“Not as much as I hated ignorance. Please, put it back before you damage it beyond repair.”
Khamis Zeydan rolled the scroll loosely, held it upright and shook it. The sheepskin crackled in his fingers. “Nothing in here,” he said. He dropped the scroll to the bench and sat with his back to Omar Yussef, staring at the body of the priest.
Omar Yussef gathered up the scroll. He twisted the handles until it was wound tight and slipped it back into its box. He ran his hand over the calfskin cover. “They made these boxes with the skin side on the exterior,” he said. “But the hair of the calf’s hide is still on the inside. Look.”
Khamis Zeydan grunted.
Omar Yussef fingered the edges of the silver plate on the front of the box with the raised image of the temple. Could this be what Ishaq meant by ‘behind the temple’? Not in the scroll, but behind this piece of silver? He slipped a fingernail beneath the rim of the plate. A shred of black gum came up. This hasn’t been opened in a while, he thought. He worked at the edge of the silver panel until he could push a finger behind it. He pressed down on the calfskin and slipped his hand inside. He came out with nothing but a rancid film of four-hundred-year-old calf’s grease on his palm.
“Well, that’s it,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Ishaq’s secret died with him.”
Omar Yussef dropped the Abisha Scroll to the bench and came swiftly to his feet.
Khamis Zeydan glared at him.
“That’s what Ishaq told Roween,” Omar Yussef said. He stared toward the front of the synagogue.
Khamis Zeydan followed his gaze. “O peace, what’s up with you now?”
“Ishaq told her that the thing he was working on was a secret between him and the old president and Allah. The president’s dead, and Ishaq said that when he died, too, it would be ‘a secret known only to Allah.’” Omar Yussef stumbled into the aisle and hurried to the front of the synagogue.
“So you’ve somehow figured out Allah’s secret?”
“Exactly.” Omar Yussef nodded. “Allah’s secret.”
“Really, the god of the Samaritans decided to share it with you?”
“No, but the priest did.” Omar Yussef climbed onto the dais. “When I came here with Sami, the priest told me the Samaritans never destroy old religious documents, even after they become unusable. They put them inside this trunk.”
He lifted the long lid of the pine bench. The sharp scent of aging parchment rose from the yellowed rolls inside. He turned to Khamis Zeydan.
“The priest said they call them ‘Allah’s secrets.’” Omar Yussef kneeled, dug his hands into the pile of parchment and pulled out an armful.
“The secret Ishaq shared with his god?”
Omar Yussef nodded. “In here.”
Khamis Zeydan reached into the trunk and tossed out a heavy scroll. He coughed at the dust rising from the recesses of the cabinet.
Scrolls and books in frayed bindings piled on the floor around them and the air grew dusty and sour. Khamis Zeydan coughed so hard he retched.
Omar Yussef slid his fingers to the bottom of the long trunk. He felt the seam of the old dry wood. The parchments at the bottom were brittle as baklava pastry.
Then he touched it. Plastic. He pulled against the weight of the documents on top and brought out a manila folder encased in a freezer bag. The folder was thick with spreadsheets and columns of numbers, all headed with the eagle of the Palestinian Authority and the address of the president’s office in Ramallah.
Khamis Zeydan whistled quietly.
“Banks in Switzerland, companies registered in the Caribbean,” Omar Yussef said, leafing through the file. “This is it.”
“By Allah,” Khamis Zeydan whispered.
Omar Yussef returned the folder to the freezer bag and held it to his chest with both hands. He noticed that the pulse of excitement he experienced when he set foot on the temple stone and when he touched the Abisha Scroll was absent. The file felt heavy with death.
Khamis Zeydan pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling Sami,” he said. “I want him to take care of this. I don’t want any other officer asking me questions about that dead Samaritan over there, and I certainly don’t want anyone else to know that you have three hundred million dollars in your shaky little paws.”
Omar Yussef knelt by Jibril. The dead man’s skin was as bloodless and dry as the parchments piled on the floor around the ark. He must have had help when he took Ishaq and Roween to their deaths on the hilltop. He would have been too frail to overpower either of his victims alone. But Omar Yussef would never find out who had aided the old priest, now that Jibril lay dead.
