'What's the other possibility? You said there were two.'

'Oh, the other time you stalk but don't strike is when you want the subject alive. To lead you somewhere.'

Maggie took a swig of the drink, letting an ice cube slip between her lips. She let it roll around her mouth, enjoying its chill on her tongue. So they wanted her to pursue this Guttman trail, whoever 'they' were. They would keep away for as long as she was useful. 'But the people who attacked me today told me to back off, to stay away.'

'I know,' said Uri. 'So maybe they're in the first category. They're only not killing you because killing you would bring too much trouble.'

'Or maybe there's more than one group following us. Following me. All for different reasons.'

'Maybe. Like I've said a million times, this country, this whole area, is seriously f.u.c.ked up.'

Maggie put her drink down. Back to business. She pulled out the Post-it note she had scribbled on in Rosen's office. 'Your father said something about the "good times". Some trip you took together for your Bar Mitzvah. He said he hoped you would remember that.'

'I do remember it.'

'What happened?'

'He took me with him on a working trip to Crete. He wanted to check out the excavations at Knossos. Imagine it: I was thirteen years old, and I was looking at dusty old relics.'

'And?'

'That was it.'

'Come on, there has to be something specific. Was there a museum? Was there a particular piece that had special meaning to your father?'

'It was a long time ago, Maggie. And I was a kid. I wasn't interested in that stuff. I don't remember any of it.'

'Did anything happen?'

'I remember waiting around a lot. And I liked the plane ride. I remember that.'

'Think Uri, think. There must be some reason your dad mentioned this in the message. Did something important happen there?'

'Well, it felt important to me at the time. It was a big treat to be alone, just me and him. It hadn't happened before.' He looked up at Maggie, showing her that rueful smile once more. 'And it didn't happen again.'

'Did you talk about something?'

'I remember him talking about the Minoans, saying they had once been this great civilization. And look at them now, he said. They don't exist any more. That could happen to us, he said; to the Jews. It nearly has has happened, lots of times. Nearly wiped out. That's why we need Israel, he said. "Uri, after all we've been through, we need a place of our own." That's what he said.' happened, lots of times. Nearly wiped out. That's why we need Israel, he said. "Uri, after all we've been through, we need a place of our own." That's what he said.'

Anything specific, Maggie was thinking impatiently, straining to stick to her own rule: she knew that sometimes you just had to let people talk, let the words unspool until the crucial sentence tumbled out.

'He told me about his parents, how his mother had been killed by Hitler, how his father had survived. That was an amazing story. He hid, my grandfather, with a family of non-Jews, on a farm in Hungary. They kept him and a cousin in the pig sty. Right at the end of the war, he escaped by crawling through two miles of sewers.

'My father said that the lesson of his his father's life was that the Jews would have to have somewhere where they would never need anyone else's permission to survive. Where they could fight and defend themselves if they had to. No more cowering in a pig sty.' father's life was that the Jews would have to have somewhere where they would never need anyone else's permission to survive. Where they could fight and defend themselves if they had to. No more cowering in a pig sty.'

The n.a.z.i period...Maggie was seized by a sudden thought. She remembered the rows about the Swiss banks who had kept their hands on long-dormant accounts held by Jews who had been murdered by the n.a.z.is. Could there be a connection? 'Uri. You know the message mentioned Geneva? Might your family have left-'

'My family had no money. Nothing. Poor before the n.a.z.is and poor after.'

'OK, so not money. But what about a safe deposit box in Geneva? Maybe your father hid the tablet in a Swiss bank.'

'I just don't see it; that wasn't his world. A vault in Geneva? That would cost serious money. Besides, when would he have had the time to put it there? He said on the DVD he had only just found the tablet.'

Maggie nodded; Uri was right. Geneva must mean something else.

'And what about all this stuff at the end? "And if I am gone from this life, then you shall see me in the other life; that is life too." I was under the impression your father was not a religious man.'

'It's a surprise that he talked this way. But maybe this is what happens when you hold the words of Abraham in your hand. And if you fear death. Maybe you start talking like a rabbi.'

