The Samaritan's secret oy-3

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “Roween, do you know who Suleiman al-Teef is?” Omar Yussef asked.

  The woman’s lip twitched, as though she wished to smile. “My brother,” she murmured.

  Omar Yussef thought of the handicapped boy bouncing his basketball alone and of the kind brother-in-law he had lost. Now he was to be robbed of the sister who had loved him.

  Roween’s eye closed. Her body convulsed and she grasped Omar Yussef’s hand until he felt the bones in his fingers might shatter.

  He looked helplessly at Khamis Zeydan and grabbed his friend’s collar and pushed him close to the dying woman’s face. “Can’t we do something? You’re always bragging about assassinations and battles,” he wailed. “Haven’t you ever tried to save someone’s life? Can’t you stop her bleeding?”

  The police chief removed Omar Yussef’s hand from his shirt and held it softly in his own. He stayed close to Roween’s face, waiting for one final word.

  The word didn’t come. Khamis Zeydan closed his lips, as if to avoid inhaling Roween’s dying breath. Omar Yussef traced his fingertips tenderly over the woman’s scabby acne. A cloud shaded the moon and the bruises and cuts on her face became no more than shadows. She looked like a girl merely asleep.

  He sobbed and laid Roween’s hand at her side. The stone was still warm from the sunshine of the day, as he touched her fingers to it. He brought his handkerchief to his face, finding a segment not damp with Roween’s blood, and rubbed at the tears of desperate tenderness in his eyes.

  Down in Nablus, a machine gun rattled.

  The schoolteacher gritted his teeth and screwed his burning eyes shut.

  “Maybe the documents aren’t hidden up here at all. Maybe they’re at the synagogue,” Khamis Zeydan said.

  “I think that’s what she wanted to tell us, yes,” Omar Yussef sniffled. “Temple. Isn’t that what the Jews call their synagogues? It could be the Samaritans use the same word for it. That might be what Ishaq meant. It’s also where they keep the Abisha Scroll, remember. I think the documents could be hidden in the scroll, at the synagogue.”

  “She must have told someone else what Ishaq said, and they beat her to death because they thought she knew more.”

  “Maybe she’s dead because she wouldn’t tell them anything.” Omar Yussef thought of the love there had been between Roween and Ishaq. It wasn’t the usual attachment between a husband and wife. Omar Yussef wondered if Roween had actually been repulsed by the prospect of a husband’s rough, scrambling attentions and had been happier with her sensitive partner, even if he wasn’t what her family would’ve wanted for her.

  “My brother,” Khamis Zeydan said, with a gentle caress of Omar Yussef’s shoulder.

  Omar Yussef looked out from the mountaintop. The valley was unlit, as though Nablus was in hiding. But the guns ensured that it wasn’t quiet.

  He came to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “To the synagogue? Down to Nablus?” Khamis Zeydan looked into the dark valley, listening to the gunfire.

  “We can’t wait until light. Whoever killed Roween may have the same information as us. They’re probably on their way to the synagogue now. If we don’t get there first, hundreds of millions of dollars that were supposed to improve the lives of our people will fall into the hands of the bastards who killed this woman.”

  Omar Yussef closed his eyes. In the wind along the ridge, he could still hear Roween’s final breath.

  Chapter 30

  They knew they had missed the narrow road into Nablus, when the jeep hit deep tank tracks, throwing dust into the cab. “This must be the trail the Israelis use for their night raids,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Turn off the headlights.”

  The jeep pitched on its squawking suspension over the scarred dirt road. Omar Yussef took the steep sections leaning back into his seat, his elbows locked and his foot shaking with strain on the brake. “I hope your diabetes isn’t still acting up tomorrow,” he said, “because I’ve done all the driving I can stand.”

  “If you get us through Nablus without running into an Israeli tank or a jeep full of Hamas gunmen, you won’t have to drive any more, because I’ll carry you around on my back all day out of gratitude,” Khamis Zeydan said.

