The Last Testament

‘They're saying all kinds of things.’ A look of sudden comprehension crossed Davis's face. ‘So that's why you're going to the shiva house.’

‘What?’

‘The house of mourning. I just got passed a note saying you're to go, as an unofficial representative. The Israelis asked for it, apparently. Shows respect to the guy, proof that he wasn't being taken out because he opposed the “US-backed” peace process; proof that no one regarded him as an enemy.’

‘But not too official, or it looks like we're endorsing his views.’

‘Right. They think it might help cool things down.’

‘And we've agreed.’

‘We have. Funeral was this morning, as soon as they got the body back from the autopsy. They do them quick here; religious thing, like everything else in this place. But the shiva goes on all week. You've probably got the details on your BlackBerry.’

‘Ah. No BlackBerry, I'm afraid.’

‘Oh, Comms will fix you up with one of those, no problem. I'll get—’

‘I mean, I don't use a BlackBerry. Never have. Keeps you on too tight a leash. Means you're listening to Washington or London or whoever, when you should be listening to the people in the room. Can't stand the things.’

‘Okay.’ Davis looked as if Maggie had admitted a heroin addiction.

‘I wouldn't carry a cellphone either if I could get away with it. Same reason.’

Davis ignored that. ‘Your hotel's just a block away. You can freshen up and the driver will take you there. Widow's name is Rachel.’

CHAPTER SIX (#u08150d5a-4cd8-5f64-be55-b99da7515ae9)

Jerusalem, Monday 7.27pm

The street was jammed, cars parked on both sides, their tyres spilling onto the pavements. It was a well-to-do neighbourhood, Maggie could tell that much: the trees were leafy, the cars BMWs and Mercs. Her driver was struggling to get through, despite the discreet Stars-and-Stripes pennant flying from the bonnet. It had been getting chilly in DC. Here it was still warm in the late evening; there was a sweet, sticky smell coming off the trees.

The path to the building was packed, all the way to the front door. As she squeezed through, she noticed that look again from several of the men in line, their eyes following her as she went past.

‘You are from the embassy, no? From America?’ It was a man at the door, staff or relative Maggie couldn't tell. But clearly he knew she was coming. ‘Please, inside.’

Maggie was pressed into what would ordinarily be a large room. Now it was jammed with people, like rush hour on a subway train. Her height was an advantage: she could see the crowd of heads, the male ones covered in skull caps, and at the front a bearded man she took to be a rabbi.

Yitgadal, v'Yitkadash …

The room hushed for this murmured prayer for the dead man. Then the rabbi spoke a few sentences of Hebrew, turning occasionally to a row of three people sitting on strangely low chairs. From their red eyes and moist noses, Maggie guessed they were Guttman's immediate family: widow, son and daughter. Of the three, only the son was not weeping. He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes dry.

Maggie could feel the crowd behind her. She was not quite sure what she was supposed to do. She should wait her turn to meet the family, but the room was heaving. It would take an hour to get to the front. But if she left now, it could be interpreted – and written up – as a snub. Meanwhile, she could hardly turn to strangers and strike up chitchat. This was not a party.

She smiled politely as she inched her way through. Her height and black trouser suit persuaded most of the mourners that she was some kind of VIP and they made way for her. (Wearing the suit felt strange: it had been so long since she had dressed this way.) Still, she could only move slowly.

She was making progress until she was blocked by a large bookcase. In truth the whole room seemed to be filled with books. They were broken up by the odd ceramic pot or plate, including one with a strikingly ornate blue pattern, but mainly it was books. Across each wall, and from floor to ceiling.

Her face was pressed up close enough to read the titles. Most were in Hebrew; but there was a cluster of books on American politics, including several of the neo-conservative tomes which had once dominated the New York Times bestseller lists. Terrorism: How the West Can Win. Inside the New Jihad. The Coming Clash. The Gathering Storm. She felt she had a good handle on this Mr Guttman. After all, Washington was not short of men who shared his politics. She had encountered more than one of them, at some reception or other, as Edward worked the room while she stood watching, as if from afar, even when she was right next to him. The memory had barely popped into her mind when she felt the accompanying pang. Edward.

‘Please, please, come.’ Her unofficial host had somehow reappeared and now drew Maggie forward. People were forming a line to meet the mourners. She tried to hear what those in front were saying, but she could understand none of it: Hebrew.

At last, it was Maggie's turn to shake hands with the family, nodding respectfully to each one, trying to mould her lips into the shape of pity. First, the daughter, who gave her only a fleeting moment of eye contact. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with short, dark hair interrupted by a few strands of grey; she was attractive, with a face that radiated solid practicality. Maggie guessed she was the person in charge here.

Then the son. Half-standing, half-sitting, he looked at her coldly. He was tall, and more casually dressed than she would have expected in a house of mourning, in dark jeans and a white shirt, both of which looked expensive. His hair, a full, dark head of it, was well cut, too. From the way people hovered around him, it appeared that he was successful or important in some way. Late thirties, Maggie noted; no sign of a wife.

And finally the widow. Maggie's guide bent down, so that the grieving woman could hear him. Self-consciously he spoke in English.

‘Mrs Guttman, this lady is from United States. From the White House, from the President.’

Maggie toyed with correcting him and let it go. ‘I'm so sorry for your loss,’ she said, bending almost double and extending a hand. ‘We wish you to know that you and your family are in the prayers of the American people.’

The widow looked up suddenly. Her hair was dyed black, her eyes nearly the same colour. She gripped Maggie by the wrist, so that Maggie was forced to look into those dark eyes which, still wet, focused intently.

‘You are from the President of the United States?’

‘Well—’

‘You know my husband had an important message. For the Prime Minister.’

‘That's what I understand and it's such a tragedy—’

‘No, no you don't understand. This message, he had been trying to get it to Kobi for days. He called the office; he went to the Knesset. But they would not let him anywhere near. It drove him mad!’ Her grip on Maggie's wrist tightened.

‘Please don't upset yourself—’

‘What is your name?’

‘Maggie Costello.’

‘His message was urgent, Miss Costello. A matter of life and death. Not just his life or Kobi's life, but the lives of everyone in this country, in this whole region. He had seen something, Miss Costello.’

‘Please, Mrs Guttman—’ It was the man who had introduced them, but the widow waved him away.

Maggie crouched lower. ‘You say he had seen something?’

‘Yes. A document, a letter maybe, something, I don't know for sure – but something of the greatest importance. For the last three days of his life, he did not sleep. He just said the same thing over and over. “Kobi must know of this, Kobi must know of this”.’

‘Kobi? The Prime Minister?’

‘Yes, yes. Please understand, what he had to tell Kobi still needs to be told. My husband was not a fool. He knew the risk he took. But he said nothing was more important. He had to tell him what he had seen.’

‘And what had he seen?’

‘Ima, dai kvar!’ It was the son, his voice firm, the voice of a man used to giving instructions. Mother, enough already.

‘He didn't tell me. I only know it was some document, something written. And he said, “This will change everything.” That's what he said. “This will change everything”.’

‘What will change everything?’