UN, the British. Arab states, Indonesia, Malaysia. We got a billion Muslims on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what happens. Imams and mullahs from here to Mohammadsville, Alabama preaching that this is the front line in the war between Islam and the West. Armies being mobilized in the Arab world. If they all decide the Palestinians are being pushed into some kind of sell-out deal, some surrender to the evil West, then it's not going to be just a few angry folks in Gaza or the odd demo in Damascus. The whole region could go boof.’ He made a little mushroom cloud of his hands. ‘And that's World War Three, right there.’
Maggie nodded, allowing Davis to know his little dramatic exposition had struck home.
‘Up till now things have gone OK. But it's crunch time now, R & J, and the parties are getting antsy.’
‘They haven't talked about refugees and Jerusalem until now?’ She wanted Davis to know that she knew the code. Like every field, diplomacy had its jargon; within that, Middle East diplomacy had its own dialect. After a year spent a million miles away, Maggie hoped she'd be able to keep up.
‘There's been a ton of groundwork on right of return,’ said Davis. ‘Though, one tip: don't let anyone catch you saying those words or the Israelis will eat your lunch. It's not a “right”, it's a claim. And it's not necessarily “return”, because some of the Palestinians came from somewhere else first. And it's not “home” because this is the homeland of the Jewish people, blah, blah. You know all this.’
Maggie nodded, but she had stopped listening. She was remembering the row she had had with Edward. He hadn't even attempted to deny that he had deleted those messages from Judd: he simply said he had done it for Maggie's own good. She had been furious, accusing him of trying to cage her, to tame her into some little Washington wife with a sideline in couples' therapy. He was denying who she really was, or at least who she had been. He said she had swallowed too many counselling manuals and was now simply vomiting them back up. She insisted that he was on some weird mission to prevent her ever getting over what had happened in Africa, as if he somehow liked her in the state he had found her: broken.
After that, there wasn't much to say and they hadn't 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. They're 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.’
‘How's 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. They're going ape, saying the dead guy's a martyr.’
‘They think it was deliberate?’
‘They're saying all kinds of things.’ A look of sudden comprehension crossed Davis's face. ‘So that's why you're going to the shiva house.’
‘What?’
‘The house of mourning. I just got passed a note saying you're to go, as an unofficial representative. The Israelis asked for it, apparently. Shows respect to the guy, proof that he wasn't 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 we're endorsing his views.’
‘Right. They think it might help cool things down.’
‘And we've 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. You've probably got the details on your BlackBerry.’
‘Ah. No BlackBerry, I'm afraid.’
‘Oh, Comms will fix you up with one of those, no problem. I'll get—’
‘I mean, I don't use a BlackBerry. Never have. Keeps you on too tight a leash. Means you're listening to Washington or London or whoever, when you should be listening to the people in the room. Can't stand the things.’
‘Okay.’ Davis looked as if Maggie had admitted a heroin addiction.
‘I wouldn't carry a cellphone either if I could get away with it. Same reason.’
Davis ignored that. ‘Your hotel's just a block away. You can freshen up and the driver will take you there. Widow's name is Rachel.’
Jerusalem, Monday 7.27pm
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 couldn't 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, v'Yitkadash …
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 Guttman's 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