The Last Testament (40 page)

‘That’s the Mishkan: the Temple, the palace. It refers to that whole area. Except whatever he’s left is not on the Temple Mount.

Jews hardly ever go there: too holy. He’s hidden it underneath.’

‘Underneath?’

‘A few years ago, they excavated the tunnels that run alongside the Western Wall. My father and a few other archaeologists.

Not the famous part of the Wall, where everyone prays and sticks those cutesy notes to God in the crevices. But a whole stretch of wall that was buried under the rest of the city. Under the Muslim Quarter, to be precise. Everyone went nuts.’

‘You mean the Palestinians?’

‘Of course. What did my father expect? The Arabs said the Jews were trying to undermine the foundations of the Dome of the Rock, you know the big building with the gold dome?’

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‘I know, thank you, Uri.’

‘It’s where they think Mohammed ascended to heaven. And here are the Jews tunnelling underneath. And then my dad and his friends make matters worse. They decide it’s not enough that tourists can go into the tunnels. No, the tourists need an exit at the other end, rather than having to walk all the way back through the tunnels. So they build one. And it pops out right in the Muslim Quarter.’

‘A provocation.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So that’s what he means by “ancient warrens”: the tunnels.

“Go west”, the Western Wall. Clever. And of course Jerusalem is the model city; it’s the holiest place on earth. But what—’

‘Oh fuck.’

Maggie could see Uri suddenly transfixed by his rear-view mirror. She looked over her shoulder and could see a car behind, its lights set to full beam. They had left the city behind now, descending instead on a mountain road that seemed to be un-winding. On either side were steep rocks, broken up only by the occasional car wreck – ruins of military vehicles, the marine had told her that day, which now felt ten years in the past – relics of the 1948 war that greeted the creation of the state of Israel.

‘They’re getting closer, Uri.’

‘I know.’

‘What the hell are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Let me think.’

He was being dazzled by the reflection in the mirror, which seemed to be filling the entire car with a searching yellow light.

Uri accelerated but the car behind caught up effortlessly.

Despite Maggie shielding her eyes, the light was too bright to see who was in the car, even what kind of car it was.

‘Can we turn off?’

‘Not unless we want to go tumbling down the mountain.’

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‘Shit. Uri, we’ve got to do something.’

‘I know, I know.’

After a few seconds, he spoke again. ‘OK. At the next bend there is a lookout spot. I can pull in there. When I do, you have to open your door immediately and slip out of your side. And keep very low. And you have to do it the instant the car is turning into the spot. Don’t wait for it to come to a complete stop. And then just run over the edge. It’s low ground there for a while, like a ledge. OK?’

‘Yes, but what about—’

‘Don’t worry about me. Once you’re out, I’ll be right behind you. Very low, you got that?’

‘I’ve got it.’

‘OK. Here it comes.’

Uri began to squeeze the brake. Maggie unbuckled her belt, which set off an immediate loud dinging. She waited for her cue.

Uri was looking in his rear-view mirror, then swerved into the space and yelled: ‘Now! And keep low!’

Maggie pulled on the door handle, pushed it and ducked her way out of the car, tripping on the moving road, running in a crouch to the edge of the paved surface. Now, in one of those split-seconds where an enormous decision has to be made, she had to determine whether or not she truly trusted Uri. Instinct, in this half-light of dawn, told her this was a sheer drop and that to run off it was to guarantee death. Yet Uri had promised the view was deceptive, that the slope was gentle. Could she believe him? They had lived and breathed almost every one of the last forty-eight hours together. She had discovered his dead mother. She had told him about Africa. And just a few hours ago they had made love in a way both tender and fierce in its passion.

And yet, who was he? This veteran of Israeli intelligence who had struck her unconscious with a single blow, who had stolen 342

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a car and who had done God knows what else in his life. How could she trust such a man?

All this ran through her head during the long second in which she teetered on the edge, before she finally stepped off. The drop came – but it was a tiny one, no more than a couple of feet, like missing the bottom stair in the dark. Stumbling, she ran on until she was out of sight of the road.

