Uri yakiri.

'My dear Uri,' Uri begain translating in a low murmur, 'I hope you never need to see this, that I will come back to Rosen's office in the next week or so and remove this envelope which I asked him to deliver to you only in the event of my disappearance or, G.o.d forbid, my death. With any luck, I'll be able to solve this problem by myself and not need to drag you into it.

'But if by any chance I do not, then I could not let this knowledge die with me. You see, Uri, I have seen something so precious, so ancient and so important I genuinely believe it will change anyone who sees it. I know that you and I disagree on almost everything, and I know you think your father exaggerates, but I think you will see that this is different.'

Suddenly Uri leant forward and stopped the computer playback. He turned to Maggie, mouthing, with a how-could-we-be-so-stupid expression, Bugs! Bugs!

He was right. Rosen had phoned Uri; if Uri's phone was tapped, then Israeli intelligence, or whoever else it was, would have had time to come here and bug this office. Could have done it while Sleeping Beauty was dozing on his desk.

Uri now prowled through the office searching intently, stopping once he saw a TV set. He switched it on, found a channel airing American game showsplenty of whooping and cheeringturned up the volume and came back to the computer. Then he went back to the TV, swivelling it around so that its screen was facing a back wall. 'Hidden cameras,' Uri mouthed to Maggie. 'Most common place to hide them, the TV.' Rosen looked more baffled than ever.

Now when Uri translated, he did so in a whisper, direct into Maggie's ear. Involuntarily she closed her eyes. She told herself it was so that she could concentrate on his words.

'In the last couple of days I have come across what is the greatest archaeological discovery of my career. Of anyone's career for that matter. It would be enough to make whoever owns it famous and of course very, very rich.' Uri exhaled loudly.

'Those would be reasons alone for me to fear for my life now that it has come into my possession. But there is something more. As always with your father, this something more is a matter of politics. That doesn't surprise you, eh, Uri?'

Uri shook his head. 'No, Father, it does not surprise me.'

'To get to the point, I have seen the last will and testament of Avraham Avinu Avraham Avinu. You heard right. The final will of Abraham, the great patriarch. I know it sounds insane and, believe me, I have wondered about my own sanity. But here it is.'

At that instant, Maggie's eyes opened wide. Uri stopped talking and they both simply stared at the computer screen, David Rosen as dumbfounded as both of them. Shimon Guttman, now with sweat beading on his forehead, had produced from below, out of vision, an object which he held up to the camera. Brown and around the same size as an old audio ca.s.sette, it was hard to make out. But Uri's face shone with recognition. He knew exactly what it was. He must have grown up amongst these things.

'I am not going to show you the text up close,' Uri said, translating once more. 'Just in case this recording should fall into the wrong hands. I don't want anyone else seeing what it says. I know that will sound paranoid, Uri. But I fear that some people would go to extreme lengths if they knew this tablet existed.'

'He's right there,' murmured Maggie.

'You will be asking yourself the obvious question. How do I know this is not a fake? I won't bore you with the technical detailsthe quality and origin of the clay, the style of the cuneiform script, the seal and the language, all of which are entirely in keeping with the Abrahamic periodbut, I swear to you, any expert in the field would be almost certain that this is genuine. I say almost. What makes me one hundred per cent certain is that no one tried to sell me this, no one tried to convince me what it was. I found it, quite by chance, in a shop in the Jerusalem market. My guess is that it was stolen, from Iraq. It might have come out of the ground, it might have come from a museum, even the National Museum. Whether the thief knew what he was taking, we will never know. Whether the museum in Baghdad knew is also an interesting question. But Iraq makes sense. After all, where was Avraham Avinu Avraham Avinu, Abraham our father, born but in the great city of Ur in the land of Mesopotamia?' The on-screen Guttman smiled. 'And the city of Ur still stands today. In Iraq.

