The Last Testament (28 page)

Sari Aweida must have seen the expression on her face, the brow knotted. ‘No to worry, Maggie. We nearly there.’

She cleared Edward’s message, without replying, and hit the green button for the last number she had dialled. She would speak as if last night had not happened.

‘Uri? Listen. Afif Aweida is alive. I mean there’s another Afif THE LAST TESTAMENT

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Aweida. A trader in antiquities. It has to be the right one. They must have got the wrong one.’

‘Slow down, Maggie. You’re not making any sense.’

‘OK. I’m on my way to meet Afif Aweida. I’m sure he was the man your father mentioned on the phone to Baruch Kishon.

He deals in antiquities. It’s too much of a coincidence. I’ll call you later.’

Like most people talking on a mobile while walking, Maggie had spoken with her head down, staring at her feet. She now looked up to find no sign of Sari. He had obviously walked on so fast, he hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t keeping up. She stopped and looked around at the warren of streets, with turnings and alleyways every few yards, and realized he could have gone anywhere.

She walked a few yards forward, peering to her left down a turning so narrow it was dark, even in this morning sunlight.

Its width was spanned by a washing line, and in the distance she could see two kids, boys she guessed, kicking a can. If she went down here, perhaps she could ask their mother—

Suddenly she felt a violent jerking backwards, as if her neck was about to be snapped. A gloved hand was over her eyes and another was covering her mouth, muffling her cry. She heard the sound as if it belonged to someone else.

Now she could feel herself being dragged backwards, even as her eyes and mouth stayed covered. She tried to pull her arms free, but they were held fast. She was dragged into an alleyway and shoved hard against the wall, the bricks pounding against the ridges of her spine. The hand covering her mouth moved down now, clamping her throat. She heard herself emit a dry rasp.

Now the hand came away from her eyes but, for a second, she still saw only darkness. Then a voice, which she realized was right in front of her, coming from a face entirely covered in a black ski mask. It was barely an inch away, the mouth close enough to touch her lips.

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SAM BOURNE

‘Stay away, understand?’

‘I don’t—’

The hand around her throat tightened, until she was gasping for air. She was being strangled.

‘Stay away.’

‘Stay away from what?’ she tried to croak.

The hand came off her throat, so that it could join with the other in taking hold of her shoulders. He held her like that for a second, then moved her whole body forward about six inches, so that she was tight against him. Then, still holding both shoulders, he rammed her hard in the other direction, straight into the wall.

The pain shuddered all the way through her, reaching the top of her skull. She wondered if he had shattered her spine. She wanted to double over, but still he held her upright, as if she was a doll that would slump into a heap if he let go.

Suddenly she heard a new voice, whispered directly into her left ear. For an instant she was confused. The black mask was still in front of her, its mouth only inches from hers. How was he speaking into her ear at the same time? Now she understood.

There was a second man, invisible in the shadows, who had been pinning her to the wall from the side. ‘You know what we’re talking about, Maggie Costello.’

The voice was strange, indeterminate. It sounded foreign, but from where Maggie couldn’t say. Was it Middle Eastern? Or European? And how many of these men were there? Was there a third attacker she hadn’t seen? The surprise of the assault, combined with the darkness, had disoriented her entirely. Her senses seemed to have short-circuited, the wires crossed. She wasn’t sure where the pain was coming from.

Now she felt a hand on her leg, squeezing a thigh. ‘Do you hear me, Maggie?’

Her heart was thumping, her body still writhing in futile THE LAST TESTAMENT

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protest. She was trying to work out what kind of voice she was hearing – was it Arab, was it Israeli? – when she felt a sensation that made her quake.

The breath on her ear had turned moist, as she registered the unmistakable sensation of a tongue probing inside it. She let out the first sounds of a scream, but the gloved hand was back, sealing her mouth. And now the other hand, the one that had been gripping her thigh, relaxed – only to move upward, clamping itself between Maggie’s legs.

Her eyes began to water. She was trying to kick, but the first man was pressed too close: she could hardly move her legs. And still this hand was squeezing her, grabbing her crotch the way it would grip at a man’s balls if trying to inflict the maximum punishment.

