Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

She was now looming over this tiny staircase, close enough to examine each individually crafted step. It had been impossible to see from afar, the side wall of the staircase kept it in shadow. She crouched down to see the top of the stairs, the flat surface that led onto the gate. She touched it, but felt only dust. Even this, she thought, the model-makers had got right: the same Old City dust she had had on her feet that morning.

Maggie stayed low, scratching away at the dust, until she felt something. A gap, a line between the sidewall of the model staircase and what was meant to be its top landing. She dug in her nails, pulling away the dust. The space continued all around.

Maggie tugged harder now. There was movement, she could feel it. Finally the small rectangle of ground gave way in her hand. She knew that, at long last, she had found it.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of a woman’s screams, followed by the thundering noise of male footsteps, charging as if in an animal stampede. She had barely stood up to her full height when she heard a single word bellowed out at terrifying volume.

‘FREEZE!’

Stationed all around the model city, surrounding it from every angle, were half a dozen men, all dressed in black, their faces covered in masks. And each one of them had an automatic weapon aimed at her head.

JERUSALEM , FRIDAY , 1.32PM

Her eyes searched for Uri, but could see no sign of him. Nor of Mustapha. She remained frozen to the spot.

‘Put your hands in the air. Now!’

Maggie did as she was told, phone in one hand and the clay tablet in the other. Her heart was thumping, powered by the excitement, still coursing through her veins, at finding what she felt sure was the tablet and, now, by sheer mortal terror.

Then a familiar voice. ‘Thank you, Maggie. You surpassed yourself.’

He had been the last to arrive, coming down the stairs only now to join his men on the same level as the model city. ‘I’m grateful. Your country is grateful.’ She had to move her eyes to the left to see him: Bruce Miller.

‘So why don’t we do this cool and calm. You just stay there, and one of my boys will approach and relieve you of the tablet. Try anything stupid and we’ll blow your brains out.’

Maggie could barely think above the throb of her own blood. She was truly cornered; what option did she have but to surrender to Miller? After all she and Uri had been through, she had to face reality. He and his gang of torturers had won.

It was then she heard another voice, nearer than Miller’s yet not as clear. It took her a second to realize where it was coming from.

‘Maggie, it’s Uri.’ The mobile phone, on speaker, crackling away inside her own hand. ‘Listen very carefully. Tell Miller there is a live camera on him right now, streaming pictures of this onto the internet.’

She looked around again; no sign of Uri. He must have seen the men coming and fled down the hillside, perhaps into the trees. And what was this lunacy about cameras and the internet? Blagging your way past some PR girl on the door of a museum was one thing. Trying to bullshit a henchman to the American president was madness.

Then she remembered the moment on the highway, the instant moment of judgment when she had had to decide whether she trusted Uri or not. She had trusted him-and she had been right.

‘Now be a good little girl and give us the tablet. Otherwise my boys might want to finish what they started. Don’t think they didn’t enjoy inspecting that tidy little body a yours inside and out. But, gotta tell ya, they found it a little frustrating, being restricted to the use of their hands and all. Next time, what if they take turns banging you, front and rear, then find a hundred different ways to rub out your boyfriend? How’s that sound?’

Uri’s voice again. ‘Tell him to call the consulate. Get them to look at www.uriguttman.com and tell him what they see.’

Maggie hesitated; a plan was forming in her head. This was a public place, exposed. Miller wouldn’t want to take her by force. Not here, not if he could help it. That was why he hadn’t yet pounced. She spoke again.

‘Is that any way for Bruce Miller, Special Assistant to the President of the United States, to be talking?’

‘I’m the Political Counsellor to the President, if you don’t mind, young lady. Now give me that tablet.’

Maggie smiled. Nothing more important to a Washington man than his title.

Uri’s voice crackled again: ‘Maggie, what are you doing? Tell him about the camera! Tell him to call the consulate!’

Not yet.

‘You mean this?’ She held up the tablet, keeping it as straight and steady as she could. ‘What could be so important about this little object that you’ve got six men aiming their guns at me, an innocent woman-Maggie Costello, negotiator for the United States State Department?’

‘We’ve been over this, Maggie.’

‘It’s just a little bit of clay, Mr Miller. Not much bigger than a credit card. What could be so important about that?’

Uri was boiling over. ‘ Tell him! ’

‘Are you bluffing, Costello? You playing for time, ’cause you been had? Is that some dummy tablet in your hand? ’Cause if it is, you ain’t got nothing. No bargaining chip, no leverage, not a bean.’

‘Oh, I’ve got the real thing here, Bruce Miller, believe me. The last will and testament of Abraham the patriarch. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?’

‘ Maggie! ’ Uri was getting desperate, but she wasn’t done yet.

‘And that’s why Rachel Guttman had to die. And Baruch Kishon. And Afif Aweida and God knows who else. You got your men to kill those people, just because of this, didn’t you?’

‘Maggie, come on. You know why we had to take those people out. If we didn’t get that tablet into safe hands, many more would die. Thousands, maybe even millions.’

‘So you’re not ashamed of killing those people, even though they were innocent? You’re not ashamed of assaulting me and torturing Uri Guttman? Tell me honestly, Bruce Miller. Look me in the eye and tell me.’

‘Ashamed? I’m proud of it.’

‘All right. I’ll give the tablet to you,’ she said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. She had heard what she needed to hear. But the guns remained locked on her.

‘But there’s something you ought to know, Mr Miller. You’ve just made what could be your greatest ever TV appearance. There’s a camera on you right now, relaying this whole conversation onto the internet. Call the consulate. Get someone to log on to www.uriguttman.com. Ask them to describe to you what they see. Go on. If I’m lying you’ll soon find out and then you can do what the hell you like to me.’

She saw Miller pull out his mobile phone and whisper into it.

Uri spoke again. ‘Tell him to wave for the camera.’

Maggie could hear the confidence in Uri’s voice. ‘Come on, Bruce Miller, Political Counsellor to the President of the United States of America, give us a wave,’ she called out.

She heard two words of confirmation, from Miller’s own mouth. They were said quietly, but their meaning was unmistakeable.

‘Holy shit.’

God only knew how, but Uri had not been bluffing. He did indeed have Miller on camera; it had held steady on his face as he had identified himself and confessed everything.

‘That’s mighty clever, Miss Costello. I’ll hand it to you. But with the greatest of respect, who cares about some no-name website? No one was watching that. It went into the ether and now it’s vanished.’

‘Not quite. We’re recording this as it goes out. People will be able to play it again and again.’ It was Uri’s voice, except this time it was not coming through the phone. He was emerging from the hillside, climbing back up through the trees-with a small, hand-held video-camera at his eye. Walking beside him was Mustapha. Maggie could only smile at the sheer cheek of it.