A grave in Gaza oy-2

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “Why did he give himself up?”

  “He’s a coward.”

  “If he was prepared to kill Salah to avoid arrest,” Omar Yussef said, “why would he give himself up only an hour later?”

  “He was confronted with overwhelming force. I told my commanders not to take any chances. I went to Rafah to take personal control of the operation. I ordered all my forces to the scene, even from Khan Yunis and Deir el-Balah.” Husseini gave the parrot squawk once more. “If someone had raided the jail here in Gaza City that night, they would have found it guarded by no one except this coffee boy.”

  The pimply boy shuffled from foot to foot, glaring. He looked at Husseini as though he’d love to be the only guard at the prison, with the general as the sole inmate.

  “I made sure the Saladin Brigades couldn’t oppose the operation, because I brought such a big force. We surrounded the house of the Odwan family. They’re very poor and live in a rotten part of the refugee camp in Rafah. Really, Odwan is scum. I shouted through a bullhorn that I would destroy every house in the camp, if I had to, but I would find Bassam Odwan and arrest him. Then he came out.”

  Husseini seemed to enjoy bragging about the operation. Omar Yussef decided to demonstrate his appreciation of the General’s police work. “You were very thorough and effective, Pasha, ” he said. “If I may, I’d like to ask you about last night. Did you hear anything during the kidnapping?”

  Husseini shrugged. “Why would I?”

  “It occurred below your window. Wallender was coming back to the Sands Hotel across the road, when he was taken.”

  “I live a quiet life. I’m in bed early. I’m not up at all hours like these Westerners.” Husseini smiled at Cree.

  It’s time to needle him a little, Omar Yussef thought. “You may have been asleep, but you had extra guards on duty last night. What did they see?”

  Husseini brushed that off. “In honor of my foreign friend Mister Cree, I would like to offer you a pleasure denied to most in Gaza.” The pebble eyes glittered mischievously. Husseini snapped his fingers twice and the coffee boy took one of the decanters from the cabinet. The liquid swilling around in its wide bottom looked like brandy and Omar Yussef heard Cree breathing hard again. Evidently the hummus wasn’t sitting too well with the night’s whisky intake and mixing brandy wouldn’t do his stomach any favors. The Scot was pale. The blood seemed to have drained even from his swollen, bruised lips.

  The general took the stopper from the decanter and inhaled the brandy’s aroma deeply. The coffee boy brought glasses.

  “This is a little vice of mine,” Husseini said. He laughed. “I don’t mean the brandy. Rather, I’m referring to the bottle. It’s leaded crystal, Bohemian. I love the weight of it, so heavy and yet so delicate. I have collected many of them, as you see.” He gestured toward the sparkling wall of bowls and bottles, candlesticks and vases, all glimmering with reflected light from the chandelier. “I developed a taste for Bohemian crystal when I was a student in Prague thirty years ago. I completed a Master’s Degree in Economics, but you don’t need an advanced qualification to understand the value of these little trinkets. In Prague, they’re so cheap as to be almost disposable. This decanter costs less than one hundred and fifty dollars.”

  That might be almost three months salary for the coffee boy. Omar Yussef looked at the stopper of the decanter in Husseini’s thick hand. It was cut with hundreds of tiny, hard edges.

  Omar Yussef asked Husseini not to pour for him. Cree hesitated, but he took the brandy and sipped it in silence. Sami lit a cigarette and rolled the brandy in his glass. Husseini put two doubles away before the small talk was over. The porcelain carriage clock on the dining table showed ten-thirty.

  “Now I will call the American ambassador to update him,” Husseini said, as he showed them to the door, “and you will go to jail.” As Omar Yussef reached the bottom of the staircase, he could still hear Husseini laughing.

  Chapter 13

  To Omar Yussef’s dismay, Cree insisted on taking the wheel of the Suburban, protesting that Nasser’s erratic driving would make him nauseous in his current condition. The Scot had to concentrate just to hold a straight line on the way to Gaza’s central jail and military headquarters.

  The Saraya’s twelve-foot perimeter wall was a prime canvas for political graffiti artists. Its whitewash was daubed in green, red and black with exhortations to Allah, the president and his predecessor, the people, the land and the martyrs. Omar Yussef wondered when Bassam Odwan would join the list.

