“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 can 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.”