'You can take my word for it. This text is real. In it, Abraham has come to the end of his life. He is an old man, an ancient man, who has reached Hebron. It seems his two sons, Isaac and Ishmael, are close by. That makes sense, too: we know from the Torah that Isaac and Ishmael buried Abraham, so maybe they were there when their father died. There seems to have been some kind of dispute over Abraham's will. We know from our texts, where it is repeated again and again, that Abraham bequeathed the Land of Israel to Isaac and his descendants, the Jewish people. I know you and your leftist friends can't bear to hear this kind of thing, Uri, but just take two minutes and pick up the book of Beres.h.i.t Beres.h.i.t, Genesis, chapter fifty, verse twenty-four, where Joseph tells his brothers, "I am about to die. But G.o.d will surely come to your aid and take you up out of this land to the land he promised on oath to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob". Or look at Shmot Shmot, Exodus, chapter thirty-three, verse one: "And the Lord said to Moses, 'Leave this place, you and the people you brought up out of Egypt, and go up to the land I promised on oath to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, saying, "I will give it to your descendants".'" Or this to Joshua: "Be strong and courageous, for you will bring the Israelites into the land I promised them on oath, and I myself will be with you". That, by the way is Dvarim Dvarim, Deuteronomy, chapter thrity-one, verse twenty-three. You get the idea: that the Land of Israel was left to the people of Israel, there is no doubt.

'But Jerusalem, it seems, was a more complicated matter between Abraham's brothers, just as it is today. This text-' on screen, Guttman held up the tablet once more, '-doesn't spell it out, but it's quite clear that Isaac and Ishmael had been arguing and that Abraham had to settle the dispute before he died. He must have called for a scribe to come to Hebronsuch people existed, even thirty-seven centuries agoand take down this testament. So that there would be no confusion.

'In the text the old man speaks only of Mount Moriah; there was not yet the Jerusalem we know today. He does not refer to what happened there, but we all know, just as everyone around that deathbed would have known. Imagine the tension in that family! Mount Moriah was the place where Abraham was ready to kill his son. It is the ownership of this spot that Abraham decides in this text.

'My dear Uri, you know the significance of this. The government of Israel now includes three different religious parties. If this text shows that Abraham gave the Temple Mount to the Jews, clearly and unambiguously, they will not be able to stomach a peace accord which compromises on that sovereignty. And what about the other side, our enemy, the Palestinians? Their government includes Hamas, devout Muslims who revere Abraham. If this text says the Haram al-Sharif belongs to the heirs of Ishmael alone, then how can they defy that will? More to the point, and I have thought about this long and hard, what of the first possibility, that this doc.u.ment gives that sacred land entirely to us, the Jews? What then? How would the Muslim fundamentalists cope with that?

'That's why I am sure that if either side were to know even about the existence of this tablet, they would take the most extreme measures to prevent it seeing daylight. That's why I need to handle this carefully. I need to get this information to those who will treat it properly. Later today I will try to speak to the Prime Minister. But if something happens to me, this grave responsibility will become yours, Uri.'

Maggie placed a hand on his shoulder.

'You'll notice that I am not saying here what the text reveals. I cannot risk that, in case, as I say, this recording falls into the wrong hands. But if I am not here, it will be your job to find it. I have put it somewhere safe, somewhere only you and my brother could know about.

'I know that you and I have had bitter differences, especially in recent years. But now I need you to put them aside and remember the good times, like that trip we took together for your Bar Mitzvah. What did we do on that trip, Uri? I hope you remember that.

'I can tell you only that this search begins in Geneva, but not the city everyone knows. A better, newer place, where you can be anyone you want to be. Go there and remember the times together I just spoke about.

'Lech lecha, my son. Go from here. And if I am gone from this life, then you shall see me in the other life; that is life too. Good luck, Uri.'

The screen went black. David Rosen was crumpled in his chair, stunned by what he had just seen. Maggie was speechless. Uri, however, was furious.