  The guards lifted a red and white bar from across the entrance and directed Cree to the side of the main building, a three-story, dirty-gray block. At the end of a line of camouflaged trucks, a Military Intelligence officer awaited them. He recognized Sami. “How’re you doing, ya zalameh?” he said, raising his hand and bringing it down to make a loud, slapping shake. Omar Yussef wondered again about Sami’s connections. Everywhere he went, these security people were his friends. This one even called him man.

  The officer held Sami’s arm, leading him into the jail and up the dingy stairwell. Omar Yussef and Cree trailed, breathing heavily. The air was dense with the dust that hung over Gaza City and the thick smell of enclosed men, of sweat and laundry, of stewing meat and cigarettes.

  The officer led them through the jail like a cheerful tour guide, eager to share his knowledge of a place few saw and even fewer wished to see. “This floor is where the officers have their quarters. At the end of that corridor is the bureau of the commander of the National Security Forces.”

  They climbed another two flights of stairs. A guard at the top stood and rattled his Kalashnikov over his shoulder, as they approached. His keys clattered in a heavy metal door painted a soapy blue, and he locked it behind them.

  The block was thirty yards long with five cells on each side of the walkway. From the first cell came the rustle of men rising in prayer and the words of the prayer leader, answered in unison with a deep, mumbled crescendo. The wind brought the dusty air along the corridor from an unglazed, barred window at the opposite end. Two guards in camouflage fatigues and red berets leaned against the door of the first cell, smoking and resting their elbows on their assault rifles.

  “The prisoners aren’t locked in at the moment,” the officer informed Cree. “It’s time for midday prayers, so they’ve congregated in cell number one. This fellow leading the prayers, you see, is a big sheikh on the outside. This is the most exclusive mosque in Gaza City.”

  Cree peered into the cell through a metal grille cut along the corridor at head height. “Reckon it is,” he said.

  “Odwan is at the end of the corridor.” The officer beckoned. “He’s in solitary confinement.”

  “Even more exclusive,” Cree whispered to Omar Yussef.

  The officer unlocked a solid iron door. Omar Yussef stepped into a small, unlit room with a stainless steel sink, some empty buckets and mops. It stank of dirty washcloths. At the other side of the room, a grille was cut in another metal door. Omar Yussef looked through it.

  “That’s the murderer Odwan,” the officer said.

  Bassam Odwan stood with his head lowered and his open palms held before him. He knelt and prostrated himself on a cheap mat, touching his forehead to the gaudy synthetic weave. Omar Yussef hadn’t prayed in years. He watched Odwan go down.

  The prisoner had his back to the door as he prayed. Holes in his thin, dirty white T-shirt exposed his bulky back. His shoulders sloped from a thick neck and the muscles of his upper back undulated as he brought his hands up to cover his face in prayer. His was a broad, rounded, peasant muscularity. Odwan made his final prostration and rolled his prayer mat.

  “His prayers are over,” Omar Yussef said.

  The guard unlocked the door. Odwan didn’t turn. The officer called to him in a voice that had lost the tour-guide liveliness. “Hey, Odwan. You have visitors.”

  Odwan placed the rolled prayer mat on its end in the corner of the room. He turned. Fro
m the front, his body looked thicker still. His chest was wide and heavy and his belly was deep and strong against the T-shirt. He wore baggy army pants and his feet were dirty and shoeless. His black beard was thick and his lips were big and red and wet. His hair was black and layered to a straight fringe halfway down his forehead. The edge of the hair rose over a dark brown welt at the center of his brow, abraded by years of being lowered to the prayer mat. The weal looked like a massive wart. Omar Yussef estimated Odwan was a little less than thirty years old.

  Odwan took in Omar Yussef quickly and mildly. His eyes twitched with suspicion when Cree ducked through the door and he regarded Sami with even greater distrust. Sami smiled and leaned against the wall. The officer shut the door behind them.

  Omar Yussef approached Odwan and shook his hand. The man’s grip was light, but it swallowed Omar Yussef’s fingers. It was a worker’s hand, strengthened and made large and clumsy by generations of simple toil. With a sudden relief that surprised him, Omar Yussef noted that Odwan hadn’t endured the Husseini Manicure. He introduced himself and Cree.

