He crossed the square and followed his friends into the social club.
Chapter 13
Sheikh Bader stood unmoving and silent at the head of the receiving line. He acknowledged each handshake with a slow blink and the deceptive calm of a cruel father daring his children to call down his outrage.
Omar Yussef worked his way through the crush in the social club. The sheikh’s black eyebrows lowered when he spotted him.
“A thousand congratulations, Our Honored Sheikh,” Omar Yussef said.
Sheikh Bader’s hand was limp in Omar Yussef’s grasp. He inclined his head and whispered his welcome.
“This was more than just the political rally I predicted.” Omar Yussef kept the sheikh’s hand in his and pulled him close. “This was very dangerous.”
“Are you threatening me, ustaz?”
“Don’t worry. I’m only a teacher in a United Nations school, and corporal punishment has been banned.”
The sheikh’s nostrils twitched. “The danger is not in my statements. The danger is in our people’s leadership, which ignores the corruption and impropriety in its ranks.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Omar Yussef laid a second hand across the sheikh’s fingers. “But if you’re wrong-”
“I’m not wrong.”
“-there’ll be a price paid in violence. A backlash.”
“Allah is named in the holy Koran as the Executor of Justice. He will protect me in this struggle.”
Omar Yussef inhaled sharply. He was sure Khamis Zeydan was right to warn him off the case of the dead Samaritan, but the sheikh’s condescending certainty needled him and he had to strike back. “Maybe it’s in the name of Allah, the Executor of Justice, that you told Sami Jaffari to back off his investigation into the murder of Ishaq, the Samaritan?”
The sheikh took back his hand with a tug and touched it to his beard.
“Did Allah tell you about the three hundred million dollars in the possession of the dead Samaritan?” Omar Yussef jerked his jaw toward the sheikh, quivering with anger. O peace, schoolteacher, you can’t keep your mouth shut, can you? he thought.
The haughtiness went out of Sheikh Bader’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“Your boy Nouri Awwadi knew Ishaq. Ishaq’s dead. You warned Sami away from the murder. So where’s the three hundred million dollars?” Omar Yussef sucked on his mustache. “See if you can figure it out, Our Honored Sheikh. Without the inspiration of Allah.”
Sheikh Bader swallowed hard and reached for the extended arm of another well-wisher, who shouldered Omar Yussef gently aside.
Omar Yussef breathed deeply and tried to calm himself. At the back of the crowded social club, he found Nouri Awwadi. The young man threw his thick arms wide and kissed Omar Yussef five times on the cheeks. His loose white wedding shirt smelled of the sweat he had shed keeping his anxious mount under control in the square, but his beard still gave off the scent of sandalwood. His big hands gripped the schoolteacher’s shoulders.
“Welcome, dear ustaz Abu Ramiz. What did you think of the wedding ceremony, dear friend?”
Omar Yussef’s laugh was rasping and cynical. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” he said. “I enjoy gossip.”
Awwadi frowned. “You picked up some gossip?”
“The sheikh broadcast it.”
“That wasn’t gossip, ustaz.” Awwadi leaned in close to Omar Yussef. “That was based on documents, real evidence that Hamas has obtained.”
“From where? From whom?”
Awwadi smiled, but raised a warning finger. “Are you investigating the death of the Samaritan on the hilltop? Or are you investigating Hamas?”
“I’m not a policeman. By Allah, the police force doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to investigate, anyway. But I’m naturally curious.”
“Take my word for it, we have the proof.”
“If I was going to take someone’s word for it, the sheikh’s would have sufficed.” Omar Yussef laid a hand on Awwadi’s deep chest. “Nouri, in the Arab world, you may not need proof to accuse people of certain things, but in this case it’s such a scandalous accusation that you’re really going to have to produce some evidence.”
Awwadi waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone knows what killed the Old Man.”
“No, everyone has a conspiracy theory. No one knows what actually killed him.”
Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him through the crowd. He whispered to a brawny, bearded man at the door, whom Omar Yussef recognized as one of the gunmen he had seen watching over the sheikh at the mosque. The man handed an M-16 to Awwadi and stared blankly at Omar Yussef.
Outside, a few small boys kicked a soccer ball against the shutters of the vegetable store where Omar Yussef had stood during the ceremony. The sun was at its zenith, but a raw wind whirled down from the mountain and ruffled the green banners on the clock tower. The metal shutters rattled and the football bounced through the horse dung by the dais, making the boys laugh. One of them rolled the ball back into the square and gave it a strong kick. His play-mates doubled over as the manure sprayed off the ball into the boy’s face. Omar Yussef followed Awwadi down the steps of the social club.
“It was I who obtained this evidence for the sheikh,” Awwadi said, quietly.
“How?”
“On behalf of Hamas, I acquired files containing dirt on all the top Fatah men.” Awwadi glanced about him and shifted the weight of the M-16 across his chest. “You’re a friend of Sami Jaffari. He’s Fatah, but so far he’s pretty honest. The rest of them are crooks. You shouldn’t trust them. Certainly don’t listen to what they say about me.”
“From whom did you buy the files? How do you know they’re real?”
“I got them from a Fatah guy. He gave them to me, because he was just like the rest of those people-all he cared about was getting what he wanted for himself, and even his own party could go to hell.”
“It could be a plant.” Omar Yussef hugged himself against the cold wind.
“Why would they plant information that’ll make them and their former leader look bad?” Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him into the alley beside the social club, sheltering from the wind. “Ustaz, most of the infor-mation we obtained was from the files of the Old Man himself. He kept scandal dossiers on everyone around him, so that if they ever became too popular or tried to confront him, he could blackmail them into submission.”
“But the information about the president’s illness-that couldn’t have come from him.”
“That was a little bonus thrown in by the man I did the deal with.”
The metal door of the social club swung open. The wind caught it and it struck the wall with a heavy resonance. Awwadi stepped further into the darkness of the alley, pulling Omar Yussef after him. Khamis Zeydan appeared on the steps, lighting a cigarette. He scratched his head and called back inside. Sami emerged and the two walked toward the newer part of town.
Omar Yussef watched Khamis Zeydan hurry down the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind. The police chief limped on his left foot. His diabetes is acting up, he thought.
“Brigadier Khamis Zeydan. He’s with your friend Sami. Is Zeydan a friend of yours, too?” Awwadi murmured.
Omar Yussef turned toward the young man. “Do you have a file of dirt on him?”
Awwadi nodded. “Want to read it?”
“I want to destroy it,” Omar Yussef said.
“I thought you were a historian. These are the unofficial archives of Palestinian politics.”
“They stink.”
“So does Palestinian politics.”
“Is there a file on Ishaq?”
Awwadi clicked his tongue to signal a negative.
Whatever this man reveals about these dirt files should hardly surprise me, Omar Yussef thought. What could they contain? Theft, rape, corruption? Murder? There’s no injustice that I wouldn’t believe those who rule over the Palestinian people to be capable of.