Khamis Zeydan muttered to Sami on the phone. When he hung up, Omar Yussef turned to him. “Did you really shoot the priest to prevent him destroying the account documents?” he asked. “Or was it to protect the reputation of your old lover? With Jibril dead, no one knows about Liana’s illegitimate son, except her husband.”
Khamis Zeydan lit a Rothmans and shot the match over the synagogue benches with his thumb. He stared toward the ark. “That’s another of Allah’s secrets,” he said.
Chapter 31
Night receded to a mauve fringe on the ridge of Jerizim. Omar Yussef watched it slink away and breathed the unsullied cool of dawn. He kept his eyes on the mountain until the blue sky overcame its final taint, and still he stared. He twisted his mouth into a sour smile. He didn’t trust the darkness to be gone. If he turned down the hill toward the casbah, he was sure he’d see its somber essence lurking there. The sun might simmer Nablus in the heat at the valley’s bottom, but it would never burn off the shadows. In the alleys of the old town, it was always an ominous midnight.
Sami came down the steps outside the synagogue. Omar Yussef rolled the account documents and stuffed them awkwardly into the hip pocket of his pants.
“Concealing evidence?” Sami smiled.
“Are you going to search me?”
“I wasn’t anxious to investigate all along. I’m not about to begin now.”
Khamis Zeydan slouched out of the synagogue and leaned over the railing by the steps.
“The priest interrupted another attempted theft of the Abisha Scroll,” Sami said. “The thieves killed him, but they panicked and left the scroll behind. That’s the official version. What do you think?”
Omar Yussef touched his mustache. “Sami, what’s wrong with the truth?” he said. “Abu Adel was doing his job as a police officer by stopping a criminal. I’m sure we could explain the priest’s death honestly.”
Sami’s eyes darkened above his bony cheeks. “The truth is in your pocket, Abu Ramiz. The truth is that the former president salted away hundreds of millions of dollars in secret bank accounts, while ordinary Palestinians lived in crappy refugee camps and studied in crowded schools. What’s wrong with the truth? A great deal is wrong.”
Omar Yussef saw the hardness in the young man’s eyes. Khamis Zeydan expectorated into the basement yard of the synagogue. Is this the moment when Sami becomes like his mentor, Omar Yussef wondered, dirtied and compromised?
“It’s the truth, nonetheless,” he said. “Don’t give up on that, Sami. At least this money will no longer line the pockets of corrupt leaders. I don’t expect you to become idealistic about the Palestinian people, but tell me I’ve restored a little of your faith.”
Sami shoved the protruding roll of documents firmly into Omar Yussef’s pocket. “Watch out or you might lose them,” he said. The hardness left his face. “Really, Abu Ramiz, is it the job of a detective to make sure everyone knows just how bad things are?”
Omar Yussef lifted a finger, as he did when he lectured in his classroom. “Detectives are like the cloth that polishes a tarnished piece of silverware. The silver is displayed proudly, shining and admired. The cloth is tossed into a cupboard, filthy and unseen, imprinted with a record of the dirt everyone else believes to have been erased forever.”
Sami smiled. “You promised me you’d be cheerful by the time my weddi
ng came around, Abu Ramiz.”
“You’re going ahead with the party?”
Sami raised his good arm, then tapped a knuckle against his cast. “My bride will walk on my left in the procession, and there’s no other reason to delay, anymore. Listen, what do you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Precisely. The gunfire has stopped,” Sami said. “The battle in the casbah came to an end around the time when you and Abu Adel were in the synagogue with the priest. While we’ve been photographing the position of the corpse and dusting for prints, Amin Kanaan’s men have taken complete control of Nablus.”
“So the fighting is over?”
“Hamas conceded for now. They were at a disadvantage after Awwadi was killed. He was their military leader in the casbah. The people were angry, too, about the way the sheikh slurred the Old Man. Hamas had to back down. My wedding will take place this afternoon.”
“A thousand congratulations.”