  “As with your family and in your home,” Odwan said. He looked around the cell and smiled at the absurdity of the traditional greeting. His smile was disarming and simple, reminding Omar Yussef of the innocent grin of the mentally handicapped, but the eyes were tough and astute.

  The cell was empty but for a thin sleeping mat against the wall and a bucket for slops. Odwan had his prayer mat and a plastic bottle of water, its label worn away by reuse. A single window, too high to see through, was bolted shut and the air in the cell was oppressively hot. Sweat stood out on Odwan’s face and soon Omar Yussef felt his own perspiration in the armpits of his shirt. Cree and Omar Yussef sat on the sleeping mat. Odwan crossed his legs in the center of the cell and kept his eyes on Sami, who squatted by the door.

  “Who’s he?” Odwan asked. His voice was hoarse. Omar Yussef thought of the tortures that Eyad Masharawi had undergone and wondered if Odwan had sandpapered his vocal chords screaming in pain.

  “He’s Sami Jaffari, a deportee from Bethlehem. He’s helping us in our investigation.”

  “What investigation, uncle?”

  “At first, we thought we were investigating the case of one of our schoolteachers who was jailed by Colonel al-Fara.”

  Odwan dropped his thick lips open and frowned, hard.

  “But since last night our investigation has changed course. The Saladin Brigades kidnapped our colleague, a Swede who runs the UNRWA schools in Gaza and the West Bank. In return for his release, they want you to be freed.”

  “If Allah wills it.”

  “Bassam, we need to find our friend.”

  “Was there a leaflet?”

  Omar Yussef nodded. “The Saladin Brigades distributed a leaflet saying they carried out the kidnapping.”

  Odwan looked at Omar Yussef’s bruised head and Cree’s swollen nose. “I’m sorry if they hurt you. Did they, uncle?”

  “It’s okay. How can we get to our friend?”

  “You’d have to see Abu Jamal.”

  Omar Yussef shrugged.

  “He’s the head of the Saladin Brigades in Rafah,” Odwan said.

  “How can we reach him?”

  “I don’t think he’d see you, unless you could convince him that you might do a deal for me.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “What do you think? To get me out of here.”

  “But General Husseini won’t release you.”

  Now it was Odwan’s turn to shrug.

  Omar Yussef checked his frustration. He needed to cover some basics of the case with Odwan. “What happened when Lieutenant Salah tried to arrest you?”

  “Are you looking for your friend or investigating me?”

  “Perhaps we can find out what really went on, and then we can convince General Husseini that you’re innocent.”

  “I am innocent.” Odwan raised his voice and coughed hoarsely.

  “We can help you prove it.”

  “Do you think proof is part of the equation? They didn’t need proof to put me in this hole. Or to hang me by my wrists in front of an air-conditioning unit all day yesterday.”

  “Bassam, the only way for us to free our friend is to prove that you didn’t kill Salah. If the United Nations knows you’re innocent, General Husseini will have to accept that. Particularly if we can present him with the real guilty person.”

  Odwan closed his eyes and squeezed his big hands together. “Brother Abu-?”

  “Abu Ramiz.”

  “Abu Ramiz, I believe life and death are in the hands of Allah. If I have to die, no one can save me from death.”

  “Justice, too, is in the hands of Allah.”

  “Not in Gaza.” Odwan laughed loudly and slapped Omar Yussef’s knee.

  He’s simple, but not stupid, Omar Yussef thought. He decided to anger Odwan into telling his story. “Why did you kill Lieutenant Salah?”

  “I didn’t kill him, I told you.”

  “If you were innocent, you’d tell us what happened. What’re you hiding?”

  “You think I’m trying to protect someone?”

  “What reason do you have to remain silent? If you believe you’re due to die, then may Allah be merciful upon you. But I want to save my friend.”

  Odwan didn’t move. Omar Yussef tried to keep the desperation from his face. He tried a line which sounded hopeless even as he said it. “Who knows, if my friend is saved with the help of a Muslim, perhaps he will submit to Islam?”

