The Last Testament Part 20

'Stay away.'

'Stay away from what?' she tried to croak.

The hand came off her throat, so that it could join with the other in taking hold of her shoulders. He held her like that for a second, then moved her whole body forward about six inches, so that she was tight against him. Then, still holding both shoulders, he rammed her hard in the other direction, straight into the wall.

The pain shuddered all the way through her, reaching the top of her skull. She wondered if he had shattered her spine. She wanted to double over, but still he held her upright, as if she was a doll that would slump into a heap if he let go.

Suddenly she heard a new voice, whispered directly into her left ear. For an instant she was confused. The black mask was still in front of her, its mouth only inches from hers. How was he speaking into her ear at the same time? Now she understood. There was a second man, invisible in the shadows, who had been pinning her to the wall from the side. 'You know what we're talking about, Maggie Costello.'

The voice was strange, indeterminate. It sounded foreign, but from where Maggie couldn't say. Was it Middle Eastern? Or European? And how many of these men were there? Was there a third attacker she hadn't seen? The surprise of the a.s.sault, combined with the darkness, had disoriented her entirely. Her senses seemed to have short-circuited, the wires crossed. She wasn't sure where the pain was coming from.

Now she felt a hand on her leg, squeezing a thigh. 'Do you hear me, Maggie?'

Her heart was thumping, her body still writhing in futile protest. She was trying to work out what kind of voice she was hearingwas it Arab, was it Israeli?when she felt a sensation that made her quake.

The breath on her ear had turned moist, as she registered the unmistakable sensation of a tongue probing inside it. She let out the first sounds of a scream, but the gloved hand was back, sealing her mouth. And now the other hand, the one that had been gripping her thigh, relaxedonly to move upward, clamping itself between Maggie's legs.

Her eyes began to water. She was trying to kick, but the first man was pressed too close: she could hardly move her legs. And still this hand was squeezing her, grabbing her crotch the way it would grip at a man's b.a.l.l.s if trying to inflict the maximum punishment.

'You like that, Maggie Costello?' The voice, its accent still so elusive, was hot and breathy in her ear. It could have been Arab, it could have been Israeli. Or neither. 'No? Don't like it?' She felt the tongue and face move six inches away from her. 'Then f.u.c.k off.' The first man let go of her shoulders, then pushed her to the ground. 'Otherwise we'll be back for more.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 11.05 AM AM.

Tradition held that this hour was reserved for the forum, the informal kitchen cabinet of advisers that had surrounded Yariv since he first considered an entry into politics three decades ago. Every Thursday morning, the working week nearly over, was the hour to digest and a.n.a.lyse events, spot mistakes, devise solutions and plot the next moves ahead. They had been doing it when Yariv was Defence Minister, then Foreign Minister; when he was in the wilderness of opposition. Even, truth be told, when he was still in uniform serving as Chief of Staff. That was a politician's job, whatever they might pretend, and don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise.

There had only been one change in the personnel. The two old buddies from army days still came, one now in advertising, the other in the import business. And so was his wife, Ruth, whose counsel Yariv weighed seriously. The only change was of necessity. His son, Aluf, had been a regular until he was killed in Lebanon three years ago. Amir Tal had taken his place, a fact seized on by the Israeli press who constantly described the young adviser as the PM's adopted son, even, in a phrase that punned in Hebrew, Aluf BetAluf the Second.

Ideally, the meetings happened at home, with Ruth bringing coffee and strudel. But not today. Things were too serious, he told Amir, to leave the office early. The forum would be just the two of them.

The talks at Government House were now effectively on hold, only a skeleton presence maintained on both sides. Neither Israel nor the Palestinians wanted to be accused by the Americans of pulling the plug, so they hadn't dared walk out completely. But no serious work was being done. It meant the centrepiece of the Yarivthe peace effortwas collapsing before their eyes. He was taking heat from the rightthe settlers with their d.a.m.ned human chain around Jerusalemand he was ready to take it, but not if there was nothing to show for it. He remembered the man who had sat in this office just a few years ago, who had seen his premiership crumble in a matter of months once the Camp David attempt unravelled.

