by Sam Bourne
But then there was another sound. This time a footstep, unmistakable. Ahmed turned around to see two men coming towards him. Both were wearing black hoods which covered their faces entirely. The taller man was holding up a finger, which he theatrically placed over his lips. Hush.
‘What? What is this?’ said Ahmed, his knees buckling.
‘Just come with us,’ said the tall man, something strange in his accent. ‘Now!’ And for the first time Ahmed saw the gun, lifted and aimed straight at him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HE US C ONSULATE , J ERUSALEM , T UESDAY , 2.14 PM
‘Our information is that the body, riddled with bullets, was dumped by two hooded men in Ramallah’s main square about 10.45 local time. The corpse was propped up and displayed to the crowd for about fifteen minutes, then taken away by the same two hooded men who’d brought it there.’
‘Collaborator killing?’
‘Exactly.’ The CIA station chief turned towards Maggie, offering extra tuition to the newcomer to the class. ‘This is standard punishment meted out by Palestinians to any Palestinian deemed guilty of collaborating with Israeli intelligence. Usually they’re accused of tipping off Israel as to the whereabouts of wanted terrorists or have warned the Israelis when an attack’s coming.’
‘What’s the Israeli reaction?’ The questions were coming out of a speakerphone pulled to the centre of the polished wood table: the voice of the Secretary of State in Washington. He had left it to his deputy to manage this last stage of talks on the ground. He had wanted to keep his distance, in case of failure.
‘So far pretty muted. Some boilerplate about Palestinians needing to prove they believe in the rule of law. But that was only a low-level spokesman, when prompted in a media interview. Nothing from any of the principals. I think they want to treat this as an internal-’
‘No chance they’d break off talks over this?’
‘We don’t think so, sir.’
‘Unless they’re looking for an excuse.’
‘Which they’re not at this stage.’ It was his deputy, raising his voice to be picked up by the phone. ‘The talks are painfully difficult right now, but no one’s walking away.’
‘Still hung up on refugees?’
‘And Jerusalem. Yes.’
‘Remember, we can’t let this go on forever. If we’re not careful, it’s one delay, then another and before you know it-’
‘-it’s November.’ This from Bruce Miller, officially titled Political Counsellor to the President, unofficially his most trusted consigliere, at his side since his first run for Attorney General in Georgia more than twenty-five years earlier. They spent more time together than either man did with his wife. His presence in Jerusalem confirmed what they all knew. That this push for peace was inseparable from American domestic politics.
‘Hello, Bruce.’ Maggie detected a sudden meekness in the Secretary of State.
‘I was just about to agree with you, Mr Secretary,’ Miller began, his voice twanging between a down-home southern accent and the Nicorette gum he chewed from morning till night. He had given up cigarettes eleven years ago, aided by a variety of nicotine substitutes. The patch had gone, but not the gum: it was his new addiction.
‘I mean, they’ve only had sixty years to think of an answer to all this. Jesus! We can’t maintain this pitch forever.’ He was leaning forward now, his wiry frame hunched so that his mouth would be closer to the telephone. His neck seemed to jut out at key moments, the two horns of hair bestriding his bald pate floating upward as he did so. Maggie tried to work out what he reminded her of. Was it a cockerel, its head popping forward and back metronomically? Or a feisty bantamweight in an illegal ring, somewhere in the backstreets of old Dublin, ready to fight dirty if he had to? He was mesmerizing to watch.
‘We keep saying-’ he gestured at a TV set in the corner, silently showing Fox News, ‘this is about to get resolved this week. If nothing happens, we’re back to square one. Only trouble is, there’s no such place in the Middle East. Doesn’t fucking exist! You never can just stand still. Screw it up here, and you go right back. Look what happened after Camp David. Israelis were shooting Arabs in the streets and Arabs were blowing up every café in Jerusalem. Because the folk who sat in these chairs tried to get it right and they screwed up.’