He started pounding at the computer keyboard, trying frantically to find something else on the DVD, some further element they had missed. 'It can't finish there! It can't!' He was skipping back through the speech they had just watched. He played the last line again. '...Good luck, Uri.' Once more, the screen faded to black. Uri put his head in his hands. 'This is so typical of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said quietly.

'What's typical?' said Rosen.

'This. Another f.u.c.king dramatic gesture. He has a secret that got his wife killed, that could get his son killed, and does he reveal it? No. He plays f.u.c.king games.'

'But Uri,' said Maggie, trying to calm things down, 'wasn't he trying to tell you where it is? He said we have to start in Geneva.'

'Oh, don't listen to any of that c.r.a.p. Not one word of it makes sense.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean it's bulls.h.i.t, from beginning to end.'

'How can you be sure?'

He looked up, his eyes blazing. 'Well, let's start with the very first thing he said. You know, "I've put it somewhere safe, somewhere only you and my brother could know." It's nonsense.'

'Nonsense? How?'

'It's very simple, Maggie.' He paused to look her in the eye. 'My father didn't have a brother.'

Both Maggie and Uri were too fazed by that, too shocked by what they had seen on the DVD and too rapt in conversation to listen closely as they left the offices of David Rosen, Advocate. If they had, they might have heard the veteran lawyer pick up the telephone, asking to speak urgently to a man both he and the late Shimon Guttman regarded as a comrade, an ideological kindred spirit. 'Yes, immediately,' he said into the receiver. 'I need to speak right away to Akiva Shapira.'

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.

RAFAH REFUGEE CAMP, GAZA, TWO DAYS EARLIER TWO DAYS EARLIER.

They were running out of places to meet. The golden rule of an armed undergroundnever in the same place twicerequired an infinite supply of safe houses and Salim Nazzal was fearful theirs was running out. The peace talks in Jerusalem had not been good for business; the Palestinian street was suddenly less sympathetic to those who would put bombs on Israeli buses and in Israeli shopping malls. Give the talks a chance, that had become the favoured position of the man in the cafe. No one's saying we can't go back to armed struggle ifwhenthe talks fail. But, for a few weeks, let's see what the negotiators can bring us.

In that climate, there was a limited number of Gazans ready to open their doors to a breakaway from Hamas which, everyone knew, was out to sabotage the talks. The risks were insanely high. If anyone found out who was under your roof, your home could be flattened by an Israeli sh.e.l.l. Or you could be shot dead by the Fatah men who, while officially in coalition with Hamas, had not forgotten the street battles they had fought with the organization not that long ago. Or you could be murdered by your former brothers in Hamas itself, disciplined for daring to rebel against a party line that was said to have the blessing of Allah himself.

So Salim bowed graciously to his host, a man, like himself, in his thirties with the neat, short beard of an Islamist. The house was like all the others here: a basic box made of breeze blocks, its floors covered with thin, threadbare rugs and equipped with a TV set, a cooker and a few mattresses on which an entire family would have to sleep. It wasn't the tent city that international visitors would often expect from the words 'refugee camp'. It was more like a shanty town, an urban slum. There were no streets as such, just networks of alleyways that would crisscross into a neighbourhood. This one was called Brazil, after the UN peace-keeping troops from that country who once had barracks here.

Tonight's meeting was even more clandestine than usual. Salim had crucial, and highly confidential, information to impart. A technician at Jawwal, the Palestinian mobile phone company, had been closing down the account of the late Ahmed Nour when he noticed a last, unplayed message in the dead man's voicemail box. The box was locked with a PIN code, but that was easy to over-ride. Curious about the Nour killing, he listened to it: a rambling, excitable message in English from a man who seemed to be some kind of Israeli scholar. The technician, a long-standing Hamas supporter with deep misgivings about the movement's peace strategy, had then made contact with Salim, saying he wanted to pa.s.s this knowledge to Palestinian patriots and faithful Muslims.

'Masa al-khair,' he began.