  They came to the first silent white apartment blocks at the upper reaches of the town and soon were on a paved section of road. The driving was easier and Omar Yussef relaxed, until the shooting in the valley reminded him that he was heading into danger and operating on a tight deadline. He imagined the members of the World Bank board would be heading to dinner parties in Georgetown at that moment. When they reached their office in the morning, they’d cut his people’s financial lifeline. He thought of Sami and Zuheir and Ramiz, of Nadia, of the better Palestine he wanted them to live in someday. I won’t fail them, he thought.

  Outside the Samaritan synagogue, Omar Yussef switched off the engine and listened. A car alarm wailed and a machine gun stammered in the casbah. Under the discordant sounds, he detected a breathless silence, like the energetic anticipation of a child behind a sofa in a game of hide and seek. The night was waiting for him. He narrowed his eyes. I’m ready.

  Khamis Zeydan hobbled up the first flight of steps to the synagogue. Omar Yussef went beside him. He felt alert, youthful, determined.

  The doorway of the synagogue was dark. Khamis Zeydan pulled his gun to shoot out the lock. Omar Yussef grabbed his wrist. The police chief hesitated, then holstered the pistol. Omar Yussef eased down on the door handle, felt the lock slip and drew the door back carefully. Was it left unlocked by accident, Omar Yussef wondered, or is there someone inside? Khamis Zeydan peered into the darkness within, frowning. He nodded and the two men entered.

  The main hall was quiet and murky. The door to the staircase at the back of the room emitted a flickering light. Hurried footsteps ascended the stairs and a man came into the hall, his long robe and tarboosh silhouetted by the pale blue of the stairwell.

  Omar Yussef snapped on the lights.

  In the door to the stairway, Jibril Ben-Tabia blinked as the fluorescent tubes shuddered to life. He clutched something to his chest, rolled in the folds of his robe, like a mother protecting her child. The shock of discovery registered for a moment, then the priest’s old, lined face hardened into outrage.

  “How dare you enter this building?” he shouted, raising a leathery finger toward Khamis Zeydan. “The security forces aren’t allowed in here without a warrant.”

  “I’m not wearing a uniform, your honor,” Omar Yussef said. “Do I need a warrant, too?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I see that you have the Abisha Scroll.”

  “You’ve come for our most priceless treasure?” The priest retreated toward the stairs. “You’ve come to steal it once again?”

  Omar Yussef sneered. “We’re not thieves and you didn’t come here to protect the scroll.”

  “Don’t you hear the gunfire? You Palestinians are having a civil war. Anything could happen in Nablus tonight. I came to take our precious relic back to the village on Mount Jerizim, where those swine won’t be able to rob us of it.”

  “You came to search inside the scroll for three hundred million dollars,” Omar Yussef said.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Roween told you that Ishaq said he’d hidden those documents ‘behind the temple,’ didn’t she. Perhaps at first you thought, as I did, that they were hidden on Mount Jerizim.” Omar Yussef put his hands on his hips and leaned toward the priest. “You took Roween to the temple up there, because you thought she could show you the exact spot where Ishaq hid them.”

  “This is just empty talk.”

  “But she knew no more. You beat her and now she’s dead, yet you learned nothing.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Then, you remembered the silver decoration on the scroll’s calfskin box, the image of the temple on the cover. You concluded that Ishaq hid the account details somewhere in the box or inside the scroll, when Nour
i Awwadi returned the Abisha Scroll to him. You left Roween to die and came here to get the scroll.”

  The priest glanced at the Abisha, cradled in his arm. He ran his fingers over the raised depiction of the temple; his eyes closed and his face became enraptured, like a man exploring his lover’s features in the dark. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Roween isn’t dead. You’re trying to trick me.”

  Khamis Zeydan took a step toward the priest. “I don’t care if you’ve killed all six hundred Samaritans, old man. I came for that scroll.”

  Jibril hugged the Abisha. “And I don’t care if the entire world has to die, no one shall possess this scroll but my people.”

  “You admit it, then. You killed Roween.” Omar Yussef stared angrily at the oblong box in the priest’s arms. “After she told you what Ishaq had said, you continued to beat her, until you realized that was all she knew. But by then she was beyond saving.”

  Jibril smiled. “Pasha, it was you who told me what Ishaq said to Roween about the temple. I tried to force Roween to tell me even that much, but she kept her mouth shut.”

