The Last Testament

‘No, I don't. So tell me, who are you and what are you playing at? Tell me now or I'll call the police.’

‘You know who I am, Maggie. You know very well. I'm you.’

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

Washington, Sunday, 10.43am

It wasn't a surprise. She had known that much the moment he had mentioned Africa and the UN. He had been telling her own life story back to her, pretending it was his own. It was a nasty little trick.

Still, that wasn't why she had grown agitated: she was used to dealing with creeps. This man seemed to know everything about her. Including her – what had he called it? – ‘mistake’.

‘I'm not here to taunt you.’

‘But you're not here for bloody divorce mediation either, are you?’

‘There's no wife for me to divorce. I'm like you used to be. Married to the job.’

‘And what job is that exactly?’

‘I work for the same people you used to work for. The United States government. My name is Judd Bonham.’ He extended a hand.

Maggie ignored it, heading slowly backwards towards her chair. She was reeling. First Edward and the boxes and now this. Initially, she had him down as some psycho stalker, a jilted husband who blamed her for his divorce. It wouldn't be too difficult to Google her whole life story, then trick his way in to scare her, to freak her out. But she had read him wrong. He was here on official business. But what on earth could it be? She hadn't done anything for the Agency or State Department since … then. That had been well over a year ago and she had cut all her ties instantly. Not a phone call, not a letter. Nothing. If she had had it her way, she wouldn't even be living in bloody America. She couldn't have gone back to Ireland, couldn't face that; but she had thought about following Liz to London. Instead she had ended up in sodding Washington, inside the belly of the beast. To be with Edward.

‘Gotta hand it to you though. You haven't lost your touch.’

She looked up at him.

‘You're still good. The old jet-on-the-runway trick. Engines revving up, ready to fly any moment. Love it.’

‘What?’

‘Your last appointment, Kathy and Brett. Threatening to walk out on the parties: they should teach that at negotiator school. Didn't Clinton do it at Camp David? Get the chopper all fired up, blades spinning. The mediator says he – or she – will walk and the parties get scared. Realize how much they need you and how much they need the talks. They suddenly see that any deal they'd make outside the room would be worse. And it brings them together, both sides desperate to keep the talks going. You mediation guys call it a “shared project”, don't you? Something like that. Even unites them against a common enemy: you. Genius.’

‘You were listening.’

‘It's the training, what can I say?’

‘You arsehole.’

‘I like how you say that. Ahhhrse-hole. Sounds sexy in your accent.’

‘Get out.’

‘Though I see you don't really do sexy so much these days. No more of the hair-tumbling-down-in-front-of-the-eyes routine. Is that Edward's influence?’

‘Go.’

‘Oh, I'll go. But first I have a little proposal to make.’

Maggie stared at him.

‘Don't worry, not that kind of proposal. Not that I couldn't be tempted, should you ever get tired of Edward—’

‘I'm going to call the police.’ She reached for the phone.

‘No you're not. And we both know why.’

That stopped her; she put the phone down. He knew about her ‘mistake’. And he would tell. The Washington Post, some blog, it didn't matter. The true reason for her exile, currently known only to a few diplomatic insiders, would become public. What was left of her reputation would be ruined.

‘What do you want?’ Almost a whisper.

‘We want you to come out of retirement.’

‘No.’

‘Come on, first rule of any negotiation: you have to listen.’

‘I am not having a negotiation with you. I want you to piss off.’

‘The people I work for tend not to take no for an answer.’

‘And who is it you work for exactly? “The United States government” is a bit vague.’

‘Let's say this has come from as close to the top as you can get in this town. You have a reputation, you know. Miss Costello.’

‘Well,’ you can tell them I'm flattered. But the answer is no.

‘You're not even curious?’

‘No, I am not. I don't do that work any more. I work here now. I mediate between husbands and wives. And I don't take emergency cases. Which means you have about one minute to get up and leave.’

‘I won't insult your intelligence, Maggie. You read the papers. You know what's happening in Jerusalem. We're this close to a deal.’ He held his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. ‘We've never been so close before.’

Maggie ignored him.

‘And you also know what happened yesterday.

An attack on the Israeli Prime Minister. Or what looked like an attack. Israeli security ended up killing some internal critic of the peace process. Could screw the whole thing.’

‘The answer's no.’

‘The powers that be have decided that this is too important an opportunity to be lost. They need you to go in there and do your thing. Work your magic. Come on, you've still got it. I could hear that just now. And this is something that really matters. Middle East peace, for Christ's sake. How could you pass that up? This is the World Series of peacemaking!’

‘I don't play baseball.’

‘No. OK.’ He was talking more quietly now and in a different tone. She recognized it for what it was, a change in tactics. ‘What I mean is, you're a mediator. It's your calling. It's what you were born to do. You're good at it and you love doing it. This is the chance to return to the work you love. At the highest possible level.’

She thought of the pictures she had seen on TV that morning, and the feeling she had had, but not admitted, even to herself. Envy. She had envied the men and women sitting at the head of the negotiating table in Jerusalem, the people charged with that weightiest and most thrilling of tasks, brokering peace. She had pictured them the instant she saw the news item. Like fishermen, reeling in a rare and prized specimen, they would be exerting both enormous strength and great gentleness. Pulling with all their might one moment, then backing off, letting out some more line the next. Knowing when the rod could bend, and knowing what would make it break. It was skilled, demanding work. But it was also the most exhilarating activity she had ever known.