'Masa a-nur,' the half dozen men present responded.

'We are blessed to have heard news which will have a great bearing on our struggle. A Zionist activist and archaeologist claims to have bought, from an Arab in Jerusalem, a tablet expressing the last will and testament of Ibrahim.' He paused for effect. 'Ibrahim Khalil'ullah.' Abraham, Allah's Friend Abraham, Allah's Friend. The men's expressions broke out into a series of sceptical smiles, and there was more than one mocking snort.

'My reaction too, my brothers. But the indications areand I beg of you that not a word of this travels beyond this roomthat the doc.u.ment could well be genuine. Doubtless, this man will claim this text supports Zionist claims to Jerusalem.

'We all know what the Hamas leadership will argue. They will say the tablet was looted from Iraq-'

There was the sound of a gunshot outside. After midnight in Rafah that was not so unusual. But all six men, including Salim, instinctively checked their mobile phones, to see if there were any messages warning of an imminent attack. None. After holding silent for thirty seconds, Salim continued. 'We know what the leadership will say. Either that this is Zionist theft of Arab heritage, looted almost certainly from Iraq. Or that it is a fake and a forgery that only the Zionist media cannot see through, and so on and so on. We know what they will say because we would say the same.'

The men in the room nodded. Salim was younger than most of them but he was respected. In the second intifada intifada he had played an active role in the Izz-ad-Din al-Qa.s.sam brigades, Hamas's military wing. He was a bomb-maker, one of the few who had avoided the crosshairs of the Israeli military's targeted a.s.sa.s.sination policy. That gave him a double credibility: he had killed Israelis and he had not got caught. he had played an active role in the Izz-ad-Din al-Qa.s.sam brigades, Hamas's military wing. He was a bomb-maker, one of the few who had avoided the crosshairs of the Israeli military's targeted a.s.sa.s.sination policy. That gave him a double credibility: he had killed Israelis and he had not got caught.

'But none of that will matter. The Israeli right will not give up an inch of the Haram al-Sharif if they can point to some text that says Ibrahim gave it to them. The peace talks will be over.'

'What if the doc.u.ment says the Haram belongs to us?'

'I have considered that. I think it's safe to a.s.sume that if a Zionist scholar had found such a text in the ground he would have put it straight back there.'

The questioner smiled, nodded and sat back.

'So the decision we have is like this: some Palestinians will, I am sure, work very hard to prevent this doc.u.ment coming to light. They will think the obvious: that if Ibrahim's will is known, it will weaken the Palestinian claim on Jerusalem. Such people will kill and be killed to prevent this ancient text ever being revealed. They have probably already started.

'But there is another view. That if this tablet emerges, and if it gives the Zionists all they want, then they will definitely not agree to the arrangements they have been discussing at Government House. Why would they share Jerusalem when Ibrahim has said it belongs to them, all of it?'

'They will call off talks immediately,' chipped in one of Salim's most reliable lieutenants.

'They will. And this sham of a peace process will be over. No more talk of recognizing the Zionist ent.i.ty. No more nonsense about a truce with the enemy. We can return to the legitimate struggle, one the Prophet, peace be upon him, has determined we shall win.'

'So,' began another. 'You're saying it is in our interest for this will, this testament, to become public?'

'If we want this betrayal of our people to end, I believe so, yes. But we do not need to decide this yet.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that we can decide what to do with this doc.u.ment once we have it. But only once we have it. We must devote all our energies to finding it and capturing it. This is our holy duty. Whatever has to be done to get it, must be done. Do I have your agreement?'

The men looked at each other and then, as if in chorus, they replied. 'G.o.d is great.'

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 6.23PM.

They drove back to the hotel in silence. Uri had turned up the rap music again, so that they could drown out whatever bug was listening, but Maggie couldn't stand it. She would prefer to say nothing than have her head pounded with noise.

Her head was pounding anyway. She had scribbled down a few notes during the Guttman video-message and she looked at them now.

