The Last Testament (32 page)

Orli left the clothes in a pile on the corner of the bed, turned on her heel and strode off. Maggie could hardly blame her. If Edward had marched in one day with another woman, demanding that this stranger get undressed in Maggie’s apartment and then raid her wardrobe, she would hardly be delighted.

Edward
. They hadn’t spoken for two days.

Within a few minutes, they were saying goodbye, Orli drawing out her embrace with Uri a second or two longer than was strictly necessary. He and Maggie headed down the stairs wearing not only new clothes but, at his insistence, having ditched everything else that might contain a device: shoes, bag, pens, the lot.

‘You’d be amazed where they can put a microphone or even 268

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a camera these days,’ he said, as they walked towards the car.

‘Can of hairspray, baseball cap, sunglasses, heel of a shoe, lapel, anything.’

She looked at him.

‘We’ve done it all, for TV documentaries. Hidden camera investigations.’

‘Sure, Uri.’ She suspected this knowledge was acquired wearing the uniform of the IDF rather than in the edit suites of Tel Aviv TV-land.

Once in the car, he put the music back on and they drove in silence. It was Maggie who broke it.

‘So what’s the deal with Orli, then?’ She hoped it sounded matter-of-fact, as if she was barely bothered.

‘I told you. An ex-girlfriend.’

‘How ex?’

‘Ex. We stopped seeing each other more than a year ago.’

‘I thought you were in New York a year ago.’

‘I was. She was with me. What is this, an interrogation?’

‘No. But five minutes ago we were in the apartment of a woman I’d never met and suddenly you’re dressing me up in her clothes. I think I have a right to know who she is.’

‘So this is about your rights now, is it?’ Uri was taking his eye off the road to smile at her.

She knew how she sounded. She decided to shut up, to look out of the window and say nothing more. That lasted at least fifteen seconds.

‘Why did she dump you?’

‘How do you know she dumped me? I might have dumped her.’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She said she was sick of hanging around in New York waiting for me to commit. So she came back here.’

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‘And is it over? Between you?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie, what is this? Until this week I hadn’t spoken to her for nearly a year. She called me about my parents; said if there was anything I needed, I should call. We needed something; I called. Jesus!’

Maggie was about to apologize, to be gracious, to forgive Uri for having a beautiful ex-girlfriend, all of which were possible now that he had said what he had said, but the chance was taken from her. Her phone rang, displaying the number of the US consulate. She gestured at Uri to pull over, so that she could get out and speak, away from the car and the assorted microphones it might be concealing. The phone could be tapped, of course; a bug could even be hidden inside it. But what could she do? She couldn’t throw away her phone, she had to be con-tactable. And she couldn’t ignore a call from the consulate. Now standing on a street corner, she answered it.

‘Hi Maggie, it’s Jim Davis. I’m here with Deputy Secretary Sanchez and Bruce Miller.’ There was a click, as she was put on speakerphone.

‘Maggie, it’s Robert Sanchez here. Things have got a little worse in the course of the day—’

‘A little worse? A
little
worse?’ It was Miller, his Southern twang cutting right through Sanchez’s soft baritone. She imagined him pacing, while Davis and Sanchez sat. ‘Try a
lot
worse, Costello. This whole country’s burning up faster than a Klansman’s cross. Now we got the Israeli Arabs rioting: Galilee, Nazareth, Garden of fucking Gethsemane for all I know. And Hizbullah are still knocking seven bells of shit out of the north.

Israelis are getting mighty restless.’

‘I understand.’

‘I hope you do, Miss Costello. ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, the President and a whole lotta other folks have put way too much into this peace process to see it turn into a pile of buffalo shit now.’

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This, Maggie knew, was the kind of talk that made Bruce Miller such a force of nature in Washington, overwhelming anyone unlucky enough to stand in his way. Before he got his man elected to the White House, he was a staple on the talk shows, out-mouthing even the Bill O’Reillys and Chris Matthews with this trademark blend of farm-boy argot and cut-to-the-chase political insight. He was smart and funny at the same time; the TV producers couldn’t get enough of him.

