“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.