The Last Testament (8 page)

‘national pride’ and handily proving, at a time when most Israeli leaders were still denying even the existence of a Palestinian people, that the communities of these lands had the deepest possible roots.

His reputation only increased when he led students on a dig at an abandoned refugee camp, digging up the trash, the old sar-dine cans and plastic bags which revealed the way of life of THE LAST TESTAMENT

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people just a generation gone, those who had fled their homes in 1948. And his work here at Beitin had boosted his reputation yet further.

Previous scholars had thrilled at this place as the Bet-El of the Bible, the spot where Abraham, heading south, stopped and built an altar, the place where Jacob rested his head on a pillow of stone and dreamed of the angels going up and down a ladder.

But Ahmed was determined to examine not just the ruins around Beitin, but the village itself. For humble, tiny Beitin had been ruled by Hellenists, by Romans, by Byzantines, by Ottomans. It had been Christian and it had been Muslim: in the late nineteenth century, a mosque had been built on the ruins of a Byzantine church. You could still see the remains of a Hellenistic tower, a Byzantine monastery and a Crusader castle. All three. To Ahmed’s mind, that was the glory of Palestine. Even in a forgotten speck like Beitin, you could see the history of the world, one layer on top of another.

That gave him an idea. He reached for one of the newer boxes, one that would contain the freshest finds from the site.

He peered inside, his nose crinkling at the musty smell: human skulls from the early Bronze Age, some five thousand years ago, along with storage jars and cooking pots. He smiled, knowing he could do better, that he could go back even further. He unlocked a cupboard, to find the flint tools and animal bones that had first been found at Beitin in the 1950s and which had been traced back some five millennia before Christ.

He would tell that oaf at the antiquities department about the traces of blood that had been spotted, a sure sign of ritual sacrifice, establishing that Beitin had once been the site of a Canaanite temple. Maybe it was playing the old biblical game, thought Ahmed with a pang of guilt, but he had to use whatever he’d got.

It still might have no effect. The man from Hamas would 56

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doubtless perk up at the reference to the nineteenth-century mosque and yawn at the rest. Or perhaps there was a chance he would see Beitin for what it really was, a place packed with the history of this land.

On tiptoes, stretching to put the most precious box back on the top shelf of the locked cupboard, he heard a noise. Metallic.

‘Hello? Huda?’

No reply. Probably nothing. He must have left the metal door to the workroom ajar and the wind had clicked it shut. No matter.

He would seal this box and be on his way.

But then there was another sound. This time a footstep, unmistakable. Ahmed turned around to see two men coming towards him. Both were wearing black hoods which covered their faces entirely. The taller man was holding up a finger, which he the-atrically placed over his lips.
Hush
.

‘What? What is this?’ said Ahmed, his knees buckling.

‘Just come with us,’ said the tall man, something strange in his accent. ‘Now!’ And for the first time Ahmed saw the gun, lifted and aimed straight at him.

C H A P T E R E I G H T

THE US CONSULATE, JERUSALEM, TUESDAY, 2.14PM

‘Our information is that the body, riddled with bullets, was dumped by two hooded men in Ramallah’s main square about 10.45 local time. The corpse was propped up and displayed to the crowd for about fifteen minutes, then taken away by the same two hooded men who’d brought it there.’

‘Collaborator killing?’

‘Exactly.’ The CIA station chief turned towards Maggie, offering extra tuition to the newcomer to the class. ‘This is standard punishment meted out by Palestinians to any Palestinian deemed guilty of collaborating with Israeli intelligence. Usually they’re accused of tipping off Israel as to the whereabouts of wanted terrorists or have warned the Israelis when an attack’s coming.’

‘What’s the Israeli reaction?’ The questions were coming out of a speakerphone pulled to the centre of the polished wood table: the voice of the Secretary of State in Washington. He had left it to his deputy to manage this last stage of talks on the ground. He had wanted to keep his distance, in case of failure.