'I'm sorry about all this, Uri.'

'It's not your fault. But it's horrible to realize you hardly knew your own father. All these secrets. What kind of relationship can you have with someone who keeps so much from you?'

'Look,' she said. 'They're closing up here. We better go.'

But instead of heading for the lifts, Maggie strode over to the front desk at reception. Uri watched as she launched into a long story about allergies and dust and how she simply couldn't sleep another hour in her room. The night manager put up some resistance but soon surrendered. He took her old key, replacing it with one for room 302 and despatched a porter to move her things. As she turned around, she gave Uri a wink: 'No bugs in room 302.'

He insisted on walking her to her room. Once they got to the door, she asked where he was going to sleep. He looked as if he hadn't thought about it till that moment.

'Well, my apartment is being watched. And so is my parents' house.'

'Seems like the only reason they're not killing you is because you're with me,' said Maggie, smiling up at him.

'Well, I'd better stay with you then.'

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

JERUSALEM, THURSDAY, 10.25PM.

She knew she should have said no, that she should have insisted he take the lift back down, that he sleep in the car if necessary. But she told herself it would be OK, that he would sleep on the sofa or the floor and that would be that.

She even tried opening a cupboard, looking for the extra blankets and pillows from which she would conjure a makeshift bed. But when she turned around Uri was standing behind her, unmoving, as if refusing to play along with this charade.

'Uri, listen, I explained-'

'I know what you said,' he replied, placing a finger on her lips. Before she could say another word, he had met her mouth with his. His kiss was gentle at first, as it had been the previous night, but that did not last. Soon it was urgent and the current of electricity came from her.

She kissed him hungrily, her lips and tongue desperate for the taste of his mouth. The ferocity of her desire shocked her, but there was nothing she could do to stem it. It had been pent up so long, suppressed for hour after hour, that now that the dam had burst, there was no holding it back.

Her hands were moving through his hair, tugging at it, wanting to bring his face, his smell, closer. It was a sort of devouring, and they both felt the urgency of it. His hands were moving fast, first caressing the side of her face, then her neck, until now they were tearing at her top.

A moment later they had fallen onto the bed, their skin tingling from that first electric contact. Each caress, each taste, brought a new flash of intense sensation, until their bodies were joined. His back became slick with sweat and, as she gripped it, she was sure she could feel not only his desire but also his longing, his need, even his grief. And as she howled her release, she knew he could hear her own need, her yearning to be free after so long. They held each other tight like that for hours, even after the first wave had receded, their ardour barely fading.

Maybe she was too wired, but when she woke up sometime after two am she could not get back to sleep. Uri was slumbering beside her, his chest rising and falling with each long breath. She guessed this was the first deep sleep he had had since his father died. She liked looking at him. For a long time she lay there on her side, just watching him, and felt a kind of peace spreading through her.

Nearly an hour pa.s.sed that way until eventually Maggie grew restless. She got out of bed, grabbing the large T-shirt she had taken from Edward's closet when she packed up on Sunday afternoon. State be warned, Commerce kicks b.u.t.t State be warned, Commerce kicks b.u.t.t read the legend: a souvenir of the interdepartmental softball game last summer, partic.i.p.ation in which Edward regarded as crucial to his Washington career. read the legend: a souvenir of the interdepartmental softball game last summer, partic.i.p.ation in which Edward regarded as crucial to his Washington career.

She crept over to the desk, just a few feet from the bed. She flipped open the lid of her laptop, her face turning blue from the screen glow in this darkened room. Uri didn't stir.

She waited for a connection and opened up her email. Top of the list was a message from Liz.

MagsMy Second Life account tells me you never used that link I sent you. So knew you wouldn't! But you should. Not only is it proof of your 2L stardom, but there's also some pretty cool stuff on there. Hereagain!is my screen-name and pa.s.sword and a few basic instructions: just go on as me...btw, we must talk about Dad's 70th. I reckon a big do, you know, fly him and Mum to Vegas, strippers, the works. What do you reckon? Just kidding xx L Her sister had signed off with a smiley face which, at this moment, made Maggie smile.

