The woman brought over more tea, then headed into the next room, shouting the names of her children. Maggie was now alone with this man. She wanted to call Davis at the consulate, or Uri, or Liz in London, anyone, but she feared this man's reaction. Would he s.n.a.t.c.h the phone off her? Would he grab at her? Who was he?

As casually as she could, Maggie stood up, stretched and, as if she were trying politely to extricate herself from tea with a wearisome great aunt, announced that she really had to be going.

'But where are you going to?'

Maggie was stumped. She didn't know where she was nor how she would get out. 'My hotel is in West Jerusalem.'

'Why you not stay in East Jerusalem? It is beautiful here. You have the American Colony Hotel. All the Europeans stay there. Why never the Americans? You want only to see the Israelis.'

Maggie was too tired for this, a conflict so bitter even your choice of hotel could touch off a diplomatic incident. 'No, no,' she began. 'It's not that at all.' She was heading for the door back out into the alleyway as she spoke. She touched the handle. It turned, but didn't open. Locked.

Now she could feel the man at her shoulder, leaning over her to reach the door handle. His closeness made her shudder, reminding her of the alley and the hot breath. She wanted to shove him away.

Before she had a chance, he had opened the door onto the tiny, square yard. She stepped out, the man right behind her.

'Please I ask again. Why were you here?'

'I was at the house for Afif Aweida.'

'Yes. And where were you going?'

'I wanted to see his cousin. The other Afif Aweida.'

'Please. I take you.'

'No, no. There's no need. I just want to get back to my hotel.'

But he wasn't listening. He took her by the elbow and began marching her back into the maze of streets and alleys of Jerusalem's Old City. Am I deranged Am I deranged, Maggie wondered as, for the second time inwhat was it, an hour? two?she followed a stranger through a strange city. This time, though, she had none of the distracted carelessness of before. Her heart was racing; she glanced down each alleyway, checked over her shoulder and, above all, eyed the man leading her. Was this some kind of trap? Had Sari Aweida led her to her a.s.sailants? Was this man about to do the same?

She thought about making a run for it. But where? She would instantly be lost in these streets. They were getting fuller now, as they approached the souk souk, the market. She saw a couple of women, perhaps a few years younger than her, who looked like tourists. She could run up to them. But then what?

Now Nabil was guiding her through paths that twisted and turned, pa.s.sing stalls teeming with goat-skin bongo drums, thick, woven carpets and tacky, wood-carved souvenirs. There were silver-haired couples shuffling along; even a full j.a.panese tour party. Apparently the briefing material Maggie had read on the plane was right: trade in this market, which had dried up in the intifada intifada years, had lifted as tourists slowly came back to the Old City. Credit for that went to the talks in Government House: even the mere prospect of peace was enough to bring visitors back, whether Christians eager to walk the Via Dolorosa, Muslims keen to pray at the Dome of the Rock or Jews yearning to push a note written to G.o.d into the crevices of the Western Wall. years, had lifted as tourists slowly came back to the Old City. Credit for that went to the talks in Government House: even the mere prospect of peace was enough to bring visitors back, whether Christians eager to walk the Via Dolorosa, Muslims keen to pray at the Dome of the Rock or Jews yearning to push a note written to G.o.d into the crevices of the Western Wall.

They swerved left into a meat market. Maggie wanted to retch at the sight of rack after rack of carca.s.ses, their ribs exposed, the flesh scarlet and b.l.o.o.d.y. She saw a line of sheep's heads on a butcher's block, averting her eyes only to find puddles of animal blood on the ground.

'Ah, we are here soon. Just one more minute.'

Suddenly, they were back in the realm of bags and purses and kitsch souvenirs. Maggie felt relieved, that the meat was behind her and that people were still around. They had stopped at a jeweller's.

'Here. Please. This is Afif Aweida shop.'

Gingerly, she stepped inside, followed by Nabil who high-fived a young man sitting behind the counter. In Arabic she heard Nabil utter the word 'American' and gesture in her direction.

A moment later, from a back room, a middle-aged man in a V-neck sweater and dark-rimmed spectacles appeared behind a gla.s.s counter packed with silver and gold jewellery. Maggie felt she recognized him. She had seen so many men like him in Africa, well-dressed, middle-aged, trying to maintain, or affect, Western standards as if in defiance of the poverty and chaos all around them.

'A pleasure to welcome you here. Thank you, Nabil.'

