Magnus Wallender rose to his feet, wheezing. The skin around his mouth, where Yasser Salah had ripped away the tape, was bleeding and caked with damp mud. His thick hair stuck up in frightful wisps and his light-blue irises stood out sharply in a face dark with dirt. He rolled his shoulders back, blinked away the grit and stepped in front of Abu Jamal. “Whoever you are,” he said, “put away that gun.”
Abu Jamal looked Wallender up and down. He glanced behind him, where his men were clearing wreckage, hoping to find the missile. “I know who you are, even if you don’t know me,” he said. “It’s your good fortune that I don’t want trouble with the UN, because otherwise I’d kill you now.”
Wallender reached out for Abu Jamal’s pistol. Abu Jamal pulled away but slid the gun into its leather holster.
The gunman scratched the back of his head and gave a surly kick at a broken cinderblock. He stepped to the side of Wallender, so he could direct his complaints at Omar Yussef. “So where’s the Saladin I?” he said.
“Yasser must have hidden it,” Omar Yussef said. He stood up slowly and stared at his bleeding palms. “I need something to bandage my hands.”
“Fuck your hands. If you bleed to death, the United Nations can’t blame me for it.” Abu Jamal headed for the house.
One of the gunmen came out of the back door, shoving the father of Yasser and Fathi Salah down the steps in front of him. Abu Jamal doubled his pace and drew his pistol as he crossed the sandy garden. When he reached Zaki Salah, he put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, shoved him to his knees, forced his head back and thrust the barrel of the gun inside his mouth. “Where’s the missile?” he yelled.
Zaki shook his head. Abu Jamal yelled again, and then a third time he screamed his question. He pulled the pistol out of the old man’s mouth, slapped the barrel into Salah’s cheek and backhanded it onto his nose. Blood ran down the front of Salah’s long, white jalabiya.
Abu Jamal grabbed Salah’s beard and pulled him across the sand to where the body of Attiah Odwan lay. He pushed the old man to the ground beside the thick, muscular corpse. Salah looked at the dead gunman’s face and muttered a blessing.
“Shut up,” Abu Jamal shouted. “Your bastard son killed him. Your bastard son Yasser, who’s dead and buried under the ground beneath your garage.”
Salah muttered again, closing his eyes and praying for the soul of his son. Abu Jamal kicked the old man in the stomach. He gestured to the gunman who had brought Salah from the house. “Lift him up.”
Omar Yussef stepped into the sandy garden. He moved toward Abu Jamal. Sami held his wrist and shook his head. Omar Yussef ignored him. “That old fellow doesn’t know where the missile is,” he called.
Abu Jamal turned and glared at him.
“Do you think a man like Yasser would trust anyone? Even his own father?” Omar Yussef said.
Abu Jamal looked at Salah, then back to Omar Yussef. “If he doesn’t know, then how will we find it?”
“You never will.”
“Wrong answer.”
“It wasn’t an answer, it was a wish.” Omar Yussef pushed his chin toward Abu Jamal. He clenched his bloody hands and felt them shaking.
“If this old man doesn’t know where to find the missile-” Abu Jamal kept his eyes on Omar Yussef, as he lifted his gun to Salah’s head “-I don’t need him alive.” He pulled the trigger and Zaki Salah tumbled backwards over the corpse of Attiah Odwan.
Omar Yussef gasped. The old man’s legs twisted unnaturally at the knees. The wound on his forehead was a small black hole, but the blood poured from the back of his skull onto the sand. Omar Yussef reached out and grabbed Abu Jamal’s deformed hand. The smooth skin was cold in his palm. He pointed at Attiah Odwan’s body underneath the dead old man. “At least Attiah died bravely,” he said. “You will never have that honor.”
Abu Jamal narrowed his eyes and looked over Omar Yussef’s shoulder at Magnus Wallender. Omar Yussef wondered if the gunman was considering a new kidnapping, which might allow him to screw some kind of reward out of the government as recompense for the night’s fruitless operation. But killing Zaki Salah appeared to have calmed him. He spoke quietly. “Like Attiah, I’m ready to be martyred,” he said.
Omar Yussef smelled the menthol throat lozenges on Abu Jamal’s breath. “If Allah wills it.”
Abu Jamal put away his gun. His bloodshot eyes were distant. “Is that also a wish?”
“Get down,” one of the gunmen yelled from inside the ruins of the garage. Abu Jamal and Omar Yussef dropped to the sand. They heard a hollow ringing as something bounced toward them. A rock, a foot in diameter, came to rest against an olive tree a yard away from them. It didn’t sound like a rock and it bounced much too lightly. Omar Yussef tensed his whole body and waited.
One of the gunmen ambled across the sand from the garage. “Sorry, chief. I was tossing the rubble out of the garage and I threw that stone without realizing what it was. I think it’s a disguised fiberglass cover for a roadside bomb. As I threw it, I realized it was too light to be a rock and I thought perhaps there was already a bomb rigged up inside it. That’s why I shouted.” He knelt close by the rock. “It doesn’t seem to be armed.”
“What else is in there?” Abu Jamal gestured toward the rubble.
“A few dozen Kalashikovs and a lot of grenades under the wreckage. Salah’s weapons store. Quite a haul.”
“Bring the jeeps around and load it up,” Abu Jamal said.
“Now you’re happy?” Omar Yussef rose to his knees.
“Now I can continue our resistance. Until my martyrdom.” Abu Jamal kicked the fiberglass rock. Omar Yussef dropped to the ground again. The rock rolled away from them. Abu Jamal laughed, soft and jeering.
Sami sheared a slice of material from his T-shirt and bound his shoulder, where Yasser Salah’s bullet had winged him. He knelt by Omar Yussef with a pan of water and cleaned the dirt from his lacerated hands. “You were nearly buried alive back there, Abu Ramiz,” he said.
“Yes, I thought it might become my eternal tomb.” Omar Yussef remembered the way the images of the skeleton in the pathologist’s surgery and of the British War Cemetery had come to him in the tunnel. It was as though it had all been down there in the same hole in the ground with him and Yasser Salah. He rubbed his forehead.
“I wouldn’t have left you down there. I’d have dug you up and shipped your body back to Bethlehem. Gaza’s a terrible place to stay, even if it’s only your bones.” Sami ripped another piece from his T-shirt and tied it around Omar Yussef’s palm.
Even if it’s only your bones. Omar Yussef thought of Yasser Salah, crushed in the collapsed tunnel. Though Salah was gone, others would die when his stash of weapons was aimed at them. Beyond the grave, the men of Gaza could still wield death. He thought of the skeleton on the pathologist’s dissecting table. Who did you rise from the dead to kill?