by Paul Sussman
'Yes,' said the detective, his voice sounding less firm than he would have liked. 'I thought it was . . . ghir Islami. Un-Islamic.'
The Shaykh smiled. 'You like the Jews?'
'I didn't come here to—'
The Shaykh held up a hand, cutting him off. Khalifa had the uncomfortable feeling that, although his eyes were fixed on the book in his lap, the old man was at the same time somehow staring straight at him, seeing not so much his physical form as everything within, his thoughts, his feelings. He shifted his position slightly.
'You are a Muslim?'
Khalifa muttered an impatient yes.
'And yet you like the Jews.'
'I did not think the two things were incompatible.'
'So you do like the Jews?'
'I don't . . . that's not . . .'
The detective flailed at the fly, confused, annoyed at himself for having been pulled into the conversation despite his determination not to be. The Shaykh continued turning pages, the yellowed paper making a dry, whispering sound beneath his fingertips. He eventually reached the sura for which he seemed to have been looking. He placed a finger on the swirling text and, turning the book, held it out to Khalifa.
'Read for me, please.'
'This is not what I—'
'It is only one aya. Please, read.'
Reluctantly, Khalifa took the book, aware that if he wanted any information from the old man he had no choice but to play by his rules. The passage was about midway down the page, from the fifth sura – Al-Ma'ida, 'The Table'. The detective looked down at it, biting his lip.
'Oh true believers,' he read, speaking fast and tonelessly, as if trying to get through the passage as swiftly as possible, to distance himself from what it was saying, 'take not the Jews and Christians for your friends; they are friends the one to the other; but whoso among you taketh them for his friends, he is surely one of them.'
The Shaykh nodded approvingly. 'You hear this? These are the words of the Holy Prophet Mohammed. They are clear and unambiguous. To be friends with the Jews, with those of any other faith, to sympathize with them, to feel anything for them whatsoever other than hatred and disgust and loathing – this is to go against the will of Almighty Allah, blessed be his name.'
He reached out a trembling hand and took the book back. The detective wanted to argue, to tell him that this was not the Islam he knew and loved, to quote other passages that spoke well of the ahl el-kitab, praised them. But somehow his mind had gone blank and he could not find the words he needed. Or perhaps didn't want to find them. The Shaykh noted the troubled look on his face and smiled, not entirely kindly.
'To be a Muslim is to submit to the will of the Almighty,' he said, closing the Koran and running a hand gently over its cover. 'This is the meaning of Islam. If you do not submit you cannot be a Muslim. It is one thing or the other. Black or white, light or darkness. There is no middle way.'
He touched the book to his lips and laid it in his lap.
'Now, you said you wished to talk about sais Jansen.'
Khalifa dragged a sleeve across his sweat-stained forehead, struggling to gather his thoughts. After what had just been said the investigation seemed curiously distant, part of a separate reality.
'Mr Jansen died two weeks ago,' he mumbled, the fly still circling above him, its buzzing unbearably loud, filling his head. 'We are investigating certain . . . irregularities in his lifestyle. I found your flyer in his house. It seemed an unusual thing for a man like that to be sent. A kufr. Not your average follower.'
The Shaykh said nothing, just leant forward and began massaging his ankle, gazing up at the dome overhead with its inset circle of coloured glass bricks.
'So?' pushed Khalifa. 'Why did you send it to him?'
The old man continued to knead his bony limb, fingers digging into the cracked, powdery skin.
'Courtesy.'
'Courtesy?'
'Sais Jansen had been extremely . . . generous. It seemed polite to let him know we were thinking of him.'
Khalifa's mind was starting to clear now; the case was coming back into view. As if put off by this sharpening of his focus the fly swung away and started banging itself against a small window at the far end of the room.
'Generous how?'
'He had given a donation. To one of our projects.'
'What project?'
The Shaykh released his ankle and folded his hands in his lap, his eyes revolving downwards until they were staring directly at Khalifa.
'To help those of our people who are suffering under the oppression of Zionists,' he said, a faintly accusatory tone to his voice, as if by failing to admit to an unqualified hatred of Jews Khalifa had in some way allied himself with the enemies of Islam.
'Help in what way?'
The Shaykh was still staring at him.
'We collect money. Send it to Palestine. For food, clothes, school books. Charitable causes. Nothing illegal.'
'And Jansen was a contributor?'
'He contacted us. Six weeks ago, two months. Gave a one-off donation.'
'Out of the blue?'
The Shaykh shrugged. 'We too were surprised. For a kufr to come to us like that. He approached one of my men in Luxor, said he would like to help us. Asked if he could talk with me. Normally I would not mix with such people. In this case, however, he was offering a very substantial sum of money. Fifty thousand Egyptian pounds.'
Khalifa let out a low whistle. What the hell was Jansen doing giving that sort of money to a man like the Shaykh?
