The detective nodded.
“Then let’s take Abu Ramiz to his room.”
Colonel Khatib subsided into his chair and resumed his sullen smoking.
Omar Yussef hurried along the corridor to keep pace with Khamis Zeydan, wincing with each step on his injured ankle. “Do you think Nizar escaped because he didn’t trust Hamza to get him immunity?”
“Could be.”
They came to Omar Yussef’s room. He pulled the key card from his pocket. “Maybe he escaped because he still intends to take part in the assassination,” he said. “The medieval Assassins employed the doctrine of taqiyya. It allowed them to deny their faith if that helped them carry out their missions. When he told us about losing his belief in Islam and rejecting the ideology of Islamic Jihad, perhaps he was just engaging in taqiyya.”
“An interesting theoretical question. You can write an academic paper on it for The Journal of Things You Remembered Too Late to Be of Use.” Khamis Zeydan pushed open Omar Yussef’s door.
A uniformed police officer turned toward them, reading the Metro Muslim. “The guy didn’t come back, Sergeant,” he said to Hamza.
Hamza slumped into a chair by the minibar, his face pale and tired. Khamis Zeydan took his hand. “We’re leaving. You and I have work to do.”
The detective and the uniformed man went into the corridor. Omar Yussef made to follow them, but Khamis Zeydan blocked his way.
“Not you. Your little display of moral outrage with Colonel Khatib is about all I can take from you,” Khamis Zeydan said.
“Someone needs to tell that bastard the truth.”
“The important thing to remember is that he’s a bastard, and bastards have their uses. I need him today to ensure that the president is safe. After the speech tomorrow morning, I’ll have time to debate human rights and justice in Palestine with you. Until then, I’m all business, and I want you to go across the avenue to the UN conference as if everything was normal.”
Omar Yussef slapped his palm to his thigh in irritation.
Khamis Zeydan laid a hand on his chest. “My dear old friend, you have my cell-phone number. If you see anything unusual at the conference, call me. There’s nothing you can do to help the security operation now. Your job is finished, and I want you out from under my feet.”
He gave Omar Yussef three kisses on his cheeks and closed the door behind him.
Omar Yussef sat on the edge of the bed. He took his diary from his suitcase, found Ala’s phone number, and dialed. “Ala, my son, greetings. It’s Dad.”
“Double greetings, Dad.” The boy’s voice was quiet and somber.
“I’m at the hotel.” He had intended to tell his son what he had learned from Nizar, but Ala sounded so burdened that he only warned him: “Nizar is on the loose. He was in custody, but he escaped. Bolt your door, and don’t open it to him.”
“If I opened the door, he’d find nothing here anyway. I’m packing. I already booked a ticket on your flight.”
“But he’s a killer. He confessed to murdering Rashid, and Rania’s father.”
“Like I said, he’ll find nothing here. Good luck with your speech, Dad.” Ala hung up.
The emptiness in his son’s voice shocked Omar Yussef. He realized how deep was the void that had been left within Ala when he had lost Rania. Don’t look for a woman who lights you on fire, he thought. She may just as easily douse your flames, and then she has only consumed you.
Outside his window, the blue glass of the UN building glimmered in the dull morning light. Omar Yussef slouched to the bathroom, showered, shaved, and fussed with the tendrils of white hair that he combed across his bald scalp. The mirror steamed up. It wouldn’t stay clear even after he rubbed cold water across its surface. He felt as though he had been hit in the head as hard as Hamza: no matter where he looked, his vision was obscured.
Chapter 29
The morning session at the conference was an emotional parade of pledges to finance schools and clinics in the refugee camps of Palestine, which convinced few among the UN staff that the money would ever be forthcoming. From his seat beside Magnus Wallander in the observers’ section, Omar Yussef stared across the hall of the Economic and Social Council toward the Lebanese delegation. Ismail’s place remained empty until shortly before the lunch break, when the boy entered through the double doors. He joined his colleagues at their long desk, whispered a few words to the man beside him, who covered a snigger with his hands, then set to taking notes on the speeches.
Omar Yussef tapped Magnus Wallander on the arm. “Back soon,” he whispered.
He padded across the thin green carpet in the gallery at the back of the conference hall and waited in an empty seat a few rows behind the Lebanese delegates. When the Egyptian chairman wearily mumbled that the proceedings would recommence after a two-hour break for lunch and slapped down his gavel, Omar Yussef stepped toward the boy who had once been his pupil.
He found Ismail in conversation with the tall Iranian representative whose round collar and trim beard he remembered from the opening reception. They spoke in a language Omar Yussef didn’t understand, and he realized that Ismail must have learned Farsi. You don’t just pick that up in Lebanon, he thought. He’s been with Iranians, maybe the Revolutionary Guards that Rania said were stationed in the Bekaa Valley. Ismail’s companion gave him an affectionate stroke on the cheek and slipped away.
“Greetings, O Ismail,” Omar Yussef said.
In their dark, pouched sockets, Ismail’s chestnut-brown eyes were wan and surrendering. He looked like the note-taking civil servant he was supposed to be. When he smiled, it was with the feeble helplessness of one admitting a silly mistake. “Double greetings, dear ustaz Abu Ramiz.”
“We have to talk.”
“Wasn’t this morning’s conference enough talk for you?”
“That would be my sentiment if it weren’t for the fact that the alternative to talk may be disaster.” Omar Yussef held Ismail’s arm as the room cleared. He felt a strong bicep beneath the well-cut fabric of the boy’s dark blue chalk-stripe suit.
“Nizar has confessed everything,” he said.
Ismail twitched his head, confused.
Omar Yussef recalled the deal the Israelis had forced on the boy, selling out a sheikh to earn freedom for his friends. He wanted Ismail to feel forgiveness, to extract him from the destructive embrace into which he had fallen. “I know you feel you betrayed the other Assassins in the Israeli jail-”
Ismail put a finger over his old teacher’s lips and watched the last delegates heading for the door.
“They told me you were ashamed, and clearly you remain so,” Omar Yussef whispered. He took the boy’s finger from over his mouth and held it in his hand. “But they’ve forgiven you. You don’t have to live in exile to make up for what happened in the jail.”
“Ala may have forgiven me, ustaz, but Nizar never will.” Ismail’s voice was dour and rough.
“And Rashid? Will he forgive you?”
“In Paradise, when I join him as a martyr.”
“So you know he’s dead. But how will you be martyred? By a severe paper cut at one of these conference sessions?”
“They say ‘the sword brings more accurate news than books,’” Ismail said.
“You’re an intelligent boy. Don’t take that path.”
Ismail pulled his hand away. “Who said I had done so?” He turned and Omar Yussef saw pity and regret on his face. “Will you walk with me a little while, ustaz? It’d be good to hear the news from Bethlehem.”
“Then why not return to your hometown?”
Ismail pressed his notepad to his chest. “How do you think the Israelis would welcome a member of the Lebanese UN delegation? I can never come closer to Bethlehem than holding your hand now as we walk.”