‘You like that, Maggie Costello?’ The voice, its accent still so elusive, was hot and breathy in her ear. It could have been Arab, it could have been Israeli. Or neither. ‘No? Don’t like it?’ She felt the tongue and face move six inches away from her. ‘Then fuck off.’ The first man let go of her shoulders, then pushed her to the ground. ‘Otherwise we’ll be back for more.’

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - F O U R

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 11.05AM

Tradition held that this hour was reserved for the forum, the informal kitchen cabinet of advisers that had surrounded Yariv since he first considered an entry into politics three decades ago.

Every Thursday morning, the working week nearly over, was the hour to digest and analyse events, spot mistakes, devise solutions and plot the next moves ahead. They had been doing it when Yariv was Defence Minister, then Foreign Minister; when he was in the wilderness of opposition. Even, truth be told, when he was still in uniform serving as Chief of Staff. That was a politician’s job, whatever they might pretend, and don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.

There had only been one change in the personnel. The two old buddies from army days still came, one now in advertising, the other in the import business. And so was his wife, Ruth, whose counsel Yariv weighed seriously. The only change was of necessity. His son, Aluf, had been a regular until he was killed in Lebanon three years ago. Amir Tal had taken his place, a fact seized on by the Israeli press who constantly described the young THE LAST TESTAMENT

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adviser as the PM’s adopted son, even, in a phrase that punned in Hebrew, Aluf Bet – Aluf the Second.

Ideally, the meetings happened at home, with Ruth bringing coffee and strudel. But not today. Things were too serious, he told Amir, to leave the office early. The forum would be just the two of them.

The talks at Government House were now effectively on hold, only a skeleton presence maintained on both sides. Neither Israel nor the Palestinians wanted to be accused by the Americans of pulling the plug, so they hadn’t dared walk out completely. But no serious work was being done. It meant the centrepiece of the Yariv – the peace effort – was collapsing before their eyes. He was taking heat from the right – the settlers with their damned human chain around Jerusalem – and he was ready to take it, but not if there was nothing to show for it. He remembered the man who had sat in this office just a few years ago, who had seen his premiership crumble in a matter of months once the Camp David attempt unravelled.

What was worse, he now confided in Amir Tal, as he spat the sunflower seeds into his hand, was that he felt confused.

‘Look, a
pigua
’, a suicide bombing, ‘from Hamas or Jihad I fully expected. They did it to Rabin and they did it to Peres. They even did it to Bibi, for God’s sake. Anyone gets close to a deal, they’re on an Egged bus with dynamite strapped to their belly. I expected that.’ He raised his hand, signalling that he had not yet finished.

‘Even the
Machteret
I was expecting to hear from.’ They had both assumed that a resurgence of the Jewish underground was on the cards. Back in the 1980s, a handful of settlers and religious fanatics had sent bombs in the post or planted them under cars, maiming a series of Palestinian politicians. Several of their victims were still active, appearing on television in wheelchairs or with terrible facial disfigurement.

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SAM BOURNE

‘Maybe,’ Yariv continued, ‘they’d firebomb an Arab playground or two. Even do the Mosque.’

He didn’t need to say which mosque. They both knew the wilder elements of the
Machteret
dreamed of blowing up the Dome of the Rock, Islam’s most cherished site in the Holy Land, thereby clearing the ground for the rebuilding of the Jewish Temple on the same spot.

‘But these attacks? They make no sense. Why would the Palestinians attack some visitors’ centre in the north? Why do it at night when no one’s around? If you want to screw up the talks, do it in the day! Kill lots of people!’

‘Unless it was a warning.’

‘But that
would
be a warning. Whenever they wanted to send a message before, that’s how they did it.’

‘Al-Shafi has denied all responsibility for it,’ said Tal.

‘Of course. But Hamas?’

‘They have too. But—’

‘But we don’t know whether to believe them. And this stabbing in Jerusalem. I don’t believe the claim of responsibility.

