The Samaritan's secret oy-3

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “Don’t be a pansy,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Sit down and pour.” He lifted a red plastic beaker, scooped hot water from the basin and tipped it over his head. He shuddered and bellowed.

  Omar Yussef lowered himself onto the other block. Khamis Zeydan handed him a beaker and he doused himself. The long strands of white hair he combed over his baldness washed down across his brow and his glasses fogged. The warmth sank deep into him and he scooped the hot water again and again, until he wondered if he would ever be able to stop.

  Khamis Zeydan splashed his beaker back and forth in the basin to cover his words. “What did that Hamas bastard mean about secrets?” he whispered.

  “Can’t you relax for a while?” Omar Yussef closed his eyes and poured another beaker of water over his scalp and onto his sloping shoulders.

  “He looked at you as though you’d know just what he meant.”

  The dirty faucet splattered water into the basin. Omar Yussef listened, but they were alone in this part of the baths. “Awwadi procured some files for Hamas,” he whispered. “Files that were compiled by the Old Man. With scan-dalous information.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Dirt. I don’t know who’s included in the files, but it’s clear from what Awwadi says that it concerns a lot of top Fatah people.”

  Khamis Zeydan opened his mouth. Omar Yussef held the palm of his hand in front of his friend’s face. “There’s a file on you,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’m sure that’s what Awwadi meant just now. He won’t use that file against you after we’ve shared a bath together.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Khamis Zeydan slopped the water around in the basin noisily. “He was letting me know that he has something on me. He might use it any time.”

  “You’re being too suspicious.”

  “Put yourself in my position. You’d be highly suspicious.”

  Omar Yussef tapped his beaker on the stone edge of the basin and felt the urge to be nasty creeping toward his lips. “I’m tired of your constant negativity,” he said. “Anyway, I’m not in your position. I haven’t lived a dirty life. I don’t have to fear that I’ll be blackmailed for all the wicked secrets hidden in my past.”

  “You don’t have skeletons in your closet?” Khamis Zeydan looked scornful. “You were fired from the Freres School, weren’t you? You always told me it was over nothing. But maybe there was something to it. Don’t forget Damascus, either, when we were students and you were a political hack at the university. You were into all kinds of shady things back then, don’t deny it. And what about that son of yours in New York? The Israelis had him in jail a couple of years ago. What has he been up to?”

  “Ala was never charged.”

  “You sound like his lawyer, not his father,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Go into anyone’s past and you’ll find that we’re all dirty liars who manipulate the truth.”

  “Lies are one thing. Running all over Europe and the Middle East committing murder is quite different.”

  Khamis Zeydan sneered, as though Omar Yussef had thought to knock him down with no more than a slap from a wet towel. “It’s no secret that I did those things, which means it’s no scandal. But for all I know, you could be a murderer.”

  “How dare you,” Omar Yussef said. He thought of the time he had spent in jail in Bethlehem before he went to university, on a false murder charge. “And if you heard that I was a murderer, you’d believe it?”

  “I never believe anything I hear,” Khamis Zeydan said. “But you seem content to assume the worst about me.”

  They poured hot water on their shoulders, but the relax-ation was gone.

  “We all try to keep our past quiet,” Khamis Zeydan said. “All silence is guilty. I’ve done so much dirty stuff that I ought to be put away forever. But instead I’m a law enforce-ment officer. Welcome to Palestine.”

  Omar Yussef put his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s pale, bony knee. “We can try to get your file from Awwadi.”

  “Those files aren’t for his personal use, by Allah. Even if Awwadi and I have bonded in our towels, Sheikh Bader hasn’t hung out naked with me. I don’t imagine Awwadi has the sheikh’s dispensation to give up that file, even if he were prepared to do so. The sheikh will use it against me, if I ever try to arrest someone from Hamas. In Palestine, you can never allow another man to have power over you.”

  “‘Call a man your master, and he’ll sell you in the slave market,’” Omar Yussef said.

  Khamis Zeydan snapped his fingers. “This is where the sheikh got the idea that the Old Man died of that disease, isn’t it? From the files.”