'You met him?' he asked.
The old man nodded, reaching up a wrinkled hand and scratching at his beard.
'And?'
'And nothing. We spoke. He said he had heard of our work with the Palestinians, admired it, would like to help us. Handed over the money there and then. In cash. Who was I to refuse?'
Khalifa's legs were starting to ache after squatting for so long. He levered himself into an upright position, stretching.
'But why come to you? There are dozens of organizations that raise money for the Palestinians. Established charities. Legitimate charities. Why approach—'
The Shaykh smiled. 'A man with my reputation?'
'Exactly. Jansen must have known the risks involved, that to be seen with you could have got him in a lot of trouble. And yet he pops out of the blue, gives you all this money, doesn't want anything in return.'
Khalifa continued stretching for a moment longer, rubbing his knees, then, struck by a sudden thought, stopped.
'Did he want something in return?'
The Shaykh said nothing, just gazed up at him, a faint smile still lingering around the corners of his mouth, like the ripples left on sand by a receding wave. Khalifa squatted down in front of him again.
'Did he want something?' he repeated.
Again, no reply. The detective's pulse began imperceptibly to quicken.
'He did want something, didn't he? What? What did he want?'
The Shaykh tilted his head first to one side, then the other, the vertebrae of his neck clicking like a key in a lock, his gaze never leaving Khalifa's face.
'My help in contacting al-Mulatham.'
Khalifa's eyes widened in astonishment.
'You're serious?'
'Why should I lie? This is what he asked me.'
Khalifa sat back on his heels, head shaking. Every time he felt himself inching closer to Jansen some new piece of information seemed to emerge that left him further away from the man than ever, like a hunter who, after careful stalking, gets to within striking distance of his prey only for it to suddenly bolt out of range again.
'Why?' he asked. 'Why did he want to contact him?'
The Shaykh shrugged. 'He said he had something that could help him. A weapon he could use against the Jews. Something that would cause them great hurt.'
Outside there was a sharp clanging as someone began hammering a piece of metal. Khalifa barely registered the sound.
'What sort of we
apon?'
The Shaykh raised his hands. 'This he wouldn't say. He told me he was a dying man, he didn't have long left to live, wanted this thing to go to someone who would use it well. Use it to hurt the Jews. That's what he said. Someone who would use it to hurt the Jews.'
The clanging stopped for a moment, then started again, even louder, the sound echoing around the interior of the mosque.
'And did you help him?'
The Shaykh snorted. 'What, you think I have al-Mulatham's address? His phone number? That I can just call him up? I admire the man, inspector; I rejoice every time he takes an Israeli life; if we met I would embrace him and call him my brother. But who he is and where he is, I have no more idea than you.'
He removed his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his quftan, circling the material gently around the glass of the lenses. Outside, the hammering stopped again, flooding the mosque with a dull, watery silence.
'I gave him the names of some people I know in Gaza,' said the old man eventually, having finished his polishing and replaced his spectacles. 'It was the least I could do after the donation he had made.'
'And? Did he contact them?'
'I have no idea. Nor do I wish to know. I had no dealings with him after that first meeting. And in case you ask, I will not betray the trust of my Palestinian friends by giving you their names.'
He stared at Khalifa, then, uncrossing his legs, took his walking stick in one hand, his Koran in the other and began struggling to his feet. He got about halfway and stopped, clearly in pain. Standing himself, Khalifa took the old man's elbow and helped him the rest of the way, respect for his elders getting the better of his distaste for the old man's opinions. Once upright, the Shaykh brushed down his quftan and started hobbling across the room. At the doorway he turned.
'Remember, inspector: there is light and there is dark, Islam and the void. No middle way. No compromise. It is time you made your choice.'
He held Khalifa's eyes, then left the mosque. The interview, it seemed, was at an end.
KALANDIA CHECKPOINT, BETWEEN JERUSALEM AND RAMALLAH
As he had been instructed, Yunis Abu Jish went to the Kalandia checkpoint at midday wearing his Dome of the Rock T-shirt, taking up position beneath a giant dusty hoarding advertising Master Satellite Dishes.
For the past twenty-four hours, since receiving the phone call from al-Mulatham's representative, his mood had veered wildly between abject terror and giddy euphoria. One moment he would be trembling all over as if freezing, stunned by the enormity of what he was being invited to do; the next he would be swept away in an intoxicating surge of joy, like the time he had visited the seaside as a child and been rolled over and over in the warm, frothy waves, sputtering and laughing and thinking that this was the best feeling in the whole wide world.
Now, as he stood gazing at the lines of stationary traffic snailing their way towards the Israeli roadblock further along, he felt neither fear nor ecstasy, nor, indeed, anything very much at all – just a blank, emotionless conviction; a steely acceptance that this is what he had to do; that this was the destiny prescribed for him. What else was there, after all? A lifetime of subjugation and bitterness; of watching helpless from the sidelines as day by day the Israelis clawed away more of his people's lands, scraped away another layer of their self-respect? The ceaseless cycle of humiliation, shame and regret?
