The Jerusalem Puzzle Read online

  All kinds of people were passing the window: priests in black habits, monks in brown, nuns with their hair covered, a group of Arab women similarly modest, American tourists, Chinese tourists, Israeli girls giggling.

  A white police car drove slowly by.

  The rain had stopped but the clouds hadn’t gone away. They were stuck above us, like a lid over the city.

  ‘My grandfather’s brother died near this gate.’ Talli turned, pointing out the window.

  ‘When was that?’ I thought she was going to tell me about some suicide bombing incident.

  ‘In ’48. He was in the Haganah. He fought against the British, then against the Jordanians. At this gate the fighting was fiercest. The Arabs wanted to kick us all out of Israel. I’m not kidding. He was shot in the head. He lay right there for four hours before his comrades could get to him.’ She pointed at a spot halfway back to the gate.

  ‘We didn’t win the Old City that time, but he opened the way for Jerusalem to be free for Jews after fourteen hundred years of ill treatment and exile.’ She paused and looked down at the red and white chequered tablecloth.

  ‘His girlfriend, Sheila, she never married. I met her once. Her eyes were pools of sadness. She was so incredibly beautiful when she was young. But she was old and grey when I met her. And now she’s dead.’

  I glanced out the window. Two Orthodox Jews, seemingly pressed to each other for solidarity, moved fast past the window. Their long beards were black and thick, their shirts crisp and white.

  Walking towards us was an older man in a faded cream suit. The girl who had approached me in the university car park was beside him. A vein thumped in my throat.

  Why was she here?

  9

  The British Embassy in Cairo is in Ahmed Ragheb Street, in an affluent suburb called Garden City, on the eastern shore of the Nile, between the river and the city centre, just south of Tahrir Square. The cream, colonial-style building with its first floor balcony and lawns down to the river was in a style more suited to the days of the Raj. But behind its calm exterior a number of alterations had been made to the building to bring it into the twenty-first century.

  The basement area had been extended. It now housed an intelligence suite, a situation monitoring station for the British Intelligence Service in Cairo.

  That Monday afternoon it was 1.30 p.m. in Jerusalem, 12.30 p.m. in Cairo and 11.30 a.m. in London. Mark Headsell, seconded to the embassy after three and a half years in Iraq, was watching a large LCD screen on the far wall of the suite.

  The screen was showing the border crossing from the Gaza strip to Egypt. The crossing was open and trucks were using it, a line of them heading slowly into Gaza. It appeared they weren’t being searched.

  The last time this had happened, an Israeli air raid had taken place. Two people had died. The Israelis had claimed they could prove rocket parts, destined for Hammas, were on those trucks. Whatever the UN said about Israel, there was no escaping the fact that the country would defend itself whenever it felt under threat.

  Mark’s worry at that moment was how far that defence would go. Since the post-Mubarak elections, things were unpredictable here. The players were changing and the military restive, eager to regain influence. The reaction of the Egyptian army to the next Israeli air strike could not be guaranteed.

  Other things about Egypt worried him too. Some of them were displayed on other, smaller screens along the wall. One showed an anti-Israel demonstration in Tahrir Square. An army unit, from Zagazig, was stationed there that day and Mark’s concern was about how they would react to the demonstration.

  A report on the movement of an Iranian submarine near the southern entrance to the Suez Canal also disturbed him. A satellite image, courtesy of the United States NSA office, of the last known position of the submarine, was displayed on a different screen. A radar map of the area was overlaid on the image.

  But the big screen on his own desk was showing what he was chiefly interested in that day. A high definition security camera feed from the main entrance to the hotel in Jerusalem where Dr Susan Hunter had stayed. The feed was paused. The Herod Citadel Hotel was one of the best in Jerusalem, but Susan Hunter hadn’t chosen it for its five-star facilities.

  She had chosen it because of its security arrangements. One of these, which she wasn’t even aware of, nor were the security staff at the hotel, was the fact that the British Intelligence Services had tapped into the security camera system.

  The ability to tap into private security systems, to relay images of diplomats and high-powered businessmen anywhere in the world, was not something the British Security Service wanted to advertise.

  Dealing with public outrage about invasions of privacy would waste resources. Explaining that almost everyone would be better off with people watching their backs was unlikely to assuage true liberals. People who never had to deal with the threat of a gun attack or a suicide bomber intent on exterminating their kind were apt to be unaware of what was being done every day in their name.

  And if corporate titans, religious leaders and government tsars were afraid that pictures of them with teenage escorts or coincidentally young and clearly gay personal assistants would end up in the media, they could always clean up their act.

  Mark leaned forward. The woman in the centre of the screen – the reason the security camera had gone into frame-hold mode, as the facial recognition software had thrown her up as a possible – was similar in complexion and hair colour to Susan Hunter, but it was definitely not her. He pressed Ctrl-X on his keyboard. The screen jumped back to showing real time.

  He turned to his secure instant messaging screen. The message he had highlighted a few minutes before was in the centre in a small pop-out screen. Other social media posts, Tweets and Facebook updates were flowing past it. He tagged the post as important, then closed the pop-up.