  “I told you?” Omar Yussef faltered. When I was in the priest’s house, did I tell him then?

  Jibril licked his upper lip. “If we’re pointing fingers, then you killed her.”

  Khamis Zeydan stepped past his friend. “I’ve heard enough of your crap,” he said to the priest. “Give me the scroll.”

  Jibril hurried to the head of the stairs. “I’ll lock this door before you can get to me,” he said, “and I’ll destroy the secret documents rather than give them to you. You government people allowed us Samaritans to be forced out of our ancient neighborhood. I won’t let your unclean fingers touch the Abisha Scroll or have the money.”

  Omar Yussef laid his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s forearm. “Wait, Abu Adel, let’s talk to him,” he said.

  Khamis Zeydan let Omar Yussef pass. The priest made to retreat once more, but Omar Yussef lifted his hands. “Your Honor, I’m younger than you, but I’m in no great shape,” he said. “If I tried to catch you, you’d be down the stairs before I’d even have my hand on the doorknob.”

  Jibril touched his fingers to his beard. “You policemen don’t understand what has happened to our people.”

  “I’m not a policeman. I’m a history teacher.”

  The priest was confused for a moment, then his expression became pleading. “So you know our history in this town, ustaz,” he said. “Nablus was entirely ours in the days of the Byzantines. Then the Muslims came. We lived beside them for centuries in the casbah, until we found ourselves caught between them and the Israelis. First we moved out of the casbah to this neighborhood, then we had to leave Nablus completely, for our new village on the top of Mount Jerizim.”

  “To be close to your holy place.”

  “That’s what we tell people, but mainly it was to get away from the dangers of Nablus.” Jibril jabbed a finger toward Khamis Zeydan, as though the police chief were the embodiment of the violence his people had fled. “The money in the Old Man’s secret accounts will be recompense for the historic injustice we Samaritans have suffered. Your leaders already stole it from you. Who’ll notice if it ends up in our hands, instead?”

  “The World Bank is on the trail of that money,” Omar Yussef said. “They’ll notice. You can’t just make the money disappear.”

  “They haven’t traced it yet. Ishaq hid it well.”

  “You talk about injustice. What about the injustice Ishaq suffered? He was your son.”

  “He liked to be screwed by men. He deserved what he got.”

  Omar Yussef took a step back, startled by the priest’s sudden venom. “I saw how you wept for him earlier today,” he said. “I know you didn’t hate him.”

  “I raised him well.” The priest bared his teeth maliciously. “Look how he turned out.”

  Omar Yussef’s cheek twitched below his left eye. “You killed him, didn’t you?” he said. “You killed Roween, but first you killed your own son.”

  “He was adopted.”

  Omar Yussef thought of Miral and Dahoud, whom he had adopted after their parents were killed. I feel more love for them after one year than this priest is capable of displaying for Ishaq after two decades, he thought. “Adoption is no different from blood parentage,” he said.

  “My blood son wouldn’t have been a dirty little homo.” The priest brandished the Abisha Scroll. “There’s enough money in these secret bank accounts to make my people secure for decades. But there’s also some for you. What do you say?”

  Omar Yussef raised his finger at the priest. His hand shook with rage. “Roween’s last words were, ‘He knew about Kanaan.’ When she said that, I thought ‘he’ was Ishaq- that Ishaq knew Kanaan was his father. I thought she was trying to tell me he had refused to hand over the secret accounts to Kanaan because he was angry with him for concealing his true paternity. But ‘he’ was you. You knew, of course, that Kanaan was Ishaq’s father, because Kanaan came to you with his illegitimate child and paid you to adopt him.”

  “You said you were a history teacher,” the priest said, “but now you’re a detective, after all?”

  “You tried to blackmail Ishaq into giving the bank details to you, instead of to Kanaan. You threatened to make public that he was the illegitimate son of the Kanaans.”

  Jibril lifted the scroll and looked invitingly at Omar Yussef. “A million dollars. For each of you,” he said. “Two million.”