‘So far pretty muted. Some boilerplate about Palestinians needing to prove they believe in the rule of law. But that was 58

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only a low-level spokesman, when prompted in a media interview. Nothing from any of the principals. I think they want to treat this as an internal—’

‘No chance they’d break off talks over this?’

‘We don’t think so, sir.’

‘Unless they’re looking for an excuse.’

‘Which they’re not at this stage.’ It was his deputy, raising his voice to be picked up by the phone. ‘The talks are painfully difficult right now, but no one’s walking away.’

‘Still hung up on refugees?’

‘And Jerusalem. Yes.’

‘Remember, we can’t let this go on forever. If we’re not careful, it’s one delay, then another and before you know it—’

‘—it’s November.’ This from Bruce Miller, officially titled Political Counsellor to the President, unofficially his most trusted
consigliere
, at his side since his first run for Attorney General in Georgia more than twenty-five years earlier. They spent more time together than either man did with his wife. His presence in Jerusalem confirmed what they all knew. That this push for peace was inseparable from American domestic politics.

‘Hello, Bruce.’ Maggie detected a sudden meekness in the Secretary of State.

‘I was just about to agree with you, Mr Secretary,’ Miller began, his voice twanging between a down-home southern accent and the Nicorette gum he chewed from morning till night. He had given up cigarettes eleven years ago, aided by a variety of nicotine substitutes. The patch had gone, but not the gum: it was his new addiction.

‘I mean, they’ve only had sixty years to think of an answer to all this. Jesus! We can’t maintain this pitch forever.’ He was leaning forward now, his wiry frame hunched so that his mouth would be closer to the telephone. His neck seemed to jut out at key moments, the two horns of hair bestriding his bald pate THE LAST TESTAMENT

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floating upward as he did so. Maggie tried to work out what he reminded her of. Was it a cockerel, its head popping forward and back metronomically? Or a feisty bantamweight in an illegal ring, somewhere in the backstreets of old Dublin, ready to fight dirty if he had to? He was mesmerizing to watch.

‘We keep saying—’ he gestured at a TV set in the corner, silently showing Fox News, ‘this is about to get resolved this week. If nothing happens, we’re back to square one. Only trouble is, there’s no such place in the Middle East. Doesn’t fucking exist!

You never can just stand still. Screw it up here, and you go right back. Look what happened after Camp David. Israelis were shooting Arabs in the streets and Arabs were blowing up every café in Jerusalem. Because the folk who sat in these chairs tried to get it right and they screwed up.’

Silence, including from the speakerphone. They knew what this was: a rollicking from the top, doubtless with more to come.

‘We do have more on this collaborator killing,’ said the CIA man, a tentative attempt to alter the mood.

‘Yes?’ The Secretary of State.

‘As I said earlier, ordinarily such a minor incident wouldn’t warrant any discussion at all. At the height of the last
intifada
, these summary executions were happening all the time, at the rate of nearly one a week. But since the parties are supposed to be on a ceasefire, even an internal infraction like this one could turn—’

‘This is background. You said you had more information.’

Miller, conveying another message from the boss:
cut to the chase,
there’s no time to waste
.

‘Just a couple of oddities. First, the dead man was in his late sixties. That’s older than the usual profile, which tends to match that of the militants themselves.’

Miller raised a damning eyebrow.
Militants
.

‘Or rather the terrorists themselves. Second, we’ve had a word 60

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with our Israeli counterparts today and they tell us this man was precisely what he seemed to be, an elderly archaeologist. He had done no work for them that they knew of.’

‘So the Palestinians got the wrong guy?’

‘That’s possible, Mr Secretary. And death by mistaken identity is not unheard of in this part of the world. But there are other possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

‘It could be the work of a rebel faction. Security’s so tight in Israel just now that they can’t pull off a terrorist outrage here—’

He left a subtle emphasis on the word ‘terrorist’, for Miller’s benefit. ‘So killing one of their own, especially an innocent, well-respected Palestinian like Nour, is the next best thing. It sows dissension among the Palestinians and could provoke the Israelis into breaking off negotiations. Destabilizes the process.’