  He turned to his secure email system and read his messages. A signal from Dr Susan Hunter’s phone had been picked up. It had only lasted ten and a half seconds, and tracing the exact location of the transmission hadn’t been completed, but the most interesting thing was that a signal had been picked up at all.

  It could be a trick, of course, or a summons, but it could also be an amateur mistake on the part of her captors. The length of time the signal had been active made that a real possibility. Someone hoping to lure them would have left Susan Hunter’s phone on for longer. It was well known that it took thirty seconds for a phone’s location to be reliably established.

  Few people knew about the latest, ultra-fast location tracking software the Israelis were using. It wasn’t always right, but with a bit of luck they would soon be able to identify the location of Susan Hunter’s phone and some other interesting information too.

  The screen to his left was showing rolling news from the Nile News Channel, the state-owned Egyptian news service. He watched it for a few seconds, then turned up the sound.

  The image on the screen was of the burnt-out house where a poor Jewish family had been found a few days before. The Arabic script flowing across the screen, from left to right, said that a ‘no questions asked’ reward of one million dollars had been offered by an American-Israeli group to anyone who could help them to arrest the perpetrators.

  Whoever had blocked the doors and burnt that house would have to hope that everyone who knew they’d done it was as dedicated to the cause as they were.

  And what would happen if someone pointed a finger at a terrorist who had recently crossed from Egypt?

  What would the Israelis do then? Start bombing the crossings into Gaza?

  10

  The girl who had spoken to me peeled away from Simon Marcus just before he reached the cafe. Isabel was saying something to me now, but my mind was elsewhere, in the past.

  ‘Earth to Sean. Come in, Sean.’ She was waving her hand in front of my face.

  ‘Very funny. Did you see who’s coming?’

  She turned fast, just in time to see Simon Marcus
entering through the front door.

  I leaned over the table, whispering to Isabel, ‘We’ll probably need your people skills with this guy.’

  ‘I love a challenge,’ she said.

  Talli was halfway out of her seat already. ‘Simon, good to see you.’

  He sat beside me, facing Talli. ‘Is this the man you told me about?’ He turned to me and put his hand out.

  I took it. His skin was rough, his grip hard. He shook hands with Isabel too.

  He must have been six foot three. He was wearing faded jeans and a floppy navy corduroy jacket. He had a big face and his blonde hair was balding a little, but that didn’t take away from the image he presented, which was of an ageing Viking.

  ‘Who was that with you outside?’ I gestured with my thumb.

  ‘She’s a graduate student. She’s helping me with some important work I’m doing.’ His smile was thin, his expression puzzled. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘She may have worked briefly as an intern with my institute.’

  ‘She was in England studying. She would have joined us, but her mother is sick. She had to go.’ He shrugged.

  Talli leaned over and began talking in Hebrew to Simon. She spoke fast. I had no idea what she was saying. It was disconcerting.

  Finally, Simon put his hands up, turned to me and spoke in English. ‘Is this about Dr Hunter?’

  I nodded. ‘We’re trying to find her. She was doing some translation work on a book we found in Istanbul.’ I pointed at Isabel, then back at myself.

  Simon smiled at Isabel. It was a warm smile, as if he was keen to get to know her. Isabel smiled back.

  My phone rang. It took me half a minute to get it out. That’s what happens when you wear baggy chinos with voluminous pockets.

  ‘Is that Mr Sean Ryan?’ said a woman’s voice with a Scottish accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a courtesy call, Mr Ryan. Your phone has been used in a country you have never previously visited. This call is simply to verify that it hasn’t been stolen.’

  ‘You’re getting very security conscious.’

  ‘We look out for our customers,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  I agreed, after she told me they might have to restrict my phone service if I didn’t. She asked me my date of birth, and all the other usual questions that are asked at moments like this. I turned away from the table, dropped my voice as I answered.

  When I was finished, Isabel and Simon were having a deep conversation about London.

  ‘Did you see Dr Hunter when she was here?’ I asked him, jumping in.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Did you hear what happened to Max Kaiser?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. It was terrible.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘You must be careful, Mr Ryan. These are dark days.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill someone like that?’

  He put his thumb and finger together in front of him, pressed them together. ‘Some people enjoy being evil.’ He spread his hands out on the table, as if he was holding it down. ‘I pray they catch the terrorists who did it. Are you investigating his death?’

  Isabel spoke. ‘Kaiser may have met Susan Hunter. We’re looking for her. If we find out where Kaiser was working, we might be able to track her down too.’

  ‘He was working on a dig, I know that much. He used me for a reference to get onto it, but no one told me exactly where the dig is. Max was off in a world of his own,’ Simon replied.

  ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘What general area is the dig in?’

  ‘In Jerusalem, somewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry, I know that’s not much good.’

  Talli joined the conversation. ‘I’m sure you’ll find Dr Hunter. Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘Not yet, but we will,’ I said. I turned back to Simon. ‘What happened to your meeting at lunchtime?’

  He spoke slowly. ‘We had a bomb scare in my apartment. There are a lot of idiots around. The police wouldn’t let me take my car out. At the beginning they said I could. Then they changed their mind.’ He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it.