Silence, including from the speakerphone. They knew what this was: a rollicking from the top, doubtless with more to come.
‘We do have more on this collaborator killing,’ said the CIA man, a tentative attempt to alter the mood.
‘Yes?’ The Secretary of State.
‘As I said earlier, ordinarily such a minor incident wouldn’t warrant any discussion at all. At the height of the last intifada, these summary executions were happening all the time, at the rate of nearly one a week. But since the parties are supposed to be on a ceasefire, even an internal infraction like this one could turn-’
‘This is background. You said you had more information.’ Miller, conveying another message from the boss: cut to the chase, there’s no time to waste.
‘Just a couple of oddities. First, the dead man was in his late sixties. That’s older than the usual profile, which tends to match that of the militants themselves.’
Miller raised a damning eyebrow. Militants.
‘Or rather the terrorists themselves. Second, we’ve had a word with our Israeli counterparts today and they tell us this man was precisely what he seemed to be, an elderly archaeologist. He had done no work for them that they knew of.’
‘So the Palestinians got the wrong guy?’
‘That’s possible, Mr Secretary. And death by mistaken identity is not unheard of in this part of the world. But there are other possibilities.’
‘Such as?’
‘It could be the work of a rebel faction. Security’s so tight in Israel just now that they can’t pull off a terrorist outrage here-’ He left a subtle emphasis on the word ‘terrorist’, for Miller’s benefit. ‘So killing one of their own, especially an innocent, well-respected Palestinian like Nour, is the next best thing. It sows dissension among the Palestinians and could provoke the Israelis into breaking off negotiations. Destabilizes the process.’
‘Sounds a long shot to me,’ said Miller, still craning forward in concentration. ‘Israel could say it shows Palestinians are lawless, can’t be trusted with their own state. But Israeli public opinion would never swallow it. Break off the whole peace process just because one Arab’s blown away? Never. What else?’
‘The other curiosity relates to eye-witness reports from Manara Square in Ramallah. The hooded men hardly spoke but when they did, we’re told they had unusual accents.’
‘What kind of accent?’
‘I don’t have that information, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘But they could be Israeli?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Miller fell back into his chair, took off his glasses and addressed the ceiling. ‘Christ! What are we saying? That this might be an undercover Israeli army operation?’
‘Well, we know Israel has always run undercover units. Codenamed Cherry and Samson; special forces dressed as Arabs. This could be their latest operation.’
Still rubbing his eyes, Miller asked: ‘Why the hell would they do that now?’
‘Again, it might be an effort to destabilize the peace talks. It’s widely known that elements within the Israeli military are fiercely hostile to the compromises the Prime Minister wants to make-’
‘And if this got out, then the Palestinians would be so pissed, they’d walk away. The killing of one of their national heroes.’
‘Yes. And even if the Authority were ready to let it go, the Palestinian street wouldn’t let them.’
‘Hence the accidentally-on-purpose slip of the accent.’ The words were barely audible through the chewing.
‘Its one of the lines of enquiry we’re pursuing.’
‘It’s like a hall of fucking mirrors here!’ Miller threw himself back
in his chair. ‘We have the Israelis and the Palestinians at each other’s throats. And now we’ve got rogue elements on both sides.’
‘The possibility at least. Which is why we’re taking a close look at the Guttman killing.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘We’re asking some questions about the security detail that protects the Prime Minister, wondering if it’s possible it was infiltrated. We don’t want to rule out the scenario that the man who shot Guttman did so deliberately, following some other agenda.’
Maggie leaned forward, about to mention her strange encounter with the Guttman widow, the previous night. His message was urgent, Miss Costello. A matter of life and death. Maybe it would sound flaky to bring that up here. On the other hand-
It was too late. Miller was getting up out of his chair.
‘OK, people, I think that’s enough Oliver Stone for one session. Mr Secretary, we’re going to keep pushing the talks at this end as if none of this other stuff was happening. Is that OK with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And shall I leave you to brief the President?’
