When they reached the street, the police chief’s upper lip curled. He lifted a thumb and gestured back down the alley. “My dear father used to say, ‘When the wolf comes, the guard dog disappears for a shit.’” He turned to Omar Yussef. “Convenient that he wasn’t around when the murder occurred, eh?”
Omar Yussef scratched his cheek thoughtfully. He led Khamis Zeydan toward the jeep. “Ishaq told his wife he wanted to bury the dangerous thing he was dealing with behind the temple. That must have been the account details. I think he meant that he hid them up there on Mount Jerizim.”
“Behind the temple? What does that mean?”
“The temple of the Samaritans once stood at the summit of this mountain. We have to look there.”
“You wanted to climb up high enough that falling would be fatal. Maybe you found the right spot. The only place higher than that temple is heaven.”
The distant sound of rifle fire disturbed the silence of the village. “The entertainment started early today,” Khamis Zeydan said.
Omar Yussef blinked into the vivid blue sky. The gunfire was ugly and incongruous on the quiet mountaintop.
A deeper sound punctuated the cracking of the rifles. Omar Yussef brought his eyes down to the street. The boy with the misshapen ears caught his basketball as it rebounded from the side wall of Roween’s house. He stopped and watched Omar Yussef, then threw once more at the wall. He grabbed the ball and made his way through the flame pits, halting to stare at Omar Yussef before moving on again.
Omar Yussef looked at Khamis Zeydan, lifted his chin toward the boy, and headed after him. The police chief sighed and followed.
Thin smoke rose from the coals at the bottom of the pits where the Samaritans had made their sacrifice. The air was thick with the aroma of lamb fat. Fed by the grease, it might take days for the fires to burn themselves out.
The boy led them to a stand of trees at the edge of the park. The smell of the sacrifice mingled with the sauna scent of pines in the sun. Their footsteps crunched the carpet of fallen needles.
A figure in a blue gown watched them from a small glade. In the clearing, Roween caressed the boy’s cheek and tidied his hair. Sweat glowed along the fringe of darker brown skin edging her lips and in the fine auburn hairs that spread onto her cheeks. She pulled back into a shadowed corner and sat on a rock.
“He’s my brother,” she said to Omar Yussef, with her hand on the boy’s arm. “Ishaq was very close to him.” She whispered in the kid’s ear and he loped through the trees toward the village.
Omar Yussef watched him go and wondered at the bond between the homosexual, his retarded brother-in-law, and his stumpy, ill-favored wife. The misfits had shared some sort of tenderness in a community bound by rough convention.
Khamis Zeydan positioned himself on a rock with his back to the clearing, guarding the approach.
Roween turned a faint smile of conspiracy to Omar Yussef. This woman has her secrets, he thought. Ishaq may not have been the husband she bargained for, but they were joined in some kind of love and they shared things no one else knew.
“Is this the way to the gap in the fence? To get onto the mountaintop when the gate is locked?” he asked.
“The path starts here. But you can take the road to the very upper edge of the village and join it there, to shorten your walk.” Roween looked quickly back toward the Samaritan houses and rubbed the sweat from her lip. “You were at the home of Jibril the priest.”
Omar Yussef remembered the movement of her curtain as he had entered the priest’s house. “We talked about Ishaq,” he said, “and the return of the Abisha Scroll.”
“What did you learn?” Roween rolled her tongue in her cheek.
“I discovered that Samaritan priests are no more likely than Muslim sheikhs to confront the hardest truths. Am I about to discover that Samaritan women will only hold back their full knowledge for so long, once they see that they’re talking to a genuine friend?”
Roween smirked with one side of her mouth. “Ustaz, Ishaq was in between Kanaan and Hamas. They both wanted something that only he could get for them.”
“Ishaq obtained scandal files on top Fatah men from Kanaan and gave them to Hamas.”
Roween nodded.
“Hamas gave Ishaq the Abisha Scroll, which they had stolen, and he passed it on to the priest,” Omar Yussef continued. “Ishaq had the details of the old president’s secret accounts and he was supposed to give them to Kanaan, in return for the files.”
