PSAGOT, THE WEST BANK, FRIDAY, 4.07AM

His wife heard it before he did. He had always been a heavy sleeper, but now that he was carrying perhaps twenty or thirty pounds in excess weight, his descent into slumber was positively leaden. His wife was shaking him vigorously when he finally awoke.

‘Akiva, come on. Akiva!’

Akiva Shapira groaned before squinting at the clock on the nightstand. One of his proudest possessions, that clock. A mechanical, digital relic of the early 1970s, lodged inside its workings was a bullet, fired by a Palestinian sniper directly into his office. Typical of the Palestinians: it missed him–and couldn’t even take out the clock. A joke he had cracked to more than one visiting US delegation.

It was gone four in the morning, yet his wife was not mistaken. The same light tapping on the door was repeated. Who on earth could be calling here so late?

He grabbed a robe, tying the cord across his girth as he shuffled to the front door of the modest red-roofed house that had been his home since this settlement was founded, decades ago now. He only had to open it a crack to see the face of Ra’anan, the aide to the Defence Minister who had been at the meeting the previous afternoon.

‘What the hell—’

‘I am sorry to call so late. Can I come in?’

Shapira widened the door to let in this man who seemed like some kind of alien, fully dressed in this house of sleep. ‘Can I get you something to drink. Water, maybe?’

‘No. I can’t stay very long. We have very little time.’

Shapira turned back from the sink, where he had been filling a glass, to face his guest. ‘OK. What is it?’

Ra’anan’s eyes darted towards the bedroom. ‘Can we speak freely here?’

‘Of course! This is my home.’

Ra’anan nodded towards the bedroom again. ‘Your wife?’ he whispered.

Shapira moved towards the door which separated the kitchen from the hallway and bedrooms and closed it. ‘You happy now?’

‘Akiva, in the last hour I have spoken to the other members of our group, seeking permission for a specific action which has just become possible. If we all agree, we have to act at once.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The subject we discussed. She is now in our sights. We can strike.’

‘Risks?’

‘Arrest and capture, minimal. We have the best possible personnel, as you saw today.’

Shapira remembered the demonstration in the field, the watermelons exploded with pinpoint accuracy by snipers he barely glimpsed. Ra’anan was right. The risks for such skilled professionals were no obstacle.

‘OK,’ said Shapira, finally. ‘Do it.’