As the sound of her breath quieted, she looked around to see that she was quite alone. A second later she heard a gunshot above her, from the road and knew, with an iron certainty that chilled her, that it was Uri who had been hit.

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

JERUSALEM, FRIDAY, 6.15AM

She held herself very still, wary even of her own breath. Her muscles were quaking, her face trembling. She could feel the tears trickling down her cheeks, but some instinct of self-preservation took over, forcing her feet to make no movement, determined that no one would hear so much as a crunch of a stone under her.

She stood like that for seconds that stretched into long minutes, her eyes closed so that she could concentrate on her ears.

In the seconds after the gunshot, as she played back the memory of it now, she had heard a thud and the sound of footsteps on the gravel above. Then, a minute later, car doors slamming shut and an engine roaring away.

She had prayed then, as she prayed now, that she would soon hear something else: his footsteps coming towards her perhaps, or his voice calling out from the road above. The voice in her head was addressing God, the Father she claimed no longer to believe in, the God she had officially abandoned at convent school.

She begged him, please, please, whatever else you do to me, don’t let him be dead. Please, God, let him live.

How could she have allowed him to do that, letting her get 344

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away first? How could she have been so stupid, so selfish? Of course, there was no plan. Uri had simply wanted to save her life: she would get out of the car and away, he would provide the cover for her escape. The pursuers would aim their guns at him, while she crept away, saving her own skin. She pictured his body, unmoving and bloody, on the gravelled road, and her own body convulsed at the thought of it. She knew she had to keep quiet, but it was no good: she was sobbing noisily now, for the man whom she had held in her arms, pulsing with life, just a few hours ago. She had held him and now she had lost him.

Still she did not move. Her survival instinct compelled her to stay here, on this ledge invisible from the road. She feared a trick: what if she climbed back up only to be ambushed by the men who had shot Uri? Maybe she had imagined the sound of a car departing; she was so tired, her head felt light. So she just stood where she was, her face soaking from the tears that were now streaming down it.

Eventually, she took one step forward, wincing against any sound she might make. Then another, then another, until she had a view, albeit restricted, of the road above. She could see nothing.

She took another few paces until she was at the edge of the ledge. Below her was the craggy, beige rock of the hillside. If anyone was on the road, they would surely be able to see her here. But she could see nothing – until a white car sped by. She ducked and it went on.

Silence. After a while she bobbed up and looked around. There was nothing on the road, nothing at the lookout spot. No cars, not even the Mercedes they had been driving. Above all, there was no Uri.

Maggie didn’t know what to feel. She exhaled her relief that there was no corpse. Was it possible that Uri had somehow escaped, that the sound she had heard had been Uri, driving himself to safety?

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But that, she knew, made no sense. He would have come back to get her. She knew what was more likely, her mind supplying the image: masked men picking up Uri’s lifeless body, one taking the arms, the other the ankles, and swinging it into the boot of the Merc, then driving the car away.

She walked up onto the lookout spot and examined the ground.

She could see tyre marks, but it was no good. She was no detective; she didn’t know what she was looking at.

Maggie turned her back to the road, only now noticing the beauty of this view. The sky was a pale morning blue, the sun strong enough to light up this brittle, sandy landscape: the hills, stepped in terraces, punctuated by isolated olive trees. Hardy, unfussy, somehow stubborn, these trees seemed to Maggie like short, tanned men: tough and impatient.

Something in that view hardened her resolve. She would find that goddamned tablet if it was the last thing she did. She would do it for Uri’s sake, and for the sake of his father and mother too.

Whoever had done this to him, and to his parents, would not be allowed to get away with it. She would thwart them; she would find what they did not want her to find and she would expose them while she was at it. Yes, this peace process needed saving and yes, she was desperate to clear her name. But, at this moment, both of those feelings receded. She would do this for Uri.

And then she heard it, faint at first. She was struck, as she had been the first time, by the beauty of the melody, a haunting series of notes. And now it was a little louder, she could hear that it was not a recording or a car radio, but human voices singing, their sound carried on the breeze. She walked down to the edge of the ledge and saw that there was still no sheer drop, but rather a downward slope. She would have to make an initial jump of a few feet, and then she would just have to negotiate the hillside.

