months.’
‘You didn’t go with him?’
‘I only travelled with him when he went to Europe or the United States. Beirut wasn’t a good place for a young girl back then. It wasn’t a good place for anyone, really. That’s where he met Father Fowler. Fowler was on his way to the Beqa’a Valley to rescue some missionaries. My father had a great deal of respect for him. He said rescuing those people was the bravest act he’d ever seen in his life, and there wasn’t one word about it in the press. The missionaries simply said they’d been released.’
‘I suppose that kind of work doesn’t welcome publicity.’
‘No, it doesn’t. During the mission my father uncovered something unexpected: information suggesting that a group of Islamic terrorists with a truck full of explosives was going to make an attempt on an American installation. My father reported this to his superior, who replied that if the Americans were sticking their noses into Lebanon they deserved everything they got.’
‘What did your father do?’
‘He sent an anonymous note to the American embassy, to warn them; but without a reliable source to back it up, the note was ignored. The next day a truck full of explosives crashed through the gate of a Marine compound, killing two hundred and forty-one Marines.’
‘My God.’
‘My father returned to Israel, but the story didn’t end there. The CIA demanded an explanation from Mossad and someone mentioned my father’s name. A few months later, while he was returning home from a trip to Germany, he was stopped at the airport. The police searched his bags and found two hundred grams of plutonium and proof that he was attempting to sell it to the Iranian government. With that amount of material Iran could have built a medium-sized nuclear bomb. My father went to jail, practically without a trial.’
‘Someone had planted the evidence against him?’
‘The CIA had its revenge. They used my father to send a message to agents all over the world: if you find out about something like this again, make sure you let us know or we’ll make sure you’re fucked.’
‘Oh, Doc, that must have destroyed you. At least your father knew that you believed in him.’
There was another silence, this time a long one.
‘I’m ashamed to say this, but… for quite a few years I didn’t believe in my father’s innocence. I thought he had grown tired, that he wanted to earn some money. He was completely alone. Everyone forgot about him, including me.’
‘Were you able to make your peace with him before he died?’
‘No.’
Suddenly Andrea embraced the doctor, who began to cry.
‘Two months after his death, a highly confidential
‘Wait… are you telling me that Mossad knew all about it from the beginning?’
‘They sold him out, Andrea. In order to cover up their duplicity they handed the CIA my father’s head. The CIA were satisfied, and life went on – except for the two hundred and forty-one soldiers, and my father in his maximum-security prison cell.’
‘The bastards…’
‘My father is buried in Gilot, to the north of Tel Aviv, a place reserved for those who have fallen in combat against the Arabs. He was the seventy-first member of Mossad to be buried there, with full honours and acclaimed as a war hero. None of which erases the unhappiness they caused me.’
‘I don’t understand it, Doc. I really don’t. Why the hell are you working for them?’
‘The same reason my father put up with jail for ten years: because Israel comes first.’
‘Another crazy person, just like Fowler.’
‘You still haven’t told me how the two of you know each other.’
Andrea’s voice darkened. That memory was not exactly pleasant.
‘In April of 2005 I went to Rome to cover the death of the Pope. By chance I got hold of a tape in which a serial killer said he had killed a couple of cardinals who were to be part of the conclave electing the successor to John Paul II. The Vatican tried to suppress the story and I ended up on the roof of a building fighting for my life. Let’s say that Fowler made sure I didn’t end up splattered on the pavement. But in the process, he made off with my exclusive.’
‘I understand. That must have been frustrating.’
Andrea didn’t have a chance to reply. There was a tremendous blast outside that shook the walls of the tent.
‘What was that?’
‘For a moment I thought it was… No, it couldn’t be-’ Doc stopped in mid- sentence.
There was a scream.
And another.
And then many more.
60
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Outside there was chaos.
‘Bring the buckets.’
‘Take them over there.’
Jacob Russell and Mogens Dekker were shouting contradictory orders in the middle of a river of mud that was flowing from one of the water trucks. A giant hole in the back of the tank was spewing out precious water, turning the ground around it into thick reddish sludge.
Several of the archaeologists, Brian Hanley and even Father Fowler ran from one place to the other in their underwear, attempting to form a chain with buckets in order to salvage as much of the water as they could. Little by little, the rest of the sleepy members of the expedition joined them.
Someone – Andrea wasn’t certain who it was because the person was covered in mud from head to toe – was trying to build a wall of sand near Kayn’s tent to block the river of mud that was heading towards it. He sank the shovel again and again in the sand but before long he was shovelling mud so he stopped. Luckily the billionaire’s tent was on slightly higher ground and Kayn didn’t have to leave his retreat.
Meanwhile, Andrea and Doc had dressed quickly and had joined the chain with the other latecomers. As they handed empty buckets back and sent full ones forward, the reporter realised that what she and Doc had been doing before the explosion was the reason why they were the only ones who had bothered to put on all their clothing before coming out.
‘Get me a welding torch,’ Brian Hanley was shouting from the front of the chain next to the tanker. The chain passed the command along, repeating his words like a litany.
‘There isn’t one,’ the chain signalled in reply.
