He had made another error during those long stretches inside Ketziot jail, confined to a cell measuring six feet by four and a half feet for twenty three hours a day. He had always antic.i.p.ated that the final straight of negotiations would be punctuated by outbreaks of violence on both sides. There would always be hardliners who would move to sabotage progress and atrocity would be their obvious tool. It had happened in every peace process the world over. Al-Shafi knew: he had studied them in footnote detail.

What he had not prepared for was this, attacks which no one claimed and no one could explain. He turned to Faisal Amiry, head of the security operation that was the closest the Palestinians came to an intelligence agency.

'How is it possible that this attack was staged from Jenin? It's far, no?'

'It is far, sir. But if a team were able to get over the wall-'

'We would know about it. Wouldn't we?'

'There may be others who knew.' It was Toubi, a veteran of the old PLO struggles going back decades. He hated Hamas with a pa.s.sion.

'The trouble is, it doesn't seem like them,' Amiry replied. 'It's not their style. A raid, in then out.'

'With no martyrs,' said Toubi. 'I agree it's strange. If they wanted to blow up the talks they'd have blown up themselves. On a bus. In the centre of Jerusalem.'

'Rogue elements?' asked al-Shafi.

'That would be something, wouldn't it, if our friends in Hamas were losing their legendary discipline?' It was Toubi, with too much of a smile on his face for Khalil's taste.

'I don't think so,' said Amiry. 'So far they have stayed remarkably united. The political bureau in Damascus has decided that these talks should work. That we should get an agreement, then call the Israelis' bluff and demand they honour it. That's the strategic decision they've taken.'

'And without Damascus, there's nothing any of the rogue elements can do?'

'Correct, Mr al-Shafi. They just don't have the equipment, the training, the money. Nothing.'

'Jihad?'

'We wondered about Islamic Jihad. But we have a very good source inside there. He says they are as surprised by this as we are.'

'What about the target?'

'That is the strangest thing of all. If you were aiming for loss of life, you'd have turned right out of the kibbutz fields, aiming for the residential buildings. But they were at the museum. Where they only took one life.'

Toubi was nodding. 'Or not gone there at all. Once they got over the wall, they could have struck Magen Shaul. Why hike all the way to Bet Alpha?'

'I know why.' It was al-Shafi, who had got out from behind his desk and was now attending to a chessboard he kept in the corner of his office. A leftover from prison, the chess. He would play entire games in his head, taking both sides, sometimes lasting days. During the spells of solitary confinement, it kept him sane. Now he always had a game on the go.

'Bet Alpha is the site of an ancient synagogue. Fifteen hundred years old. The Zionists love it because it "proves" they've been here as long as we have. If it's gone, that's one bit less proof.'

'You're not serious.'

'Why not? What else do you think the Jerusalem team at Government House is talking about all day?' He had still not looked up, his eyes remaining fixed on the white bishop he held between his fingers, hovering over the black rook. 'It's all about this.' He captured the castle, replaced it with his bishop and moved back to his desk.

'I don't follow.'

'It's all about the past past. All about who was here first, who has the prior claim. Do you know what drove the Israelis completely apes.h.i.t during Camp David in 2000?'

Toubi shifted in his seat. He resented being lectured to by this younger man.

'Of all the things, there was one statement by President Arafat that drove the Israelis insane. He denied that there had ever been a temple for the Jews in Jerusalem. "How can this be the Temple Mount?" he said. "Why do you call it the Temple Mount? There was no Temple here. It was in Nablus!"'

'What's that got to do with Bet Alpha?'

'It's the same thing. An attempt, while we're thrashing out who gets what, to weaken the other side's claim. To tilt the scales in our favour. "Look, there's now one less ancient Jewish site here. Maybe it never existed!"'

'This is nuts.'

'It is is nuts. But I think some Palestinian took it into his head to do us a favour. To lend us a helping hand.' nuts. But I think some Palestinian took it into his head to do us a favour. To lend us a helping hand.'

'I don't believe it.'

'Do you have a better explanation?'