What was worse, he now confided in Amir Tal, as he spat the sunflower seeds into his hand, was that he felt confused.

'Look, a pigua pigua', a suicide bombing, 'from Hamas or Jihad I fully expected. They did it to Rabin and they did it to Peres. They even did it to Bibi, for G.o.d's sake. Anyone gets close to a deal, they're on an Egged bus with dynamite strapped to their belly. I expected that.' He raised his hand, signalling that he had not yet finished.

'Even the Machteret Machteret I was expecting to hear from.' They had both a.s.sumed that a resurgence of the Jewish underground was on the cards. Back in the 1980s, a handful of settlers and religious fanatics had sent bombs in the post or planted them under cars, maiming a series of Palestinian politicians. Several of their victims were still active, appearing on television in wheelchairs or with terrible facial disfigurement. I was expecting to hear from.' They had both a.s.sumed that a resurgence of the Jewish underground was on the cards. Back in the 1980s, a handful of settlers and religious fanatics had sent bombs in the post or planted them under cars, maiming a series of Palestinian politicians. Several of their victims were still active, appearing on television in wheelchairs or with terrible facial disfigurement.

'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 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. 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 would be a warning. Whenever they wanted to send a message before, that's how they did it.' 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 bulls.h.i.t 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 h.e.l.l's she got to do with it?'

'It seems she was pa.s.sed 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 Avivthe home of Baruch Kis...o...b..t we did get a m.u.f.fled 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 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 ident.i.ty. 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 G.o.d 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 att.i.tude 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 a.r.s.es 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.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 11.11 AM AM.

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 sh.e.l.l 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.

She was now perched at the end of a couch, while her rescuer fired up a small gas-ring stove to make mint tea, when all Maggie yearned for was a cup of her mother's old Typhoo, the way her dad used to have it, with three sugars. She looked at her hands, which were shaking, and realized how far from home she had come. It had been nearly twenty years, and still here she was, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by men who were ready to commit horrible violence.

'You are welcome in my house.' It was a male voice and it made her jump. She looked up to see a man in a faded blue suit, with a long thin face and a head of closely cropped hair, black turning to silver.

The woman turned around and they began speaking in Arabic. She was explaining what had happened, gesturing towards Maggie at intervals.

'Now you are safe,' he said, flashing a smile that unsettled her. He turned his back and Maggie exhaled; she didn't want him here. But he wasn't leaving: he had simply gone to collect an ashtray.

'So you are American?'

'I'm Irish,' Maggie said, her voice quiet and distant.

'Yes? We like the Irish very much. But you work for the Americans, am I right?' He was smiling throughout, a forced smile that made Maggie want to look away. When the woman brought tea, Maggie was glad of the distraction, glad of the business with the cup and spoon that would keep her from talking to this man.

'And why were you here?'

'Nabil!' In Arabic, Maggie guessed, the wife was telling her husband to leave the girl alone. While they spoke, she dug into her pocket to pull out her phone. There was a text message, from Uri: Where are you? Where are you?

She was beginning a reply, when her host leaned across to her, all but reaching to take the phone.

'You don't need to call anyone. We'll take care of you. What is it you need? Anything you need, please, just to ask.'

Maggie suddenly had the strong urge to get away, to be out of this rabbit warren of streets and into the daylight. She wanted to remove and destroy these clothes and stand under a shower for as long as it would take to wash away the- 'Please. Tell me. If you work for the American government, why are you here on your own? Where is your protection?' The smile was as wide as before, the teeth bared. 'Is there really no one here to protect you?'

Maggie felt her hands, which until then had been as cold and inert as the rest of her, turn clammy. Instinctively, she looked for the doorway where she had come in. It was closed.