  “Could be.”

  “But how? They were the Old Man’s files. He wouldn’t have the details of his own death in there.”

  Omar Yussef took a breath. He was about to tell Khamis Zeydan how Ishaq had been with the president at the end and had also given the files to Hamas, but there was a cry from further back in the bathhouse.

  Khamis Zeydan’s towel spattered water behind him on the tiles as he disappeared into the shower room. The cry could have come from someone suffering as his knotted muscles were massaged too strongly, but Khamis Zeydan must have recognized something harsher in the voice. He’s heard men in pain and he’s heard men in despair, Omar Yussef thought. He didn’t hang around to listen for a second scream.

  Another voice howled from the same direction. This time it was no cry of pain. It was a shriek of horror.

  Omar Yussef slopped across the wet floor. His heel slipped in a pool of water, and he grabbed a shower curtain to break his fall. The plastic rings along the shower rail popped one by one and dropped him awkwardly to the cold, damp tiles. He cursed and rubbed his tailbone where it had hit the floor. His slip had quickened his pulse even more than the scream.

  He found Khamis Zeydan kneeling before a massage bench. The baths’ manager leaned against the wall with the expression of a man who had just been punched hard. On the bench, someone lay on his belly, his feet hanging off the end.

  Omar Yussef carefully crossed the puddled floor. The massage chamber seemed cold, after the steam bath and the hot water.

  The bench was made of thick, clumsy chunks of olive wood, blackened with the sweat of many men despite the gray, smeared towel wrapped across it. As Omar Yussef approached, he saw that the body on the bench was muscular and hairless. When he smelled sandalwood, he gasped. He knelt by Khamis Zeydan, as his friend lifted Nouri Awwadi’s hand from where it dangled to the floor and laid it beside his heavy torso.

  “His neck is broken,” the police chief said.

  Awwadi’s head lay at a sharp angle to his bulky shoulders. The young man gazed blankly. Omar Yussef remembered the startling recognition he’d felt before Ishaq’s dead, blue eyes. Faced with Awwadi’s stare, he thought that it seemed no more to have been alive than the black, shiny eyeball of a fish staring back from a plate.

  Omar Yussef lifted his hand to touch the dead man, but withdrew it. He was certain that Awwadi, who had either possessed the secret bank details or been confident of obtaining them soon, had been murdered because of them. If I hadn’t told him about the money, he’d be alive, Omar Yussef thought. That man who chased me through the casbah wasn’t just trying to scare me. He’ll really kill to be the first to find those millions. He shivered and let out a quiet whimper of fear. “Close his eyes,” he said.

  The body was perfectly muscled and oiled, but now it would commence upon the process of decay that Omar Yussef had considered while he waited for dinner the previous night. He wondered how many more bodies he would have to gaze upon, if he continued his search for Ishaq’s killer and the account details. He looked at Abdel Rahim. “May Allah have mercy upon him.”

  “May you yourself live long,” the bathhouse manager muttered. “I was getting ready to do his massage when I heard the cry. I ran back here, but I found only Nouri’s body.”

  “You were in the entrance hall?” Omar Yussef rose, stiff and groaning.

  “No, I was mopping out
the steam room after you used it. I went back to the changing room and from there I came this way.”

  “Was it you I heard shriek in terror?”

  Abdel Rahim sucked his bottom lip under his teeth and closed his eyes.

  “Could anyone have sneaked past you, after they killed Nouri?”

  The masseur shook his head. He grimaced at Nouri Awwadi’s back and turned away.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Omar Yussef said.

  The manager stared at the water dripping from the shower in the nearest stall.

  Omar Yussef moved closer to him. “Abdel Rahim?”

  “The Israelis were here last night to find our tunnels,” Abdel Rahim said. “That’s why they came.”

  Omar Yussef cocked his head. “Tunnels?”

  “There’re tunnels all over the casbah. Tunnels and passages between houses. No one knows them except those who live here.”

  Abdel Rahim led them to the back of the massage room and opened a door onto absolute darkness. “Down these steps, we have our heating room, the generator, the steam mechanism. There’s also an entrance to a long passage. Eventually it leads to the back of a halva factory. The killer could have gone out that way.”