Maggie turned around to see Nabil heading out, a sheepish wave over his shoulder. She called out her thanks, but half-heartedly. A few seconds ago she had been suspicious of him, even feared him as a possible attacker. After what had happened to her, it was only natural. And yet he had turned out to be no different from his wife, a stranger who simply wanted to help. She felt confused, and suddenly aware all over again of where she had been touched. With that came the memory of the second man's voice, still hot and breathy: Otherwise we'll be back for more Otherwise we'll be back for more. Who was he? She pushed the question below the surface and extended her hand with a smile.

'Mr Aweida. I thought you were going to be dead.'

'You mean because of what happened to my cousin. A terrible crime. Terrible.'

'Do you think you were the real target?'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

'Do you think the men who killed your cousin got the wrong Afif Aweida?'

'How can there be the "wrong" Afif Aweida? My cousin was stabbed at random. It could have been anybody.'

'I'm not so sure. Do you know of any reason why your life might be in danger, Mr Aweida?'

To her surprise, the shop owner seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. He was in mourning for his cousin, but Palestinians were used to grieving for their dead. He was sad for him, and they had always had a bond, sharing the same name. But that did not mean he had to be scared, did it? Maggie realized she would have to start at the very beginning.

'Can we talk somewhere private, Mr Aweida? Perhaps in your back room there?' Maggie nodded towards the door he had walked through when she had arrived.

'No. No need, we can speak freely here.' He clapped his hands, urging the young man at the front to leave.

Maggie got up, walking towards the back door. She wanted to test him out. Sure enough, Afif Aweida leapt to his feet, blocking her path.

'Mr Aweida. I work for the American government, in the peace talks. I am not interested in your business dealings. Or in whatever it is you keep behind that door. But you do need to help me. Because your cousin was not killed at random. And many more people will die unless we can find out what's going on.'

Aweida paled. 'Go on.'

'Did you know Shimon Guttman?'

Again, Aweida seemed agitated. 'I know the name, yes. He was a famous man in Israel. He was killed on Sat.u.r.day.'

Maggie scanned his face. She saw the same nervousness she had seen a moment earlier, when she had mentioned the back office. A realization began to form.

'Afif,' she began, leaning forward. 'I am not a policewoman. I don't care what you buy and sell here. But I am interested in making sure this peace process is not stopped. If it is, many more Palestinians, like your cousin, and many more Israelis, like Professor Guttman, will die. So I need to ask you again. And I swear it will go no further than this room. Did you know Shimon Guttman?'

Quietly, and looking over Maggie's shoulder to check no one was near, he said, 'Yes.'

'Do you have any idea why he might have mentioned your name to someone last week?'

At this, Aweida's brow furrowed again. 'No, I don't know why he would mention me to anyone.'

'When did you last see him?'

'Last week.'

'Will you tell me what happened?'

Reluctantly Afif Aweida sat down and explained about the brief, unannounced visit Guttman had made to the shop, his first for ages. At Maggie's prompting, and only a half-sentence at a time, he explained their 'arrangement', whereby Guttman translated a set of ancient clay tablets, keeping one for himself.

'And you say that none seemed especially significant?'

'No. They were all standard: household inventories, schoolwork.'

'Nothing else at all?'

Again, the sheepish expression. 'There was one item. A letter from a mother to her son.'

'And did Professor Guttman take it?'

'No.'

'But he wanted it?'

'He tried to persuade me to give it to him, but then he eventually gave up. He let me keep it, and he took something else.'

Maggie leaned back. Something about this scene Aweida had just described seemed familiar. 'Tell me again. Did he fight you hard for that tablet from the mother straight away? Or only after he had read all of them?'

'Miss Costello, this was a week ago.'

'Try to remember.'

'He read all of them. Then he decided that that one was the best.'

No, he didn't he didn't. Of course that's why it seemed familiar. She had done the same thing herself. In a Balkan negotiation, she had insisted that access to the coast road was the deal-breaker. Decommissioning of weapons could come later. But an absolute must was access to the coast road: she couldn't possibly go back to the other side without it. As she predicted, they promptly offered to decommission weapons, but on the coast road, they would not budge. Grim-faced, she had said she would see what she could do. Then she had gone into the room where the other side were waiting and told them that they had got exactly what they had wanted most: the decommissioning of arms.

Guttman had done the same trick, fighting for the apple so that he could get what he really wanted: the orange.

'And this tablet he took, do you have any idea what it said on it?'

'He said it was an inventory, a woman's.'

'And you believed him?'

'Madam, I cannot read this ancient language. I only know what the Professor told me.'

'And, one last thing. How did he seem when he left here? What mood was he in?'

'Ah, this I remember. He seemed rather unwell. As if he needed a gla.s.s of water. I offered, but he didn't take it. He had to rush off.'

I bet he did. 'And that was the last you heard of him?'