Sami went up the steps. He slapped Khamis Zeydan gently in the lower back and gave a nod to a pair of paramedics. They entered the synagogue with a folded, orange stretcher and emerged a few minutes later with the corpse of Jibril the priest.
The priest’s hand dangled from the stretcher, bumping the steps as they descended. Omar Yussef halted the paramedics. He lifted Jibril’s arm and laid the hand on the blanket covering the dead man. He rested his palm on the leathery skin and felt the thin bones.
One of the medics adjusted his grip on the handles, jolting the body on the stretcher, and for a second Omar Yussef thought the old priest had come to life. It left his pulse quick and anxious, even as the paramedics descended the last steps to the street.
At the curb, Jamie King watched the stretcher pass. She took the steps to Omar Yussef three at a time, her brown work boots loud on the stone, and clasped his hand in both of hers. She was dressed for the chill of early morning in a purple fleece and black jeans, but her palms were clammy with excitement.
“I’m amazed, ustaz,” she said. “When did this happen?”
“In the middle of the night,” Omar Yussef said. “I would’ve called you immediately, but the police asked me to wait until the man’s nearest relatives could be notified, up there.” He gestured toward the Samaritan village on Jerizim.
“That was the priest I just saw on the stretcher? What happened to him?”
“He couldn’t keep a secret.” Omar Yussef glanced up the synagogue steps.
Khamis Zeydan stared into the sparse gardens of a neighboring apartment building. Sami came out of the synagogue. He lit a cigarette and handed the smoke to Khamis Zeydan. The older man took it without lifting his head. Sami rested his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s back.
“Jamie, can you give me a ride to the hotel? I need to get some rest. I have a wedding to go to later,” Omar Yussef said.
He pulled himself into the high cab of Jamie King’s Chevrolet. King shut her door, turned to Omar Yussef, and raised one eyebrow. Omar Yussef took the manila folder from his hip pocket and unrolled it. He handed it to her.
The American opened the freezer bag. She flipped quickly through the papers, sucking her freckled lip behind her lower teeth.
“How much is there?” Omar Yussef asked.
“It looks like almost everything.” King didn’t raise her eyes from the documents. She fanned the papers in the file with her thumb. “Hundreds of millions of dollars.”
“You have time to prevent the boycott?”
“I’ll write my report to the board in D.C. as soon as I get back to the hotel. I’m sure this’ll convince them to scrap the boycott. Just in time.”
The American slipped the documents into the map pocket on the driver’s door. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans and grinned, excited and embarrassed. As she started the engine, she turned to Omar Yussef. “You could have been very rich,” she said.
“I’m a Palestinian,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m giving you this money to spend on my behalf, Jamie. After years of official theft, the money is mine at last, because it’s finally in the right hands.”
“It’ll be transferred to the Palestinian Ministry of Finance,” King said. “They’ve instituted proper accounting procedures to track the money now.”
“Keep your eye on them, Jamie.” Omar Yussef grated out a guttural laugh. “Not everyone in Palestine is as pure as I am.”
Chapter 32
Nadia preened before a mirror in the foyer, stroking the lacy pink shirt her grandmother had bought for her at the souk. Maryam took her hand and led her toward the women’s hall for the wedding celebrations. “Remember, I want you to tell me everything that happens at the men’s party, Grandpa,” Nadia called.
Omar Yussef raised his arm to wave and felt a jab in the ribs from the wad of documents stashed in the inside pocket of his jacket. He moved politely through the bland stream of women in their loose gowns of brown or navy blue or beige, cream scarves pinning their hair out of sight. He heard a series of sharp clicks and noticed Liana approaching in highheeled shoes and a yellow suit.
“Greetings, ustaz,” she said.
“Double greetings, my lady.”
Heavy black kohl ringed Liana’s eyes. It seemed to Omar Yussef that her eyeballs themselves had been painted in and that the woman before him would have receded into complete invisibility had her sadness not been adorned with gold jewelry and Parisian couture.
“It’s a shame you’re unable to mourn as you should for the loss of your husband’s associate Ishaq. But you can at least take comfort that his murderer is now dead.”
