Guttman showed his debt to those earlier Israeli heroes Moshe Dayan and Yigal Yadin. He, like them, combined his military prowess with a scholar’s passion 84
SAM BOURNE
for the ancient history of this land. He became what polite society refers to as a muscular archaeologist – and what the Palestinians call a looter in a tank. Every hill taken and every hamlet conquered were seen not only as squares on the war planners’ chessboard, but as sites for excavation. Guttman would swap his rifle for a shovel and start digging. His admirers – and enemies – said he had amassed a collection of serious importance, a range of pieces dating back several thousand years. All of them had one quality in common: they confirmed the continuous Jewish presence in this land . . .
Maggie cracked open another miniature bottle of Scotch.
Maybe this was just a coincidence: Guttman and Nour, both archaeologists, both nationalists, both killed within twenty-four hours of one another. She read on.
. . . he was self-taught but became a respected authority, with ancient inscription an esoteric specialism. Did he cut corners, both ethical and legal to build up his hoard? Probably. But that was the man, the last of the Zionist swashbucklers, an adventurer who belonged in the generation of 1948, if not of 1908 . . .
Two men, not that far apart in age, both digging up the Holy Land to prove it belonged to them, to their tribe. It was a fluke, Maggie told herself. But it was odd all the same. One killing had fired up the Israeli right, the second was whipping up the Palestinian hardliners and both now threatened to shut down the best hope for peace these two nations were likely to see this side of the Second Coming.
Maggie glanced over at the minibar, pondering a refill. She looked back at the screen, heading for the Google window. She typed in a new combination: Shimon Guttman archaeologist .
The page filled up. A decade-old profile from the Jerusalem THE LAST TESTAMENT
85
Post ; a Canadian Broadcasting transcript of Guttman interviewed in a West Bank settlement, describing the Palestinians as ‘inter-lopers’ and a ‘bogus nation’. Both made frustratingly fleeting reference to what the Post called his ‘patriotic passion for excavating the Jewish past’.
Next came Minerva , the International Review of Ancient Art and Archaeology. She couldn’t see any obvious pieces about Guttman, so she did a text search and even then it was barely visible. Just his name, small and italicized, alongside someone else’s at the foot of an article announcing the discovery of an unusual prayer bowl traced to the Biblical city of Nineveh.
She scoured the text, looking for . . . she didn’t know what.
It made no sense to her, all the talk of ‘embellishments’ and
‘inlays’ and cuneiform script. Perhaps this was a dead end. She rubbed her forehead, pressed the shutdown button on the computer and began closing the lid.
But the machine refused to turn off. It asked instead if she wanted to close all the ‘tabs’, all the pages she was looking at.
Her cursor was hovering over ‘yes’ when she saw Guttman’s name again, small and italic. And now, for the first time, she read the name next to it: Ehud Ramon.
Maybe this man would know something. She Googled him, bringing up only three relevant results: one more of them a reference in Minerva , all three appearing alongside Shimon Guttman.
Of Ehud Ramon on his own, as an independent person in his own right, there was nothing.
She found a database of Israeli archaeologists and typed Ehud Ramon into the search window. Plenty of Ehuds and one Ramon but no Ehud Ramon. Same with the Archaeological Institute of America. Who was this man, tied to Guttman yet who left no trace?
And then she saw it. Her skin shivered, as she fumbled for a pen and paper, scribbling letters as fast as she could, just to be 86
SAM BOURNE
sure. Surely this name, apparently belonging to an Israeli or American scholar
SAM BOURNE
for the ancient history of this land. He became what polite society refers to as a muscular archaeologist – and what the Palestinians call a looter in a tank. Every hill taken and every hamlet conquered were seen not only as squares on the war planners’ chessboard, but as sites for excavation. Guttman would swap his rifle for a shovel and start digging. His admirers – and enemies – said he had amassed a collection of serious importance, a range of pieces dating back several thousand years. All of them had one quality in common: they confirmed the continuous Jewish presence in this land . . .
Maggie cracked open another miniature bottle of Scotch.
Maybe this was just a coincidence: Guttman and Nour, both archaeologists, both nationalists, both killed within twenty-four hours of one another. She read on.
. . . he was self-taught but became a respected authority, with ancient inscription an esoteric specialism. Did he cut corners, both ethical and legal to build up his hoard? Probably. But that was the man, the last of the Zionist swashbucklers, an adventurer who belonged in the generation of 1948, if not of 1908 . . .
Two men, not that far apart in age, both digging up the Holy Land to prove it belonged to them, to their tribe. It was a fluke, Maggie told herself. But it was odd all the same. One killing had fired up the Israeli right, the second was whipping up the Palestinian hardliners and both now threatened to shut down the best hope for peace these two nations were likely to see this side of the Second Coming.
Maggie glanced over at the minibar, pondering a refill. She looked back at the screen, heading for the Google window. She typed in a new combination: Shimon Guttman archaeologist .
The page filled up. A decade-old profile from the Jerusalem THE LAST TESTAMENT
85
Post ; a Canadian Broadcasting transcript of Guttman interviewed in a West Bank settlement, describing the Palestinians as ‘inter-lopers’ and a ‘bogus nation’. Both made frustratingly fleeting reference to what the Post called his ‘patriotic passion for excavating the Jewish past’.
Next came Minerva , the International Review of Ancient Art and Archaeology. She couldn’t see any obvious pieces about Guttman, so she did a text search and even then it was barely visible. Just his name, small and italicized, alongside someone else’s at the foot of an article announcing the discovery of an unusual prayer bowl traced to the Biblical city of Nineveh.
She scoured the text, looking for . . . she didn’t know what.
It made no sense to her, all the talk of ‘embellishments’ and
‘inlays’ and cuneiform script. Perhaps this was a dead end. She rubbed her forehead, pressed the shutdown button on the computer and began closing the lid.
But the machine refused to turn off. It asked instead if she wanted to close all the ‘tabs’, all the pages she was looking at.
Her cursor was hovering over ‘yes’ when she saw Guttman’s name again, small and italic. And now, for the first time, she read the name next to it: Ehud Ramon.
Maybe this man would know something. She Googled him, bringing up only three relevant results: one more of them a reference in Minerva , all three appearing alongside Shimon Guttman.
Of Ehud Ramon on his own, as an independent person in his own right, there was nothing.
She found a database of Israeli archaeologists and typed Ehud Ramon into the search window. Plenty of Ehuds and one Ramon but no Ehud Ramon. Same with the Archaeological Institute of America. Who was this man, tied to Guttman yet who left no trace?
And then she saw it. Her skin shivered, as she fumbled for a pen and paper, scribbling letters as fast as she could, just to be 86
SAM BOURNE
sure. Surely this name, apparently belonging to an Israeli or American scholar
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