His eyes scanned it. 'It doesn't sound like Guttman at all. He was not an especially religious man. A nationalist, of course. But not religious. Yet here he implies that G.o.d himself has spoken to him. And he quotes the Rosh Hashana liturgy: "Do not forsake me, do not cast me out." I wouldn't put it as robustly as Mossek here but maybe Guttman had indeed lost his mind.'

They all looked to Yariv, waiting for his verdict. A one-word dismissal, even a gesture, and the matter would be forgotten. But he simply sucked on a sunflower seed, staring at the copy of the text Tal had handed him.

As so often, his a.s.sistant found the silence awkward and moved to fill it. 'One curiosity: he says he has "tried" to keep this knowledge a secret. That suggests he may not have succeeded. If we decide to take this further, we will have to find out who else Guttman spoke to: friends, family members. Maybe, despite what he says about the media, some right-wing journalists. He certainly knew plenty of those. Second: the stuff about fearing for his life could backfire very badly. On us, I mean. If the right were to get hold of this text, it would fuel their conspiracy theories: a man whom we insist was killed by accident was in fear for his life. Third: this is all clearly about the peace talks. "In the light of everything you are doing," he says. Adding that you, Prime Minister, would "tremble" if you knew what he knew. Which implies that you would realize you are making a terrible mistake and would not go ahead.'

'Guttman was against the peace processthere's a big surprise,' said Mossek dryly.

Yariv raised his hand and leaned forward. 'These are not the words of a madman. They are urgent and pa.s.sionate, yes. But they are not incoherent. Nor is this a martyr's letter, despite the premonition of his own death. If it were, he would have spoken clearly and transparently about the treachery of giving up territory and so on. He would have wanted a text to rally his troops. This is too,' he paused, sucking a tooth as he tried to find the right word, 'enigmatic for that. No, I believe this is what it says it is: a letter from a man desperate to tell me something.

'The task now is to ensure that no one breathes a word of the contents of this letter. Amir will say that the lab tests were inconclusive, that no words can be made out clearly. If so much as a syllable of it leaks out, I will sack both of you and replace you with your bitterest party rivals.' Mossek and Ben-Ari drew back, astounded by this sudden show of suspicion, which both interpreted as pent-up anger. 'And Amir here will tell the press you betrayed a crucial state secret to the enemy during the peace negotiations. Whether through malice or incompetence we will let the press decide. Meanwhile, Amir, it is clear that Shimon Guttman harboured a secret for which he was prepared to risk his life. Your job is to find out what it was.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

JERUSALEM, TUESDAY, 10.01PM.

She was meant to travel nowhere except with her official driver, but there was no time for that. Besides, something told her this was a visit best paid discreetly, and it was hard to be discreet in an armour-plated Land Cruiser. So now she rattled towards Bet Hakerem in a plain white taxi.

She had moved fast. Once she had unpicked the anagram, everything else seemed to fit into place. She had stared hard at the photograph of Nour, to find whatever it was that had nagged away at her when she first saw it. She had looked into his eyes, as she had done before, but then her gaze had shifted to the background.

He was clearly standing indoors, in a home rather than an office, in front of what seemed to be a bookcase. Visible was a complex floral pattern in blue and green. When Maggie clicked on the image to make it larger, she could see that this was not wallpaper, as she had first guessed, but a design on a plate, resting on the shelf just behind Nour's shoulder.

Of course. She had seen that pattern before; indeed, she had been struck by its beauty. She had seen it just twenty-four hours earlier, when she had made a condolence call at the home of Shimon Guttman. In a house full of books, the ceramic plate had stood out. And here was Nour, standing in front of one just like it. Could it be that the two of them had discovered this pottery together, perhaps taking a piece each? Were these two men, whose politics made them sworn enemies, in fact collaborators?

She smiled to herself at the very thought. The CIA chief had declared Nour's death a typical collaborator killing: maybe he was right, he just had the wrong kind of collaboration in mind.

