Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

So the customers here, like everyone throughout this city, were watching and waiting. Happy to chat, but not quite ready to commit. Even those watching the replayed scenes from Paradise Square confined themselves to blandly neutral remarks.

‘It’s certainly an historic event,’ said one.

‘People will be seeing this around the world,’ nodded another. Both kept open the option of adding that it was a ‘wicked act by Zionist counter-revolutionaries who must be punished at once’.

Abdel-Aziz kept sipping his tea, patting Salam’s school satchel intermittently to be sure his son’s discovery was still inside. He had been there maybe fifteen minutes when a younger man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, came in, all smiles and confidence.

‘Good afternoon, my brothers!’ he said, beaming. ‘And how is business?’ He laughed loudly. There were nods in his direction, even a couple of hands proffered for shaking. ‘Mahmoud, welcome,’ said one man, by way of greeting.

Mahmoud . Abdel-Aziz cleared his throat. This must be him. I should seize the moment, talk to him right away. Mind you, I mustn’t seem too eager.

But it was too late. The newcomer, in a black leather jacket and with some kind of bracelet around his wrist, had already spotted Abdel-Aziz, catching the look in his eye.

‘Welcome, my friend. You are looking for someone?’

‘I am looking for Mahmoud.’

‘Well, maybe I can help.’ He turned towards the door of the cafe, pretending to shout. ‘Mahmoud! Mahmoud!’ Then, turning back to Abdel-Aziz: ‘Oh look! I’m right here.’ His face disintegrating into an exaggerated, fake laugh.

‘I hear you-’

‘What did you hear?’

‘That people who have-’

‘What have they been saying about Mahmoud? Eh?’

‘Sorry. Maybe I made a mistake-’ Abdel-Aziz got up to leave but he found Mahmoud’s hand on his arm, pushing him back into his seat. He was surprisingly strong.

‘I can see you’re carrying something rather heavy in that bag of yours. Is that something you want to show Mahmoud?’

‘My son got it. Yesterday. From the-’

‘From the same place as everyone else. Don’t worry. I won’t tell. That would be bad for you, bad for me, bad for business.’ He dissolved again into the fake laugh. Then, just as suddenly, the smile died. ‘Bad for your son, too.’

Abdel-Aziz wanted to get away; he did not trust this man one bit. He glanced back at the others in the café. Most were watching the TV, live coverage of a briefing by the US military from Centcom, central command in Doha, Qatar. They were announcing their capture of yet another presidential palace.

‘So shall we do some business, yes?’

‘Is it safe? To show you, here?’

Mahmoud pulled Abdel-Aziz’s chair with a single tug, shifting him round so that their shoulders touched. Now they had their backs to the rest of the drinkers. Between them, they shielded their small, square table from view.

‘Show me.’

Abdel-Aziz unbuckled the satchel, peeled back the leather flap and offered it for Mahmoud’s inspection.

‘Take it out.’

‘I’m not sure I-’

‘If you want to do business, Mahmoud has to see the merchandise.’

Abdel-Aziz laid the satchel flat on the table and slowly eased the object out. Mahmoud’s expression did not change. Instead, he reached over and, without ceremony, unsheathed the tablet from its envelope.

‘OK.’

‘OK?’

‘Yes, you can put it back now.’

‘You’re not interested?’

‘Normally, Mahmoud wouldn’t be interested in such a lump. Clay bricks like this are ten a penny.’

‘But the writing on it-’

‘Who cares about writing? Just a few squiggles. It could be a shopping list. Who cares what some old hag wanted from the fishmongers ten thousand years ago?’

‘But-’

‘But,’ Mahmoud held up a finger, to silence him. ‘But it does come in an envelope. And it’s only had the odd knock to it. I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.’

‘Twenty?’

‘You wanted more?’

‘But this is from the National Museum-’

‘Uh, uh, uh.’ The finger was up again. ‘Remember, Mahmoud doesn’t want to know too much. You say this has been in your family for many generations and given the, er, recent events, you believe now is the time to sell.’

‘But this must be very rare.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr…?’

‘My name is Abdel-Aziz.’ Damn . Why had he given his real name?

‘There are a thousand items like this floating around Baghdad right now. I could step outside and find many like it, with a click of my fingers.’ He clicked them, as if to demonstrate. ‘If you want to do business with someone else-’ He rose to his feet.

Now it was Abdel-Aziz’s turn to extend a restraining hand. ‘Please. Maybe twenty-five dollars?’

‘I am sorry. Twenty is already too much.’

‘I have a family. A son, a daughter-’

‘I understand. Because you seem a good man, I will do you a favour. I will pay you twenty-two dollars. Mahmoud must be crazy: now he will make no money. Instead he makes you rich!’

They shook hands. Mahmoud stood up and asked the café owner to find him a plastic bag. Once he had it, he slipped the tablet inside and peeled off twenty-two American dollars from a thick, grubby wad and handed them to Abdel-Aziz who left the café immediately, his son’s school bag swung over his shoulder, now light and entirely empty.

JERUSALEM , TUESDAY , 10.13PM

Maggie had seen plenty of dead bodies before. She had been part of an NGO team that tried to broker a ceasefire in the Congo, where the one commodity that was in cheap and plentiful supply was human corpses: four million killed there in just a few years. You’d find them in forests, behind bushes, at roadsides, as regular as wild flowers.

But never before had she been this close to one so…fresh. The fading warmth of the woman’s flesh as Maggie touched her back appalled and confused her. She shuddered, instinctively tugging at the woman’s arm, trying to pull her into an upright position, so that she wouldn’t just be lying here, like a, like a…corpse.

That was when she heard the creak of a footstep on the floorboards outside. Maggie wanted to cry out for help. But some reflex squeezed her throat and prevented the words from escaping.

Now the footsteps were heading nearer and Maggie was frozen. The kitchen door swung open. She looked round to see a man’s shape filling the doorframe and, in the shadow, the clear outline of a gun.

This much she had learned from roadblocks in Afghanistan: if a gun is pointed at you, you raise your hands in the air and become very still. If you have to speak, you do so very quietly.

With her arms up, Maggie stared at the barrel of the revolver that was now aimed at her. In the gloom she could see next to nothing.

The gunman’s arm made a sudden movement: Maggie braced herself for a bullet. But instead of firing, he reached to his left, his hand finding the light switch. In a flash, she saw him-and he saw the lifeless woman on the floor.

‘ Eema ?’

He fell to his knees, the gun falling from his hands. He began to do as Maggie had done, tugging at the arm, touching the body. Except now, kneeling beside it, he let his head sink onto the corpse’s back, his head shaking in a way Maggie had never seen before. It was as if every part of his being was crying.

‘I found her here no more than three minutes ago, I swear.’ She hoped this man recognized her as quickly as she had recognized him.

He said nothing, just remained hunched over the body of his dead mother. She tiptoed around him, getting out of his way and closer to the door.