‘Sounds a long shot to me,’ said Miller, still craning forward in concentration. ‘Israel could say it shows Palestinians are lawless, can’t be trusted with their own state. But Israeli public opinion would never swallow it. Break off the whole peace process just because one Arab’s blown away? Never. What else?’

‘The other curiosity relates to eye-witness reports from Manara Square in Ramallah. The hooded men hardly spoke but when they did, we’re told they had unusual accents.’

‘What kind of accent?’

‘I don’t have that information, sir. I’m sorry.’

‘But they could be Israeli?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

Miller fell back into his chair, took off his glasses and addressed the ceiling. ‘Christ! What are we saying? That this might be an undercover Israeli army operation?’

‘Well, we know Israel has always run undercover units.

Codenamed Cherry and Samson; special forces dressed as Arabs.

This could be their latest operation.’

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Still rubbing his eyes, Miller asked: ‘Why the hell would they do that now?’

‘Again, it might be an effort to destabilize the peace talks. It’s widely known that elements within the Israeli military are fiercely hostile to the compromises the Prime Minister wants to make—’

‘And if this got out, then the Palestinians would be so pissed, they’d walk away. The killing of one of their national heroes.’

‘Yes. And even if the Authority were ready to let it go, the Palestinian street wouldn’t let them.’

‘Hence the accidentally-on-purpose slip of the accent.’ The words were barely audible through the chewing.

‘Its one of the lines of enquiry we’re pursuing.’

‘It’s like a hall of fucking mirrors here!’ Miller threw himself back in his chair. ‘We have the Israelis and the Palestinians at each other’s throats. And now we’ve got rogue elements on both sides.’

‘The possibility at least. Which is why we’re taking a close look at the Guttman killing.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘We’re asking some questions about the security detail that protects the Prime Minister, wondering if it’s possible it was infil-trated. We don’t want to rule out the scenario that the man who shot Guttman did so deliberately, following some other agenda.’

Maggie leaned forward, about to mention her strange encounter with the Guttman widow, the previous night.
His message was urgent, Miss Costello. A matter of life and death
. Maybe it would sound flaky to bring that up here. On the other hand—

It was too late. Miller was getting up out of his chair.

‘OK, people, I think that’s enough Oliver Stone for one session.

Mr Secretary, we’re going to keep pushing the talks at this end as if none of this other stuff was happening. Is that OK with you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And shall I leave you to brief the President?’

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‘Sure. Yes.’ Everyone in the room, including the Secretary of State seven thousand miles away, knew this was an empty courtesy: Miller and the President spoke a dozen times before breakfast, no matter how many time zones stood between them. If there was any briefing to be done he would be doing it, probably within minutes.

Miller looked up. ‘Anything else?’ He looked towards Maggie, who shook her head, and then to the consul who did the same.

‘OK.’

The room broke up, every official eager to show the man from the White House that they were hurrying to return to their duties. Maggie filed out behind Davis.

They all left too fast either to see Miller pull out his cellphone or to hear the three short, staccato words he whispered into it once he was connected to Washington: ‘Everything’s on track.’

C H A P T E R N I N E

JERUSALEM, TUESDAY, 3.17PM

Maggie headed to the room Davis had set up for her, a work space for all State Department visitors. Just a desk, phone and computer. That’s all she would need. She closed the door.

First, she checked her email. One from Liz, in response to a message Maggie had left on her phone, telling her of the sudden trip to Jerusalem. Subject:
You go, girl!

So my serious sister, you’ve finally made it into my crazy world.

You know you’re now a character in Second Life? You know, the
online thing where I waste WAY too much of my time. Seriously.

You’re in some Middle East peace talks simulation thing. It even
looks like you: though they’ve given you a better arse than you
deserve. Here’s a link: take a look . . .

Maggie clicked on it, intrigued. Liz had mentioned Second Life to her a couple of times, insisting it was not just another dumb game but a virtual addition to the real world. Liz loved it, evan-gelizing about the way you could travel and meet people – not orcs or dragon-slayers but real people – without ever leaving 64

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