The Jerusalem Puzzle. Laurence O’Bryan

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      ‘You’re not going to wait and see if they find her?’

      I shook my head. ‘I can’t.’

      ‘I have to go out there.’ I spoke fast. ‘Waiting’s not an option. Nobody in Jerusalem will know anything about what Susan might be caught up in, her connection to the book.’

      ‘Well, I’m coming too,’ said Isabel. ‘It’ll be fun.’

      I looked at her. Her loyalty impressed me, and if I was to be honest I was pleased she wanted to come. Her intelligence and wit were an asset – she’d already saved me from being kidnapped in Istanbul. ‘You need me, Sean. Admit it.’ She smiled.

      I leaned and reached for her. She pulled away.

      ‘Have I ever denied it?’ I pushed the plates aside, leaned further and pulled her gently to me.

      The following day I called Beresford-Ellis.

      ‘The authorities can do this a lot better than you, Sean,’ he said.

      ‘I want to see what’s going on for myself.’

      He snorted. ‘This is not your business.’

      ‘It is my business. She’s been translating the book we found. Now she’s missing and her husband is dead.’

      He made a honking noise, like a startled pig. ‘Have you gone stark raving mad, Ryan? You’re a research director, not a private investigator. This sort of stuff is not in your job description. Not in it at all.’ Mr Nice was long gone now. ‘Do you know anything about the situation out there?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer.

      ‘It’s a bloody powder keg waiting to go off. Think about it, Ryan. This is crazy. You’re crazy even talking about it.’

      That made me more determined than ever.

      ‘Crazy or not, I’m going. And I’m doing it on my own time too, so it doesn’t have to be in my job description.’ I breathed deeply, working on keeping cool.

      Now there was a bonus to going. I could enjoy Beresford-Ellis’s discomfort.

      ‘I’ve quite a lot of holiday time coming up and I can’t think of a better way to spend it. You told me yourself that I hadn’t taken off enough time after Istanbul.’ Check, mate.

      ‘Your contract is something we need to talk about, actually.’ The frustration in his voice told me everything I needed to know about what he thought of my contract.

      ‘Sure, when I get back.’

      He hummed loudly. ‘Make sure to tell the authorities everything you get up to. I don’t want any policemen ringing me. Every department is having its budget revised this year, Ryan, particularly the wasteful ones. I was planning to tell you in a few days, but I think you should bear it in mind. We may need to make further cuts. That may include staff numbers too.’

      It was as veiled a threat as a knife poked in your face. If he could persuade the management committee that I was wasting the institute’s funds, my chances of continuing Alek’s work and of buying new equipment for other projects, would rapidly approach zero. I was angry, but with myself now too. I should have expected this.

      ‘Keep me informed,’ he said.

      I cut the call.

      On the way to the airport Isabel showed me an online article about people being burnt to death. It listed the thousands killed by fire and brimstone in Soddom and Gomorrah, the people burnt to death for making the wrong offerings, and lots of other weirdness.

      We stuck out among the corporate types on the train. Isabel was in her trademark tight indigo denims. I was in my thin suede jacket and black jeans. We both had black Berghaus backpacks. We might as well have put up a sign saying ON HOLIDAY over our heads.

      This was my first time visiting Israel, but not for political reasons. If I was honest, I’d have to say I was glad I had a good reason to go now.

      The queue for the flight was moving like a film being downloaded over a slow connection. We went through three separate security checks. Given the daily media reports about Israel, I wasn’t too surprised.

      ‘Do you think it’s going to kick off out there?’ said Isabel, pointing at a headline in a newspaper about Israel denouncing Iran.

      I shrugged. The man ahead of her turned the page.

      ‘We certainly got our timing right,’ she said. ‘To get there for the start of the third world war.’

      5

      Henry Mowlam, a senior desk-based Security Services operative, threw the bottle of water towards the blue plastic recycling bin next to the back wall of MI5’s underground control room in Whitehall, central London.

      It missed the bin and burst open. A shower of water sprayed over the pale industrial-yellow wall.

      ‘Bugger,’ said Henry, loudly.

      Sergeant Finch was at the end of the row of monitoring desks. She looked up, then walked towards him.

      ‘You all right today, Henry? Working weekends not suit you?’

      Her starched white shirt was the brightest thing in the room.

      ‘They do, ma’am.’ He saluted her abruptly.

      She went over, pushed the plastic bottle towards the bin with her foot. It looked as if she was checking what the bottle was at the same time. Then she came back to him. The simulated outdoor lighting hummed above her head.

      ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was staring at his screen.

      She walked away.

      The report on the screen, which was the latest summary of the electronic monitoring of Lord Bidoner, a former member of the House of Lords only because of a title his father had inherited, had given him nothing new to go on. Lord Bidoner was one of those lords who didn’t apply himself to his responsibilities, and whose shady connections and wheeler-dealing made sure he’d never get an invitation to Buckingham Palace for a garden party.

      But they still had nothing definite on Lord Bidoner. Taking a phone call from someone two steps removed from a plot to spread a plague virus in London was enough to put you on a watch list and get you investigated, but it was not enough to get you arrested.

      ‘We have new threats, Henry. We checked him out. You know there’s been a flood of suspects coming in from Pakistan and Egypt. We have to put Lord Bidoner on the back burner,’ was what Seageant Finch had said to him a week before.

      But Henry wasn’t convinced.

      He’d mentioned it again at their Monday morning meeting. The head of the unit had brought up Bidoner’s file on the large screen and had reeled off the details of the vetting he’d been subject to over the past six months.

      ‘He’s СКАЧАТЬ