Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

‘You know what I want you to do, don’t you?’

‘I can guess. But why don’t you tell me?’

‘I want you to sell them. So that I can buy them off you.’

‘And that way they’re kosher. “Purchased under auction at Sotheby’s”.’

‘Lucinda, that’s what I love about you. So quick.’

‘Except you don’t love me, Henry. Anyway, it’s impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, let’s say we were actually allowed to sell pieces from… there . If we were, these would go for an absolute bloody fortune. They’re priceless. Far out of your reach. We’d have to lie about what they were. And that would defeat the object rather, wouldn’t it?’

‘You could say they’ve been bought from a private collector in Jordan. That is in fact how I got them.’

‘Except we all know what private collector means, don’t we? Come on, Henry. Everyone’s on the lookout for stuff from you-know-where. It’s the kiss of death. We can’t touch it.’

Henry stared into the puddle of gin at the bottom of his glass. ‘Well, what the hell am I going to do? I have to sell this stuff somehow.’

‘In the old days, I could have introduced you to some very rich people who would have been happy to take them from you on the QT. But it’s different now. This whole ghastly Nazi business has everyone terrified. Unless you can give them ten certificates in triplicate, signed and countersigned, no one will buy a bloody thing.’

‘What would you do?’

‘I’d sit tight, darling. Eventually this stuff will be in major demand. It’s too good to go to waste. But now is not the time.’

When Henry spoke to Jaafar al-Naasri that evening it was only after he had fortified himself with two more stiff drinks. He prepared a script for what he would say, which he delivered with much less fluency than he had planned, the fault of the alcohol and his nerves. But he spat out his basic message. Jaafar would have to be patient and he would have to trust him. Henry would hold back on the prestige, high-value items, which he could continue to keep in the showroom safe or, if Jaafar wished, they could be transferred to a safety deposit box at Henry’s private bank, an institution known for its discretion. They would wait till the market was more propitious. ‘You’ll get the same story all over the world, Jaafar,’ Henry told him when the Jordanian threatened to take his custom to a New York dealer. ‘The Americans are even more uptight on all this than we are.’

Besides, it was not all gloom and doom. Henry had held back some good news, to lighten the call. For the less glamorous items, he had a plan, a way to realize some value sooner rather than later. No, it would not be wise to go into details over the phone. But Henry knew exactly where those clay tablets would be going. And he would take them there himself.

JERUSALEM , WEDNESDAY , 3.14PM

‘I hate the media in this country, I really do.’ Uri was standing at the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see the street outside.

‘Hmm.’

‘They’re like vultures. Look at them, Channel 2 outside in their satellite TV truck. It’s not enough they all had to come here to show the world the death of my parents. They have to stay.’

‘Not only in this country, Uri.’ Maggie was not looking in his direction, but keeping her eye fixed on the computer. She was about to try out her hunch on the gmail account she had discovered on Shimon Guttman’s computer. She logged in as Saeb Nastayib, the name of the man who had sent those mysterious last emails to Ahmed Nour. And, as it happens, an approximate translation of the name Shimon Guttman. For the password, she tried Vladimir as before. ‘Login failed.’ Damn .

She pushed the swivel chair away from the desk, got to her feet and stretched. The worst thing about this line of work, she remembered, was the lack of exercise. As she stretched her arms backwards, her hands meeting in a knot behind her back, she caught Uri’s gaze and realized that, without intending to, she was pushing her breasts forward: his eyes had widened. She hastily repositioned her arms, but she could tell that the image lingered.

‘We need to crack this password thing, Uri. The prompt seems to demand ten characters: Vladimir is only eight.’

‘He always did Vladimir, on everything.’

‘So we need two more letters.’ She opened up a new window, Googled Jabotinsky and discovered his alternative, Hebrew name: Ze’ev.

‘OK,’ she said, typing in VladimirZJ. Nothing. VladimirJ1. Also nothing. VZJabotins. VZJabotin1. She went through at least a dozen permutations.

‘What about a number? What if he did Vladimir12 or Vladimir99? Is there any two digit number that might be significant?’

‘Try 48. The year the state was established.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’ She spoke as she typed: ‘Vladimir48.’

Login failed.

Uri came over to the desk, standing by her side. He bent down, to get a closer look at the screen. She could see the stubble on his cheek.

‘I really thought that would work,’ he said. ‘Maybe I am wrong about Vladimir-’

‘Or maybe we just got the year wrong. For a right-wing-’ She caught herself just in time. ‘For a passionate nationalist like your father, there’s one year that is just as important as 1948. Maybe even more so.’

She typed in Vladimir67 and suddenly the screen altered. An egg-timer graphic appeared, and a new page began loading: the email inbox of Saeb Nastayib.

At the top of the page, still in bold and therefore unread, was a name which gave Maggie a start: Ahmed Nour. She looked at the time the email was sent: 11.25pm on Tuesday evening, a good twelve hours after he was reported dead. She clicked the message open.

Who are you? And why were you contacting my father?

‘It seems Mr Nour Junior knew as little about his father as you did about yours.’

‘It could be a woman. Could be his daughter.’

‘Uri, do you mind if we look at the messages your father sent?’

‘Aren’t you going to reply?’

‘I want to think about it. Let’s see what these two had been saying to each other first.’

She brought up the sent messages, all of which were to Ahmed Nour. This was obviously the back channel the two men had used, an Arabic name so that if anyone was monitoring Nour’s email, they would have no grounds for suspicion.

The last one was sent at 6.08 pm on Saturday, just a few hours before the peace rally at which Guttman was shot dead.

Ahmed, we have the most urgent matter to discuss. I have tried your telephone but without success. Are you able to meet me in Geneva?

Saeb

Maggie instantly scrolled down to the next message, sent at 3.58 pm that same day.

My dear Ahmed, I hope you got my earlier message. Do let me know if your plans permit a trip to Geneva, hopefully in the very near future. We have much to talk about.

My best wishes,

Saeb

There was another at 10.14 am, and two the previous evening. All of them mentioning a planned trip to Geneva. As far as Maggie could see, Ahmed Nour had not replied to any of them. Had they fallen out? Was Ahmed blanking his Israeli colleague? And what was all this about an upcoming trip to Geneva?

Uri had left the piles of papers and pulled up a second chair. He was looking at the screen, but it was clear from his facial expression that he was as baffled as she was. Predicting her question, he turned to her, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t even know my father had been to Geneva.’

‘It seems there was quite a bit about him you didn’t know. Did he keep any kind of diary? You know, a desk planner.’