Omar Yussef was into his second serving of scrambled eggs when Khamis Zeydan weaved across the breakfast room, his grim face fixed on the floor to avoid conversation with the Revolutionary Council delegates at the other tables. Though the politicians and their aides occupied almost every chair, the room was subdued in the wake of Husseini’s execution. They fiddled with their napkins, nervous and darkly expectant, staring into their coffees with hunted expressions.
Omar Yussef drained his cup and wiped his lips on his napkin as the Bethlehem police chief reached his table.
“To your double health,” Khamis Zeydan said.
“I may have finally found my appetite, but I can’t associate anything in Gaza, even the food, with health.” Omar Yussef cleared his throat and looked at his plate. “I’m sorry for my outburst back there. After seeing the bodies of Husseini and the guards and the coffee boy, well, it was all too much for me.”
Khamis Zeydan waved his hand and chose to ignore the heart of Omar Yussef’s earlier accusations. “No, you were right. I ought to smoke less.” He sat next to Omar Yussef, though he perched on the seat restlessly. He unfolded a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “This is the Saladin Brigades leaflet about Husseini’s death,” he whispered.
Omar Yussef raised his eyebrows and buttered his toast. “They type fast, don’t they?”
“It says that Husseini was killed by the Brigades, because he was a collaborator who killed ‘the struggler and brother Bassam Odwan after first administering tortures that were cruel and characteristic.’ That means the Husseini Manicure, doesn’t it? How did they know about that?”
“I told Sami about it,” Omar Yussef said. “He said they have spies in the prisons.”
“The leaflet accuses Husseini of working to undermine the resistance and arresting its most important fighters.” Khamis Zeydan placed the single sheet of paper on the table.
Omar Yussef glanced at the leaflet and ate a triangle of toast in three bites. As he chewed, he peeled a boiled egg with his fingers, cut it in two, salted it and ate one half. After a day and a night without food, he was ravenous.
“You’re eating like a condemned man with his last meal,” Khamis Zeydan said. He waited for Omar Yussef to meet his eye. “There’s an emergency session of the Revolutionary Council in twenty minutes. To discuss the Husseini assassination and to see how the security forces should respond.” Khamis Zeydan looked about the breakfast room. At the other tables, delegates were rising, brushing crumbs from their elegant suits and issuing murmured orders to their aides. “What’re you going to do?”
Omar Yussef swallowed. “What does a condemned man usually do after his last meal?” He ate the second half of the egg.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Ignore that remark. It was a joke. The British call it gallows humor. ”
“Fortunately there’s no hanging in Gaza. I expect to be beheaded when the time comes.” Omar Yussef tapped a forefinger against the two crossed scimitars of the Saladin Brigades’ crest. He looked more closely at the leaflet.
“My point is this: after the Revolutionary Council meeting, there’ll be some kind of response against the Saladin Brigades,” Khamis Zeydan said. “A military response. Arrests. Maybe the Brigades’ll fight back. It could get nasty on the streets today. We can’t let it look like they’re getting away with the assassination of one of our own, no matter that we all thought Husseini was a son of a bitch. Don’t get caught in the crossfire, okay.”
Omar Yussef popped the top off a miniature pot of honey and drizzled it over a croissant. “If self-protection was my main priority, I wouldn’t even be in Gaza.”
Khamis Zeydan drew an impatient breath. “The atmosphere today is very, very dangerous. You need to be careful.”
“You told me you love this dirt, this intrigue and deceit, this violence,” Omar Yussef said. “But those pleasures are reserved for members of your select club? I want to join in the fun.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know you hate all this. You damn near broke down yesterday when you couldn’t keep the different security forces and the various gunmen straight in your head.”
“I took the advice you gave me then: I’m not trying to keep track of their organizations, only their intentions.” Omar Yussef bit into the croissant. “They want to eat me alive.”
“That was only a turn of phrase.” Khamis Zeydan leaned close. “They don’t really care if you’re alive.”
Omar Yussef smiled and waved the croissant. “How long will this meeting of the Revolutionary Council go on?”
“Everyone will say how shocked they are and pretend that Husseini wasn’t a bastard. That should take about two hours, I’d say. Then add a little time for someone, probably al-Fara, to say that such things can’t be allowed in Gaza and to order the arrest of those responsible. Two hours fifteen.”
Omar Yussef nodded and bit the croissant. The honey ran into his mustache. He sucked it away with his lower lip.
