even emptier than before, and in silence. Maggie had been thinking, doing her best not to believe that this mission, far from being destined to save her reputation, was doomed to fail.
What Judd Bonham had billed as a simple matter of closing the deal was deteriorating instead into yet another Middle East disaster. No one had kept count of how many times these two peoples had seemed ready to make peace, only to fail and sink back into war. Each time it happened the violence was worse than before. Maggie dreaded to think what hell awaited if, in the next few days, they failed all over again. She had learned 80
SAM BOURNE
to recognize the telltale signs, and high-profile killings on both sides, whatever the circumstances, were a reliable warning of serious trouble ahead.
She reached for the minibar. With a glass honeyed by a whisky miniature, she sat at the desk and stared out of the window. She could see a man emerge from the neon-lit convenience store across the street, carrying a flimsy plastic bag: inside it, a plastic bottle of milk, maybe a jar of honey. A man off home for the night.
It was such a simple sight yet it fascinated Maggie. For some reason such basic, humdrum domesticity had eluded her. She envied that man, heading home with a bottle of milk for the children to drink with their bedtime story. He probably did the same thing every night. Somehow he had managed it without ever trying to break free.
Draining her glass, she considered calling Edward. She wondered if her number would show on his phone and, if it did, whether he would pick up. She imagined what they would say, whether he would apologize for what he had done, or expect her to apologize for having gone to Jerusalem. Maggie sat still, drinking one and a half more whiskies as Edward’s words two days ago, slung across the kitchen of their apartment in Washington, did circuits in her head. Was he right, that she always ran away, that she couldn’t stick long enough at anything to make it work?
Maybe he was. Maybe a normal person would have got over what happened last year and moved on by now.
She dialled his number, using her mobile so he would know it was her and would have a choice to screen her out if he wanted to. As she heard the first ring, she looked at her watch.
Half-past one in Washington. He picked up.
‘Maggie.’ Not a question, not a greeting. A statement.
‘Hi, Edward.’
‘How’s Jerusalem?’ A pause. Then, ‘You save the world yet?’
‘I wanted to talk.’
THE LAST TESTAMENT
81
‘Well, now’s not a great time, Maggie.’ She could hear the clink of silverware and low string music in the background. Lunch at La Colline, she reckoned.
‘Just give me two minutes.’
She could hear the muffled sound of Edward excusing himself from the table, pulling back his chair and finding a quiet corner.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have been so unhappy to do it: interrupting a meal to take an urgent phone call was standard Washington practice, a way of signalling your indispensable importance.
‘Yeah,’ he said finally. Fire away .
‘I just wanted to talk about what’s going to happen with us.’
‘Well, I was planning on you coming to your senses and coming back home. Then we could take it from there.’
‘Coming to my senses?’
‘Oh come on, Maggie. You can’t be serious about all this, playing the peacemaker.’
Maggie closed her eyes. She wouldn’t rise to it. ‘I need to know you understand why I was so angry. About those boxes.’
‘Look, I don’t have time for this—’
‘Because if you don’t understand, if you can’t understand—’
‘Then what, Maggie? What?’ He was raising his voice now.
People at the restaurant would be noticing.
‘Then I don’t know how—’
‘What? How we can carry on? Oh, I think we’re past that, don’t you? I think you took that decision the moment you got on that plane.’
‘Edward—’
‘I offered you a life here, Maggie. And you didn’t want
What Judd Bonham had billed as a simple matter of closing the deal was deteriorating instead into yet another Middle East disaster. No one had kept count of how many times these two peoples had seemed ready to make peace, only to fail and sink back into war. Each time it happened the violence was worse than before. Maggie dreaded to think what hell awaited if, in the next few days, they failed all over again. She had learned 80
SAM BOURNE
to recognize the telltale signs, and high-profile killings on both sides, whatever the circumstances, were a reliable warning of serious trouble ahead.
She reached for the minibar. With a glass honeyed by a whisky miniature, she sat at the desk and stared out of the window. She could see a man emerge from the neon-lit convenience store across the street, carrying a flimsy plastic bag: inside it, a plastic bottle of milk, maybe a jar of honey. A man off home for the night.
It was such a simple sight yet it fascinated Maggie. For some reason such basic, humdrum domesticity had eluded her. She envied that man, heading home with a bottle of milk for the children to drink with their bedtime story. He probably did the same thing every night. Somehow he had managed it without ever trying to break free.
Draining her glass, she considered calling Edward. She wondered if her number would show on his phone and, if it did, whether he would pick up. She imagined what they would say, whether he would apologize for what he had done, or expect her to apologize for having gone to Jerusalem. Maggie sat still, drinking one and a half more whiskies as Edward’s words two days ago, slung across the kitchen of their apartment in Washington, did circuits in her head. Was he right, that she always ran away, that she couldn’t stick long enough at anything to make it work?
Maybe he was. Maybe a normal person would have got over what happened last year and moved on by now.
She dialled his number, using her mobile so he would know it was her and would have a choice to screen her out if he wanted to. As she heard the first ring, she looked at her watch.
Half-past one in Washington. He picked up.
‘Maggie.’ Not a question, not a greeting. A statement.
‘Hi, Edward.’
‘How’s Jerusalem?’ A pause. Then, ‘You save the world yet?’
‘I wanted to talk.’
THE LAST TESTAMENT
81
‘Well, now’s not a great time, Maggie.’ She could hear the clink of silverware and low string music in the background. Lunch at La Colline, she reckoned.
‘Just give me two minutes.’
She could hear the muffled sound of Edward excusing himself from the table, pulling back his chair and finding a quiet corner.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have been so unhappy to do it: interrupting a meal to take an urgent phone call was standard Washington practice, a way of signalling your indispensable importance.
‘Yeah,’ he said finally. Fire away .
‘I just wanted to talk about what’s going to happen with us.’
‘Well, I was planning on you coming to your senses and coming back home. Then we could take it from there.’
‘Coming to my senses?’
‘Oh come on, Maggie. You can’t be serious about all this, playing the peacemaker.’
Maggie closed her eyes. She wouldn’t rise to it. ‘I need to know you understand why I was so angry. About those boxes.’
‘Look, I don’t have time for this—’
‘Because if you don’t understand, if you can’t understand—’
‘Then what, Maggie? What?’ He was raising his voice now.
People at the restaurant would be noticing.
‘Then I don’t know how—’
‘What? How we can carry on? Oh, I think we’re past that, don’t you? I think you took that decision the moment you got on that plane.’
‘Edward—’
‘I offered you a life here, Maggie. And you didn’t want
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