‘We got three big motives in play here. First up, my job is to get the President re-elected in November. Peace treaty in Jerusalem makes that a sure thing. Not many of those in politics, so if you get one, you grab it. Second, Mid-East peace wins the President a place in history. He succeeds where all the others failed. I like that, too. I like that a lot.’

Maggie was smiling despite herself. In her field, euphemism and circumlocution were the standard speech patterns; undiplomatic candour like Miller’s made a refreshing change.

‘But here’s the point, Miss Costello. Usually doing the right thing and winning votes don’t go together. When LBJ gave black folks the vote, that was the right thing to do, but it screwed the Democratic Party in the South to this very day. It was right, but it fucked us in the ass. Now this is different, even a cynical old toad like me can see that. We got ourselves a chance to do the right thing
and
win a ton of votes doing it. And believe me, stopping the Jews and Arabs fighting after they’ve been killing each other so long, that’s the right thing to do. We owe it to them not to fuck it up.’ He paused, just to make sure his homily had sunk in. ‘So what you got?’

Maggie flannelled a while, claiming some progress on both sides, before falling back on her earlier insistence that their best shot at halting the violence would be discovering the specific cause she believed lay behind several, if not all, of the incidents. She was getting closer to uncovering that cause, but it would take time.

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‘Time’s what we don’t have, Maggie.’

‘I know, Mr Miller,’ Maggie said, hearing the almost plaintive note of desperation in his voice. She felt a surge of guilt, that she had been entrusted with this vital task and she was fumbling it. Miller was not all hardball politics; behind that good ol’

boy exterior was a man who clearly yearned to make peace. And she, instead of helping, had so far achieved nothing. She hung up, promising another progress report later that night, and got back in the car, her earlier worry over Orli now seeming shamefully trivial.

For a long time she sat in silence, contemplating a much greater terror: a second, lethal failure. Uri drove on, asking no questions.

By the time they stopped outside the lawyer’s offices, the light was mellowing into afternoon. It was an old building, made of the same craggy stone that Maggie had now come to see as unre-markable, the natural material for all buildings. They walked up a single flight of stairs to a door marked ‘David Rosen, Advocate’.

Uri knocked gently, then pushed at the door. There was no one at the reception desk, though he didn’t seem too perturbed by that. ‘Probably knocked off early,’ he said, no longer in a whisper. Having shed everything he was wearing, he was confident he had now shaken off whatever bug had been pinned on him. Or her.

He called out, in Hebrew, but there was no reply. The offices seemed empty. Together they looked in at the first room: no one there. The next room was the same.

‘What time was he expecting us here?’ Maggie said, still whispering.

‘I said I would come straight over.’

‘Uri! That was ages ago. We wasted all that time at Orli’s.’

Uri poked his head around each door he could find, looking for the biggest office, the one that would belong to the senior 272

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partner. All of them were empty. As he opened the last door which, as he hoped, revealed the grandest office, his expression changed, the colour draining from his face.

Maggie walked in behind Uri, and stared. This office was not empty. David Rosen was still at his desk. But he was slumped across it, his body as still as a corpse.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - N I N E

TEKOA, THE WEST BANK, THURSDAY, 3.13PM

Not for the first time since he got to this country nearly twenty-five years ago, Akiva Shapira cursed his American upbringing.

He watched the young men on manoeuvres in the vineyard, charging, three at a time, their knives thrust forward, ready to plunge into the easy flesh of three straw-filled mannequins, and he regretted that he would never be like them. It was too late now, of course. At fifty-two, and weighing over two hundred pounds, Akiva Shapira would never be able to join this heroic army of Jewish resistance, not in any active way. What pained him was not that his moment had passed, but his knowledge that it had never really arrived.