“I have to go,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Why don’t you just walk on the beach and keep out of trouble?”
Omar Yussef looked out of the breakfast room window at the dust in the wind along the narrow strand. “It’s a lovely day for it,” he said.
Khamis Zeydan sighed, rapped the table in exasperation with his gloved prosthesis and went to the door.
On the beach, a boy with his head and face hidden by a red and white keffiyeh laid out a net. The hot wind ruffled his ripped T-shirt. The first time Omar Yussef sat in this breakfast room, three boys had been fighting on that beach. He wondered if this was one of them and where the other two boys were. He hoped they were only keeping out of the dust storm.
He could go no further with his investigation of the Saladin Brigades and the fate of Odwan’s stolen missile until he heard from Sami. If Sami arranged a meeting for him with the Saladin Brigades men, he would need to have something to give them in return for Wallender’s freedom. The Brigades had wanted to exchange Odwan for Wallender; now Odwan was dead, they would demand something else, if Wallender was still alive. Sami was right: he couldn’t offer them the missile. Even if he found it, he knew he would have to destroy it-or bring it to someone decent, who would disable it and wouldn’t sell it back to the militias. He wouldn’t give them a new toy for their murderous game.
With the Odwan end of the puzzle blocked, Omar Yussef turned to the plight of Professor Eyad Masharawi. Masharawi was held in a Preventive Security jail. He didn’t think the professor’s case could really be connected to Wallender’s kidnapping or Odwan’s death. But he surmised that if he pursued the Masharawi case, any dirt he unearthed about the Preventive Security would at least interest the Saladin Brigades, particularly since the Revolutionary Council-now dominated by al-Fara-was about to set the security forces on them in revenge for the Husseini hit. In exchange for Wallender’s release, he could offer the gunmen information they might use against the Preventive Security head.
He thought back to the efforts he and Magnus had made to free Masharawi. Before the Swede’s kidnapping, he had dined with Professor Maki and discussed the case. He should investigate Maki’s real reasons for calling down the security forces on a troublesome teacher. Omar Yussef recalled the degree certificates from al-Azhar hanging behind Colonel al-Fara’s desk and on the wall of the Salah home in Rafah. He had suspected that al-Fara’s degree was phony. Perhaps the Salah brothers’ degrees also were fakes.
Omar Yussef pushed another croissant into his cheek and chewed, thoughtfully. He folded the Saladin Brigades leaflet and slipped it into his shirt pocket next to the other one. Professor Maki would be at the Revolutionary Council meeting that morning. Omar Yussef decided to go to the professor’s office and ask his secretary to show him the files on the Salah brothers. If they had bought their degrees, it might be information worth offering the Saladin Brigades: some dirt on the dead lieutenant who had been held up as a hero and in revenge for whose death their man Odwan had been murdered.
At the front desk, he asked Meisoun to call him a taxi. “Where to, ustaz?” she asked, as she dialed the cab company.
“I prefer not to say.”
She leaned forward, smiling. “Do you have another girlfriend? My father is waiting for his camel. Are you going to disappoint him?”
He coughed. “I’m on my way to steal the camel now, as promised.”
“I await you. But don’t get caught. They’ll put you in a special jail for camel thieves. There’s a special jail for everyone in Gaza. Even for unfortunate lovers.”
Omar Yussef stroked his mustache awkwardly. It was still sticky with honey.
He paid the taxi driver at the gate of al-Azhar and walked past the posters of the suicide bombers into the main building.
Umm Rateb rose with an exclamation of pleasure when Omar Yussef reached the open door to Maki’s suite of offices. “Morning of joy, ustaz Abu Ramiz,” she cried.
“Morning of light, dear Umm Rateb.” Omar Yussef tried to take his eyes off the smile on her wide, sensual mouth.
“Sit and drink coffee.”
“Allah bless you, but I enjoyed a big breakfast only a short while ago.”
“To your double health, ustaz, in your very heart.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Omar Yussef glanced toward Maki’s personal office.
“But Professor Maki is not here.” She gestured toward the blinds dropped over the window between her office and Maki’s inner sanctum. “He’s at the Revolutionary Council. They’re having a special meeting to discuss the assassination of General Husseini.”
“I know,” he said. “I came about something else.” Umm Rateb looked blank. Then she smiled. “What’re you up to, Abu Ramiz?” She wagged a finger at him.
“I need to look at the files of a couple of students.”
