The Last Testament (37 page)

‘Do you have the subjects within view? Good. We need to talk about a change in plan.’

C H A P T E R F O R T Y - F I V E

JERUSALEM, FRIDAY, 3.11AM

At first she wasn’t sure if she had opened her eyes. The room was in complete darkness. She raised her neck, a reflex, to check the clock, but immediately felt a spasm of pain. Only then did she remember what had happened. She had come out of the lift, ready to tell Uri what she had discovered; she had opened the door and then, in a second, she had been struck.

Where was she now? Flat, the palms of her hands detected the cotton softness of bedclothes. She squinted, just making out the outline of curtains ahead. She was, then, still in her room.

What the hell had happened?

Suddenly there was a voice, alarmingly close to her ear.

‘I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry, Maggie.’

Uri.

She tried to haul herself up, but the pain shot through her again.

‘I woke up and saw the bed was empty. I thought maybe something had happened to you. I waited by the door and then—’

‘And then you hit me.’

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‘I didn’t know it was you. I’m so sorry, Maggie. How can I make it better?’

Maggie decided to push through the pain barrier and sit up.

Uri instantly propped her up on some pillows, passing her a glass of water. She took sips, then felt a gentle pressure on her hair –

a hand, stroking the side of her head. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see that Uri was kneeling by the bed, and now his warm hand cupped the side of her face.

‘Everything I touch gets hurt. Everything I care about ends up hurt . . .’

Maggie could feel the water sliding down her throat; it seemed somehow to unleash the pain in her neck, letting its sore redness radiate outward. ‘Fuck, though, where did you learn to hit like that?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘You don’t mess around, you Israelis, do you?’ she said, rubbing at the pain.

‘Here.’ At his side was a towel, the edge of which was soaked.

He balled it up and placed it at the back of Maggie’s neck. First, though, he had to lift up her hair, so that her nape was unguarded, naked. She felt her body register the confusion, an ache and a surge of renewed desire, at the same time. The towel was cold, soothing the redness.

‘Uri!’ she said suddenly, grabbing the towel from him so that she could face him while she spoke. ‘Pass me my jacket, on the chair.’

Unsure whether he had been forgiven, Uri hesitated.

‘Uri! Now!’

He got up and brought back Maggie’s coat. She patted through the packets, ignoring the pain, till she found it: the Post-it from Rosen’s office.

‘Turn on the light. OK. Listen. Your father said, “I can tell you only that this search begins in Geneva, but not the city everyone THE LAST TESTAMENT

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knows. A better, newer place, where you can be anyone you want to be. Go there.” Remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think I know where that is.’

‘It’s Geneva.’

‘Yes, but not the city everyone knows.’ Maggie scanned ahead, looking at her last, scribbled line. ‘Then he said, “And if I am gone from this life, then you shall see me in the other life; that is life too”. Now, tell me, Uri, as precisely as you can, what were his exact words. In Hebrew.’

‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘You will. Just tell me what he said!’

Uri began speaking in Hebrew. ‘OK, he said,
“Im eineini ba-chaim ha’ele, tireh oti ba-chaim ha-hem.”

Maggie looked down at the Post-it. ‘And that means, “If I am gone from this life, you shall see me in the other life”, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Go on.’ Maggie could feel the adrenaline coursing through her system, dulling the pain.

‘Then he said something odd.
B’chaim shteim
. Which means, I guess “in life too”.’

‘As in “that is also life”.’

‘No, no, you heard me wrong. Not “too” but “two”.
Shteim
is the number two.’

The excitement was growing now. ‘So what he was actually saying was “you shall see me in the other life; that is, life number two”.’

‘Right.’

‘And that’s the literal translation, Uri?’ Maggie knew she was sounding like some kind of lunatic, but this was not unprecedented behaviour on her part. She had done this at a negotiation once, in the very last hour before a signing, when a dispute broke out between the two sides over the English translation of 314

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the accord, which would serve as the binding text under international law. She had to go through the relevant clause word by word, with two interpreters, to make sure one side didn’t try to steal a march on the other. No dinner conversation among mediators was complete without someone telling the Menachem Begin at Camp David story, how the Israeli prime minister had succeeded in making the Hebrew version of his agreement with Egypt much less demanding on his country than the English text Jimmy Carter took home to Washington. So pressing Uri like this was not a first. Though she had never done it in bed, with a towel on her neck, before.