“But he didn’t.”
Omar Yussef heard the pine needles crackling as Khamis Zeydan rose. Roween has caught his interest, he thought.
“Ishaq was killed because he held onto the account details.” Omar Yussef took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. The cloth came away gray from the smoke by the flame pits. “He must have known it was dangerous to keep those documents.”
“The priest told him not to give them to Kanaan.”
“Jibril? His father?”
“He wanted the scroll and the old president’s money,” Roween said.
Khamis Zeydan stepped to the middle of the clearing. “The priest got the scroll. Awwadi got the scandal files. But Kanaan didn’t get the account documents. It’s as we thought: Kanaan’s the disappointed party. There’s your killer.”
Omar Yussef scratched his chin. “Did Kanaan kill Ishaq, Roween?”
“Never. I’m sure of it. Kanaan loved Ishaq very dearly. He always helped Ishaq and promoted him. I can’t imagine him turning against someone so close to him.”
Khamis Zeydan rubbed his fingers against his thumb, his hand in a loose fist. “Three hundred million dollars would turn love into hate, don’t you think?”
“Kanaan isn’t short of money, but he didn’t have anyone else like Ishaq,” Roween said.
“How did Ishaq’s father have such power over him?” Omar Yussef asked. “Couldn’t Ishaq have simply said that it would be too risky to hold onto the account documents?”
Roween grimaced. “When Ishaq came back from Paris, he was forced to be very contrite before the village elders, so that they’d reverse their decision to expel him from our people. It was humiliating, because they referred to his-his proclivity in a disdainful way. I think Jibril may have threatened to make him appear before the elders once more.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Would Jibril have made you go before the elders?” Omar Yussef averted his eyes. “To testify that Ishaq was unable to perform the duties of a husband.”
Roween dropped her chin to her chest. She hadn’t considered that, Omar Yussef thought. Did Ishaq risk everything to protect his wife? Roween stared at Omar Yussef with her eyes wide and aghast. “I would’ve lied for him,” she said.
“In the event of his death, Ishaq ordered that half a million dollars be sent to a man named Suleiman al-Teef at a bank in Nablus. Is that one of his friends in the Fatah Party?”
Roween looked away. “He can’t be anyone important. Half a million isn’t much compared to three hundred million, is it?”
An appalled dreaminess had descended upon her. “I’d lie for him,” she repeated, and she stood and went through the trees toward the village.
Omar Yussef watched Roween emerge into the sunshine and pick her way between the smoking pits. She held the skirt of her gown above her thick, pale ankles, as she moved over the uneven ground. She came to the yard behind her home and disappeared through a green metal door.
Omar Yussef crossed the clearing and leaned against a tree. He dabbed the back of his neck with his soiled handkerchief. “I’m hot,” he said. “I think we ought to go somewhere with airconditioning.”
“What are you talking about?” Khamis Zeydan pointed up the slope through the trees. “Aren’t we going to search the mountaintop for the financial documents?”
“That could take hours. We don’t have time for it now, not after what Roween told us. We need to take care of something more urgent. Then we c
an come back here.” Omar Yussef raised his handkerchief to his sweating forehead. “I think Liana was lying when she said Kanaan was down in Nablus. We didn’t pass him on the road up from town. I think he’s in his mansion and this time he’ll see us, because we know why he didn’t get the account documents from Ishaq. We need to press him on this.”
“Don’t make him cry, too. Your weepy scenes have already exhausted my compassion today.” Khamis Zeydan screwed up his face and limped through the trees.
The gunfire intensified in the valley below. It was late afternoon. The nightlife of Nablus was gearing up.
Chapter 28
At the door to Amin Kanaan’s mansion, Khamis Zeydan muttered a curse and expectorated. Omar Yussef frowned at the oyster globule, gleaming in the sun. A servant hurried onto the gaudy fan of marble steps, startled and outraged, as though the phlegm had landed on his cheek. It may have been better to leave Abu Adel in the jeep, Omar Yussef thought. My friend might be saving some spit for Kanaan. Even so, I need the security of the gun on his hip to enter the home of the man who tried to have me killed.