Liana appeared to be short of breath for a moment. “Who was it?” she gasped.
“Jibril the priest. He was shot by our friend Abu Adel.”
The woman’s eyes flamed briefly, a lick of passion and pride amid her frozen features.
Omar Yussef looked hard at Liana. “I wonder for whom Abu Adel fired that shot?” he said.
Her features became cautious and stony again.
“Did he shoot a criminal in the act of committing an offense? Did he kill him to protect your secret?”
“My secret?”
“Or did he do it for the boy?” Omar Yussef thought of the pale blue eyes staring out of Ishaq’s corpse and the queer feeling of recognition he had experienced in that moment. He remembered the pain with which Liana’s wealthy husband recounted her infidelity. He recalled that, when he had told her of Ishaq’s murder, she had wanted to be alone with Khamis Zeydan.
Liana inclined her head toward the corner of the room and Omar Yussef followed her.
She stood with her back to a tall potted plant and scanned the room. She spoke without moving her lips. “What is it you want, ustaz?”
“Want?”
“For your silence.”
Though she took him for a blackmailer, Omar Yussef sighed with pity for Liana. “Dear lady,” he said, “your husband has already bought my silence.”
The kohl ran in a tear from Liana’s eye, but she caught it quickly with a tissue. She twitched her face taut and cleaned up the black streak. She looked expectantly at Omar Yussef. He blinked, signaling that the track of her tear had been erased, and she put the tissue in her handbag.
“What was the boy like?” he asked.
“He was handsome, brave and impulsive, with a great capacity for tenderness. But he also had an explosive temper. Like his father.”
Omar Yussef recognized the traits. “Did you tell him? When I left you together in your salon on the evening that I told you Ishaq was dead?”
“I thought I would, but I just couldn’t.” Liana covered her eyes. “I wanted to be with him in my moment of loss, but after the boy’s murder it was too late to tell him.”
“I’ll never speak of it to him.”
Two musicians wearing white shirts and baggy white cotton pants pranced into the building. The first of them played a trilling, breathy melody on a shabbabah flute. The second held a circular darbouka and beat a rhythm with his fingertips.
Sami and Meisoun came in from the sunshine behind the musicians. Sami’s black jacket was draped over his shoulders and his broken arm slung across his blue dress shirt. His dark skin shone with sweat and he smiled broadly. Meisoun’s white lace dress was tight around her slim torso. Under her veil, her head rocked from side to side with the rhythm. The women in the hall ululated, and the men who arrived with Sami clapped their hands and swayed to the eight-four time of the zaffah wedding march.
Khamis Zeydan danced behind Sami, snapping his fingers above his head. His foot must be feeling better, Omar Yussef thought. The police chief turned his smile toward Omar Yussef. He noticed Liana, who dropped her eyes to the potted plant, rubbing one of its leaves between her fingers. Khamis Zeydan followed Sami into the men’s hall, as the women led Meisoun next door. He glanced over his shoulder, but Omar Yussef avoided his eye.
“I couldn’t wait for him,” Liana said. “When I saw Abu Adel in the hospital after he was wounded, the doctors told me he would die. I wanted to tell him I was pregnant, but he was too drugged up to recognize me and, in any case, he was already married. All my silly fantasies about escaping to Europe or America disappeared. You understand the disgrace I faced? My family would have disowned me. Amin had been courting me and I convinced him the child was his. I accepted his offer of marriage.”
“Did you try to think of a way to raise the child as your own?”
“Even if we married in a hurry, he would have been born too soon afterward. My father was a prominent diplomat and there was Amin’s career to think about—and my honor. Despite all my supposed radicalism, I realized that I was ashamed to go against our traditions. I couldn’t allow people to think I had such intimate relations with my fiancé.”
“You had no other choice, dear lady.” Omar Yussef glanced toward the men’s hall. “Do you still love him?”
The foyer was almost empty. The final guests were entering the halls to celebrate with the bride or the groom.
“It’s different now,” Liana said.
Her love for Khamis Zeydan was passionate in Beirut, Omar Yussef thought, but its memory has been made melancholy by years of lies.
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