No, he could not bear that. Had been unable to bear it for a long time now. This was the way. The only way. The one path that conferred strength and dignity, permitted him to influence events rather than forever being ground down by them. And if it led to death . . . well, what was his life anyway but a sort of living entombment?
He remained beneath the hoarding for precisely thirty minutes, as he had been told to do, checking and rechecking his watch to make sure he got the timing just right. Then, with a nod of his head as if to say, 'You have your answer,' turned and set off back towards the refugee camp where he lived, its buildings eating their way across the landscape like an ugly grey fungus.
LUXOR
When Khalifa got back from his meeting with Shaykh Omar it was to find Mr Mohammed Hasoon, the Banque Misr official to whom he had entrusted Jansen's gold bullion bar, sitting in his office waiting for him. A plump, immaculately dressed man with oiled hair, wire-rimmed spectacles and startlingly shiny black shoes, he let out a muffled cry as the detective threw open the office door, clutching a silver Samsonite briefcase protectively to his chest, as though expecting someone to try and snatch it from him. He relaxed when he realized he wasn't about to be assaulted, although a nagging twitch in his left eye suggested he still wasn't entirely at ease.
'You gave me a fright,' he admonished, eye jerking open and shut like a car indicator. 'I've brought the . . . you know . . .'
He drummed his fingers on the case.
Khalifa apologized for startling him. 'Although I don't think anyone's going to mug you in the middle of a police station,' he added.
The banker fixed him with a disapproving stare.
'I have been mugged in many unlikely places and by many unlikely people, inspector, including once, I'm sad to say, by my own father-in-law. Where gold is concerned, you can never be too careful. Never.'
He held Khalifa's eye for a moment to emphasize the gravity of his message, then rose from his chair, crossed to Khalifa's desk and laid the case on top of it.
'Anyway, I've had a look at it for you. Interesting. Very interesting. Do you have time?'
'Of course.'
'Then if you wouldn't mind . . .'
He nodded towards the door. Khalifa turned and closed it.
'And the, uh . . .' The banker coughed nervously, winking at the lock. 'Just to be on the safe side.'
Khalifa turned again, this time twisting the key to lock the door.
'Would you like me to close the shutters as well?'
It was meant as a joke. Hasoon took him at face value and said that yes, in the circumstances it would probably be a very good idea. With an exasperated shake of his head Khalifa crossed to the window and creaked closed its iron shutters, plunging the room into semi-darkness.
'OK?'
'Much better,' said Hasoon. 'You really never can be too careful.'
He leant forward and switched on the desk lamp, casting a suspicious glance around the room as if, despite the evidence of his own eyes, he was still not entirely convinced that they were alone. He then unlocked the case, raised the lid and, reaching in, removed the ingot, still wrapped in the length of black cloth in which Khalifa had found it, placing it on the table under the light. Khalifa came up beside him and lit a cigarette, exhaling a dense cloud of blue-grey smoke.
'So, what did you find out?'
'Quite a lot actually,' said the banker, pulling aside the cloth, the lenses of his spectacles glowing yellow in the light reflected from the bar's glassy surface. 'Yes, yes, it's been something of an education. Even after thirty years in the business gold still retains the capacity to surprise. Extraordinary stuff. Truly extraordinary.'
He reached out and touched the bar reverentially, then straightened and, reaching into the case again, removed a typewritten report from a sleeve inside the lid.
'The basic details are all fairly obvious,' he began. 'Standard trapezoid ingot, twenty-six centimetres by nine by five, twelve and a quarter kilograms, nine-nine-five parts gold to the thousand, which is about twenty-four carats, maybe a little over.'
'Value?'
'Well obviously that fluctuates depending on the market, but at current prices I'd say about five hundred and twenty thousand Egyptian pounds. A hundred and forty thousand dollars.'
Khalifa coughed, the mist of cigarette smoke swirling in front of him like a torn curtain flapping in the wind.
'Abadan! No way!'
Hasoon shrugged. 'It's gold. Gold's valuable. Especially when it's of this quality.'
He reached out his hand again and gave the ingot a satisfied pat, as though congratulating a pe
t that has performed a particularly impressive trick. Khalifa leant forward and stared down at the bar, hands grasping the edge of the desk.
'And the stamp?' He nodded down at the eagle and swastika hammered into the surface of the ingot. 'Did you find out anything about that?'
'I most certainly did,' said Hasoon. 'And it's here that things start to get interesting.'
He stretched out his hands, clasped them together and cracked the knuckles, like a concert pianist about to begin a recital.
'I'd never come across that particular refining stamp before,' he said. 'So I had to do a bit of digging. I won't bore you with all the details.'
