stage, spotted a sudden movement. Perhaps it was just a wave, it was impossible to tell for sure, but Guttman, still staring mani-acally at the Prime Minister, seemed to be reaching into his jacket.
The first shot was straight to the head, just as it had been rehearsed a hundred times. It had to be the head, to ensure 12
SAM BOURNE
instant paralysis. No muscular reflex that might set off a suicide bomb; no final seconds of life in which the suspect might pull a trigger. The bodyguards watched as the silver-haired skull of Shimon Guttman blew open like a watermelon, brains and blood spattering the people all around.
Within seconds, the PM had been bundled off the stage and was at the centre of a scrum of security personnel shoving him towards a car. The crowd, cheering and clapping thirty seconds earlier, was now quaking with panic. There were screams as those at the front tried to run away from the horrible sight of the dead man. Police used their arms to form a cordon around the corpse, but the pressure of the crowd was almost impossible.
People were screaming, stampeding, desperate to get away.
Pushing in the opposite direction were two senior military officers from the Prime Minister’s detail, determined to break the impromptu cordon and get to the would-be assassin. One of them flashed a badge at a police officer and somehow ducked under his arms and inside the small, human clearing formed around the body.
There was too little of the dead man’s head to make out, but the rest of him was almost intact. He had fallen face down and now the officer rolled the lifeless body over. What he saw made him blanch.
It was not the shattered bone or hollowed eye sockets; he had seen those before. It was the man’s hands, or rather his right hand. Still clenched, the fingers were not wrapped around a gun
– but gripping a piece of paper, now sodden with blood. This man had not been reaching for a revolver – but for a note.
Shimon Guttman hadn’t wanted to kill the Prime Minister. He had wanted to tell him something.
C H A P T E R T W O
WASHINGTON, SUNDAY, 9.00AM
‘Big day today, honey.’
‘Uh?’
‘Come on, sweetheart, time to wake up.’
‘Nrrghh.’
‘OK. One, two, three. And the covers are off—’
‘Hey!’
Maggie Costello bolted upright, grabbed at the duvet and pulled it back over her, making sure to cover her head as well as her body this time. She hated the mornings and regarded the Sunday lie-in as a constitutionally protected right.
Not Edward. He’d probably been up for two hours already.
He wasn’t like that when they met: back in Africa, in the Congo, he could pull the all-nighters just like her. But once they had come here, he had adapted pretty fast. Now he was Washington Man, out of the house just after six am. Through a squinted eye jammed up against the pillow, Maggie could see he was in shorts and a running vest, both sweaty. She was still unconscious, but he’d already been for his run through Rock Creek Park.
‘Come on!’ he said, shouting from the bathroom. ‘I’ve cleared 14
SAM BOURNE
the whole day for furnishing this apartment. Crate and Barrel; then Bed Bath & Beyond; and finally Macy’s. I have a complete plan.’
‘Not the whole day,’ Maggie muttered, knowing she was inaudible. She had a morning appointment, an overspill slot for clients who could never make weekdays.
‘Actually not the whole day,’ Edward shouted, the sound of the shower not quite drowning him out. ‘You’ve got that morning appointment first. Remember?’
Maggie played deaf and, still horizontal, reached for the TV remote.
If she was going to be up at this hideous hour, she might as well get something out of it. The Sunday talk shows. By the time she clicked onto ABC, they’d already started the news summary.
‘Nerves on edge in Jerusalem this hour, after violence at a peace rally last night, where Israel’s prime minister seemed to be the target of a failed assassination
The first shot was straight to the head, just as it had been rehearsed a hundred times. It had to be the head, to ensure 12
SAM BOURNE
instant paralysis. No muscular reflex that might set off a suicide bomb; no final seconds of life in which the suspect might pull a trigger. The bodyguards watched as the silver-haired skull of Shimon Guttman blew open like a watermelon, brains and blood spattering the people all around.
Within seconds, the PM had been bundled off the stage and was at the centre of a scrum of security personnel shoving him towards a car. The crowd, cheering and clapping thirty seconds earlier, was now quaking with panic. There were screams as those at the front tried to run away from the horrible sight of the dead man. Police used their arms to form a cordon around the corpse, but the pressure of the crowd was almost impossible.
People were screaming, stampeding, desperate to get away.
Pushing in the opposite direction were two senior military officers from the Prime Minister’s detail, determined to break the impromptu cordon and get to the would-be assassin. One of them flashed a badge at a police officer and somehow ducked under his arms and inside the small, human clearing formed around the body.
There was too little of the dead man’s head to make out, but the rest of him was almost intact. He had fallen face down and now the officer rolled the lifeless body over. What he saw made him blanch.
It was not the shattered bone or hollowed eye sockets; he had seen those before. It was the man’s hands, or rather his right hand. Still clenched, the fingers were not wrapped around a gun
– but gripping a piece of paper, now sodden with blood. This man had not been reaching for a revolver – but for a note.
Shimon Guttman hadn’t wanted to kill the Prime Minister. He had wanted to tell him something.
C H A P T E R T W O
WASHINGTON, SUNDAY, 9.00AM
‘Big day today, honey.’
‘Uh?’
‘Come on, sweetheart, time to wake up.’
‘Nrrghh.’
‘OK. One, two, three. And the covers are off—’
‘Hey!’
Maggie Costello bolted upright, grabbed at the duvet and pulled it back over her, making sure to cover her head as well as her body this time. She hated the mornings and regarded the Sunday lie-in as a constitutionally protected right.
Not Edward. He’d probably been up for two hours already.
He wasn’t like that when they met: back in Africa, in the Congo, he could pull the all-nighters just like her. But once they had come here, he had adapted pretty fast. Now he was Washington Man, out of the house just after six am. Through a squinted eye jammed up against the pillow, Maggie could see he was in shorts and a running vest, both sweaty. She was still unconscious, but he’d already been for his run through Rock Creek Park.
‘Come on!’ he said, shouting from the bathroom. ‘I’ve cleared 14
SAM BOURNE
the whole day for furnishing this apartment. Crate and Barrel; then Bed Bath & Beyond; and finally Macy’s. I have a complete plan.’
‘Not the whole day,’ Maggie muttered, knowing she was inaudible. She had a morning appointment, an overspill slot for clients who could never make weekdays.
‘Actually not the whole day,’ Edward shouted, the sound of the shower not quite drowning him out. ‘You’ve got that morning appointment first. Remember?’
Maggie played deaf and, still horizontal, reached for the TV remote.
If she was going to be up at this hideous hour, she might as well get something out of it. The Sunday talk shows. By the time she clicked onto ABC, they’d already started the news summary.
‘Nerves on edge in Jerusalem this hour, after violence at a peace rally last night, where Israel’s prime minister seemed to be the target of a failed assassination
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