“Tell your boss we know exactly how Ishaq let him down,” Omar Yussef said.
The servant sniffed and showed them across the hall, its polished floor warmed to a pale coral with the first glow of sundown through the tall windows. In the salon where they had sat with Liana, they waited for her husband.
Khamis Zeydan paced across an antique Tabriz rug and opened the glass doors. The distant shooting sounded louder. “Screw your mother,” he said, kicking the wall lightly.
Omar Yussef twisted in his gilt armchair. “Are you going to behave yourself? Because if you can’t keep a lid on your anger, you’d better wait outside.”
“I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.”
“What pleasure?”
“Of seeing me cowering in his garden.”
“You’d prefer him to see you lose your cool?”
“I won’t lose my cool.”
Omar Yussef stared at the police chief. Khamis Zeydan waved his hand impatiently and lit a Rothmans.
The servant entered and held the door open for Amin Kanaan. He came smoothly over the Persian carpets in a pair of claret suede moccasins, wearing a sky blue Italian shirt with the top three buttons open and the collar high at the sides of his neck. He extended a soft handshake to Omar Yussef.
“Before we begin to talk, I warn you that I already know you aren’t really an employee of the World Bank, ustaz.” Kanaan wagged a scolding finger at Omar Yussef.
“I didn’t say I was. You neglected to ask the right question.”
Kanaan smiled. He circled the rococo sofa to greet Khamis Zeydan, spreading his shoulders and pushing out his broad chest. “My dear Abu Adel, welcome to my home,” he said. “You’re in your own home and as if you were with your own family.”
Khamis Zeydan’s eyes dropped to the intricate palmettes on the rug. “Your family is with you,” he whispered, as though the formulaic words were jagged in his throat.
Kanaan clutched the police chief’s shoulders and gave him three kisses. He moved to the sofa and reclined. “Please sit down, Brother Abu Adel,” he said.
“I’ll stand.” Khamis Zeydan played with the handle on the open glass door and held his head just outside, as though to escape the aroma of wealth on his old rival’s body.
“You always did do things your own way,” Kanaan said.
“I disagree. I took orders. I did what the Old Man told me to do.”
“Come on, he didn’t issue orders. He gave hints. You had to interpret them, just as I did. It’s what made him so treacherous. It’s how he kept all of us in his power. You never knew when he was going to pull the rug from under you and deny everything. He did it to you in Damascus once, don’t you remember?” Kanaan turned to Omar Yussef. “Our friend Abu Adel was sold out to the Syrians, who put a bullet in his back.”
“He told me all about that,” Omar Yussef said.
Kanaan glanced at Khamis Zeydan. “Did he?” he said, slowly. “Did he indeed?”
“We’re not here to reminisce,” Omar Yussef said. “I have some questions.”
“I thought you told my servant that you had some information. But, anyway, wait for the coffee, ustaz Abu Ramiz,” Kanaan said. The servant returned with a silver tray and three small cups, each painted with a golden cartouche.
Omar Yussef took his coffee. “May Allah bless your hands,” he said to the servant.
“Blessings,” the servant said.
Omar Yussef turned formally to Kanaan. “May there always be coffee in your home,” he said.
Kanaan watched Khamis Zeydan receive his cup, balancing the saucer between thumb and forefinger. “There certainly will be, ustaz,” Kanaan said. He kept his eye on Khamis Zeydan, smiling at the police chief’s reluctant acceptance of his hospitality. “You can be sure of that.”
By the window, a pedestal of jadecolored marble rose to the height of Khamis Zeydan’s chest. It was designed to hold a bust, but it was empty. He laid his coffee cup on it.
“Your double health, Abu Adel,” Kanaan said, lifting his own cup. “Welcome.”
Khamis Zeydan shifted from foot to foot.
Kanaan licked his lips with pleasure at the policeman’s discomfiture. “Abu Adel-”
“Fuck your mother,” Khamis Zeydan yelled. “I won’t touch your coffee. I won’t pretend I don’t wish you were dead.”