There was silence, broken eventually by Amiry. 'And there's the trader. This man Aweida, stabbed to death in Jerusalem.'

'What can you tell me?'

'Not very much. Apparently there was some Hebrew message pinned to the body. A page of the Torah. And Army Radio in Israel is reporting a claim of responsibility from a group n.o.body's ever heard of. The Defenders of United Jerusalem.'

'Settlers?'

'Maybe.'

Al-Shafi rubbed his chin, scratching at his stubble. 'In which case, Yariv is sweating right now.'

Toubi chipped in. 'They always thought the Machteret Machteret would resurface eventually.' would resurface eventually.' Machteret Machteret, the Jewish underground. Like al-Shafi, he had learned his Hebrew in an Israeli jail.

'If it has, they'll be killing us. But it's him they want to hurt.'

'What would you like us to do, Mr al-Shafi?' It was Amiry, who had risen through a movement of ideologues by remaining determinedly practical.

'I want you to find out whatever you can about the incident in Bet Alpha. Comb the Israeli papers: read the military correspondents. Anything the army finds out, they always leak. And see what people here know about Afif Aweida. He has cousins in Bethlehem, I'm told. Talk to them. Was this man picked out at random, or is there a reason why a few Israeli fanatics would kill a greengrocer?'

'Anything else?'

'Yes. I want to know what that American woman, Costello, is up to. She called me with more questions about Ahmed Nour. There are at least three mysterious murders here, my friends. Unless we understand what's going on, there will be more. And a lot of Palestinians will be deadalong with the best chance of independence any of us will ever see. I think you know what to do.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

EAST J JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 9.40 AM AM.

For the second time in a week she was entering a house of mourning. This was a new development for her, though she knew of others for whom it was a standard ploy in the mediator's repertoire. At a critical week in the Northern Ireland peace talks, for example, two young men, good friendsone Protestant, the other Catholicwere shot dead in a pub. The killings were designed to halt the peace process, but they did the opposite, reminding everyone why they were sick to the back teeth of war. The negotiating teams visited the bereaved families and came out with their resolve doubled. Maggie remembered it well: she had followed it all on a crackling shortwave radio, deep in southern Sudan. And when London and Dublin announced the Good Friday Agreement she had sat in her tent with tears rolling down her cheeks.

These killings in Jerusalem lacked the moral clarity of the Belfast deaths. Truth be told, they had no b.l.o.o.d.y clarity at all. Shimon Guttman might have been shot simply because he appeared to be threatening the life of the prime minister; Ahmed Nour could have been a collaborator, executed for his crime; Rachel Guttman might have killed herself; the kibbutz up north might have been firebombed by angry Palestinian teenagers. Only the murder of Afif Aweida, claimed by some fringe Israeli group, seemed to be a clear attempt to sabotage the peace talks. But no one could be sure.

So Maggie's visit to the Aweida mourning house didn't quite carry the emotional weight of the equivalent journey in Belfast all those years ago. She wasn't there to mourn two lads, a Jew and an Arab, who had been shot dead while drinking together. In truth, she wasn't there to mourn at all. She had come to find out what the h.e.l.l was going on.

The house was full, as she had expected. It was noisy, with a piercing wail that rose and fell like a wave. She soon saw the source of it, a group of women huddled around an older woman, swathed in shapeless, embroidered black. Her face seemed to have been worn away by tears.

A path formed for Maggie as she made her way through the mourners. There were women constantly brushing their cheeks with the palms of their hands, as if trying to banish a dust that would never clear. Some were crouched low, pounding the floor. It was a scene of abject grief.

Eventually Maggie reached the front of the room where she found a woman whom she guessed was around her own age, dressed in simple, Western clothes. She was not crying but seemed simply stunned into silence.

'Mrs Aweida?'

The woman said nothing, staring past Maggie, into the middle distance. Her eyes seemed hollow.

'Mrs Aweida, I am with the international team in Jerusalem trying to bring peace.' Something told Maggie 'American' was not the right word to use here. 'I came to pay my respects to your husband and to offer my condolences on your terrible loss.'