  “Ishaq didn’t do quite what you wanted. He gave you the scroll, but not the money,” Omar Yussef said. “It served as a bargaining chip to keep you quiet about his scandalous birth and protect his real parents. He hid the account documents. You tortured him to make him say where he’d hidden them, but you pushed his body too far and he died.”

  “Why would I have been in a hurry to get the money? If Ishaq had it, he’d have given it to me in the end.”

  “You were running out of time. Ishaq intended to meet a woman from the World Bank who’s investigating the Old Man’s secret finances. Ishaq was going to hand over the account details to her, so the money could be made part of the official Palestinian budget and be used to build hospitals and schools. You had to get the documents before that happened.”

  “It’s true that I loved him.” The priest choked, his eyes cast to the floor, all his malice spent. “But wasn’t my people’s future more important than Ishaq’s life?”

  Khamis Zeydan stepped to Omar Yussef’s side, his gun in his hand. The priest looked up, his eyes widened, startled and scared. He turned toward the stairs, but the policeman raised his gun. Omar Yussef ducked, as the pistol went off by his ear.

  His hearing returned with a hiss like escaping gas. The priest lay on the ground by the door. Khamis Zeydan walked quickly to him and rolled him onto his back with his boot. He picked up the Abisha Scroll and held it toward Omar Yussef.

  “Let’s see if you’re right about the money,” he said.

  Omar Yussef stared at Jibril’s face. The priest’s tarboosh rolled across the floor. His head was bald and small without the hat. Omar Yussef pointed weakly at the dead man. “Why?”

  “He was getting away with the scroll,” Khamis Zeydan said. “He was going to destroy the account documents.” He shoved the calfskin case into the schoolteacher’s arms and scowled at him.

  Omar Yussef felt his pulse beating in his palms, where the box rested, charged with so much knowledge and history. He looked up at Khamis Zeydan, his eyes wide with awe.

  The police chief sighed impatiently and snatched the box away.

  “Be careful with it,” Omar Yussef said. He followed Khamis Zeydan to the synagogue’s rear bench.

  Khamis Zeydan wrenched the finials from the end of the case. He spread the Abisha Scroll along the seat.

  Omar Yussef shrieked and grabbed at his friend’s arm. “You’ll damage it.”

  Khamis Zeydan shook him off. “Do you want to find these account details or not?”

 
“Not if we destroy this ancient artifact in the process.”

  Khamis Zeydan yanked the end of the scroll. It unspooled along the bench and onto the floor. “By Allah, it’s long,” he muttered.

  “If you’d ever bothered to read the Bible, you’d know that already.”

  “This is the entire Bible?”

  “The first five books only.”

  “Thank you, Father Abu Ramiz. So you’re a Bible reader now? When I first met you, you were a leftist who hated religion.”

  “Not as much as I hated ignorance. Please, put it back before you damage it beyond repair.”

  Khamis Zeydan rolled the scroll loosely, held it upright and shook it. The sheepskin crackled in his fingers. “Nothing in here,” he said. He dropped the scroll to the bench and sat with his back to Omar Yussef, staring at the body of the priest.

  Omar Yussef gathered up the scroll. He twisted the handles until it was wound tight and slipped it back into its box. He ran his hand over the calfskin cover. “They made these boxes with the skin side on the exterior,” he said. “But the hair of the calf’s hide is still on the inside. Look.”

  Khamis Zeydan grunted.

  Omar Yussef fingered the edges of the silver plate on the front of the box with the raised image of the temple. Could this be what Ishaq meant by ‘behind the temple’? Not in the scroll, but behind this piece of silver? He slipped a fingernail beneath the rim of the plate. A shred of black gum came up. This hasn’t been opened in a while, he thought. He worked at the edge of the silver panel until he could push a finger behind it. He pressed down on the calfskin and slipped his hand inside. He came out with nothing but a rancid film of four-hundred-year-old calf’s grease on his palm.

  “Well, that’s it,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Ishaq’s secret died with him.”

  Omar Yussef dropped the Abisha Scroll to the bench and came swiftly to his feet.

  Khamis Zeydan glared at him.

  “That’s what Ishaq told Roween,” Omar Yussef said. He stared toward the front of the synagogue.

  Khamis Zeydan followed his gaze. “O peace, what’s up with you now?”