...somewhere safe, somewhere only you and my brother could know.

What sense did that make if Uri's father had no brother? There was so much to ask. She yearned just to sit still, in a place where they could speak freely, without shouting over noise or looking over each shoulder. If they were being bugged, they were almost certainly being followed.

Once back at the hotel she led Uri straight to the bar. She ordered a Scotch for each of them and all but forced him to down his before ordering another round. Doubles. She found the early evening gloom of the bar soothing.

'What about this brother then, Uri?'

'There is no brother.'

'You sure? Could your grandfather have had an earlier marriage? A secret family he kept hidden?'

Uri looked over his gla.s.s, his eyes reflecting the pale amber of the drink. He managed the faintest smile. 'After everything else, after Ahmed Nour and the last will of Abraham, it wouldn't surprise me if my father had a secret brother. Nothing would surprise me now.'

'So it's possible?'

Uri looked tired. 'I suppose it's possible. If you can keep one secret, maybe you can keep many.'

Without thinking, Maggie placed her hand on his. It felt warm. She let it linger, even after she felt self-conscious, just for a second or two. 'OK, let's put the brother thing to one side. We'll come back to it.' At the other end of the bar Maggie noticed an orthodox Jewish man munching peanuts and reading the Jerusalem Post Jerusalem Post, as if waiting for someone. She couldn't remember if he had been there when they arrived. 'Come,' she said, suddenly and loudly. 'I need to sit on a proper chair.' She eased herself off the stool, beckoning Uri to follow. Once she had found a spot a good distance away from the bar, and directly behind the peanut-muncher, she placed her drink on the table and sat where she would have a clear line of sight. Now if the man wanted to watch them, or read their lips, he would have to turn around and reveal himself. She looked around again, over both shoulders. No one else but them.

She called over a waiter and ordered some food. They waited and then, on impulse really, with no planning, she began to tell Uri what had happened that morning. She kept it brief and factual, working hard to show no self-pity. She spared some of the anatomical details, but still she saw Uri's face turn from horror to anger.

'The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds-' he began, rising to his feet.

'Uri! Sit down.' She grabbed at his arm and tugged him back into his seat. 'Listen, I'm angry too. But the only way we're going to find these people is if we keep calm. Lash out now and they win.' He paused, looking at her. 'The people who killed your mother will win.'

Slowly he came back to his seat, just as the waiter brought over two plates of sandwiches. Maggie was glad of the diversion.

'Look,' she began, once she was sure Uri would not bolt again. 'You know what I can't work out? Why they follow us, but don't strike. Why they don't just take us out. They're killing everyone else.'

Uri chewed for a while, as if trying to swallow his rage. Eventually he spoke, making a clear effort to sound lighter than he felt. 'Speaking as an ex-intelligence officer of the Israel Defence Forces, I'd say when you follow like this, but don't strike, it can mean one of two things.'

'OK.'

'Either the target is too risky to take out. That would be you. If these are Palestinians who are following us, the last thing they need is to kill an American official. Especially a beautiful, female one.'

Maggie looked downward, unsure how to react. Middle-aged diplomats often flattered her and she would reply with some eyelash-fluttering false modesty. But she couldn't deploy that kind of manoeuvre now, one on one with Uri. Not least because this compliment, unlike the others, meant something to her.

'Imagine how the American public would react if your face was shown for twenty-four hours on cable news, how they would feel about the evil Arabs who had killed you.'

'All right, I get the picture.' Maggie was still enough of a convent girl to feel superst.i.tious about tempting fate. 'The same would be true of the Israelis.'

'Even worse for them in a way,' said Uri, slowly loosening up, helped along by the Scotch. 'Spying on the Americans is bad enough and we've done that a couple of times. But killing them? Not a good idea. Are you still an Irish citizen too?'

'Yep. Never gave it up.'

'Big fight with the Europeans too, then. If they killed you.'