“Do I stick out that much?” King said. “With this security situation, I guess there aren’t a lot of foreigners around Nablus.”
“Not driving in big cars with IBRD plates.” He put down his coffee cup and sucked the grounds off his teeth. “You looked like you were on your way to the Samaritan village on Mount Jerizim, when I saw you in your car. I was on my way back from there.”
King looked grave. “For me, it didn’t quite work out as planned,” she said.
“I was returning from a visit to a Samaritan woman named Roween.”
King grimaced.
Omar Yussef smiled at Nadia. “My darling, will you go upstairs and ask Grandma what time she wants to eat dinner?”
Nadia bit her lower lip. She knows I’m getting her out of the way and that she’s about to miss something interesting, he thought. Reluctantly the girl left the lounge.
“She’s very bright,” King said.
Omar Yussef watched through the glass wall of the lounge as Nadia blew him a kiss from the lobby and entered the elevator.
Zuheir sat forward and spoke quietly in Arabic. “Don’t you think it’s a waste for Nadia to spend so much time reading these American detective stories?”
Omar Yussef smiled awkwardly at Jamie King and reached out to grasp his son’s knee. “Whatever excites us when we are young eventually turns to ice, Zuheir,” he said. “Later we look back with contempt on our early enthusiasms.”
Zuheir pulled his knee away.
“Many of us in Palestine pour that youthful idealism into an uncompromising hatred.” Omar Yussef looked intently at Zuheir, but the young man averted his eyes toward the television. “So let Nadia enjoy this harmless pleasure of hers. Perhaps it will stay with her and not freeze inside her, as politics does.”
“And religion, too?”
“I’m not talking about you, my son. Only about Nadia.”
Zuheir scowled and was silent.
Omar Yussef turned to the American. “Miss King, you know that Ishaq the Samaritan was murdered.”
King nodded slowly.
“I examined the murder scene with a friend from the local police force. His wife told me Ishaq had been scheduled to meet you, but he was killed first. What was the meeting supposed to be about?”
King sucked on her lip and cast her eyes down.
“I think Miss King is attempting to say, ‘It’s none of your business,’” Zuheir said.
“Well, I’m dealing with some very significant issues that have a major influence on international policy,” King said. “I’m not at liberty to discuss details.”
“I think my translation was accurate.” Zuheir smiled, bitterly.
Omar Yussef linked his fingers. “Miss King, if you don’t discuss it with me, I’m sorry to say that you will be forced to endure a very lonely silence.”
King frowned. “Our friend Magnus told me that you’re something of an amateur detective, but really I think I’d better share information only with the official police investigators. You said you were at Ishaq’s house with the police. Aren’t they investigating?”
Zuheir snorted contemptuously.
“This time my son’s translation is only partially accurate,” Omar Yussef said. “There is an investigation underway, but the police will not exactly be devoting their full resources to resolving Ishaq’s murder.”
“But why not? A man was killed.”
“That man is dead and he’ll stay dead. The police are concerned that, if they probe any further, they might end up in the same condition.” Omar Yussef looked around to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard. The waiter was engrossed in his newspaper, his forefinger rooting in his ear. “Already someone—we don’t know who—has attacked the investigating officer and given him a nasty beating. The fact that Ishaq was responsible for the old president’s secret finances also disturbs the police. When there’s big money involved, the case is sure to involve powerful, ruthless people.”
“So the police are going to ignore the murder?” King’s features sagged. “That’s a disaster.”
“Many people are killed in Palestine all the time.” Omar Yussef’s voice sounded frail and he was ashamed of what he said. He realized that the men in the alley had scared him badly.
“Of course, but in this case it’s a bigger issue than a single murder, and it’s quite urgent,” King said. “My job is to trace the funds cached around the world by the late president. My team has tracked down about eight hundred million dollars, so far. Each time we find something, it’s incorporated into the official Palestinian Authority budget, so that the international donors know their money is being utilized as they intended.”
“I see. For education, or services. Not for funding the gunmen.”
“That’s right. Under the former president, the money was all handled off the books. Politicians in Washington and Brussels felt they were dumping aid into a black hole. After all, when you look around Nablus, you wonder what all that money bought. Where are the modern hospitals? The schools and infrastructure?”
Zuheir jerked forward. “Where do you think our leaders learned such corruption? In exile, in the West.”
Omar Yussef coughed and raised his eyebrows. His son sat back in indignant silence, his arms folded.
“I won’t argue with you,” Jamie said, extending her palm toward Zuheir. “But that’s not an explanation that will appease the international donors.”
“You haven’t finished locating all the money?” Omar Yussef said. “That’s why you’re here?”
King pointed a finger at him. “Right. We think there’s another three hundred million dollars out there.”
“And Ishaq knew where it was?”
“He told me he could lay his hands on the documents within an hour of meeting me.”