And then her eye had moved away from the ceramic, noticing again the disembodied arm looped over Nour's shoulder. Was it possible that this picture had been taken in front of the very bookcase Maggie had seen on Monday night, right here in Jerusalem? Did that arm embracing the Palestinian belong to none other than the fierce Israeli hawk, Shimon Guttman?

She had reached for her cellphone, about to call Davis with her discovery. Or to go up a level, to the Deputy Secretary of State who had sent her to see Khalil al-Shafi. But she paused. What exactly did she have here? A coincidence that was odd, granted, but hardly clear evidence of anything. On the other hand, the chances that there really was an Ehud Ramon toiling away in some university faculty somewhere, leaving no trace on Google, were close to zero.

The truth was, this connection between the two dead men had gripped her because of the conversation she had had in the mourning house with Rachel Guttman. So far she had said nothing about that to anyone. If challenged, she would have said that she had not taken the old lady's words seriously, that she had regarded them as the ramblings of a traumatized widow. That was at least half-true. But Mrs Guttman's words had nagged away at her. And now this linkif that's what it wasto the dead Palestinian.

It was all too speculative to be worth briefing colleagues about, at least in this form. She didn't want them concluding that her spell in the wilderness had turned her into a conspiracy nut. Yet she couldn't quite leave it either. The solution was to make this one visit, find out what she could, then present her findings to her bosses. The CIA station chief would be the obvious destination: she should tell him what she knew and he could see what it meant. All she needed was to ask the Guttman widow a couple of questions.

That decision had been taken no more than half an hour ago. Now, the taxi pulled up on the corner of the Guttmans' street: soon she would have her answers. 'I'll walk from here,' she told the driver.

The vigil that had been held there since Sat.u.r.day nightright-wingers and settlers, determined to keep up the pressure on the governmentwas smaller now. A handful of activists with candles, keeping a respectful distance from the house.

Maggie checked her watch. It was late to visit like this, unannounced, but something told her Rachel Guttman wouldn't be asleep.

She looked for a doorbell, finding a buzzer with a Hebrew scrawl on it which she took to be the family name. She pressed it quickly, to minimize the disturbance. No reply.

But the lights were on and she could hear a record playing. A melancholy, haunting melody. Mahler, Maggie reckoned. Someone was definitely home. She tried the metal knocker on the door, first lightly, then more firmly. At her second attempt, the door came open a little. It had been left ajar, just like the mourning houses Maggie remembered from Dublin, open to all-comers, day and night.

The hallway was empty, but the house felt warm. There was, Maggie felt sure, even the smell of cooking.

'h.e.l.lo? Mrs Guttman?'

No reply. Perhaps the old lady had dozed off in her chair. Maggie stepped inside hesitantly, not wanting to barge into this stranger's house. She made for the main room, which last night had been jammed with hundreds of people. It took her a second to get her bearings, but she soon found it. There, in the s.p.a.ce between the tall, leather-bound volumes, was the ceramic plate. No mistaking it: the pattern was identical to the one in the newspaper picture of Ahmed Nour.

She tried again. 'h.e.l.lo?' But there was no response. Maggie was confused. The house was open and gave every sign of being occupied.

She stole another glance at the plate, turned out of the main room and tried to follow the warmth and the smell. It took her down a corridor and eventually to a door onto what Maggie guessed was the kitchen.

She pushed at it but it was tightly shut. She knocked on the door, almost whispering. 'Mrs Guttman? It's Maggie Costello. We met yesterday.'

As she spoke, she turned the handle and opened the door. She peered into the dark. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, to make out the shape of a table and chairs at one end, all empty. She looked towards the sink and the kitchen counter. No one there.

Only then did her gaze fall to the floor, where she saw the outline of what seemed to be a body. Maggie crouched down to get a better lookbut there was no doubt about it.

