leaders to shake the hand of the Zionist enemy!’
‘If the Israelis really wanted to wind up the Palestinians, wouldn't they kill a whole lot more people than just one old man?’
‘But the Zionists are too clever for that! If they drop a bomb, then the world will blame them. This way, the world blames us!’
Something in al-Shafi's tone struck Maggie as odd. What was it? A false note, his voice somehow a decibel too loud. She had heard this before: once in Belgrade, a Serb official talking at the same, unnatural volume. Of course. Al-Shafi was not speaking to her, she realized. He was performing. His real audience was the other men in the room.
‘Dr al-Shafi, do you think we could talk in private?’
Al-Shafi looked to the handful of officials and, with a quick gesture, waved them out. After a rustle of papers and clinking of tea glasses, they were alone.
‘Thank you. Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘I have told you what I think.’ The voice was quieter now.
‘You've told me you believe that the men who killed Ahmed Nour yesterday were undercover agents of Israel.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don't really believe that, do you? Is there something you didn't want to say in front of your colleagues?’
‘Is this how you make peace, Miss Costello? By reading the minds of the men who are fighting?’ He gave her a rueful smile.
‘Don't try flattering me, Dr al-Shafi,’ Maggie said, returning the smile. ‘You suspect Hamas, don't you?’ Taking his silence as affirmation, she pressed on. ‘But why? Because he was a critic of theirs?’
‘Do you remember what the Taliban did in Afghanistan, just before 9/11? Something that grabbed the world's attention.’
‘They blew up those giant Buddhas, carved in the mountainside.’
‘Correct. And why did they do this? Because the statues proved there was something before Islam, a civilization even older than the Prophet. This is something the fanatics cannot stand.’
‘You think Hamas would kill Nour just for that, because he found a few pots and pans that predated Islam?’
Al-Shafi sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘Miss Costello, it's not just Hamas. They are under pressure from Islamists all around the world, who are calling them traitors for talking to Israel at all.’
‘Al-Qaeda?’
‘Among others, yes. They are watching what is happening here very closely. It's possible that Hamas felt they had to show their balls – excuse me – by killing a scholar who uncovered the wrong kind of truth.’
‘But why would they disguise that as a collaborator killing? Surely they would make it look like a state execution, if they wanted to boost their standing with al-Qaeda.’ Maggie paused. ‘Unless they also wanted to make it look like Israel, so that Palestinians would be too angry to go ahead with the peace deal. Is that possible?’
‘I have wondered about it. Whether Hamas is getting, how do you say, cold feet?’
Maggie smiled. She was always wary of first impressions, including her own. But something about the knot of angst on this man's forehead, the way his mind seemed to be wrestling with itself, made her trust him.
Al-Shafi rubbed his beard. Maggie tried to read his expression. ‘There's something else, isn't there?’
He looked up, his eyes holding hers. She did not break the contact; or the silence.
At last, he got up and began to pace, staring at his feet. ‘Ahmed Nour's son came to see me an hour ago. He was very agitated.’
‘Understandably.’
‘He said he went through his father's things this afternoon, looking for an explanation. He found some correspondence, a few emails. Including one – a strange one – from someone he does not recognize.’
‘Has he spoken with colleagues? Maybe it's someone he worked with.’
‘Of course. But his assistant does not recognize the name either. And she handled all such matters for him.’
‘Maybe he was having an affair.’
‘It's a man's name.’
Maggie began to raise her eyebrows, but thought better of it. ‘And the son thought this person might somehow be linked to his father's death?’
Al-Shafi nodded.
‘That he might even be behind it?’
He gave the slightest movement of his head.
‘What kind of person are we talking about?’
Al-Shafi looked towards the door, as if uncertain who might be listening. ‘The email was sent by an Arab.’
Jerusalem, Tuesday, 8.19pm
Maggie lay back on her bed at the David's Citadel Hotel. The hotel was cavernous, built in a modern, scrubbed version of Jerusalem stone – and, as far as she could tell, packed with American Christians. She had seen one group form a circle, their eyes closed, in the lobby while their Israeli tour guide looked on, patiently.
Davis had put her here. It was a block away from the consulate; she could see Agron Street from her window. She and Lee had driven back from Ramallah in the twilight, the road even emptier than before, and in silence. Maggie had been thinking, doing her best not to believe that this mission, far from being destined to save her reputation, was doomed to fail.
What Judd Bonham had billed as a simple matter of closing the deal was deteriorating instead into yet another Middle East disaster. No one had kept count of how many times these two peoples had seemed ready to make peace, only to fail and sink back into war. Each time it happened the violence was worse than before. Maggie dreaded to think what hell awaited if, in the next few days, they failed all over again. She had learned to recognize the telltale signs, and high-profile killings on both sides, whatever the circumstances, were a reliable warning of serious trouble ahead.
She reached for the minibar. With a glass honeyed by a whisky miniature, she sat at the desk and stared out of the window. She could see a man emerge from the neon-lit convenience store across the street, carrying a flimsy plastic bag: inside it, a plastic bottle of milk, maybe a jar of honey. A man off home for the night.
It was such a simple sight yet it fascinated Maggie. For some reason such basic, humdrum domesticity had eluded her. She envied that man, heading home with a bottle of milk for the children to drink with their bedtime story. He probably did the same thing every night. Somehow he had managed it without ever trying to break free.
Draining her glass, she considered calling Edward. She wondered if her number would show on