“Did he want anything in return?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the usual sort of stuff I’ve come across in my investigations. Some folks want green cards or American passports. Some want cash. I had only one brief phone conversation with Ishaq. I couldn’t say which category he fell into.” King stroked the amber hairs that grew lightly down her cheeks beside her ears. “To tell the truth, I was surprised to learn that such a people as the Samaritans even existed. I know the biblical parable about the Good Samaritan, but I didn’t know they were still around.”
“Only a bit more than six hundred of them.”
“On the phone, Ishaq told me they’re descended from some of the original tribes of Israel.”
“That’s their claim. Other research suggests they’re the descendants of captives brought to repopulate the area after the Babylonians exiled all the Israelites.” Omar Yussef shrugged. “As you Americans might say, the bottom line is that they’ve been here a long time, and they’re isolated and few in number.”
“Since you mention the bottom line,” King set her hands flat on her thighs and sat very straight, “I have to send a report to the World Bank board in Washington on Friday. If I can’t find that three hundred million dollars by then, the board will block financing to international organizations working here, cut off all funding to the Palestinians.”
“Why?”
“Before they send any more money, they want to recover some of the cash the president salted away and see that it’s spent correctly. The Bank gave the new president some time to track that money, but we’re about out of patience.”
“That’s why you needed Ishaq.”
King nodded. “If he had given me the details of that last three hundred million dollars, I could’ve prevented this boycott.”
“These Western governments train our leaders in corruption and deceit,” Zuheir said, “then they punish the people.”
“Unless we find that money by Friday, all our aid will be cut off. It’ll be an economic disaster.” Omar Yussef slapped his fist into his palm.
“We?” Zuheir scoffed.
“You can stay here on this couch, if you wish, but I’m going to help Miss King track down
this money.” Omar Yussef shifted in his seat, angry and excited.
Zuheir sat upright and opened his eyes wide in outrage. I’ve seen that same face when I look in the mirror, Omar Yussef thought, despite the thick beard and the cropped hair.
“Don’t imagine you’ll be the only one on the trail of that money,” Zuheir said. “Whoever else is after it won’t hesitate to kill, Dad.”
Omar Yussef recalled the splintering sound when Sami’s arm broke. He shivered and glanced at Jamie King. Zuheir had switched to Arabic, but King, staring into her teacup, hadn’t seemed to notice. She’s preoccupied with her investigation, Omar Yussef thought.
He spoke to his son in his native language. “I don’t say I’m not nervous about the dangers of tracking such a large amount of money. But even so I’m surprised at you. Are you content to accept the terrible way things are in our society?”
“Content?” Zuheir lifted his arms and slapped them onto his chair. “O Allah, do I seem content to you? Did I turn to Islam because I’m content with the state of Palestine? The Prophet, blessings be upon him, said that Islam and government are brothers—‘Islam is the foundation and government the guardian.’ I’ve accepted Islam because I want to help meet half of that requirement, but there’s no government here to make the society complete.”
“I’m surprised at your cynicism. One would almost think you prefer our people not to receive this aid money.”
“If your generation had returned to the way of Islam, perhaps you could have liberated Palestine years ago.” Zuheir struck his thigh in frustration. “At least, you could have set up a responsible government in Palestine, instead of the corrupt mess we have now.”
Omar Yussef gave a faint, apologetic smile to Jamie King. So my son thinks I’m a failure, he thought, me and my whole generation. That’s why he wears the sheikh’s costume. Perhaps I did fail by allowing society to deteriorate around me, as long as I was able to live a comfortable life. But maybe if I take the risks I avoided long ago and succeed, I can win his respect.
“Zuheir, have you ever wondered why we keep herds of goats in the Middle East, rather than sheep?”
Zuheir’s cheek twitched in annoyance.
“It’s because Middle Easterners are extremists,” Omar Yussef said. “Sheep crop the grass when they eat. It grows back, and they eat some more. But goats rip out the grass at the roots to get a little more food right away. In the end, it’s disastrous, because the grass that is ripped out doesn’t grow back and the soil on the bare hillsides is blown away. The next year, the goats find nothing but rocks to eat.”
“I’m a goat? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Don’t be childish. I mean that we Arabs dismiss gradual change. We’re only interested in all or nothing. But if I wait until I can rip corruption out by the root, or until the government announces that justice will henceforth be upheld, I’ll wait forever. If I nibble at the problem, it’s a start.” He turned to the American and spoke in English. “Miss King, I’ll see to it that the police help you find that money by Friday.”
King nodded—with more politeness than hope, Omar Yussef thought. Then her eyes darted away from him as quick footsteps entered the lounge. Omar Yussef followed her glance and saw Khamis Zeydan advancing with a grim face.
“I need you to come with me,” the policeman said brusquely.
“And a good evening to you, too,” Omar Yussef replied. He gestured toward Jamie King. “I’m in the middle of something.”
Khamis Zeydan leaned forward and extinguished his Rothmans in the empty ashtray by Omar Yussef’s coffee cup. He exhaled the smoke over Omar Yussef and looked briefly at King. “Sorry, dear lady, I have to interrupt,” he said, in English. “It’s really very important. Don’t worry, I’m not arresting him.”