There, cold and lifeless, its hand gnarled around a small, empty bottle of pills, was the corpse of Rachel Guttman.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BAGHDAD, APRIL 2003 2003.

He only had a rumour to go on. His brother-in-law had mentioned it at the garage yesterday, not that he would dare ask him about it now. If he did, he would only demand why he was asking and before long it would get back to his wife and he would never hear the end of it.

No, he would find this out himself. He knew where the cafe was, just after the fruit market on Mutannabi Street. Apparently everyone had been coming here.

Abdel-Aziz al-Askari took a seat close to the back, an observation post, so that he could see who came in and who came out. He signalled for mint tea, served here piping hot and in a stikkam stikkam, a narrow gla.s.s as tall as your first finger, and looked around. A few old-timers playing sheshbesh sheshbesh; several puffing on the nargileh nargileh pipe; a group cl.u.s.tered around a TV set watching footage of the statue of Saddam falling, apparently played on a loop. They were men and the talk was louder than usual, but there was none of the loud euphoria he had always imagined this day would bring. Liberation! The fall of the dictator! He had pictured screaming, dancing ecstasy; spontaneous hugs between strangers on the street; he had seen himself kissing beautiful women, everyone falling into each other's arms at the sheer delight of it all. pipe; a group cl.u.s.tered around a TV set watching footage of the statue of Saddam falling, apparently played on a loop. They were men and the talk was louder than usual, but there was none of the loud euphoria he had always imagined this day would bring. Liberation! The fall of the dictator! He had pictured screaming, dancing ecstasy; spontaneous hugs between strangers on the street; he had seen himself kissing beautiful women, everyone falling into each other's arms at the sheer delight of it all.

But it was not like that. People were holding back, just in case. What if the secret police burst in, announcing that the Americans had been defeated and anyone who had so much as smiled at Saddam's alleged defeat would be hanged? After all, few believed the hated Mahabarat Mahabarat had simply vanished overnight. What if the pictures on Al-Arabiya were in fact an elaborate hoax, designed by Uday and Qusay to test the Iraqi people, to flush out those who were disloyal to the regime? What, above all, if Saddam had not gone? had simply vanished overnight. What if the pictures on Al-Arabiya were in fact an elaborate hoax, designed by Uday and Qusay to test the Iraqi people, to flush out those who were disloyal to the regime? What, above all, if Saddam had not gone?

So the customers here, like everyone throughout this city, were watching and waiting. Happy to chat, but not quite ready to commit. Even those watching the replayed scenes from Paradise Square confined themselves to blandly neutral remarks.

'It's certainly an historic event,' said one.

'People will be seeing this around the world,' nodded another. Both kept open the option of adding that it was a 'wicked act by Zionist counter-revolutionaries who must be punished at once'.

Abdel-Aziz kept sipping his tea, patting Salam's school satchel intermittently to be sure his son's discovery was still inside. He had been there maybe fifteen minutes when a younger man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, came in, all smiles and confidence.

'Good afternoon, my brothers!' he said, beaming. 'And how is business?' He laughed loudly. There were nods in his direction, even a couple of hands proffered for shaking. 'Mahmoud, welcome,' said one man, by way of greeting.

Mahmoud. Abdel-Aziz cleared his throat. This must be him. I should seize the moment, talk to him right away. Mind you, I mustn't seem too eager.

But it was too late. The newcomer, in a black leather jacket and with some kind of bracelet around his wrist, had already spotted Abdel-Aziz, catching the look in his eye.

'Welcome, my friend. You are looking for someone?'

'I am looking for Mahmoud.'

'Well, maybe I can help.' He turned towards the door of the cafe, pretending to shout. 'Mahmoud! Mahmoud!' Then, turning back to Abdel-Aziz: 'Oh look! I'm right here.' His face disintegrating into an exaggerated, fake laugh.

'I hear you-'

'What did you hear?'

'That people who have-'

'What have they been saying about Mahmoud? Eh?'

