Scotch. George watched him carrying them back. He was forward now in the chair, his voice low, his body bent in towards the table. McVeigh put the drinks down between them. George ignored them. McVeigh took a second or two to place the new tone in his voice. It was anger. ‘What’s the interest?’ he said. ‘Why all this?’
McVeigh thought briefly of Billy. Explaining all that was complicated, and he wasn’t sure that George would follow. He’d never been good with kids.
‘I’ve got a client,’ he said.
‘Foreign?’
‘No.’
‘Domestic?’
‘Very.’
‘OK.’
George glanced round. The pub was beginning to empty. He beckoned McVeigh closer. McVeigh obliged, listening without comment while George told him what he knew. Harry, he said, had somehow pissed off the Israelis. He didn’t know how, and neither did Harry, but the cooperation he’d been getting from Palace Gardens had been withdrawn. The bloke who’d died, Arendt, had evidently been a Mossad man. That was the way the MI5 boys had told it. He’d been Mossad since the mid-eighties, and good at it, a
katsa
, a Case Officer, one of only a handful world-wide.
McVeigh, listening, nodded. Mossad was the Israeli Secret Service. They were the best in the business, Israeli’s eyes and ears. Some of the strokes they pulled were beyond belief. No wonder the man had played football with such guile.
George, glass in his hand, went on. Arendt had been Mossad, and Harry – at the very least – now had a motive. Whoever did it had a thing about Israeli spooks. Which only left about half a million Arab hit-men, every one of them longing for a Mossad notch on the butt of his gun. McVeigh nodded again, remembering Rafael, the Israeli at the Embassy, same theory, same conclusion. He frowned, watching George swallow the last ofthe Scotch. The beer was still untouched. ‘So where’s the catch?’ he said. ‘If it’s all that simple?’
George looked at him for a moment, on the edge of some private decision. Then he leaned forward again. ‘We had a witness,’ he said. ‘Bloke owns an antique shop. Off Queen’s Gate Gardens. Saw the whole thing. Apparently there was a big argument beforehand. Before the bloke got stiffed.’
‘What about?’
‘He couldn’t hear. Not properly. But that’s not the point.’
‘No?’
‘No. The point is the language. The language they were using.’
‘What was it?’
George hesitated again. Then he reached for the beer. ‘Hebrew,’ he said, wiping his lips.
McVeigh looked at him for a moment, weighing it up. Then he shrugged. ‘So the Arab speaks Hebrew,’ he said. ‘Big deal.’
‘This was
good
Hebrew. The real thing.’
‘So?’ McVeigh said again. ‘The Arab speaks good Hebrew. So what?’
George gazed at him for a long moment, and McVeigh recognized the signs, the impatience, the hands beginning to clench, the fist coming down on the table, the beer dancing in the glass. Instead, though, George leaned forward again, another card to play.
‘Two days ago,’ he said, ‘Harry gets a phone call. The investigation’s dead in the water. The heat’s off. He’s back to fucking traffic offences. But the phone still rings.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Israeli woman. Arendt’s wife.’
‘What’s she want?’
‘A meet. She wants to meet Harry. She’s got his name from the Embassy, or the press, or some fucking place, and she wants to buy him dinner. The works. Wheeler’s. Lobster. Champagne. You name it.’
‘So what happens?’
‘What do you think happens? You know Harry. He loves all that. Loves it. So he goes. Meets the woman. Fills his face.Expects … you know … something to happen … information … a name … a lead … someone to put in the frame …’
‘And?’
‘Fuck all. It’s the
woman
does all the asking. She spends all night trying to find out how far Harry had got, where he’d been, who he’d talked to, all that. Says she wants revenge.’
‘So what
McVeigh thought briefly of Billy. Explaining all that was complicated, and he wasn’t sure that George would follow. He’d never been good with kids.
‘I’ve got a client,’ he said.
‘Foreign?’
‘No.’
‘Domestic?’
‘Very.’
‘OK.’
George glanced round. The pub was beginning to empty. He beckoned McVeigh closer. McVeigh obliged, listening without comment while George told him what he knew. Harry, he said, had somehow pissed off the Israelis. He didn’t know how, and neither did Harry, but the cooperation he’d been getting from Palace Gardens had been withdrawn. The bloke who’d died, Arendt, had evidently been a Mossad man. That was the way the MI5 boys had told it. He’d been Mossad since the mid-eighties, and good at it, a
katsa
, a Case Officer, one of only a handful world-wide.
McVeigh, listening, nodded. Mossad was the Israeli Secret Service. They were the best in the business, Israeli’s eyes and ears. Some of the strokes they pulled were beyond belief. No wonder the man had played football with such guile.
George, glass in his hand, went on. Arendt had been Mossad, and Harry – at the very least – now had a motive. Whoever did it had a thing about Israeli spooks. Which only left about half a million Arab hit-men, every one of them longing for a Mossad notch on the butt of his gun. McVeigh nodded again, remembering Rafael, the Israeli at the Embassy, same theory, same conclusion. He frowned, watching George swallow the last ofthe Scotch. The beer was still untouched. ‘So where’s the catch?’ he said. ‘If it’s all that simple?’
George looked at him for a moment, on the edge of some private decision. Then he leaned forward again. ‘We had a witness,’ he said. ‘Bloke owns an antique shop. Off Queen’s Gate Gardens. Saw the whole thing. Apparently there was a big argument beforehand. Before the bloke got stiffed.’
‘What about?’
‘He couldn’t hear. Not properly. But that’s not the point.’
‘No?’
‘No. The point is the language. The language they were using.’
‘What was it?’
George hesitated again. Then he reached for the beer. ‘Hebrew,’ he said, wiping his lips.
McVeigh looked at him for a moment, weighing it up. Then he shrugged. ‘So the Arab speaks Hebrew,’ he said. ‘Big deal.’
‘This was
good
Hebrew. The real thing.’
‘So?’ McVeigh said again. ‘The Arab speaks good Hebrew. So what?’
George gazed at him for a long moment, and McVeigh recognized the signs, the impatience, the hands beginning to clench, the fist coming down on the table, the beer dancing in the glass. Instead, though, George leaned forward again, another card to play.
‘Two days ago,’ he said, ‘Harry gets a phone call. The investigation’s dead in the water. The heat’s off. He’s back to fucking traffic offences. But the phone still rings.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Israeli woman. Arendt’s wife.’
‘What’s she want?’
‘A meet. She wants to meet Harry. She’s got his name from the Embassy, or the press, or some fucking place, and she wants to buy him dinner. The works. Wheeler’s. Lobster. Champagne. You name it.’
‘So what happens?’
‘What do you think happens? You know Harry. He loves all that. Loves it. So he goes. Meets the woman. Fills his face.Expects … you know … something to happen … information … a name … a lead … someone to put in the frame …’
‘And?’
‘Fuck all. It’s the
woman
does all the asking. She spends all night trying to find out how far Harry had got, where he’d been, who he’d talked to, all that. Says she wants revenge.’
‘So what
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