After that, there wasnt much to say and they hadnt said it. She had packed her bags quickly and left for the airport. She felt guilty, knowing all that Edward had done for her when she was at her lowest. And she felt tremendous sadness, that her attempt at a normal life had collapsed so spectacularly. But she could not, in all conscience, say she felt she had made a mistake. Why, she wondered now, had she never unpacked those boxes? She knew what she would say if this were about someone else: that unconsciously she was holding back, that she was refraining from ever fully moving in with Edward. Like a child who refuses to take his coat off at school, those two boxes, waiting to be unpacked, were her way of saying she was just passing through.
So she had boarded the plane, looked down at Washington as it receded, imagining Edward receding with it, and then promptly distracted herself by plunging into the three-hundred-page briefing pack Bonham had prepared for her.
So you can imagine, this assassination thing has everyone extra jumpy. Theyre all on a hair trigger at the best of times, but now more than ever. Which is why they sent in the cavalry. He gestured towards her. Closing the deal.
Right. Though not in the room just yet.
Hows that?
Washington has decided that the mood has deteriorated in the few hours I was in the air. Apparently, the moment is not ripe for me to come in just yet.
Oh, right.
For now my immediate role is to keep everyone calm. Out and about, keeping the constituencies on side.
Ah, the constituencies. Davis made little quote marks with his fingers. Well, after what happened last night, the Israeli right are the first guys who are gonna need stroking. Theyre going ape, saying the dead guys a martyr.
They think it was deliberate?
Theyre saying all kinds of things. A look of sudden comprehension crossed Daviss face. So thats why youre going to the shiva house.
What?
The house of mourning. I just got passed a note saying youre to go, as an unofficial representative. The Israelis asked for it, apparently. Shows respect to the guy, proof that he wasnt being taken out because he opposed the US-backed peace process; proof that no one regarded him as an enemy.
But not too official, or it looks like were endorsing his views.
Right. They think it might help cool things down.
And weve agreed.
We have. Funeral was this morning, as soon as they got the body back from the autopsy. They do them quick here; religious thing, like everything else in this place. But the shiva goes on all week. Youve probably got the details on your BlackBerry.
Ah. No BlackBerry, Im afraid.
Ah. No BlackBerry, Im afraid.
Oh, Comms will fix you up with one of those, no problem. Ill get-
I mean, I dont use a BlackBerry. Never have. Keeps you on too tight a leash. Means youre listening to Washington or London or whoever, when you should be listening to the people in the room. Cant stand the things.
Okay. Davis looked as if Maggie had admitted a heroin addiction.
I wouldnt carry a cellphone either if I could get away with it. Same reason.
Davis ignored that. Your hotels just a block away. You can freshen up and the driver will take you there. Widows name is Rachel.
CHAPTER SIX
J ERUSALEM , M ONDAY 7.27 PM
The street was jammed, cars parked on both sides, their tyres spilling onto the pavements. It was a well-to-do neighbourhood, Maggie could tell that much: the trees were leafy, the cars BMWs and Mercs. Her driver was struggling to get through, despite the discreet Stars-and-Stripes pennant flying from the bonnet. It had been getting chilly in DC. Here it was still warm in the late evening; there was a sweet, sticky smell coming off the trees.
The path to the building was packed, all the way to the front door. As she squeezed through, she noticed that look again from several of the men in line, their eyes following her as she went past.
You are from the embassy, no? From America? It was a man at the door, staff or relative Maggie couldnt tell. But clearly he knew she was coming. Please, inside.
Maggie was pressed into what would ordinarily be a large room. Now it was jammed with people, like rush hour on a subway train. Her height was an advantage: she could see the crowd of heads, the male ones covered in skull caps, and at the front a bearded man she took to be a rabbi.
Yitgadal, vYitkadash
The room hushed for this murmured prayer for the dead man. Then the rabbi spoke a few sentences of Hebrew, turning occasionally to a row of three people sitting on strangely low chairs. From their red eyes and moist noses, Maggie guessed they were Guttmans immediate family: widow, son and daughter. Of the three, only the son was not weeping. He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes dry.
