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 Maggie's 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. Maggie's 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. ‘I'm 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.’
‘That's what I understand and it's such a tragedy—’
‘No, no you don't 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 Maggie's wrist tightened.
‘Please don't 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 Kobi's 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 don't 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 didn't tell me. I only know it was some document, something written. And he said, “This will change everything.” That's what he said. “This will change everything”.’
‘What will change everything?’
The son was now getting up.
‘I don't know. He wouldn't 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.’
Beitin, the West Bank, Tuesday, 9.32am
He wouldn't need to be here long. Just ten minutes in the office, collect the papers and leave.
Except ‘office’ was not quite the right word. The two heavy padlocks guarding the metal door testified to that. ‘Workroom’ was more like it, even ‘storehouse’. Inside, it smelled like a potting shed. The fluorescent strip lights flickered on to reveal shelves filled not with papers, files or computer discs but stiff cardboard boxes. And inside those were fragments of ancient pottery, material Ahmed Nour had excavated from this very village.
He worked this way on every dig. Set up a base as close to the site as possible, allowing the latest findings to be brought back, catalogued and stored right away. He liked to do the job daily if he could: leave even a few burnt pottery shards around for too long and they would soon vanish. Looters, the curse of archaeologists the world over.
Ahmed found his desk: modest, metal, as if it belonged to the foreman on a construction site. Not so far off, he thought to himself. We're both in the business of human homes: they build new ones, I dig up old ones.
The papers he needed for his meeting with the head of the Palestinian Authority's Department of Antiquities and Cultural Heritage were right there, in a neat pile. Sweet Huda, he thought to himself. His young protégée had left everything in order: the permit renewal form, seeking permission to carry on digging in Beitin, and the application for a grant, begging for the cash to do it. Huda took care of all contact with the outside world now. She left him alone with no distractions – no phone calls, no emails, no blaring radio or crackling TV – so that he could bury himself in his work. If he concentrated hard, he could shut out modernity altogether.
That's what he had done this weekend. And he would have carried on doing it all week if it hadn't been for this damned meeting. The head of antiquities was an ignoramus. With no archaeological training, he was little more than a political hack. He wore a beard, which meant that the politics in question were of the new variety: religious.
‘My preference, Dr Nour,’ he had explained to Ahmed in their first meeting, ‘is for the glorification of our Islamic heritage.’ No surprise there. The new government was half Hamas. Translation: I'll pay for anything after the seventh century; if you want to dig up anything older, you're on your own.
The irony of it was not lost on Ahmed. Once he had been a hero to the Palestinian political class. He had been a founder member of a group of scholars who, decades ago, had insisted on looking at the ground beneath their feet in a radically new way. Until then, ever since the expeditions of Edward Robinson in the nineteenth century, those taking a shovel to