'Yes. Until what we heard on the news.'

'Thank you, Mr Aweida. I really appreciate it.'

As Maggie got up and headed for the exit she had a glimpse of what Shimon Guttman must have felt: the sense of having made an important discovery, and the urgent need to share it with someone.

Once outside, feeling safer now among the tourist throng, she reached for her cellphone, dialling Uri's number.

'Uri, I think I know what's going on.'

'Good. You can tell me on the way.'

'On the way to where?'

'You didn't get my text? My father's lawyer just called me. He says he has something for me. A message.'

'Who from?'

'From my father.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

LAKE G GENEVA, SWITZERLAND, THE PREVIOUS THE PREVIOUS M MONDAY.

Officially, Baruch Kishon was meant to hate Europe. As a conservative ideologue, writing blistering commentaries for the Israeli press for nearly four decades, he had made a good living lambasting the lily-livered appeasers of the Old World, contrasting them unfavourably with the strong champions of liberty to be found in the New. While the Americans knew right from wrong, the Europeansthe French were the worst, but the British were almost as badsank to their knees the moment any dictator with a moustache started strutting on the podium. They had crumbled before Hitler and bowed and sc.r.a.ped to Saddam. And they were ready to sell out Israel the way they had been readyeagerto betray the Jews in the 1930s. It was congenital with them. He had written as much, more than once. The European Union didn't need a motto, concluded one of his favourite columns, just a single word: surrender.

Yet he had a dirty little secret, one common to many of the Israelis who shared his unbending brand of politics. While he may have hated everything Europe stood for, the place itself he loved loved. He couldn't get enough of it: the sidewalk cafes in Paris, where the cafe au lait cafe au lait and croissants came just so; the splendour of the Uffizi or St Peter's Square; the theatres in London's West End, the shopping on Bond Street. After the chaos, rudeness, dust and grime of Israel, it was such a and croissants came just so; the splendour of the Uffizi or St Peter's Square; the theatres in London's West End, the shopping on Bond Street. After the chaos, rudeness, dust and grime of Israel, it was such a relief relief to come to a place that was colder, but also cooler and calmer. Where bus queues did not turn into riots and where, yes, the trains really did run on time. to come to a place that was colder, but also cooler and calmer. Where bus queues did not turn into riots and where, yes, the trains really did run on time.

Nowhere did Baruch Kishon feel this more keenly than in Switzerland, where you could eat your lunch off the railway platform and set your watch by the trains. Which is why he had felt only delight when Guttman had mentioned Geneva in that long, rambling monologue he delivered on the phone last Sat.u.r.day. A call which, Kishon now believed, might well have been the Professor's last.

He and Guttman spoke regularly. To say they were journalist and source would be too thin a description of their relationship. Their roles had blurred more than that. They were co-conspirators, kindred spirits of the nationalist camp, their foremost concern always how they might best serve the cause. If Kishon got a good story out of it, and Guttman yet more publicity, well, then that was a happy bonus. Above all, their goal was the Jewish people's sovereignty over their historic home, the Land of Israel.

He hadn't been surprised when Guttman called him on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Yariv was holding his big peace rally that evening; only natural that the right would need to plan its response.

But that's not what Guttman wanted to talk about. Instead he started babbling, as excited as a teenage girl, about something that he had found, something that would change everything. The words came tumbling out: the street market in Jerusalem, cuneiform writing, clay tablets, a man called Afif Aweida, and, you'd never believe it, the last words of Abraham. Well, not the last words. But his will.

'You mean Abraham decided who should inherit Mount Moriah, Isaac or Ishmael, us or the Muslims?!' Kishon had spluttered down the phone. 'And you have the proof? Where is it now?'

Guttman had sounded all but hysterical at that point, saying that they had to plan how all this would come out, that it should be them, the right-wing, who revealed it to the world. That it would be the national camp's finest hour!

Kishon had wondered if his old friend was delirious.

'But first we have to tell Kobi,' Guttman had said.

'Kobi?'

'The Prime Minister.'

'Have you been using some of your drop-out son's hashish?'

No, no, Guttman had insisted, he was perfectly in control. When Kishon asked where the tablet was now, Guttman had started breathing heavily, saying that he had arranged to meet a man in Geneva. That it would be safe there. When Kishon tried to press him for more details, Guttman had rambled some more, then said he had to get to the rally. He promised he would call later. They would meet up, Guttman said. He would give all the details and together they would plan a strategy.

Several hours later Kishon had been eating in one of their favourite restaurants, a French place off Ibn Gvirol, waiting for Guttman to show up, when the newsdesk phoned. Guttman was dead, shot at the rally.