Roween’s thumb pulsed up and down where she folded it over her wrist.
“So far, all we know about him is that he worked for the Palestinian Authority and that he was the son of a priest,” Omar Yussef said.
Roween’s thumb pressed so hard into her wrist that Omar Yussef could see its tip grow red.
“Can you tell us more about him, my daughter?” Omar Yussef spoke quietly. “Perhaps it will help Sami identify suspects in the murder.”
That word brought Roween’s eyes up to Omar Yussef’s face. “He was a good man, ustaz. Who would murder him? Couldn’t it have been an accident of some kind?”
“That seems unlikely.”
“He was a sweet man.”
“His father says he was discontented.”
“His father.” Roween’s lip twitched. “His Honor Jibril was his adoptive father, ustaz. Ishaq’s parents died in a car crash when he was a few months old. The priest took him into his house, because he had no other sons.”
“A car crash? Where?”
“Ishaq’s parents lived in a town inside Israel, where there’s a small Samaritan community. They were on their way to Nablus, to visit this village, when their car went off the road and they died.”
“What sort of work did Ishaq do for the Authority?”
Roween’s mouth fell into a desolate pout as she looked at the photo of her husband on the wall. “Ishaq worked for the Old Man,” she said.
“For the old president?”
“He was his private financial adviser. Perhaps because Ishaq never knew his real father, he always looked for strong relationships with older men-men who could have been his father. He and the Chief were very close.”
Omar Yussef sipped his coffee. The murder of an ordinary Samaritan was a very different matter from the killing of a man who was close to the former president. He noticed Sami grip the arm of his chair tightly. He put down the coffee cup. “How long did Ishaq work for the president?”
“Three years. Ishaq studied at Bir Zeit University and got to know the Chief while he was there in Ramallah. His degree was in finance. He was extremely clever. He was always with the president, even after we married a couple of years ago. He tried to come home once a week and for our holy days, but most of the time he lived at the president’s headquarters in Ramallah. The Old Man wanted to keep him close all the time.”
“What does that mean-the president’s private financial adviser?”
“He managed the president’s money, ustaz.” Roween opened her hands with her palms up. “The president had personal control of all Palestinian finances, so Ishaq controlled the entire budget. Unofficially, of course.”
Omar Yussef thought of the bloody, beaten body on the slope of Mount Jerizim. Had his connection to the former president’s money put Ishaq there?
“When the Old Man became sick, Ishaq accompanied him to Paris for his final days,” Roween said. “He missed several of our important Samaritan festivals and he came back only a few months ago.”
Omar Yussef recalled what the priest had said about Passover and the Feast of Tabernacles-if the Samaritans didn’t celebrate these holy days on Mount Jerizim, they’d cease to be Samaritans. This was how Ishaq failed to live up to his adoptive father’s expectations, he thought. The expectations of his entire people. “Was there a penalty from the community for his absence during those festivals?” he asked.
“He had to pay a fine, before he could return to live here. He had to go to the elders and beg them to let him back into the community.”
“Why did he stay in Paris after the president died?”
Roween shook her head. “His business dealings kept him away,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me what they were, but when he came back he went to work for Amin Kanaan.”
“The famous businessman?” Sami rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“He owns one of the big mansions further along the ridge. If you have eyes in your head and your head is in Nablus, you can’t miss those houses.”
Omar Yussef recalled the stately pillars, the domed roofs and the plate glass of the mansions visible from all over Nablus. In a few minutes, this simple village murder victim had been elevated into the company of the former president and one of the wealthiest Palestinians.
“To my husband, Kanaan may have been another father figure. Kanaan often made deals with the president, so Ishaq handled the details.” Roween knitted her fingers together once more. “Before he died, Ishaq said some strange things about one of his deals.”
“What did he say?” Omar Yussef said.
“He didn’t tell me much. At least, not much that made sense. He wasn’t himself for the last few weeks. He was tense and often became angry, even with me. This wasn’t his usual behavior. He could become very agitated and aggressive, it’s true, but with me he was always gentle. Almost too gentle.”
“His latest deal was on behalf of the new president?”
“No, the new president appointed different financial advisers. But Ishaq continued to work with Kanaan.” Roween stroked the acne on one side of her mouth. “A few days ago, he seemed almost crazy with tension. I was worried about him.”
Omar Yussef leaned forward. “Why was he so tense?”
“He told me he was dealing with something very dangerous. He said it was so dangerous he wanted to bury it all behind the temple and forget about it.”
“Bury it behind the temple?”
Doubt flickered across the woman’s face and her lips became tight. She’s decided to keep something from me, Omar Yussef thought.
Roween took a sharp breath. “That’s what he said. I asked him what he meant. He looked at me with pity and, I think, with love, then he put his finger to his lips as if to say that I should keep quiet. Then he said: ‘It’s a secret between me and the Old Man and Allah. The Old Man’s dead, and when I’m dead too, it’ll be a secret known only to Allah.’”
“If no one but Ishaq knew his secret, how could it be dangerous?”
Roween sobbed. “Ustaz, do you think Ishaq had done something wrong? People always say that the Old Man had secret bank accounts. They say he used them to pay people off. Do you think Ishaq was involved with some of these bad types?”
Bury it behind the temple. Omar Yussef thought that sounded more like a deal involving Samaritan antiquities than offshore bank accounts. But surely the killing must have something to do with Ishaq’s work. When the old president died, the newspapers printed stories about secret funds hidden around the world. Perhaps someone wanted a piece of that wealth and tried to force Ishaq to lead him to it. “Did Ishaq have business dealings with anyone else? Anyone he might have talked to about his work with the president?”
“Only yesterday, I heard him tell Jibril the priest that he had an appointment here with an American financial expert from the World Bank. It was something to do with his old job. They were arguing, so Ishaq sent me upstairs where I couldn’t overhear them. Even so, as I brought them coffee, I heard Ishaq refer to ‘her,’ which means the American is a woman. But I don’t know her name.”
“When she arrives, would you ask her to contact my colleague Sami? She may be able to help us piece things together.”
Roween nodded.
Omar Yussef put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sure Sami will find those respon-sible for your husband’s death, my daughter,” he said. “But now perhaps we should leave you to care for your family.”
Roween flushed. “We have no children, ustaz. Ishaq was so often away-” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Omar Yussef and Sami drove out of the village in silence and took the winding descent back to Nablus, spread care-lessly across the valley below.
“Don’t drop me at the hotel yet. I’ll come with you to the casbah,” Omar Yussef said. “It’ll help me clear my mind. I can’t eat qanafi with Nadia while the image of that poor man’s dead body is still before my eyes.”