The next one was from Robert Sanchez. Subject: Update Subject: Update. Inside, with no message, was a digest of the latest cables from the US team in Jerusalem to Washington. Even in a skim read she could discern their message: the situation was grim.

Talks are down to a skeleton presence at Government House, with lowest-level representation on both sides. The progress of less than a week ago, before the Guttman killing, seems distant now...two sides trading recriminations...hostile noises from the Arab states, sabre rattling from Iran and Syria...pro-Israel lobby in the US, led by Christian evangelicals, getting restless, liaising with settler groups here to organize a telethon to run on Christian Broadcasting Network on Sunday night...outbreak of violence in the Temple Mount area today as Israeli forces fired tear gas on worshippers at the Al-Aqsa Mosque, two Palestinians dead, one teenager...ambush of settler car outside Ofra, two pa.s.sengers killed, one aged twelve...

Maggie ran her fingers through her hair as she regretted again having given up smoking. Jesus, she could die for a cigarette now. She braced herself for message number three.

Edward: no subjectM,Not that you would care but am off to Geneva this evening. Government business, can't get into it in an email.We have some practical matters to resolve when we both return. Please advise on your plans.E Maggie let herself fall back into her chair. Please advise Please advise. Had this man really once been her lover? She looked over at Uri, the outline of his sleeping body visible under a single white sheet, and she smiled.

Maggie clicked back to Liz's message. Such a sweetie. She hit Reply.

You're a great sister. I don't deserve you. Will check out that link. Re: Vegas. Can we arrange strippers to come as crown green bowlers?

She was about to hunt out Second Life when she had a sudden sinking feeling. Their phone calls were bugged, they were being followed and, it seemed, her work on Shimon Guttman's computer had been watched. Someone, somewhere, was probably reading this right now. She snapped the lid shut, plunging the room into darkness once more.

She knew she wouldn't sleep, she was buzzing too much. So she pulled on some clothes, creaked open the door and crept outside. She tiptoed down the corridor, heading for the rooms that all hotels maintained even though, in the era of the BlackBerry and wi-fi, hardly anybody used them any more: the Business Center.

Her keycard let her in, to a room that was dark, empty and cold. There was just a single, forlorn terminal. But it worked, asking for her room number and nothing else. That was OK: hotel staff could see what she was doing, it was just the electronic eavesdroppers, hackers and Peeping Toms she wanted to avoid.

She called up Liz's email again, scribbled down the nameLola Hepburn!and pa.s.sword she had given her, and clicked on the link. The screen instantly went black, then displayed a message.

Welcome to Second Life, Lola.

She entered her details, then watched as a computer-generated landscape began to fill the screen, as if to herald the start of a video game. In the foreground, with her back to Maggie, was a CGI-version of a lithe young woman wearing tight jeans and a Union Jack bratop. This, Maggie realized, was Lola Hepburn, Liz's embodiment in Second Life, her 'avatar'. Maggie looked at the set of b.u.t.tons that appeared at the foot of the screen: Map, Fly, Chat Map, Fly, Chat and a few others whose meaning eluded her. There was an instruction to use the keyboard's arrows to move backwards and forwards, left and right. She tried it and watched, amazed, as the buxom siren on screen moved ahead, jerkily, with arms swinging, in a simulation of human walking. and a few others whose meaning eluded her. There was an instruction to use the keyboard's arrows to move backwards and forwards, left and right. She tried it and watched, amazed, as the buxom siren on screen moved ahead, jerkily, with arms swinging, in a simulation of human walking.

She seemed to be in some kind of virtual garden, with brown autumnal trees swaying in a gentle wind. It was as if Maggie were operating a camera, lurking a few yards behind and several feet above the avatar, one that followed itsherevery move. Now, as she went through the trees, the leaves loomed larger, in sharp, clear focus, as if the lens of her camera were right up close. It was bizarre and strangely mesmerizing.