  “Did the Israelis find it?”

  “I don’t think so. I checked this morning and the entrance hadn’t been disturbed.”

  Omar Yussef flipped a light switch and looked down at a spiral staircase, its worn stone steps shining in the yellow light. He put his foot on the first step to descend, but the cold draught reminded him that he was wet and wearing only a towel.

  “Abu Adel,” he said. “Get dressed. We must follow this passage. You’ll have to do without your massage.”

  Khamis Zeydan looked down at Nouri Awwadi’s corpse and rolled his head on his shoulders. “I prefer a stiff neck to a broken one,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Omar Yussef followed Abdel Rahim past three rever-berating water heaters. The dense oil vapor in the basement flooded his sinuses. His head swam. He steadied himself against a grubby plastic drum of shampoo. Abdel Rahim paused before a low metal door, stroking his beard.

  “This entrance is usually disguised with boxes like this one,” Abdel Rahim shouted over the noise of the machines. He slapped his hand on a tea chest, lying on its side above an oil-storage tank. Another half dozen chests had been tossed behind the grimy tank.

  “Maybe the Israelis found the tunnel after all,” Omar Yussef yelled. He took his hand away from the shampoo drum and wiped it on his handkerchief.

  “No, the boxes were in front of the door this morning when I came down to get the furnace going.”

  “So someone came this way today.”

  Abdel Rahim yanked open the heavy door. It moved no more fluidly than Omar Yussef’s worn-out knees. The bath-house manager fumbled for a flashlight in the dust behind a shuddering generator and shook the batteries inside it until the bulb was illuminated.

  “It’s risky for you to go in this passage, ustaz,” Abdel Rahim said. “You aren’t from Nablus and, if you happen to meet some-one, they might suspect you of being Israelis undercover.”

  “It’ll be I who will suspect them,” Omar Yussef said, “of murdering Nouri Awwadi.”

  “Perhaps you should wait for the police?”

  Khamis Zeydan made his way between the raucous machines, buttoning his blue uniform shirt.

  “The police force is already here,” Omar Yussef said. He took the flashlight.

  The ceiling of the tunnel was high enough for him to stand upright, but his instinct was to hunch in the dark, constricted space. A few hesitant steps in the dampness of the tunnel and the small of his back already ached with tension. Abdel Rahim shoved the metal door shut behind them and the rattling of the generators dropped to a low hum.

  Omar Yussef cast the flashlight around the blackness. You’ve done it again, old fellow, he thought. If you come across the killer, will you beat him into submission with this flashlight? Perhaps you’ll distract him with a lecture about the construction of these tunnels in the time of the Ayyubid caliphate, while Khamis Zeydan sneaks up and overpowers him.

  The walls of the passage were bare stone. The floor was packed dirt, muddied by water seeping down from the baths. He bent to examine the mud.

  “Are these footsteps?”

  Khamis Zeydan came up beside him and leaned over his shoulder. Boot prints cut the wet dirt. “Point the flashlight at the wall,” he said.

  The stone was dashed with mud. Omar Yussef touched it. “It’s wet,” he said. “With splashes from these puddles.”

  “He came this way, not long ago.”

  Omar Yussef squinted ahead. The harder he looked, the more threatening the darkness seemed. He directed the flashlight forward. The murderer had moved quickly, again splashing mud along the wall that had yet to dry. I know the killer came this way, but I don’t know how far he went, he thought. He might be just in front of us, waiting.

  That thought halted him suddenly and he peered once more into the darkness. Khamis Zeydan failed to notice he had stopped and his bowed forehead struck Omar Yussef painfully in the back of his neck. Both men cursed. The air in the passage was damp and still, and Omar Yussef’s breathing was heavy. He pushed on until they reached a junction of two passages. He flicked the flashlight in each direction. The tunnels stretched into blackness.

  Omar Yussef glanced at Khamis Zeydan. “Abdel Rahim didn’t tell us the passage split,” Omar Yussef said.