Defenders of United Jerusalem or whatever bullshit name they gave themselves. Why haven’t we heard of them before? There’s always some crackpot group ready to claim credit for actions they didn’t take. Could be just some street crime.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘What do you mean?’ The Prime Minister was now cracking and spitting at a frantic speed.

‘You know we’ve been pursuing the Guttman investigation.

We’ve had the son, Uri, under surveillance. He’s working closely with Maggie Costello of the State Department—’

‘The mediator? What the hell’s she got to do with it?’

‘It seems she was passed some kind of message by Rachel Guttman. And, in the absence of any action at Government House, the Americans are letting her pursue it. She’s obviously THE LAST TESTAMENT

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persuaded them that if she doesn’t close down this Guttman business, there’ll be no peace to negotiate.’

‘So?’

‘So, as you know, Costello and Uri Guttman have established a connection between the Professor and the dead Palestinian, Nour. Well, we think there might be a further connection with the killing in Jerusalem last night.’

‘Go on.’

‘We didn’t have much time to establish surveillance on the apartment they visited last night in Tel Aviv – the home of Baruch Kishon – but we did get a muffled voice recording. It had to be enhanced, but our engineers say that, just before they left, Guttman and Costello had found something, a piece of paper, with a name on it.

‘What name?’

‘Afif Aweida.’

‘I see.’

‘So,’ Tal went on, ‘it seems Guttman spoke to Kishon, mentioned Aweida’s name. And suddenly Aweida ends up dead.’

Yariv paused. There was silence, but for the sucking sound as a particularly fat seed lodged between his teeth. ‘Well, who else was listening—?’

‘That’s why I’m glad we’re meeting here alone today, Prime Minister.’

‘You don’t think—’

‘Military intelligence are the only people besides you and me who have access to our surveillance.’

‘That’s crazy. What, you think Yossi Ben-Ari, the Defence Minister of the State of Israel, could be running his own rogue operation? Killing this Arab in the market?’

‘If his people were listening in last night, he would have had the name.’

‘Why would he do it?’

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SAM BOURNE

‘I don’t know why he would have picked out this specific man. We’d have to know what this whole Guttman business was all about to understand that. But the bigger picture—’

‘—is that he’s trying to sabotage the peace talks. Bring me down; take over himself.
Jesus
.’

‘I know it’s not—’

‘Possible partners?’

‘Maybe Mossek. Perhaps the Chief of Staff.’

‘It’s a military coup!’

‘We can’t be sure.’

‘Why, who else could have done this?’

‘If we accept that this was not a random crime, that this was indeed the man Kishon knew of, well, then the suspects could be anybody who knew of his identity. Of his connection to the Guttman business.’

‘But that could only be the American woman and Guttman’s son.’

‘We can’t rule it out.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense. This is not one of your crazy videogames, Amir. This is the real world.’

‘We have to follow every lead.’

The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair, balling up the paper bag that had once been full of sunflower seeds but which was now empty. He sighed deeply.

‘What you are suggesting here—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything.’

‘—is that there are rogue elements within the military establishment of the state of Israel, killing and doing God knows what else to topple the elected government of this country. And to deny us the best chance of peace in a generation.’

‘You know the army’s attitude to what we’re doing. They never liked the pull-out from Gaza; you think they’re going to THE LAST TESTAMENT

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like this? Tearing down settlements in the West Bank? Handing over half of Jerusalem?’

Yariv smiled, the wistful smile of an old man who thought he had seen it all. ‘I promoted Ben-Ari, you know. Made him a general. “But Brutus is an honourable man . . .”’

‘What do you want me to do, Prime Minister?’

‘I think you have to set up an intelligence team answerable solely to this office. Check them for political allegiance. Make sure they have no doubts about the peace talks. Use leftists and druggie dropouts if you have to. Just make sure they’re loyal.

Cut defence and the IDF out of the loop. And then, once you have the team in place, set them on Mossek and Ben-Ari. Bug their phone calls and their meetings. I want to see their emails, their text messages, the colour of the paper they use to wipe their arses in the morning.’

‘It’s done.’

‘Just to prove you’re wrong, that’s the only reason I’m doing this. And one other thing.’