He’d never met the man before, never heard of him. The address had been expensive and the office looked genuine enough, but there was something about the man, a strange diffidence, that disturbed him. Most of the agencies he worked for were run by ‘Ruperts’, recently retired Regular Army officers, late thirties, early forties, good regiments, good families, nice accents, well dressed, excellent connections, urban go-getters who trawled for the fat contracts and dished out the action to the Special Forces lads. It was good business all round, and McVeigh was glad for a slice of it, but Friedland didn’t seem to fit that mould at all. Too old. Too battered. Too weary.
The taxi dropped McVeigh at the Dorchester. He took the lift to the seventh floor. The Arab had a suite at the end of the corridor. McVeigh knocked and stood carefully back. The door was opened at once by a youngish woman, Oriental, very black hair, expensive dress cut high at the neck. McVeigh introduced himself. Recognizing the name, the woman smiled, a minor alteration to the lower half of her face. McVeigh stepped inside. The Arab emerged from the bedroom, a small man, neat. He wore a blazer over a white silk shirt. There were Gucci loafers on his feet, and his grey slacks were perfectly pressed. He extended a hand and waved McVeigh into a chair, asking him whether he’d like a drink. McVeigh said no. ‘Youphoned a Mr Friedland,’ he said, ‘and Mr Friedland phoned me.’
The Arab inclined his head, glancing at the woman. She smiled at him, touching him lightly on the shoulder, fetching champagne from a small fridge. The champagne, already-open, was a third gone. She poured two glasses and looked at McVeigh. McVeigh shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said again.
The Arab touched glasses with the woman and sipped at the champagne. Then he told McVeigh what he’d already told Friedland. He was a wealthy man. He had a conscience. His Palestinian brothers were orphans in the Middle East, disinherited by the Israelis, penned into refugee camps, the men forced to find work away to feed their families. Fellow Arabs did what they could. There were numerous funds, many appeals. But the fact remained that the Palestinians had no homeland, no rights, no future. Half a million were crammed into the Gaza strip. Twice that number scratched for a living on the West Bank. And in the three years of the
Intifada
, no fewer than 60,000 children –
kids
– had been injured at the hands of the Israelis.
McVeigh followed the recitation without comment. The man was passionate. He spoke slowly, clearly, his voice never rising, but with each fresh statistic his body bent a little further forward on the long leather couch until he was nearly touching McVeigh’s knee. His point made, he fell silent. The woman sat beside him, watching McVeigh.
McVeigh smiled peaceably. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
The Arab looked at him for a moment, his eyes very black. Then he began to talk again, his voice even lower. An Israeli had been killed. It had been a tragedy. No one had been arrested. But to add insult to injury, the Israelis had only one name on their lips. They were judge and jury. Evidence, proof, was immaterial. To anyone sane, anyone Western, anyone non-Arab, it was obvious who was to blame. The Palestinians.
He paused again, the champagne untouched. ‘Do you know how offensive that is?’ he asked. ‘To us? To me? To an Arab?’
McVeigh nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you realize how bored we get? The same old tune? And how angry? Our people? Our land? Our children?’
‘Yes.’
The Arab nodded slowly, still
‘Yes?’
‘Who do I work for? Him or you?’
Friedland leaned back in the chair, smiling, remembering Ross’s parting words. This bit, at least, was simple.
‘Me,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly what happens.’
McVeigh took a cab to the Dorchester. On the way, he thought about Friedland. He’d never met the man before, never heard of him. The address had been expensive and the office looked genuine enough, but there was something about the man, a strange diffidence, that disturbed him. Most of the agencies he worked for were run by ‘Ruperts’, recently retired Regular Army officers, late thirties, early forties, good regiments, good families, nice accents, well dressed, excellent connections, urban go-getters who trawled for the fat contracts and dished out the action to the Special Forces lads. It was good business all round, and McVeigh was glad for a slice of it, but Friedland didn’t seem to fit that mould at all. Too old. Too battered. Too weary.
The taxi dropped McVeigh at the Dorchester. He took the lift to the seventh floor. The Arab had a suite at the end of the corridor. McVeigh knocked and stood carefully back. The door was opened at once by a youngish woman, Oriental, very black hair, expensive dress cut high at the neck. McVeigh introduced himself. Recognizing the name, the woman smiled, a minor alteration to the lower half of her face. McVeigh stepped inside. The Arab emerged from the bedroom, a small man, neat. He wore a blazer over a white silk shirt. There were Gucci loafers on his feet, and his grey slacks were perfectly pressed. He extended a hand and waved McVeigh into a chair, asking him whether he’d like a drink. McVeigh said no. ‘Youphoned a Mr Friedland,’ he said, ‘and Mr Friedland phoned me.’
The Arab inclined his head, glancing at the woman. She smiled at him, touching him lightly on the shoulder, fetching champagne from a small fridge. The champagne, already-open, was a third gone. She poured two glasses and looked at McVeigh. McVeigh shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he said again.
The Arab touched glasses with the woman and sipped at the champagne. Then he told McVeigh what he’d already told Friedland. He was a wealthy man. He had a conscience. His Palestinian brothers were orphans in the Middle East, disinherited by the Israelis, penned into refugee camps, the men forced to find work away to feed their families. Fellow Arabs did what they could. There were numerous funds, many appeals. But the fact remained that the Palestinians had no homeland, no rights, no future. Half a million were crammed into the Gaza strip. Twice that number scratched for a living on the West Bank. And in the three years of the
Intifada
, no fewer than 60,000 children –
kids
– had been injured at the hands of the Israelis.
McVeigh followed the recitation without comment. The man was passionate. He spoke slowly, clearly, his voice never rising, but with each fresh statistic his body bent a little further forward on the long leather couch until he was nearly touching McVeigh’s knee. His point made, he fell silent. The woman sat beside him, watching McVeigh.
McVeigh smiled peaceably. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
The Arab looked at him for a moment, his eyes very black. Then he began to talk again, his voice even lower. An Israeli had been killed. It had been a tragedy. No one had been arrested. But to add insult to injury, the Israelis had only one name on their lips. They were judge and jury. Evidence, proof, was immaterial. To anyone sane, anyone Western, anyone non-Arab, it was obvious who was to blame. The Palestinians.
He paused again, the champagne untouched. ‘Do you know how offensive that is?’ he asked. ‘To us? To me? To an Arab?’
McVeigh nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you realize how bored we get? The same old tune? And how angry? Our people? Our land? Our children?’
‘Yes.’
The Arab nodded slowly, still
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