  “He certainly didn’t. Maybe it’s not the only thing he dummied up about. Want to go back and chat with him again?” Khamis Zeydan punched a fist into his palm.

  “Thanks for your illustration. But the shriek I heard from him when he discovered Awwadi’s body sounded genuine to me. Whatever he failed to tell us, I don’t think he’s the killer. Let’s keep going.”

  Khamis Zeydan raised his nose. “He said the passage ended in a halva factory. Do you smell sesame?”

  Omar Yussef detected a hint of sweetness drifting on the faintest of drafts from the right. “That way,” he said.

  Khamis Zeydan started to the right, but ran into the back of Omar Yussef once more. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll never catch up if we have to wait for you to get your breath back.”

  Omar Yussef ran the beam of the torch along the wall of the passage to the left. “There’re splashes of mud that way,” he said. He bent to run his palm across the surface of the stone. “Still wet.”

  The police chief slapped his friend on the thigh. “You’re quite a detective,” he said. “Let’s move. My shirt’s sweaty from the bathhouse and it’s starting to freeze me in this draft.”

  The left passage sloped upward, paved now with slabs of limestone slicked by green mold and stinking water. The angle of the passage and the poor plumbing suggested to Omar Yussef that they had reached Awwadi’s Yasmina neighborhood, the highest part of the casbah, where the air had been rotten with the scent of broken pipes.

  The tunnel grew colder. Omar Yussef tried to warm himself by thinking of the baths, but Awwadi’s corpse loomed out of the steam, shining and bloodless. Awwadi was involved in the resistance, so he would be a natural target for the Israelis, he thought. But it’s too hard to believe that he was hit by the Israeli army in the casbah during the day. He must’ve been killed because of the dirt files-maybe by someone who was named in them.

  Around a corner, the passage ended in a cramped spiral of stone stairs. Omar Yussef shared a glance with Khamis Zeydan and went up. His mouth was dry. He halted and listened to the silence between Khamis Zeydan’s footsteps. He came around another twist in the spiral and reached a door. A milky light crept beneath it. He turned to Khamis Zeydan, who smiled with resignation. Omar Yussef pushed against the metal door. It opened easily.

  The door led into an empty storeroom with a dirt floor and a low arched roof. The air was pungent with the heavy smell of soiled straw and goat dung. Omar Yussef headed for the steps on the far side o
f the room. The light seemed unnaturally golden, until he realized that he was almost outside and this was only the ordinary radiance of day. He smiled. How quickly the glow of sunlight is forgotten by those beneath the earth, he thought. He heard the mild stamping of feet and the goat smell grew stronger. Another few steps and he came to a dirty plank fence penning half a dozen jostling goats. He shaded his eyes from the sunshine in the courtyard of the Touqan Palace.

  Running footsteps approached the palace’s tall gate. Khamis Zeydan drew Omar Yussef back into the shadows of the stairway. The excited goats collided with the rough planking of their pen. A group of bearded young men entered the courtyard. Two of them carried Kalashnikovs. Holding their rifles with one hand, they fired into the air.

  On the terrace above the courtyard, a heavy man ducked under a line of laundry.

  “Abu Nouri, give thanks to Allah, your son is martyred,” one of the young men shouted. “May Allah be merciful upon him and grant you a long life, until he invites you to sit at his side in Paradise.”

  Nouri Awwadi’s father dropped forward and braced himself on the stone wall at the edge of the terrace. He put his hand on his low forehead. The young men cried out that Allah was most great and fired off more rounds, the reports cracking around the courtyard. The goats thrashed their heads and rolled their vacant eyes.

  Khamis Zeydan tugged Omar Yussef’s shirt and led him back into the storeroom. “We have to get out of here,” he said.

  Omar Yussef shook his head.

  “Those bastards are Hamas,” Khamis Zeydan said. He rubbed his uniform insignia between his thumb and fore-finger. “I don’t want to have to explain to them what one of their official enemies is doing here just after their leader’s neck has been broken.”

  Omar Yussef handed the flashlight to Khamis Zeydan. “I understand,” he said. “You go back. I’ll wait here.”