She turned left, yet the buxom girl on screen didn't seem to move. Rather the whole frame swivelled, the picture rotating around her as if she had turned left. Now she could see houses, the grey slate of the roof tiles suddenly appearing in pin-sharp detail. And there was a sound, a repeated phrase of music, like a fairground jingle. Sure enough, Maggie could see in the distance a spinning carousel. As she walked towards it, the music got louder. She seemed to be approaching via a meadow: with each step that she took, flowers would sprout from the ground in brilliant shades of violet, yellow and scarlet.

Maggie looked down at the scribbled instructions taken from Liz's email. To get to the room where she would find the virtual Maggie Costello, the venue for the peace simulation game, she had to hit the Map Map b.u.t.ton, then find the b.u.t.ton, then find the My Landmarks My Landmarks pulldown menu and look for Harvard University, Middle East Studies. It was there, close to the top. Once selected, she hit pulldown menu and look for Harvard University, Middle East Studies. It was there, close to the top. Once selected, she hit Teleport Teleport and smiled as the computer gave off a suitably sci-fi whoosh sound, suggesting a Star Trek-style leap across the universe. The screen darkened, lit up with a message that said 'Second Life, Arriving...' and then, an instant later, she saw the girl in the skinny jeans and croptop standing somewhere else entirely, still in the foreground, as if in the lens of a camera hovering overhead. and smiled as the computer gave off a suitably sci-fi whoosh sound, suggesting a Star Trek-style leap across the universe. The screen darkened, lit up with a message that said 'Second Life, Arriving...' and then, an instant later, she saw the girl in the skinny jeans and croptop standing somewhere else entirely, still in the foreground, as if in the lens of a camera hovering overhead.

Now she was surrounded on all sides by buildings, arranged as if on a university campus. Some were rendered in traditional brick, others constructed in more modish steel and gla.s.s. As the avatar walked ahead, the arms swinging metronomically, Maggie noticed the surface of the ground, cobbled just as a campus path should be.

In front of her was a ramp, with words printed on it which became legible only as you approached. Welcome to the Faculty for Middle East Studies Welcome to the Faculty for Middle East Studies. She moved upward, marvelling at the change in perspective as she did so. There were pictures in the lobby, which swivelled as she hit the arrow keys. There was a reception desk and, at shoulder level, a series of signposts. Maggie took the one marked Peace Simulation.

Suddenly she was inside a room laid out in cla.s.sic negotiation style: a long, wide wooden table with s.p.a.ce for more than twenty people around it. It seemed to be full, avatars sitting in each place, with namecards in front of each one. There was one for the American President, another for the Secretary General of the UN and several more for the leaders of a.s.sorted interested parties: the perennial 'moderate' Arab states, Egypt and Jordan, the European Union, Russia and others. Away from the table, ringing the room, were chairs laid out for officials, from the US Secretary of State on down. She moved her cursor over the American team, revealing Bruce Miller and Robert Sanchez, until she came across a female avatar, with long brown hair and a trim figure, wearing a dully vacant expression. A black information bubble appeared: Maggie Costello, US mediator Maggie Costello, US mediator.

'At least I'm in the room,' Maggie muttered to herself. She guessed these were dumb avatars, inert mannequins installed inside Second Life as props to add to the authenticity of the scene. You had to give it to the geek community: they certainly cared about detail.

It was then Maggie noticed that two of the figures around the table were not still, but wobbling. They were facing each other, identified by their on-screen bubbles as Yaakov Yariv and Khalil al-Shafi. They had the faces of the two men too, or a very close computer simulation of them. Only the bodies and clothes didn't fit. They were computer-game generic, presumably allocated automatically by Second Life software. Either that or Israel's aged Prime Minister still maintained an ostentatiously muscled chest, while the Fatah leader secretly liked to dress like an urban clubber, complete with tight-fitting T-shirt. Now that she was this near, her avatar standing halfway between the door and the head of the table, she could eavesdrop on their conversation. She checked her watch. Early evening on the East Coast: these were probably a couple of postgrads putting in some extra hours of role play.

