Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

‘What’s that got to do with Bet Alpha?’

‘It’s the same thing. An attempt, while we’re thrashing out who gets what, to weaken the other side’s claim. To tilt the scales in our favour. “Look, there’s now one less ancient Jewish site here. Maybe it never existed!”’

‘This is nuts.’

‘It is nuts. But I think some Palestinian took it into his head to do us a favour. To lend us a helping hand.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you have a better explanation?’

There was silence, broken eventually by Amiry. ‘And there’s the trader. This man Aweida, stabbed to death in Jerusalem.’

‘What can you tell me?’

‘Not very much. Apparently there was some Hebrew message pinned to the body. A page of the Torah. And Army Radio in Israel is reporting a claim of responsibility from a group nobody’s ever heard of. The Defenders of United Jerusalem.’

‘Settlers?’

‘Maybe.’

Al-Shafi rubbed his chin, scratching at his stubble. ‘In which case, Yariv is sweating right now.’

Toubi chipped in. ‘They always thought the Machteret would resurface eventually.’ Machteret , the Jewish underground. Like al-Shafi, he had learned his Hebrew in an Israeli jail.

‘If it has, they’ll be killing us. But it’s him they want to hurt.’

‘What would you like us to do, Mr al-Shafi?’ It was Amiry, who had risen through a movement of ideologues by remaining determinedly practical.

‘I want you to find out whatever you can about the incident in Bet Alpha. Comb the Israeli papers: read the military correspondents. Anything the army finds out, they always leak. And see what people here know about Afif Aweida. He has cousins in Bethlehem, I’m told. Talk to them. Was this man picked out at random, or is there a reason why a few Israeli fanatics would kill a greengrocer?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. I want to know what that American woman, Costello, is up to. She called me with more questions about Ahmed Nour. There are at least three mysterious murders here, my friends. Unless we understand what’s going on, there will be more. And a lot of Palestinians will be dead-along with the best chance of independence any of us will ever see. I think you know what to do.’

EAST JERUSALEM , THURSDAY , 9.40AM

For the second time in a week she was entering a house of mourning. This was a new development for her, though she knew of others for whom it was a standard ploy in the mediator’s repertoire. At a critical week in the Northern Ireland peace talks, for example, two young men, good friends-one Protestant, the other Catholic-were shot dead in a pub. The killings were designed to halt the peace process, but they did the opposite, reminding everyone why they were sick to the back teeth of war. The negotiating teams visited the bereaved families and came out with their resolve doubled. Maggie remembered it well: she had followed it all on a crackling shortwave radio, deep in southern Sudan. And when London and Dublin announced the Good Friday Agreement she had sat in her tent with tears rolling down her cheeks.

These killings in Jerusalem lacked the moral clarity of the Belfast deaths. Truth be told, they had no bloody clarity at all. Shimon Guttman might have been shot simply because he appeared to be threatening the life of the prime minister; Ahmed Nour could have been a collaborator, executed for his crime; Rachel Guttman might have killed herself; the kibbutz up north might have been firebombed by angry Palestinian teenagers. Only the murder of Afif Aweida, claimed by some fringe Israeli group, seemed to be a clear attempt to sabotage the peace talks. But no one could be sure.

So Maggie’s visit to the Aweida mourning house didn’t quite carry the emotional weight of the equivalent journey in Belfast all those years ago. She wasn’t there to mourn two lads, a Jew and an Arab, who had been shot dead while drinking together. In truth, she wasn’t there to mourn at all. She had come to find out what the hell was going on.

The house was full, as she had expected. It was noisy, with a piercing wail that rose and fell like a wave. She soon saw the source of it, a group of women huddled around an older woman, swathed in shapeless, embroidered black. Her face seemed to have been worn away by tears.

A path formed for Maggie as she made her way through the mourners. There were women constantly brushing their cheeks with the palms of their hands, as if trying to banish a dust that would never clear. Some were crouched low, pounding the floor. It was a scene of abject grief.

Eventually Maggie reached the front of the room where she found a woman whom she guessed was around her own age, dressed in simple, Western clothes. She was not crying but seemed simply stunned into silence.

‘Mrs Aweida?’

The woman said nothing, staring past Maggie, into the middle distance. Her eyes seemed hollow.

‘Mrs Aweida, I am with the international team in Jerusalem trying to bring peace.’ Something told Maggie ‘American’ was not the right word to use here. ‘I came to pay my respects to your husband and to offer my condolences on your terrible loss.’

The woman still stared blankly, seemingly oblivious to Maggie’s words and the noise all around. Maggie stayed there, crouching down, looking at the widow as long as she could before eventually placing a hand on hers, squeezing it and moving away. She would not intrude.

A man materialized to steer Maggie away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please, you to know we thank America. For you to come here. Thank you.’

Maggie nodded and smiled her weary half-smile. But he hadn’t finished speaking.

‘He was a simple man. All he did was sell tomato and carrot and apple. He no kill anyone.’

‘Oh, I know. It’s a terrible crime that happened to your-’

‘My cousin. I am Sari Aweida.’

‘Tell me. Do you also work in the market?’

‘Yes, yes. All of us, we work in market. For many year. Many year.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I sell meat. I am butcher. And my brother he sell scarf, for the head. Keffiyeh . You know what is keffiyeh? ’

‘Yes, I do. Tell me, are you all called Aweida?’

‘Ah, yes. Yes, we are all Aweida. Aweida family.’

‘Tell me. Is there anyone in your family who sells old things. You know old stones, pots. Antiquities?’

He looked puzzled.

‘Jewellery perhaps?’

‘Ah! Jewels! I understand. Yes, yes. My cousin, he sell jewel.’

‘And antiques?’

‘Yes, yes. Antique. He sell in the market.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Of course. He live near to here.’

‘Thank you, Sari.’ Maggie smiled. ‘And what is his name?’

‘His name also Afif. He is Afif Aweida.’

JERUSALEM , THURSDAY , 10.05AM

As they threaded through the back streets, narrow and made of the same pale stone as the rest of Jerusalem, Maggie realized that no one in the family had suspected that the Afif Aweida they were about to bury had been the victim of a case of mistaken identity. If it was a random killing, how could the killers have got the wrong man?

Because it was not a random killing. Of that Maggie was now certain. She pulled out her mobile to dial Uri’s number. A text message had arrived while she was in the Aweida house. From Edward. He must have sent it in the middle of the night.

We need to talk about what to do with your stuff. E.

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.