Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

‘Maybe,’ Yariv continued, ‘they’d firebomb an Arab playground or two. Even do the Mosque.’

He didn’t need to say which mosque. They both knew the wilder elements of the Machteret dreamed of blowing up the Dome of the Rock, Islam’s most cherished site in the Holy Land, thereby clearing the ground for the rebuilding of the Jewish Temple on the same spot.

‘But these attacks? They make no sense. Why would the Palestinians attack some visitors’ centre in the north? Why do it at night when no one’s around? If you want to screw up the talks, do it in the day! Kill lots of people!’

‘Unless it was a warning.’

‘But that would be a warning. Whenever they wanted to send a message before, that’s how they did it.’

‘Al-Shafi has denied all responsibility for it,’ said Tal.

‘Of course. But Hamas?’

‘They have too. But-’

‘But we don’t know whether to believe them. And this stabbing in Jerusalem. I don’t believe the claim of responsibility. Defenders of United Jerusalem or whatever bullshit name they gave themselves. Why haven’t we heard of them before? There’s always some crackpot group ready to claim credit for actions they didn’t take. Could be just some street crime.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘What do you mean?’ The Prime Minister was now cracking and spitting at a frantic speed.

‘You know we’ve been pursuing the Guttman investigation. We’ve had the son, Uri, under surveillance. He’s working closely with Maggie Costello of the State Department-’

‘The mediator? What the hell’s she got to do with it?’

‘It seems she was passed some kind of message by Rachel Guttman. And, in the absence of any action at Government House, the Americans are letting her pursue it. She’s obviously persuaded them that if she doesn’t close down this Guttman business, there’ll be no peace to negotiate.’

‘So?’

‘So, as you know, Costello and Uri Guttman have established a connection between the Professor and the dead Palestinian, Nour. Well, we think there might be a further connection with the killing in Jerusalem last night.’

‘Go on.’

‘We didn’t have much time to establish surveillance on the apartment they visited last night in Tel Aviv-the home of Baruch Kishon-but we did get a muffled voice recording. It had to be enhanced, but our engineers say that, just before they left, Guttman and Costello had found something, a piece of paper, with a name on it.

‘What name?’

‘Afif Aweida.’

‘I see.’

‘So,’ Tal went on, ‘it seems Guttman spoke to Kishon, mentioned Aweida’s name. And suddenly Aweida ends up dead.’

Yariv paused. There was silence, but for the sucking sound as a particularly fat seed lodged between his teeth. ‘Well, who else was listening-?’

‘That’s why I’m glad we’re meeting here alone today, Prime Minister.’

‘You don’t think-’

‘Military intelligence are the only people besides you and me who have access to our surveillance.’

‘That’s crazy. What, you think Yossi Ben-Ari, the Defence Minister of the State of Israel, could be running his own rogue operation? Killing this Arab in the market?’

‘If his people were listening in last night, he would have had the name.’

‘Why would he do it?’

‘I don’t know why he would have picked out this specific man. We’d have to know what this whole Guttman business was all about to understand that. But the bigger picture-’

‘-is that he’s trying to sabotage the peace talks. Bring me down; take over himself. Jesus .’

‘I know it’s not-’

‘Possible partners?’

‘Maybe Mossek. Perhaps the Chief of Staff.’

‘It’s a military coup!’

‘We can’t be sure.’

‘Why, who else could have done this?’

‘If we accept that this was not a random crime, that this was indeed the man Kishon knew of, well, then the suspects could be anybody who knew of his identity. Of his connection to the Guttman business.’

‘But that could only be the American woman and Guttman’s son.’

‘We can’t rule it out.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense. This is not one of your crazy videogames, Amir. This is the real world.’

‘We have to follow every lead.’

The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair, balling up the paper bag that had once been full of sunflower seeds but which was now empty. He sighed deeply.

‘What you are suggesting here-’

‘I’m not suggesting anything.’

‘-is that there are rogue elements within the military establishment of the state of Israel, killing and doing God knows what else to topple the elected government of this country. And to deny us the best chance of peace in a generation.’

‘You know the army’s attitude to what we’re doing. They never liked the pull-out from Gaza; you think they’re going to like this? Tearing down settlements in the West Bank? Handing over half of Jerusalem?’

Yariv smiled, the wistful smile of an old man who thought he had seen it all. ‘I promoted Ben-Ari, you know. Made him a general. “But Brutus is an honourable man…”’

‘What do you want me to do, Prime Minister?’

‘I think you have to set up an intelligence team answerable solely to this office. Check them for political allegiance. Make sure they have no doubts about the peace talks. Use leftists and druggie dropouts if you have to. Just make sure they’re loyal. Cut defence and the IDF out of the loop. And then, once you have the team in place, set them on Mossek and Ben-Ari. Bug their phone calls and their meetings. I want to see their emails, their text messages, the colour of the paper they use to wipe their arses in the morning.’

‘It’s done.’

‘Just to prove you’re wrong, that’s the only reason I’m doing this. And one other thing.’

‘Yep.’

‘Keep on Costello and Guttman Junior. Don’t let them out of our sight. If they’re about to find the explanation for all this madness, then good. They can lead us to it.’

JERUSALEM , THURSDAY , 11.11AM

She had no idea how long she had remained stuck on the ground. It might have been a minute, five or ten. She had stayed there, inert, since they had dumped her and fled. She had not watched where the men had gone. She had not phoned for help. She had been too frozen for that, temporarily too stunned by what had happened. Unhelpfully, her body insisted on repeating the sensation of the tongue in her ear and the hand on her crotch. Her skin, her flesh, remembered these invasions with perfect accuracy.

Maggie had just begun the effort to pull herself together, to persuade herself that it could have been much worse, that they could have killed her, when a hand reached out.

It belonged to a woman, staring down, her face a picture of concern and puzzlement. After a long while, the creases in her face briefly relaxed. ‘You are the American lady. From the Aweida house.’ Only to tense up all over again. ‘What are you doing here?’

It forced Maggie to get up and dust herself down, to deploy the protective shell she had had to grow these last few years. She said nothing, gasping only at the pain that shot up her spine, fizzing like a firework, as she stood: a silvery flash that made her eyes water.

The woman was leading her down the alley, towards the washing line. At the end of it, there were two small steps down into a tiny yard, no more than a couple of metres square. Then a room, with a kitchen in the corner, a TV set and a child at a table, drawing. Perhaps he was one of the boys she had seen playing football earlier. Maybe he had seen something. Or perhaps the boys had not been playing here at all but at the other end of the alley. She had lost her bearings entirely.