‘Well, the phrase is weird, but he said “
chaim shteim”
. Life two.’

‘Or to put it another way,’ Maggie said, her eyes brightening,

‘Second Life.’

C H A P T E R F O R T Y - S I X

JERUSALEM, FRIDAY, 3.20AM

Maggie flung her arms around Uri’s neck and planted a long kiss on his mouth. She felt the sudden softening, and moistening, as his lips began to part.

‘I knew it!’ she said, her eyes closed as she bathed in the sense of satisfaction. ‘It had to be!’

For the first time, she felt this was a problem that could actually be solved. Shimon Guttman was sharp, she knew that: his political stunts had been famous for their attention-grabbing creativity, and she had seen his canniness herself, with the neat little sleight concealing his collaboration with Ahmed Nour by creating an Israeli alter ego, ‘Ehud Ramon’. And Uri had told her that, despite his age, his father was utterly at ease with new technology. Didn’t Uri even say the old man liked playing computer games?

What he had done was utterly in character. Under pressure, aware that he was holding in his palms, no doubt growing clammier by the minute, a geopolitical timebomb, he had decided to hide the Abraham tablet where no one would think to look.

Nowhere in the real world at all. But in the virtual realm, “A 316

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better, newer place, where you can be anyone you want to be”.

He had hidden his treasure, or at least the secret of its location, in Second Life.

And then her stomach gave way.
Oh no
. To have come this far and to have screwed up now. How could they, how could
she
, have been so stupid?

‘What is it?’ asked Uri, still baffled.

Maggie said nothing, simply placing her finger over her lips.

What idiots
. Ever since the death of Afif Aweida, they had realized that someone was listening to their private conversations.

From that point on, they had only spoken against a background of loud music or noise; or had whispered in public places, even exchanged scribbled notes. Yet when she had come round after Uri had whacked her on the neck, neither of them had thought to take precautions. Perhaps she had been too dazed by the blow; maybe he was too sleepy, or too guilty. But they had both forgotten. It wasn’t enough that they had changed rooms; their pursuers had had several hours to catch up. Which meant her crucial discovery would now be known by whoever was listening.

Maggie reached for the hotel message pad by the phone, scribbling fast:
Get dressed
. There was no time to waste. She had to get onto Second Life before they did. If she moved now, she might have a head start: it would surely take the Israelis or whoever it was time to work out what she already knew. She was tempted to use her laptop in this room and be done with it. But it was too risky: if they had already hacked into that, they would discover whatever she was about to find the instant she found it.

Uri dressed in the dark. If they were being watched from outside, no point in telegraphing that they were about to leave. She caught the outline of Uri’s frame only in silhouette now and felt a stirring of desire.

She checked they were ready then led the way downstairs, back to the business centre. She powered up the machine, reassured THE LAST TESTAMENT

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by its anonymity: there was nothing that could lead those stalking her to this computer. She immediately logged into Second Life, using the name and password Liz had given her. Uri stood over her shoulder, his face lit up by the reflected, lurid colours on the screen. When Liz’s avatar materialized, his eyes widened.

‘Wow. Hey, Lola.’

‘It’s not mine!’ Maggie grimaced. ‘It’s my sister’s.’

‘Your sister Lola looks like a fun girl.’ For that, she slapped him on the arm.

Feeling like a veteran now, Maggie called up the
Teleport
prompt and keyed in the six letters she hoped would unlock this puzzle once and for all. She imagined it, the phone call to Sanchez, telling him she could explain the recent spate of violence; she imagined his response.
You better tell them yourself, Maggie. Get them round the
table and get these peace talks back on track. I know you can do it
. . .