The woman still stared blankly, seemingly oblivious to Maggie's words and the noise all around. Maggie stayed there, crouching down, looking at the widow as long as she could before eventually placing a hand on hers, squeezing it and moving away. She would not intrude.

A man materialized to steer Maggie away. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Please, you to know we thank America. For you to come here. Thank you.'

Maggie nodded and smiled her weary half-smile. But he hadn't finished speaking.

'He was a simple man. All he did was sell tomato and carrot and apple. He no kill anyone.'

'Oh, I know. It's a terrible crime that happened to your-'

'My cousin. I am Sari Aweida.'

'Tell me. Do you also work in the market?'

'Yes, yes. All of us, we work in market. For many year. Many year.'

'What do you do?'

'I sell meat. I am butcher. And my brother he sell scarf, for the head. Keffiyeh Keffiyeh. You know what is keffiyeh? keffiyeh?'

'Yes, I do. Tell me, are you all called Aweida?'

'Ah, yes. Yes, we are all Aweida. Aweida family.'

'Tell me. Is there anyone in your family who sells old things. You know old stones, pots. Antiquities?'

He looked puzzled.

'Jewellery perhaps?'

'Ah! Jewels! I understand. Yes, yes. My cousin, he sell jewel.'

'And antiques?'

'Yes, yes. Antique. He sell in the market.'

'Can I see him?'

'Of course. He live near to here.'

'Thank you, Sari.' Maggie smiled. 'And what is his name?'

'His name also Afif. He is Afif Aweida.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 10.05 AM AM.

As they threaded through the back streets, narrow and made of the same pale stone as the rest of Jerusalem, Maggie realized that no one in the family had suspected that the Afif Aweida they were about to bury had been the victim of a case of mistaken ident.i.ty. If it was a random killing, how could the killers have got the wrong man?

Because it was not a random killing. Of that Maggie was now certain. She pulled out her mobile to dial Uri's number. A text message had arrived while she was in the Aweida house. From Edward. He must have sent it in the middle of the night.

We need to talk about what to do with your stuff. E.

Sari Aweida must have seen the expression on her face, the brow knotted. 'No to worry, Maggie. We nearly there.'

She cleared Edward's message, without replying, and hit the green b.u.t.ton for the last number she had dialled. She would speak as if last night had not happened.

'Uri? Listen. Afif Aweida is alive. I mean there's another Afif Aweida. A trader in antiquities. It has to be the right one. They must have got the wrong one.'

'Slow down, Maggie. You're not making any sense.'

'OK. I'm on my way to meet Afif Aweida. I'm sure he was the man your father mentioned on the phone to Baruch Kishon. He deals in antiquities. It's too much of a coincidence. I'll call you later.'

Like most people talking on a mobile while walking, Maggie had spoken with her head down, staring at her feet. She now looked up to find no sign of Sari. He had obviously walked on so fast, he hadn't noticed that she wasn't keeping up. She stopped and looked around at the warren of streets, with turnings and alleyways every few yards, and realized he could have gone anywhere.

She walked a few yards forward, peering to her left down a turning so narrow it was dark, even in this morning sunlight. Its width was spanned by a washing line, and in the distance she could see two kids, boys she guessed, kicking a can. If she went down here, perhaps she could ask their mother- Suddenly she felt a violent jerking backwards, as if her neck was about to be snapped. A gloved hand was over her eyes and another was covering her mouth, m.u.f.fling her cry. She heard the sound as if it belonged to someone else.

Now she could feel herself being dragged backwards, even as her eyes and mouth stayed covered. She tried to pull her arms free, but they were held fast. She was dragged into an alleyway and shoved hard against the wall, the bricks pounding against the ridges of her spine. The hand covering her mouth moved down now, clamping her throat. She heard herself emit a dry rasp.

Now the hand came away from her eyes but, for a second, she still saw only darkness. Then a voice, which she realized was right in front of her, coming from a face entirely covered in a black ski mask. It was barely an inch away, the mouth close enough to touch her lips.

'Stay away, understand?'

'I don't-'

The hand around her throat tightened, until she was gasping for air. She was being strangled.