  ‘Some people make me crazy. I’m a busy man.’ He lowered his head. ‘But I have to accept it. It’s all in the name of security.’ He put his palms together, bowing his head as if he was praying.

  Then he looked up at me. ‘What is your area of expertise?’

  ‘Digital analysis, pattern recognition. I helped found the Institute of Applied Research. We have multidisciplinary research teams. We’re academics who want advanced research to be used for practical purposes, and as soon as possible.’

  He looked interested. ‘Good, good. I believe I’ve heard of you. You would like what I’m working on. Perhaps we’re ahead of even the great Oxford University.’ He grinned. It was one of the grins I’d seen academics use before, when they thought they might have discovered something interesting or at least more interesting that what you were working on.

  ‘What’s the project?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not published yet, so I can’t tell you.’ His smile was enigmatic. ‘But I will send you the article when it comes out.’

  ‘What area is it in?’ Isabel had her head to one side.

  ‘The use of lasers for manipulation of molecules, cells and tissue. It’s called biomedical optics. It’s a whole new science. We got our own journal only in 2011.’

  I joined the conversation. ‘Two of our researchers have published papers in that journal this year. We’re the only research institute in the world to have published that number in it so far.’ If it had been a spitting contest, I’d have hit the far wall.

  His cheeks reddened.

  ‘Then you should see what we’re doing. We’re ahead of everyone.’ He jabbed his finger at me.

  The waiter was hovering. Simon ordered a coffee. We’d finished our kebabs. They’d been good; soft and spicy.

  Isabel talked about how interesting Jerusalem was. Talli gave her some advice on where we should go while we were here. Simon’s coffee came. I watched him stir it.

  ‘A lot of people come here for their souls,’ he said. He gestured toward the pedestrians passing beyond the window. ‘They think they will find it in the old stones here. They look, and then they look some more, but a soul is not easy to find.’

  ‘They need better maps,’ said Talli, solemnly.

  ‘You know about the show in the Tower of David?’ Simon motioned over his head towards the museum and walled fortress on the far side of the road.

  ‘It’s not from King David’s time though, is it?’ said Isabel.

  ‘It’s a perfect illustration of the layers of misunderstanding in this wonderful city. The citadel is called the Tower of David because Byzantine Christians thought it was built by him. But it was built by Herod the Great.’ His hands were in the air. ‘A madman who murdered his family.’

  Talli put her hand on his arm. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?’ she said. Simon looked at his watch.

  ‘Yes, yes, what am I thinking?’ He pointed at me and Isabel.

  ‘You will come with me,’ he said. ‘You will see what we are working on. And you will tell all your friends in Oxford when you go back how advanced we are.’ He stood.

  We paid for our food.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as we headed towards the Jaffa Gate.

  ‘To another citadel.’ He gripped my arm. I put my hand on his, squeezed back, in a friendly, but determined way.

  He leant towards me. ‘I have a meeting this afternoon at the Herod Citadel hotel. I am presenting at 5.30. The meeting will be private, but I’d like you to see the presentation. I think you will be surprised at what we’re doing. And a little jealous, perhaps!’

  I didn’t take the bait. I wanted to see what he was doing.

  We crossed a busy highway, passed modern-looking apartments. The air was cool now, and heavy with the promise of rain.

  The Herod Citadel Hotel,
a five-star hotel was a step up from the one I had picked for me and Isabel.

  The Old Terrace restaurant was on the roof of the hotel. It had stunning views of the Old City, to the golden Dome of the Rock and the hills beyond. And it had a glass roof that looked as if it would stay intact in a meteor shower.

  We waited near the elevators. Simon went off walking through the restaurant.

  He arrived back a minute later with a tall, ultra-thin, black-haired, regally attractive woman beside him. Many of the male heads in the restaurant turned to look at her as she passed.

  ‘This is Rachel, my assistant,’ said Simon. ‘Come on. I have work to do.’

  We went down to the meeting room. It had bright red and gold wallpaper and was set out for a presentation with rows of gold high-backed chairs and three tables lined up at the top of the room. There was a stack of brown cardboard boxes near the tables.

  ‘You can help us,’ said Simon. ‘If you want. Take the reports out of these boxes. Put one on each chair.’ He pointed at the chairs, then began opening boxes.

  Isabel smiled at me. It was her let’s-be-nice smile. Simon had to be the pushiest person I had met in years. I was tempted not to cooperate. But I had some more questions to ask him. It’d be worth a few minutes of helping him out to get some answers. I took a pile of light blue reports, put one on each chair. Then I stopped.

  My telephone was buzzing. I took it out and saw the name ‘Susan Hunter’ flashing across the screen, but as I pushed the green button, the line went dead. My elation at seeing the call turned to frustration in a second.

  11

  Susan Hunter prayed. She prayed for her husband waiting for her back in Cambridge and she prayed for her sister. And at the end she prayed for herself. She wasn’t used to praying. She hadn’t done it since she was eight years old. And she’d never been into it that much back then either.

  But she had every reason to start now.