Free The Last Testament by Sam Bourne

by the same two hooded men who’d brought it there.’
    ‘Collaborator killing?’
    ‘Exactly.’ The CIA station chief turned towards Maggie, offering extra tuition to the newcomer to the class. ‘This is standard punishment meted out by Palestinians to any Palestinian deemed guilty of collaborating with Israeli intelligence. Usually they’re accused of tipping off Israel as to the whereabouts of wanted terrorists or have warned the Israelis when an attack’s coming.’
    ‘What’s the Israeli reaction?’ The questions were coming out of a speakerphone pulled to the centre of the polished wood table: the voice of the Secretary of State in Washington. He had left it to his deputy to manage this last stage of talks on the ground. He had wanted to keep his distance, in case of failure.
    ‘So far pretty muted. Some boilerplate about Palestinians needing to prove they believe in the rule of law. But that was 58
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    only a low-level spokesman, when prompted in a media interview. Nothing from any of the principals. I think they want to treat this as an internal—’
    ‘No chance they’d break off talks over this?’
    ‘We don’t think so, sir.’
    ‘Unless they’re looking for an excuse.’
    ‘Which they’re not at this stage.’ It was his deputy, raising his voice to be picked up by the phone. ‘The talks are painfully difficult right now, but no one’s walking away.’
    ‘Still hung up on refugees?’
    ‘And Jerusalem. Yes.’
    ‘Remember, we can’t let this go on forever. If we’re not careful, it’s one delay, then another and before you know it—’
    ‘—it’s November.’ This from Bruce Miller, officially titled Political Counsellor to the President, unofficially his most trusted consigliere , at his side since his first run for Attorney General in Georgia more than twenty-five years earlier. They spent more time together than either man did with his wife. His presence in Jerusalem confirmed what they all knew. That this push for peace was inseparable from American domestic politics.
    ‘Hello, Bruce.’ Maggie detected a sudden meekness in the Secretary of State.
    ‘I was just about to agree with you, Mr Secretary,’ Miller began, his voice twanging between a down-home southern accent and the Nicorette gum he chewed from morning till night. He had given up cigarettes eleven years ago, aided by a variety of nicotine substitutes. The patch had gone, but not the gum: it was his new addiction.
    ‘I mean, they’ve only had sixty years to think of an answer to all this. Jesus! We can’t maintain this pitch forever.’ He was leaning forward now, his wiry frame hunched so that his mouth would be closer to the telephone. His neck seemed to jut out at key moments, the two horns of hair bestriding his bald pate THE LAST TESTAMENT
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    floating upward as he did so. Maggie tried to work out what he reminded her of. Was it a cockerel, its head popping forward and back metronomically? Or a feisty bantamweight in an illegal ring, somewhere in the backstreets of old Dublin, ready to fight dirty if he had to? He was mesmerizing to watch.
    ‘We keep saying—’ he gestured at a TV set in the corner, silently showing Fox News, ‘this is about to get resolved this week. If nothing happens, we’re back to square one. Only trouble is, there’s no such place in the Middle East. Doesn’t fucking exist!
    You never can just stand still. Screw it up here, and you go right back. Look what happened after Camp David. Israelis were shooting Arabs in the streets and Arabs were blowing up every café in Jerusalem. Because the folk who sat in these chairs tried to get it right and they screwed up.’
    Silence, including from the speakerphone. They knew what this was: a rollicking from the top, doubtless with more to come.
    ‘We do have more on this collaborator killing,’ said the CIA man, a tentative attempt to alter the mood.
    ‘Yes?’ The Secretary of State.
    ‘As I said earlier, ordinarily such a