As an American, he had grown up in flabby, comfortable, sub-urban New York. Riverdale, to be precise. While these young Israeli men had been taught the language of tanks, artillery and infantry as their mother tongue, reared as warriors from their infancy, he had been raised to join an army of lawyers, account-ants and doctors. He had come to Israel in his mid-twenties, in time to do three months’ basic training, but by then it was too late. He would never share in the martial knowledge that formed 274

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so much of this society’s inner culture. He would never say so publicly, but for all his nationalistic militancy and political influence in Israel, Akiva Shapira could never escape the feeling that he remained an outsider.

The men at his side had no such feelings, that he could tell.

They all had long military records, the basic three years in their youth and a couple of wars each after that. They could watch this display and, later, discuss the mechanics of combat with unerring confidence. When they moved on to the shooting range, watching as a team of twenty-year-old marksmen darted out of bushes and popped up out of the undergrowth to fire at the row of watermelons lined up as targets, these men, all of them Shapira’s age or older, could whisper useful notes to the instructor. Shapira remained quiet, awed by the explosive
blam
that sent the fruits into a shower of pulp and gore time after time, without fail.

He was relieved when the exhibition was over, when the young recruits were dismissed. Now the older men would talk strategy, Shapira taking his place at the table as an equal with the others.

There were only four of them gathered here, in a meeting whose existence, they agreed, would be denied by each of them.

Shapira and the man at his right were the only two who held formal positions within the settler movement. The man in the chair had gained fame, and notoriety, another way, as the quartermaster of the
Machteret
, the Jewish underground which made several terrorist attacks on Arab politicians and others more than two decades earlier. He had served time in jail and had, officially, retreated from public life. Most Israeli journalists believed that he now lived abroad. Yet here he was, deep inside the West Bank, in the heart of Samaria, as Shapira and his comrades would describe it.

And yet, should an Israeli camera crew have stumbled upon this gathering – which they would not, since a heavily guarded THE LAST TESTAMENT

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perimeter enclosed the entire area – it would not have been the former
Machteret
man whose presence would have shocked most, but that of the figure seated at the outdoor picnic table directly opposite Shapira. This man was the personal aide to none other than Yossi Ben-Ari, the Minister of Defence of the State of Israel.

‘We’re here, as you know, to talk about Operation Bar Kochba,’

the quartermaster began.

Shapira liked the name. After all, he had suggested it, to name this twenty-first century Jewish revolt after the man who had led the second-century equivalent. (That Bar Kochba revolt against the Romans had ended in disaster and exile for the Jews of Palestine, a fact Shapira chose to gloss over.)

‘Our preferred option remains mass disobedience within the ranks of the IDF. Yariv can have no peace deal if the army refuses to implement its terms. If he gives the order to dismantle a settlement like this one, like Tekoa, then our people will refuse to obey.’

‘But there was Gaza,’ said Ben-Ari’s man.

‘Precisely. There was Gaza. We expected mass refusal then and it didn’t happen. So we need a Plan B. Which is what you saw just now. Highly-trained young men who will throw off their IDF uniforms and take up arms to protect their homeland.’

Shapira couldn’t help but look over at the aide to the Defence Minister. The fact that he was here at all was symbolic enough.

But that he was listening, without protest, to a plan by Israelis to take up arms against the army of Israel – the very army his boss headed! – was extraordinary. That they had this man, and therefore, by implication, Ben-Ari himself on side, was proof of their strength, and confirmation of Yariv’s great weakness.

‘I repeat, we deploy these forces only once an agreement is signed and once the government starts enforcing its terms.’

‘But in the meantime . . .’ It was Shapira, his urgent desire to get on with it, to act, getting the better of him.

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‘In the meantime,’ continued the quartermaster, shooting a glare in Shapira’s direction, ‘there are steps we can take to prevent any such deal. These efforts are already underway. You will have seen our claim of responsibility for the latest action in the Old City market.’

The others nodded.

‘These pre-emptive steps then, aimed at destabilizing the government before it can commit national surrender, will be the focus of our energies. We have in the last few days established a small unit dedicated to precisely these activities. For now, gentlemen, our fate is in the hands of these men. Tonight when we
daven
the evening service, I suggest we each offer a silent prayer for the good fortune and success of The Defenders of United Jerusalem.’