“They’re supposed to be private.” The finger continued to wag.
“It’s okay. When I was here the other day, Professor Maki discussed certain issues with me and my colleagues from the United Nations. In fact, his very words were that we could ask Umm Rateb to bring the file of any student and we would be able to see their records, and so on.”
“I should really check with him.”
“He’s in the Council meeting, as you said.”
Umm Rateb’s smile subsided. She glanced at the empty desk where the other secretary had sat during Omar Yussef’s last visit. “You’re lucky that my colleague Amina is not here this morning. She’s a real stickler.” She went to the outer door and closed it. “This has to do with Salwa’s husband, ustaz? With Professor Eyad Masharawi?”
Omar Yussef nodded.
“Whose file do you want?”
“Fathi Salah and Yasser Salah.”
Umm Rateb nodded gravely. She went to the tall gray filing cabinets along the wall and pulled one of them open. She wrenched a file from the crush in the drawer and handed it to Omar Yussef. “Read it at Professor Maki’s desk,” she said, “in case someone comes in. They won’t see you behind his blinds.”
He laid the file on Maki’s desk. It held the academic record of Lieutenant Fathi Salah. Fathi’s high school grades were quite good, and Omar Yussef noted with approval that Fathi had earned top marks in history. Next was a transcript of the courses Fathi took at al-Azhar: grades from C up to A, a full transcript. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the Saladin Brigades leaflets. He put the newer one back and unfolded the first one. He laid it on the desk and, below where he had scrawled Sami’s cellphone number, copied out Fathi Salah’s transcript. He flipped through the file to a computer print-out from the accounts department. It listed dozens of payments, all small amounts, the last of which was shortly before Fathi’s graduation. It had the look of a poor man struggling even to meet the meager financial requirements of a local university. Omar Yussef closed Fathi’s file, went to the door of Maki’s inner office, and handed it back to Umm Rateb. She gave him another file in return.
It was Yasser Salah’s record. The high school graduation certificate showed straight Bs. A transcript for his bachelor’s degree-more straight Bs. Then his law degree transcript. Surprise me, Omar Yussef thought. “Straight Bs,” he said aloud. The accounts department summary of Yasser’s payments was missing. He wrote on the back of the Saladin Brigades leaflet: Yasser Salah all Bs. No money. He turned the sheet over and re-read the Brigades’ demand for Odwan’s freedom in exchange for Wallender’s release. Could there really be a connection between the grades scribbled on the back of the page and this message printed on the front? He laid his notes on the desk and went to Umm Rateb, who stood next to the filing cabinets, waiting. He gave her the file and she slid the drawer shut.
They breathed in relief. Omar Yussef patted his breast pocket and remembered the leaflet on the desk. He took a step toward Maki’s office to retrieve it. Then the door opened.
“Abu Ramiz, what a delightful surprise,” Adnan Maki said. As he entered, the university chief bit his bottom lip and opened his eyes wide, flirtatiously. “Umm Rateb, has this cosmopolitan, glamorous West Banker lured you away from your religious morals?”
Omar Yussef and Umm Rateb took a step away from each other, as though they had been caught in an illicit clinch.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Maki said. “I’m quite sure you two are up to something naughty. And I thoroughly approve.” He laughed and caught Omar Yussef’s hand. He fondled the back of it with his thumb and leered, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip. His fingers were so light Omar Yussef had the sensation of being touched by a web of fish bones.
Maki dropped his leather briefcase on the black sofa so that he could embrace Omar Yussef. He gave him five kisses and touched the bruise on Omar Yussef’s head. “You’ve been in the wars, as they say in England.”
Gallows humor, Omar Yussef thought. “Everyone’s quoting the British to me today.” He coughed and it became a choke.
“Umm Rateb, bring water for our friend and then some coffee,” Maki said. “Come into my office, Abu Ramiz.”
Omar Yussef continued coughing. He shook his head and sat on the black sofa in the outer office, holding Maki’s hand and pulling him down next to him. He glanced at Umm Rateb and flicked his watery eyes toward Maki’s office, hoping she would rescue the Brigades leaflet, but in her nervousness she was blind to his hints. “Abu Ramiz, you stay just where you are,” she said. “I’ll bring you a glass of water. Abu Nabil, what did the Revolutionary Council decide?”
She’s trying to make sure he doesn’t wonder what I’m doing here, Omar Yussef thought. Umm Rateb brought the glass of water. She doesn’t know about that piece of paper on Maki’s desk.