'Sorry. Maybe I made a mistake-' Abdel-Aziz got up to leave but he found Mahmoud's hand on his arm, pushing him back into his seat. He was surprisingly strong.

'I can see you're carrying something rather heavy in that bag of yours. Is that something you want to show Mahmoud?'

'My son got it. Yesterday. From the-'

'From the same place as everyone else. Don't worry. I won't tell. That would be bad for you, bad for me, bad for business.' He dissolved again into the fake laugh. Then, just as suddenly, the smile died. 'Bad for your son, too.'

Abdel-Aziz wanted to get away; he did not trust this man one bit. He glanced back at the others in the cafe. Most were watching the TV, live coverage of a briefing by the US military from Centcom, central command in Doha, Qatar. They were announcing their capture of yet another presidential palace.

'So shall we do some business, yes?'

'Is it safe? To show you, here?'

Mahmoud pulled Abdel-Aziz's chair with a single tug, shifting him round so that their shoulders touched. Now they had their backs to the rest of the drinkers. Between them, they shielded their small, square table from view.

'Show me.'

Abdel-Aziz unbuckled the satchel, peeled back the leather flap and offered it for Mahmoud's inspection.

'Take it out.'

'I'm not sure I-'

'If you want to do business, Mahmoud has to see the merchandise.'

Abdel-Aziz laid the satchel flat on the table and slowly eased the object out. Mahmoud's expression did not change. Instead, he reached over and, without ceremony, unsheathed the tablet from its envelope.

'OK.'

'OK?'

'Yes, you can put it back now.'

'You're not interested?'

'Normally, Mahmoud wouldn't be interested in such a lump. Clay bricks like this are ten a penny.'

'But the writing on it-'

'Who cares about writing? Just a few squiggles. It could be a shopping list. Who cares what some old hag wanted from the fishmongers ten thousand years ago?'

'But-'

'But,' Mahmoud held up a finger, to silence him. 'But it does come in an envelope. And it's only had the odd knock to it. I'll give you twenty dollars for it.'

'Twenty?'

'You wanted more?'

'But this is from the National Museum-'

'Uh, uh, uh.' The finger was up again. 'Remember, Mahmoud doesn't want to know too much. You say this has been in your family for many generations and given the, er, recent events, you believe now is the time to sell.'

'But this must be very rare.'

'I'm afraid not, Mr...?'

'My name is Abdel-Aziz.' d.a.m.n d.a.m.n. Why had he given his real name?

'There are a thousand items like this floating around Baghdad right now. I could step outside and find many like it, with a click of my fingers.' He clicked them, as if to demonstrate. 'If you want to do business with someone else-' He rose to his feet.

Now it was Abdel-Aziz's turn to extend a restraining hand. 'Please. Maybe twenty-five dollars?'

'I am sorry. Twenty is already too much.'

'I have a family. A son, a daughter-'

'I understand. Because you seem a good man, I will do you a favour. I will pay you twenty-two dollars. Mahmoud must be crazy: now he will make no money. Instead he makes you rich!'

They shook hands. Mahmoud stood up and asked the cafe owner to find him a plastic bag. Once he had it, he slipped the tablet inside and peeled off twenty-two American dollars from a thick, grubby wad and handed them to Abdel-Aziz who left the cafe immediately, his son's school bag swung over his shoulder, now light and entirely empty.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

JERUSALEM, TUESDAY, 10.13PM.

Maggie had seen plenty of dead bodies before. She had been part of an NGO team that tried to broker a ceasefire in the Congo, where the one commodity that was in cheap and plentiful supply was human corpses: four million killed there in just a few years. You'd find them in forests, behind bushes, at roadsides, as regular as wild flowers.

But never before had she been this close to one so...fresh. The fading warmth of the woman's flesh as Maggie touched her back appalled and confused her. She shuddered, instinctively tugging at the woman's arm, trying to pull her into an upright position, so that she wouldn't just be lying here, like a, like a...corpse.