  “Convert?” Odwan laughed, as best he could without coughing again. “Do you think he’ll apply for a Palestinian passport, too?”

  Omar Yussef was angry with himself. He had gauged Odwan wrongly; the man wasn’t as simple as he had thought. His frustration got the better of him and he held out his arm to Cree. “Help me up. This bastard isn’t going to do anything for us. Let’s go.”

  Odwan put his big hand on Omar Yussef’s shoulder. “Wait, uncle, wait. Calm down, please. Take a drink.” He held out the bottle of cloudy water.

  Omar Yussef was touched by this sad display of hospitality. He poured some of the water into his mouth. It tasted of lead. “Thank you.”

  Odwan shifted his crossed legs and rubbed his back, grimacing. “I went to meet Salah. He was selling something.”

  “What?”

  “Something he stole from us.”

  “From the Saladin Brigades?”

  “Uncle, you don’t want to get involved in this.”

  Omar Yussef leaned forward. “Believe me, I’m involved already. I must know.”

  Odwan glanced at Cree. “How do I know this foreigner isn’t a spy?”

  “Because he doesn’t speak Arabic,” Omar Yussef said. “Anyway, all the spies in Gaza are Palestinian.”

  Odwan’s eyes flicked to Sami, relaxed by the door. Then he grinned. “I’m glad you came, uncle. May Allah give strength to your friend from Sweden and lead him home.”

  Omar Yussef nodded and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Odwan sighed. “We had arranged to receive a prototype missile. It was smuggled through one of the tunnels under the Egyptian border. Salah was selling this missile.”

  “But there are missiles already in Gaza. The Qassam missiles.”

  “We wanted to improve on the Qassam. To build a more reliable missile with a longer range.”

  “What difference does it make to bring in a single missile?”

  “The Qassam was based on a prototype North Korean missile that was smuggled through the tunnels a few years ago with the help of Hizballah in Lebanon. The engineers here used that prototype to build hundreds of our own missiles. We intended to do the same thing again, only better.”

  “So this stolen missile was to be replicated to create a new arsenal of advanced missiles?”

  “Abu Jamal was going to call it the Saladin I. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” Odwan seemed as proud as if the name had been his own invention.

  Omar
Yussef nodded his encouragement.

  “Someone stole the missile as it was coming through the tunnels,” Odwan said. “They must have paid a traitor inside the Brigades to tell them about the plan. They ambushed our guys just after we brought it through. They killed two of them and stole the missile.”

  “Lieutenant Salah stole it?”

  Odwan rolled his tongue in his cheek. “The day after it was stolen, Salah contacted Abu Jamal and told him he had the prototype. Abu Jamal ordered me to meet Salah to make sure he was telling the truth. If he was, Abu Jamal would give him the money.”

  “Why would you pay him for something he stole?”

  “The important thing was to get the missile immediately. We could settle our score with Salah later.”

  “How much did Salah want?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars-it’s a lot in Rafah. So I met Salah on the edge of the refugee camp, late at night. It was a quiet spot; there were buildings around us, but they were bombed-out and empty. I left my car and walked toward Salah’s jeep.”

  “He was alone?”

  “Just him. I asked him to show me the crate with the missile. He said it was hidden somewhere else. We argued about that, because Abu Jamal didn’t want to hand over the money, unless I’d actually seen the missile. I walked toward my car to phone Abu Jamal. Salah followed me, talking nonsense. Then, there was a shot from somewhere. It hit Salah up here.” Odwan tapped his chest and it made a deep thump.

  “What did you do?”

  “I went straight to my car and got out of there. There were more shots from one of the bombed-out buildings. Someone was trying to kill me, too.”

  “How many attackers were firing at you?”

  “Just one. The reports all came from the same spot and I heard only one gun.”

  “What did you do after you left?”

  “I phoned Abu Jamal. He sent people to the scene. The security forces were already there. I went home and, when they came to arrest me, I gave myself up.”

  Odwan was quiet. Omar Yussef tried to hide his excitement. If Odwan was telling the truth, he wasn’t the killer. General Husseini might be persuaded to free him, if they could only prove it. But that also meant there was a killer on the loose who’d do everything he could to prevent Omar Yussef identifying him.