“And I thought you came here to accuse me of killing Ishaq,” Kanaan said. “Instead I discover that perhaps you’ve come here to kill me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Your Honor Amin,” Omar Yussef said. He raised a finger at Khamis Zeydan. “Be careful, Abu Adel.”
“Ridiculous? I wouldn’t be the first one to die because your friend decided to settle a score,” Kanaan said. “This fellow was the party’s top assassin for two decades. He hates me because I know him for who he really is.”
“What do you mean?” Omar Yussef said.
Khamis Zeydan gripped the head of the marble pedestal and stared fiercely at the tiny coffee cup in its center.
“Since he returned from exile to live in Bethlehem, I’ve kept an eye on Abu Adel. I had to. I never knew when he might try something against me, given our history.” Kanaan sneered. “He portrays himself as an honorable policeman. But men like him gave Palestinians a bad reputation, with their terrorist attacks all over Europe and their airplane hijackings and their war in Lebanon.”
Khamis Zeydan backhanded his coffee cup off the pedestal. It smashed onto the floor. “If it was down to me, there’d have been peace decades ago,” he shouted. “But people like you made too much money out of the chaos, the lack of rules, the opportunities for corruption. You kept me fighting and others dying, so you could exploit our people and get rich.”
“But we both got what we wanted out of it in the end. I got rich, and you got excitement, the chance to be a tough guy.” Kanaan raised his eyebrows mockingly. “We both got what we wanted.”
Khamis Zeydan lurched toward Kanaan and grabbed the sofa. Kanaan jerked back, expecting a blow.
“No, we didn’t,” Khamis Zeydan said. His breath came loud through his nose. He leaned close to Kanaan, his lips spread, showing his teeth, like a dog preparing to pounce. “I didn’t get what I wanted.”
Kanaan composed himself. “I suppose you didn’t,” he grinned.
Liana, Omar Yussef thought. My friend didn’t get her, and now it seems to him she was all he ever wanted. “Abu Adel, perhaps it would be best if you waited in the garden,” he said.
Khamis Zeydan rolled his pale eyes. He slammed the French doors behind him and hobbled across the lawn to the gazebo.
Omar Yussef drained his cup and laid it on the Armenian tiles of the coffee table. He wiped the dregs from his mustache. “Abu Adel is a dear friend and I don’t think it’s fair of you to continue this animosity from so long ago,” he said.
Kanaan put his hand to his heart. “Isn’t it your friend w
ho harbors the grudge?”
Omar Yussef leaned his elbows on his knees. “You sent Mareh to kill me, but you’re lucky that I’m more forgiving than Abu Adel. I’m not after you. I have a different aim. I want to know the truth about you and Ishaq.”
Kanaan shrugged.
“Aren’t you going to protest that you already told me the truth?” Omar Yussef said. “That you’re offended I should suspect you of covering something up?”
“I have nothing to hide,” Kanaan said. “You’re welcome to ask me whatever you want.”
“You gave Ishaq files of dirt on all the top Fatah people,” Omar Yussef said. “In return he was supposed to give you the information on the Old Man’s secret bank accounts. But he backed out.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Why did he back out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask the priest Jibril why the deal wasn’t completed?”
Kanaan blinked and spoke slowly. “Should I ask him?”
“What did you want the money for?” Omar Yussef said.
“I don’t understand your question. Does one need a reason to want money?”
“What I mean is, don’t you already have plenty of it?”
“The money wasn’t for me. I wanted it to go into the official Palestinian treasury, where the international donors intended for it to be in the first place.”
“Do you think I’m naive enough to believe that?”
“After your last visit, I thought it best to learn more about you, ustaz.” Kanaan aimed his index finger at Omar Yussef. “First I discovered that you weren’t with the World Bank. Then I heard that you have something of a troublesome background.”
“What do you mean?” Omar Yussef felt a jolt of adrenaline. What does this man know about me? He experienced a surge of guilt for things he knew he had done wrong and anger at false accusations that had been made against him over the years.
“You were fired from your job at a nice school. Why was that? Was it your alcoholism? Or did something happen with one of the pupils? For some men, a school is full of sexual temptation.”
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