‘Sure. Yes.’ Everyone in the room, including the Secretary of State seven thousand miles away, knew this was an empty courtesy: Miller and the President spoke a dozen times before breakfast, no matter how many time zones stood between them. If there was any briefing to be done he would be doing it, probably within minutes.
Miller looked up. ‘Anything else?’ He looked towards Maggie, who shook her head, and then to the consul who did the same. ‘OK.’
The room broke up, every official eager to show the man from the White House that they were hurrying to return to their duties. Maggie filed out behind Davis.
They all left too fast either to see Miller pull out his cellphone or to hear the three short, staccato words he whispered into it once he was connected to Washington: ‘Everything’s on track.’
CHAPTER NINE
J ERUSALEM , T UESDAY , 3.17 PM
Maggie headed to the room Davis had set up for her, a work space for all State Department visitors. Just a desk, phone and computer. That’s all she would need. She closed the door.
First, she checked her email. One from Liz, in response to a message Maggie had left on her phone, telling her of the sudden trip to Jerusalem. Subject: You go, girl!
So my serious sister, you’ve finally made it into my crazy world. You know you’re now a character in Second Life? You know, the online thing where I waste WAY too much of my time. Seriously. You’re in some Middle East peace talks simulation thing. It even looks like you: though they’ve given you a better arse than you deserve. Here’s a link: take a look…
Maggie clicked on it, intrigued. Liz had mentioned Second Life to her a couple of times, insisting it was not just another dumb game but a virtual addition to the real world. Liz loved it, evangelizing about the way you could travel and meet people-not orcs or dragon-slayers but real people-without ever leaving your computer. It sounded horrendous to Maggie, but her curiosity was piqued. What did Liz mean, that Maggie was now a ‘character’ in it? A ‘peace talks simulation thing’ she understood: there were several of those online, where graduate students would role-play their way through the latest round of Middle East negotiations. Impressive that they already knew she was in Jerusalem. She guessed there had been a paragraph in one of the Israeli papers.
The computer eggtimer was still showing, before eventually freezing in defeat. A message popped up saying something about a security block on the consulate network. Never mind, thought Maggie. Some other time.
She went back through the inbox. Still nothing from Edward. She wondered if that would be it, if they would ever speak again, other than to arrange the removal of what was left of her stuff. Which, thanks to him, was not much.
She clicked her email shut then, out of habit, brought up the New York Times and Washington Post websites. The Times had a story about the Israel shooting on Saturday night, including a profile of the dead man. Happy for the distraction, she read through it.
Shimon Guttman first came to prominence after the Six Day War in 1967, in which he was said to have performed with military distinction. Seizing the chance to make the most of Israel’s new control of the historic West Bank territories of Judea and Samaria, Guttman was among the group of activists who famously found an ingenious way to re-establish a Jewish presence in the heavily Arab city of Hebron. Disguised as tourists, they rented rooms in a Palestinian hotel, ostensibly to host a Passover dinner, or seder. Once installed, they refused to leave. In the stand-off with the Israeli authorities that followed, Guttman was especially vocal, insisting that the Jewish connection to Hebron was stronger than with anywhere else in the land of Israel. ‘This is the spot where the Oak of Abraham stands, the ancient tree where Avraham Avinu, Abraham our father, pitched his tent,’ he told reporters in 1968. ‘Here is the Tomb of the Patriarchs, where Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are all buried. Without Hebron, we are nothing.’ Guttman and his fellow activists eventually struck a deal with the Israeli authorities, vacating the hotel and moving instead to a hill northeast of Hebron where they established the Jewish settlement of Kiryat Arba. That hilltop outpost has since flourished into the modern city that exists today, though speculation mounts as to its fate in the new peace accord which could be signed as soon as this week.
