looking at him. The woman had turned away, curling her lip, shaking her head, a gesture of contempt.
McVeigh studied them both. ‘So what do you want,’ he said at last, ‘from me?’
The Arab was silent for a moment, then he relaxed, letting his whole body go limp, leaning back on the couch, sipping again at the champagne. He smiled, apologetic. ‘This man who died. His name is Arendt. Yakov Arendt.’
McVeigh nodded but said nothing. For as long as he could remember, he’d had a profound suspicion of coincidence. Things never simply happened. There was always a reason, a cause and a consequence. This belief had served him well. Twice, in the mountains, it had saved his life. Now he watched the Arab.
The Arab glanced up. ‘I want you to find out about this man,’ he said. ‘I want you to talk to his friends. His wife, if he has one. Maybe his bosses, the people he worked for. I want to know how he died, and why he died, and maybe who killed him. People I know say you’re very good. They say you know where to go, where to look.’ He paused. ‘I suggest you go to Israel. Israel is where it begins and ends.’
McVeigh frowned. ‘Israel’s a fair way,’ he said slowly.
The Arab nodded, toying with his glass, rolling the stem carefully between two fingers. ‘Five hundred pounds a day,’ he said, ‘plus expenses.’
McVeigh blinked. It was an absurd sum, nearly twice the going rate. It meant that Yakov Arendt had been a great deal more than a gifted amateur footballer. And it meant that finding out about him would be never less than dangerous. McVeigh studied the Arab for a moment, wondering who he really was, and why he was brokering the deal.
‘I knew Yakov,’ he said slowly. ‘He was a friend of mine.’
The Arab inclined his head, a wholly ambiguous gesture, hiseyes still on McVeigh. ‘Then I imagine there’s no question about you taking the job,’ he said softly.
‘No?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, standing up, extending a hand. ‘Where I come from friendship carries certain obligations …’ He smiled. ‘And this would be one of them.’
4
Back in Washington on the early shuttle from New York, Telemann drove to his new suite of offices on ‘F’ Street.
The offices were three blocks down from the Intelligence community headquarters near the old Executive Office Building beside the White House. The offices came with a large, capable woman called Juanita. Juanita was Sullivan’s idea. She’d worked for him in a variety of posts. She was Puerto Rican, discreet, clever and totally loyal. She’d organize the office, answer the phone and access whatever facilities Telemann might need. She had Sullivan’s clout and Sullivan’s temper. Telemann had liked her on sight.
Now, nudging 20 m.p.h. on the Beltway, Telemann dialled Sullivan’s home number on the mobile phone. The extra day in New York had locked the Manhattan Plaza investigation away for good. Benitez would keep looking, but the core-team was tiny. No chance, Telemann thought, that the story would leak any further.
Sullivan answered the phone. It was a quarter after six. He was already late for work.
‘It’s me,’ Telemann said, ‘I need the ULTRAS.’
Telemann slowed the car to a crawl as the commuter traffic thickened even more. ULTRAS were the daily digest of communications intercepts acquired and decoded by the National Security Agency out at Fort Meade. They were routed into the US from listening posts world-wide, and from specially assigned satellites. They came in buff files, edged in red. They were classified Top Secret. Sullivan was breathing hard on the phone. Telemann could hear him. Must have run in from the drive, he thought.
‘You got ’em,’ Sullivan said. ‘They went to Juanita last night. You get choice cuts from the PDB, too. Courtesy the Chief.’
Telemann whistled, eyeing a break in the nearside lane. PDBs were the Presidential Daily Briefs, ten beautifully printed pages of premium
McVeigh studied them both. ‘So what do you want,’ he said at last, ‘from me?’
The Arab was silent for a moment, then he relaxed, letting his whole body go limp, leaning back on the couch, sipping again at the champagne. He smiled, apologetic. ‘This man who died. His name is Arendt. Yakov Arendt.’
McVeigh nodded but said nothing. For as long as he could remember, he’d had a profound suspicion of coincidence. Things never simply happened. There was always a reason, a cause and a consequence. This belief had served him well. Twice, in the mountains, it had saved his life. Now he watched the Arab.
The Arab glanced up. ‘I want you to find out about this man,’ he said. ‘I want you to talk to his friends. His wife, if he has one. Maybe his bosses, the people he worked for. I want to know how he died, and why he died, and maybe who killed him. People I know say you’re very good. They say you know where to go, where to look.’ He paused. ‘I suggest you go to Israel. Israel is where it begins and ends.’
McVeigh frowned. ‘Israel’s a fair way,’ he said slowly.
The Arab nodded, toying with his glass, rolling the stem carefully between two fingers. ‘Five hundred pounds a day,’ he said, ‘plus expenses.’
McVeigh blinked. It was an absurd sum, nearly twice the going rate. It meant that Yakov Arendt had been a great deal more than a gifted amateur footballer. And it meant that finding out about him would be never less than dangerous. McVeigh studied the Arab for a moment, wondering who he really was, and why he was brokering the deal.
‘I knew Yakov,’ he said slowly. ‘He was a friend of mine.’
The Arab inclined his head, a wholly ambiguous gesture, hiseyes still on McVeigh. ‘Then I imagine there’s no question about you taking the job,’ he said softly.
‘No?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, standing up, extending a hand. ‘Where I come from friendship carries certain obligations …’ He smiled. ‘And this would be one of them.’
4
Back in Washington on the early shuttle from New York, Telemann drove to his new suite of offices on ‘F’ Street.
The offices were three blocks down from the Intelligence community headquarters near the old Executive Office Building beside the White House. The offices came with a large, capable woman called Juanita. Juanita was Sullivan’s idea. She’d worked for him in a variety of posts. She was Puerto Rican, discreet, clever and totally loyal. She’d organize the office, answer the phone and access whatever facilities Telemann might need. She had Sullivan’s clout and Sullivan’s temper. Telemann had liked her on sight.
Now, nudging 20 m.p.h. on the Beltway, Telemann dialled Sullivan’s home number on the mobile phone. The extra day in New York had locked the Manhattan Plaza investigation away for good. Benitez would keep looking, but the core-team was tiny. No chance, Telemann thought, that the story would leak any further.
Sullivan answered the phone. It was a quarter after six. He was already late for work.
‘It’s me,’ Telemann said, ‘I need the ULTRAS.’
Telemann slowed the car to a crawl as the commuter traffic thickened even more. ULTRAS were the daily digest of communications intercepts acquired and decoded by the National Security Agency out at Fort Meade. They were routed into the US from listening posts world-wide, and from specially assigned satellites. They came in buff files, edged in red. They were classified Top Secret. Sullivan was breathing hard on the phone. Telemann could hear him. Must have run in from the drive, he thought.
‘You got ’em,’ Sullivan said. ‘They went to Juanita last night. You get choice cuts from the PDB, too. Courtesy the Chief.’
Telemann whistled, eyeing a break in the nearside lane. PDBs were the Presidential Daily Briefs, ten beautifully printed pages of premium
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