Her avatar had now landed in the scrubbed streets of virtual Geneva. She began walking down Rue des Etuves, turning into Rue Vallin. There was hardly anyone about, save for a couple of rabbit-headed avatars on a street corner. Maggie headed down Rue du Temple to avoid them.

‘I can’t believe this,’ murmured Uri. ‘You’re saying my dad came to this . . . place?’

‘Geneva, but not the city everyone knows. That’s what he said. Kishon went to the wrong Geneva. What your father had was hidden here somewhere.’

‘But you’re just wandering down streets. What are we looking for exactly?’

‘Right now, I don’t know. It could be a map, maybe directions. Something that will tell us where he left the tablet. We’ll have to work it out.’

She reached into her pocket, looking again at the Post-it note.

I have put it somewhere safe, somewhere only you and my brother could
know
. If only she understood what the hell that meant. She read 318

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on.
I need you to remember the good times, like that trip we took together
for your Bar Mitzvah. What did we do on that trip, Uri? I hope you
remember that. I can tell you only that this search begins in Geneva
. . .

‘What did you do on the trip, Uri? Think.’

‘I told you. We went to Crete. We talked a bit. I got bored.

I’m sorry, Maggie. I just can’t think of anything.’

‘All right. We’ll just have to see if Geneva has some Greek museum or something.’

‘Minoan.’

‘What?’

‘Crete is Minoan.’

Maggie gave Uri a glare. ‘Thank you, Professor.’ She tried to see if there was a directory of buildings, even a detailed map, of this virtual Geneva. Nothing. She decided to fly, to see if any large structures caught her eye. Perhaps there would be a large museum with a Minoan department. Maybe Shimon Guttman had left this vital clue to the tablet’s location in there.

‘The funny thing is,’ Uri was saying, more to himself than to Maggie, ‘the only really strong memory I have of that trip is the flight; it was the first time I had ever been on a plane. That’s what really stuck in my mind. I told my father that, probably hurt his feelings. But it was true. We sat together, by the window seat, and I found it amazing, looking down at this beautiful blue water, while he pointed out the different islands below. That was the highlight, really. From then on—’

Maggie suddenly turned to look at him. She could hear Shimon Guttman’s voice:
What did we do on that trip, Uri? I hope you
remember that
.

‘He wants us to do the same thing here,’ she said, hitting the arrow keys with new vigour. ‘He wants us to fly over Lake Geneva, looking for islands.’

The avatar was hovering above the virtual city, as Maggie directed it first west, then east. She had no idea of the geography THE LAST TESTAMENT

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of Geneva. She had been there once, for some UN thing, but it had been the usual international diplomacy experience: airport, car, meeting room, car, airport. So she relied on the crudest method possible: looking for a big patch of blue.

Once she had found the shoreline, she slowed down so that her avatar could fly low and close, with time to see what was below.

‘There’s one!’ said Uri, pointing in the bottom left of the screen.

Clumsily, Maggie turned herself around and came as close as she could, hovering over what looked like a cartoon depiction of a desert island. It was round with a single flag planted in the yellow sand: it announced times for a weekly poetry discussion group.

Maggie hit the
Up
arrow.

There were several islands in the lake, some used as venues for virtual events – Maggie saw signs advertising a concert and a press conference for a software company – some no more than simple plots of land for private owners. None seemed to have any connection to Shimon Guttman. Maggie was growing anxious; this was their only lead.

‘Come on,’ said Uri. ‘Keep flying. If it’s here, we’ll find it.’

Maggie kept it up, looping and dipping over the blue of Second Life’s version of Lake Geneva. For nearly a minute she did that, silently, so that it was as if the pair of them were in a glider, floating through the cloudless, midday skies above a real city, instead of here in this dark, soulless room in the dead of a Jerusalem night.

She was concentrating hard. It wasn’t easy to stay at the right altitude: too high and the islands were just dots, too low and they had no sense of perspective. If Uri was right, they needed to recreate the childhood experience he had had in that plane, spotting the islands below.

‘Hey, what’s that?’ said Uri, pointing at a small patch of land below. Maggie had to double back, steering Lola round. When she saw it, she hovered, then steadily lowered herself.