“I’m sure he’ll try to strike during your speech at the UN,” Omar Yussef said. “The cell uses the motif of the medieval Assassins in its communications. The Assassins used to carry out their operations in public. They attacked sultans and caliphs when they were in procession or praying at a mosque. I believe these modern Assassins will do the same thing, and the UN is the most public stage in the world.”
“I’m a leader. There’s always someone who wants to shed my blood,” the president said.
“Because you have other people’s blood on your hands.” Omar Yussef held up his palm. “Even if it was only left there by the hands you agreed to shake.”
The president cleared his throat. “We haven’t been introduced, brother-”
“Abu Ramiz. He’s part of the UN delegation.” Khamis Zeydan laid his good hand on Omar Yussef’s knee. The strong pressure from his fingers was a command for restraint. “I told you about his son, who’s being held by the American police.”
“Greetings, Abu Ramiz,” the president said. “Remember, you shook my hand, too.”
“I’ve been covered in blood since I arrived in New York.”
Khamis Zeydan grimaced at his friend, then leaned across the glass coffee table. “Abu Raji, I’ve interrogated a member of the Jihad cell. I, too, believe they’ll try to get you at the UN. We have only a day to track down the assassin before your speech. It’s not enough time. You have to postpone.”
The president shrugged beneath the bunched shoulders of his suit. “How would it look if I just went home? What would people say?” He shook his head slowly. The loose skin of his neck rolled around the knot of his tie.
“What would they say if you didn’t come back at all?” Omar Yussef said. “More to the point, whom would they shoot? Whom would they arrest or lynch? What buildings would they burn to the ground?”
“It’s a risk I must take.”
“The risk is someone else’s in the end. Our society will be destroyed because of your pride.”
The president fingered the buttonhole in his lapel. “I remind you it’s my life we’re talking about.”
“Many lives are at stake. There’ll be a civil war if you’re killed. That’s what Islamic Jihad wants. Do you think they care so much about you personally?”
Khamis Zeydan grabbed Omar Yussef’s hand again, but the schoolteacher pushed him away. “Let go of me,” he said.
“Are you sure you aren’t more concerned for your little crew of Assassins than for the president?” Khamis Zeydan muttered into Omar Yussef’s ear. “You’re too emotional. Stop it.”
“These terrorists want to show that I don’t represent the Middle East, because I came to New York to work with the Americans,” the president said. “They want to destroy our coordination with Washington. Look, I told the American president I’d make a statement about the peace process at the UN. I can’t let him down-”
“But that’s not why you’re-”
The president raised his voice above Omar Yussef’s objection. “-no matter what the risks are.”
May Allah save me from the self-importance of politicians, Omar Yussef thought. “It isn’t your talks with the U.S. that make you a target,” he said. “It’s the ties of your secret police chief to the CIA-the training his special forces receive in interrogation and killing.”
“Colonel Khatib? His work is vital. We can’t police Palestine just by handing out parking tickets, you know.”
“The people want a decent police force, and Khatib gives them gangsters and the gun.”
The aide tapped his wristwatch with his forefinger.
The president turned his teacup carefully, aligning the hotel logos on the saucer and on the rim of the cup. “It’s my job to speak at the UN tomorrow, and that’s what I intend to do.” He raised his eyes to Khamis Zeydan. “Abu Adel, I expect you to help protect me and share this information about Islamic Jihad with Colonel Khatib. As for you, ustaz Abu Ramiz, you have a speech to make at this conference, too, I gather. Perhaps it’s you they really want to assassinate?” The president laughed heartily and held out his hand to his aide for a big, loud slap. “Would that start a civil war?”
“I imagine not,” Omar Yussef said. “But that isn’t because no one would wish to avenge me. The difference between me and you is that no one would celebrate my death.”
The president’s laughter halted, and he fiddled with his glasses. He rose and shook hands with his two visitors.
They left the room. When Khamis Zeydan had closed the door behind them, he bared his teeth and grabbed Omar Yussef near the top of his arm. “Didn’t I tell you to keep calm?”
“He was determined to speak at the UN. It made no difference what I said,” Omar Yussef whispered.
Khamis Zeydan glared around the lounge. The ministers and their aides dropped their eyes, but the chief of secret police stared back, his expression sullen and blank.
Chapter 28
Abdel Hadi rattled his coffee cup again in imitation of a shaky drunk and sniggered. Omar Yussef stared at him and muttered, “May Allah curse your father, you son of a whore.” Khamis Zeydan shoved his friend toward the exit of the president’s suite.
The door came open sharply, and Hamza Abayat staggered through it, bracing himself against the dining table. Colonel Khatib pulled his heavy body straight in his chair and slipped his hand inside his shapeless black leather jacket.
Hamza surveyed the room with wide unfocused eyes. One of the president’s bodyguards followed him through the door and shoved the police I.D. he’d been examining into Hamza’s pocket. A cut over the detective’s eyebrow dribbled blood across his temple.
“Hamza, what happened?” Omar Yussef said.
“Nizar knocked me out.” Breathless, Hamza winced as he touched his swollen brow.
Khamis Zeydan laid his hand on Hamza’s back. “Where is he?”
“Gone, pasha,” Hamza said. “He jumped me at the elevator. I think he knocked me out cold with a flowerpot-it was on the floor when I came to. I went to the lobby, but I couldn’t find him.”
Omar Yussef dabbed the cut on Hamza’s forehead with his handkerchief. A blue bruise swelled around it, lengthening the split in the skin.
“I got one of the police officers detailed to the hotel during the conference to wait in your room, Abu Ramiz,” Hamza slurred, “in case Nizar returns.” He stumbled to the phone on the sideboard and dialed the 68th Precinct.
“What’s this fugitive supposed to have done?” Colonel Khatib spoke from behind hands cupped to light a new cigarette.
Khamis Zeydan watched the secret police chief with blank reserve and spoke slowly. “He was helping us track someone down.”
“Allah is the only one whose help can be relied upon.” Colonel Khatib took a tissue from a box on the table and blew his nose. He tossed the wet pink ball toward a burgundy leather wastebasket beside Khamis Zeydan.
The tissue landed at Khamis Zeydan’s feet. He kicked it away and glared at Khatib.
“We can’t afford sloppiness.” Khatib made his eyes burn at Khamis Zeydan. “You’re only an adviser on security. I’m the real protection. If there’s a danger to the president, I want to hear about it.”
Omar Yussef pointed a finger toward Khatib. “If any harm comes to the president from these assassins, it’ll be because of you. You’re a thug and you’re corrupt.”
“What assassins?” Khatib said, his voice low and rumbling.
“In America, a man like you would be in jail,” Omar Yussef said. “In the Arab world, you’re the recipient of hundreds of thousands of dollars in American aid. Ordinary Arabs hate America for supporting our rulers when they do things that would carry a life sentence in the U.S. The president is hated because of your torture squads and your thugs.”
Colonel Khatib slammed his hands on the table and pushed his chair back to rise. Khamis Zeydan grabbed the man’s heavy shoulder. “Did you finish your call, Hamza?” he said.