Maggie could feel the crowd behind her. She was not quite sure what she was supposed to do. She should wait her turn to meet the family, but the room was heaving. It would take an hour to get to the front. But if she left now, it could be interpreted-and written up-as a snub. Meanwhile, she could hardly turn to strangers and strike up chitchat. This was not a party.
She smiled politely as she inched her way through. Her height and black trouser suit persuaded most of the mourners that she was some kind of VIP and they made way for her. (Wearing the suit felt strange: it had been so long since she had dressed this way.) Still, she could only move slowly.
She was making progress until she was blocked by a large bookcase. In truth the whole room seemed to be filled with books. They were broken up by the odd ceramic pot or plate, including one with a strikingly ornate blue pattern, but mainly it was books. Across each wall, and from floor to ceiling.
Her face was pressed up close enough to read the titles. Most were in Hebrew; but there was a cluster of books on American politics, including several of the neo-conservative tomes which had once dominated the New York Times bestseller lists. Terrorism: How the West Can Win. Inside the New Jihad. The Coming Clash. The Gathering Storm. She felt she had a good handle on this Mr Guttman. After all, Washington was not short of men who shared his politics. She had encountered more than one of them, at some reception or other, as Edward worked the room while she stood watching, as if from afar, even when she was right next to him. The memory had barely popped into her mind when she felt the accompanying pang. Edward.
Please, please, come. Her unofficial host had somehow reappeared and now drew Maggie forward. People were forming a line to meet the mourners. She tried to hear what those in front were saying, but she could understand none of it: Hebrew.
At last, it was Maggies turn to shake hands with the family, nodding respectfully to each one, trying to mould her lips into the shape of pity. First, the daughter, who gave her only a fleeting moment of eye contact. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with short, dark hair interrupted by a few strands of grey; she was attractive, with a face that radiated solid practicality. Maggie guessed she was the person in charge here.
Then the son. Half-standing, half-sitting, he looked at her coldly. He was tall, and more casually dressed than she would have expected in a house of mourning, in dark jeans and a white shirt, both of which looked expensive. His hair, a full, dark head of it, was well cut, too. From the way people hovered around him, it appeared that he was successful or important in some way. Late thirties, Maggie noted; no sign of a wife.
And finally the widow. Maggies guide bent down, so that the grieving woman could hear him. Self-consciously he spoke in English.
Mrs Guttman, this lady is from United States. From the White House, from the President.
Maggie toyed with correcting him and let it go. Im so sorry for your loss, she said, bending almost double and extending a hand. We wish you to know that you and your family are in the prayers of the American people.
The widow looked up suddenly. Her hair was dyed black, her eyes nearly the same colour. She gripped Maggie by the wrist, so that Maggie was forced to look into those dark eyes which, still wet, focused intently.
You are from the President of the United States?
Well-
You know my husband had an important message. For the Prime Minister.
Thats what I understand and its such a tragedy-
No, no you dont understand. This message, he had been trying to get it to Kobi for days. He called the office; he went to the Knesset. But they would not let him anywhere near. It drove him mad! Her grip on Maggies wrist tightened.
Please dont upset yourself-
What is your name?
Maggie Costello.
His message was urgent, Miss Costello. A matter of life and death. Not just his life or Kobis life, but the lives of everyone in this country, in this whole region. He had seen something, Miss Costello.
Please, Mrs Guttman- It was the man who had introduced them, but the widow waved him away.
Maggie crouched lower. You say he had seen something?
Yes. A document, a letter maybe, something, I dont know for sure-but something of the greatest importance. For the last three days of his life, he did not sleep. He just said the same thing over and over. Kobi must know of this, Kobi must know of this.
Kobi? The Prime Minister?
Yes, yes. Please understand, what he had to tell Kobi still needs to be told. My husband was not a fool. He knew the risk he took. But he said nothing was more important. He had to tell him what he had seen.
And what had he seen?
Ima, dai kvar! It was the son, his voice firm, the voice of a man used to giving instructions. Mother, enough already.
He didnt tell me. I only know it was some document, something written. And he said, This will change everything. Thats what he said. This will change everything.
What will change everything?
The son was now getting up.
I dont know. He wouldnt tell me. For my safety, he said.
Your safety?
I know my husband. He was a serious man. He would not suddenly go crazy and run and shout at the Prime Minister. If he had something to say, it must have been just as Shimon said-a matter of life and death.