“The meeting was much as expected, Umm Rateb,” Maki said. He opened his arms wide and, as Omar Yussef sipped the water, he slapped him on the back, making him cough again. “Sorry, Abu Ramiz, but I feel in a fine mood this morning.”
It’s not the stinking weather that made you so breezy. It must have been a good assassination, Omar Yussef thought.
“At the Council meeting, I spoke at length about the strong response that must be ordered,” Maki said. “Colonel al-Fara agreed with me and said that he will join with the other security forces to apprehend the murderers of General Husseini. It was all very quick, as there was complete agreement with my statement among all the members. It was a proud moment for me.”
Omar Yussef had one last cough. “Shall we go into your office to talk privately?” he said. Perhaps he could grab his notes before Maki saw them.
Maki picked up his briefcase and led Omar Yussef by his hand into the inner room. The leaflet, wrinkled and curling at the edges, lay on the blotter. Maki put his briefcase flat on the desk. Without noticing it, he had covered the leaflet. Omar Yussef stared. He leaned forward. The corner of the leaflet protruded from under the briefcase. If Maki left the room for a moment, he could snatch it back.
Umm Rateb brought two coffees on a tray. “Now that you’re back early, Abu Nabil,” she said to Maki, “your postponed schedule can be resumed?”
She’s trying to save me, to get me out of here, Omar Yussef thought. She’s going to make me leave before I get the paper from his desk. He tried to catch her eye.
“Yes, of course, back to work.” Maki smiled broadly. “With a vengeance.”
“I’ll inform your next appointment.” Umm Rateb winked at Omar Yussef. She leaned forward with the tray of coffees.
Omar Yussef smelled her soap. She put the coffee on the edge of the desk. Maki dragged his briefcase away from the tray to make room and, reaching for the coffees, carelessly laid the briefcase on the floor beside him. The leaflet went with it. Which way up did it land? Omar Yussef wondered. Perhaps it fell straight into a wastepaper basket and I’m in the clear. Either way, he couldn’t retrieve the paper now.
Umm Rateb went to locate Maki’s next appointment.
“May there always be coffee for you,” Omar Yussef mumbled.
“Blessings,” Maki said, acknowledging the formula of gratitude for hospitality. “I heard about the problem of your Swedish friend. It was discussed briefly at the Revolutionary Council.”
“Briefly?”
“So many other pressing issues. Last night, Colonel al-Fara urged General Husseini, the departed one, to release Odwan so that the Saladin Brigades would free your friend and colleague.”
“Well, Odwan’s dead and so is General Husseini. Why doesn’t Colonel al-Fara release someone himself?”
“Are you back on the subject of that liar, the awful Professor Masharawi?” Maki dropped the corners of his mouth and screwed up his wet, black eyes, as though he’d just accidentally sucked down the thick grounds at the bottom of his tiny coffee cup.
“That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“Is it?” Maki said, quietly. He put his cup down. A new voice sounded in the outer office. “My next appointment has arrived, Abu Ramiz. We shall have to continue our discussion another time. I have much to do before attending the funeral of the departed General Husseini.” He stood. “I keep a rigorous schedule here. It’s most un-Palestinian. But it’s one of a number of characteristics I picked up during my travels.” Then he whispered: “In the civilized world.” He giggled.
A bearded man came to the door holding a sheaf of papers and squeezing out a sycophantic grin at Maki’s laughter. Maki turned to greet him. When Omar Yussef went out, he closed the door behind him.
Omar Yussef bent over Umm Rateb’s desk. “When Professor Maki leaves his room, see if there’s a piece of paper with a Saladin Brigades announcement on it. It should be on the floor behind his desk. Like a fool, I made some notes on it and left it there.”
“I’ll try to get it, Abu Ramiz.” She looked nervously toward Maki’s door.
The blinds of Maki’s office window lifted with a single, swift motion. Maki smiled, holding the draw cord, waving farewell through the glass to Omar Yussef.
“How is Salwa today?” Omar Yussef asked, nodding politely toward Maki.
“May Allah be thanked,” Umm Rateb said.
“As good as that, eh?”
“She’s at home. I’m sure your company would be welcome.” Umm Rateb nodded at the files behind her desk. “If you have discovered any news for her.”
Omar Yussef smiled, went to the door and down the corridor. He stepped out into the dust and hailed a taxi.