That would explain it, thought Maggie. Guttman was worried that the settlement he had founded was about to be surrendered to the Palestinians, along with the scores of other Jewish towns and villages Israel was bound to give up. He had been trying to persuade the Prime Minister to change his mind. And he clearly enjoyed the dramatic gesture. He had climbed a roof in Gaza a few years back and had, she now saw, seized a hotel in Hebron a generation before that. A regular performance artist, she thought.
She Googled him, looking into the handful of English language websites carrying Israeli news. They all told similar stories. Guttman had been first a war hero and then a right-wing extremist with a knack for the big stunt. One site contained a clip of video, apparently from a protest, Guttman at the front of a crowd on some dusty hilltop, all of them waving Israeli flags. Maggie guessed it was some settlement, either about to go up or come down.
He had been an imposing figure, a thick plume of grey hair blowing in the breeze, a healthy belly spilling over the top of his trousers. He filled the frame. ‘The Palestinians need to look at the history,’ he was saying. ‘Because the history says it as clear as can be: the Jews were here first. This land belongs to us. All of it.’
It all seemed pretty straightforward. He was a hawk, determined to make his last stand by appealing to the Prime Minister direct. He got too close and was gunned down. Simple.
And yet there was something about what Rachel Guttman had said, and the way she had said it, that nagged at her. She had insisted that her husband had seen something-a document, a letter-that would change everything, in the last three days of his life. Maggie looked at her wrist, where the widow had gripped her so tightly. Poor woman. To be so stricken with grief that she had started ranting at her, a total stranger. Maggie had seen other people who had lost loved ones trying, madly, to detect some higher meaning in the violent death of their husband, wife, mother or child. Claiming that the slain person had somehow foreseen their own death; that they were about to do one last great deed; that they were poised to make everything right. Maybe Rachel Guttman was suffering from that same, melancholy delusion. Maggie rubbed her wrist.
There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Davis walked in.
‘OK, the United States has decided to deploy its secret weapon.’
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’
‘You.’
Davis explained that, as feared, the Palestinian delegation to Government House were now threatening to pull out over the death of the archaeologist. They suspected the hand of Israel. ‘We need you to talk them off the ledge. Deputy Secretary wants to see you in five mi
nutes.’
Maggie collected her papers and moved to turn off the computer. She was about to shut down the website of the Israeli newspaper, Haaretz, the last one she had searched for information on Guttman, when she changed her mind, quickly checking the front page, just in case there was fresh word on the Nour case.
There was a news story, which she skim-read. It was written up as a straight collaborator killing: no mention of any possible Israeli involvement. But accompanying it was a picture of the dead Palestinian, what seemed to be a snap from a family album. The archaeologist, with his thick salt-and-pepper moustache, was smiling at the camera, holding up a glass. A disembodied arm was draped over his shoulder, as if he were posing with an unseen friend.
Maggie got up to go, following Davis, but something drew her back to the picture on the screen. She had seen something familiar, without being able to identify what it was. She looked at Nour’s eyes, but they gave nothing away. What was it she had seen? For a fleeting moment, she thought she had grasped it-only for it slip back below the surface, out of reach. She would see it again, though-and much sooner than she expected.
CHAPTER TEN
R AMALLAH , THE W EST B ANK , T UESDAY , 4.46 PM
Her first surprise was at the brevity of the journey. She had climbed into the back of one of the consulate’s black Land Cruisers only fifteen minutes earlier and yet now her driver, Marine Sergeant Kevin Lee, was telling her that she was crossing the Green Line, out of ‘Israel-proper’ and into the lands the country took in the Six Day War of 1967.
But it was an invisible border. There were no markings, no guards, no welcome signs. Instead, they were in what looked like another residential Jerusalem neighbourhood-one apartment building after another in that smooth, gleaming stone-when Lee gestured, ‘This is Pisgat Ze’ev. Even the people who live here don’t realize this is across the Green Line.’ He turned to look at Maggie. ‘Or they don’t want to realize.’