She did it, thanking Orli for the boots she was now wearing 346

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instead of the shoes she had left at the ex-girlfriend’s apartment.

Still, though, she was not equipped for this. As she pushed towards the sound of the voices, her right foot slipped from under her, so that she landed on an ankle. A few paces later, she scratched her arm on a thistle, as she unthinkingly grabbed at the air to steady herself.

But soon she had threaded her way down from the road and had flat ground in view. And she could see the source of the song, though now it had given way to a much coarser chorus, a kind of football chant, to be sung by a crowd swaying in unison.

Hinei ma’tov u’ma’naim, shevet achim gam yachad . . .

It was the Arms Around Jerusalem protest, still going strong.

Maggie had never been so glad to see a political demonstration in her life, never more grateful for the protesters’ stamina in maintaining it around the clock, just as they had promised. Even now, not much after dawn, there was a group of activists, holding hands at the foot of this hill. Why they had decided this particular spot constituted the proper boundary of Jerusalem, she had no idea. But she was relieved they had.

‘Are you journalist?’ It was a woman wearing a vast pair of glasses, her arms extended to a teenage girl, perhaps her daughter, on one side and a rabbinic-looking man, Maggie’s age, the fringes of his prayer shawl dangling, on the other.

‘Oh no,’ said Maggie, immediately and without forethought, exaggerating her Irish accent. ‘I’m a visitor.’

‘What, tourist?’
Turrrist
.

‘Not quite, dear. I’m more of a pilgrim.’ It was blatant, an impersonation of the nuns at school. But Maggie prayed it would work.

‘Ah, you want Bethlehem?’ The woman looked incredulous.

‘You walking to Bethlehem?’

‘Oh, no dear, perish the thought!’

Now the rabbi had stopped singing and was joining in the THE LAST TESTAMENT

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conversation. ‘You need to get to Bethlehem?’ He positioned himself to give directions.

‘No, actually, I’m on my way to Jerusalem. And it seems I’ve been tricked, I’m afraid.’

‘Tricked?’

‘By a taxi. Said he would take me there. He dropped me on the roadside there—’ she pointed up the hill she had just descended, ‘—he said I should enjoy the view. Then, would you credit it, he only offs and leaves. With my coat and everything.’

‘He was Jewish, this driver?’

Maggie was stumped. What was the right answer? Would it be an insult to accuse a Jew of this act of perfidy? Or would it be seen as a greater treachery to have hired a Palestinian driver in the first place?

‘You know, I never asked him. But I do feel as if I’ve been terribly naive. I thought, this being the Holy Land and all—’

‘Listen, lady.’ It was the rabbi, now broken out of his place in the circle. ‘Where do you need to get to?’

‘Oh, I don’t want to trouble a man of God like yourself.’

‘No trouble, really. We have a driver.’ And before she had had a chance to say another word, he had produced a walkie-talkie.

‘Avram?
Bo rega
.’ He looked at Maggie, briefly closing his eyes in a nod, as if to say, don’t worry, it’s all under control.

Within a few moments a car had arrived, a rugged, muddied SUV. Maggie sized it up and concluded that these rebels were supremely well organized. She didn’t doubt that they had a fleet of such vehicles on hand, patrolling the battle lines not only of the Arms Around Jerusalem demo, but of the entire anti-Yariv campaign. If what she had read was right, much of the money would have been funnelled from Christian evangelicals in the States. Once again, she was reminded that, even if they were to calm things down and bring the parties back to the table, the peacemakers would face the most enormous obstacles.

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Maggie thanked the rabbi and got in the car. A dark, burly man in shorts, with tanned, meaty forearms, was in the driver’s seat. He raised his eyebrows in a question.

‘Could you take me to the Old City please?’

Within a few minutes they were back on the main road, retracing the dawn journey she had made with Uri, winding steadily upward back to the centre of Jerusalem. She felt her ears pop.