A speech bubble appeared by the Yaakov Yariv avatar. A single line of yellow text. h.e.l.lo? Can we help you? Are you taking part in the peace simulation? h.e.l.lo? Can we help you? Are you taking part in the peace simulation?

Maggie was flummoxed. What on earth should she say? Should she pretend to be someone else? There was only one thing for it. She would have to stay in character. Valley girl, she decided. She hit the Chat Chat key and typed. As the words appeared on the screen, she noticed her avatar change posture: its arms were now raised up, the hands flapping. Maggie realized her on-screen alter ego was miming typing. key and typed. As the words appeared on the screen, she noticed her avatar change posture: its arms were now raised up, the hands flapping. Maggie realized her on-screen alter ego was miming typing.

hope i'm not crashing in here guys, but i'm doing my major in int rels and if i could listen in, it could really help.

Yariv came back a second or two later, the hands of his avatar now waggling in front of him, as if hitting the keys of an unseen keyboard.

Where do you study?

Maggie hesitated, looking again at Liz's avatar.

burbank community college.

There was a pause.

OK.

Maggie waited, enjoying this strange little game. She wondered what kind of antics Liz got up to here. Did she have the boyfriend in Second Life that she lacked in the first one?

The al-Shafi character began. Have you seen the Silwan map, the latest one? Have you seen the Silwan map, the latest one?

There was a delay of a second or two. Then a bubble popped up by the Yariv avatar. We saw it. It involves a bypa.s.s route for the water main. We saw it. It involves a bypa.s.s route for the water main.

Khalil al-Shafi: Yes Yes.

Yaakov Yariv: Who would pay for that? Who would pay for that?

Khalil al-Shafi: We propose three years from the EU-UN fund, eventually to be self-sustaining We propose three years from the EU-UN fund, eventually to be self-sustaining.

Yaakov Yariv: With access to the Jordanian aquifer? With access to the Jordanian aquifer?

Khalil al-Shafi: We imagine so. But we would need your in-principle agreement before we would put that to the Jordanians We imagine so. But we would need your in-principle agreement before we would put that to the Jordanians.

Maggie nodded her head in professional admiration. You had to hand it to these kids: they were certainly taking their studies seriously, not trading plat.i.tudes but getting into the real detail of the negotiations. Water was one of those issues whose importance eluded most outsiders to the Middle East conflict: too busy thinking about oil.

Good for them, she thought. She went back to her keyboard, back to the busty Valley girl.

you guys are really smart! thanks a bunch but i think i'd better study some more before i'm ready for this stuff, wish me luck!

Having said her goodbyes, Maggie mis-hit the arrow keys, haphazardly staggering forward and back. Then, embarra.s.sed, as if she really were in a room with two Harvard post-grads and was fumbling her exit, she hit the Fly Fly b.u.t.ton. Sure enough, the glamorous avatar rose from the ground and, with a little help from the forward arrow, took flight. b.u.t.ton. Sure enough, the glamorous avatar rose from the ground and, with a little help from the forward arrow, took flight.

Immediately, she collided with a neighbouring building, smacking her virtual head on it, watching her virtual self flinch for no more than a second. But a few moments later she was soaring above the Harvard campus. The graphics were extraordinarily detailed, like architects' three-dimensional projections, showing the white stucco cladding on the Dunster House clock-tower, even the newsstands and bicycle racks of Harvard Yard.

She carried on flying, her arms outstretched, her body horizontal, like a heavy-chested Superman. Occasionally she would swoop down to take a closer look. She saw hodge-podge buildings, as if constructed one extension at a time, surrounded by their own b.u.mpy landscapes: private homes, she soon realized, with gardens. She flew over a stretch of water, spotting a palm-fringed island. Once she got lower, a notice popped up on her screen: a promotional ad for a concert to be performed there by some eighties rocker tomorrow night. Maggie shook her head in bemused awe.