Khamis Zeydan folded his arms so that the navy blue sleeve of his police uniform hid his prosthetic left hand from the American. Omar Yussef knew this chariness about his false limb for a sign of extreme agitation in his friend.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you on the way. This is urgent,” Khamis Zeydan said. His sharp blue eyes were pleading and his nicotine-stained mustache twitched.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, Jamie.” Omar Yussef took Khamis Zeydan a few paces away and put his arm around his friend’s back. “What’s going on?”
“Who’s the sheikh?”
“That’s Zuheir.”
Khamis Zeydan looked confused.
“My son,” Omar Yussef said. “He flew in from Britain a few days ago.”
The police chief raised his eyebrows and glanced toward the young man, who was now leaning close to Jamie King and speaking quickly. “By Allah, I’d never have recognized him. He’s changed.” He turned to Omar Yussef. “I have to go up to Amin Kanaan’s place.”
“The businessman?”
“I see you read the financial page. He lives in one of the mansions on Mount Jerizim.”
“Did something happen there? Something related to Ishaq’s death?”
“Whose death?”
“Ishaq, the son of the Samaritan priest. The Old Man’s financial adviser.”
Khamis Zeydan let his head roll back as though he’d just put together the pieces of a puzzle. “Sami, you silly boy,” he muttered.
“What?” Omar Yussef stepped back toward the couch. “Jamie, will you be staying in Nablus?”
“Until the end of the week. Unless I get any leads some-place else on—” she glanced at Khamis Zeydan and lowered her voice “—you know.”
“We’ll talk some more, I hope.”
King took a business card from her handbag. “My cell phone number is on there,” she said.
Omar Yussef slipped the card into his pocket. Its very touch felt incriminating and dangerous, as though the men who had beaten Sami would find it on him and punish him for intruding where a schoolteacher had no business. I should pass the American’s details on to Sami and be done with it, he thought. “Zuheir, I’ll see you at dinner, my son.” He waved and followed Khamis Zeydan to the lobby.
The police chief took his elbow and moved toward the door. “I arrived in Nablus an hour ago, but before I checked in here I went to police headquarters to see Sami.”
“So you saw, some thugs broke his arm.”
“Lucky for those bastards they didn’t try to break his head. They’d have wasted a lot of energy, because it’s hard as hell. He wouldn’t tell me what it was all about, but now I see.”
“You do?”
“You just told me.”
Omar Yussef first felt callow and unsophisticated, but then he was sad for his friend. Khamis Zeydan was so accustomed to the corruption of the Palestinian militias that he had immediately made the connection between Sami’s beating, his murder investigation, and Ishaq’s job managing the president’s money.
“After I left Sami,” Khamis Zeydan said, “I ran into Kanaan.”
“How do you know him?”
“From Beirut. Years ago, during the Lebanese Civil War.”
“He was a fighter like you?” Omar Yussef glanced at the prosthesis, encased in a black leather glove. It was a substitute for the hand Khamis Zeydan had lost to a grenade in Lebanon.
“That bastard never fought for anything but dirty contracts.” Khamis Zeydan looked about him as though he wanted a place to spit. “Unfortunately he saw me at the police headquarters.”
“So what?”
“He’ll tell his wife. She’ll know that I’m in town. I can’t come to Nablus and not visit her. She’d be offended.”
“Is she such a good friend?” Even as he said it, Omar Yussef knew how naive he sounded.
“Back in Beirut, she and I—” Khamis Zeydan coughed.
“But not any more?”
“It was before she married Kanaan. We were rivals for her.”
“Does he know?”
“Certainly he does, and he’s just the kind of bastard to tell her he saw me. I can hear him
now: ‘Your loverboy is in Nablus and he hasn’t even come to visit you. Maybe he never cared about you at all.’ That’d be just what he’d say.”
“Do you want to go up there to prevent her from feeling hurt, or to prove your rival wrong?”
“It doesn’t make a difference. The point is I can’t go up there alone.”
“From the standpoint of morality, you mean? A man and woman alone, particularly with such a romantic history? But surely she has servants who could be present, for propriety’s sake.”
Khamis Zeydan rocked his head from side to side indecisively. “I don’t trust myself,” he said, faintly. “She’s still very beautiful.”
Omar Yussef took a backward step and his mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t look at me like that, you moralizing bastard,” Khamis Zeydan said.
“You have a wife and children in Jordan.”
“I have nothing to hide. My marriage is crappy. My wife preferred to stay in Amman, when I accepted this job in Bethlehem. And my children always take their mother’s side.”
“Your son was good enough to come from Jordan to visit you last month.”
“My blood’s still boiling from all the arguments I had with him.”
Omar Yussef glanced back into the lounge where Zuheir talked animatedly to the American woman. If my son is as religious as I think he is, why is he sitting alone with a woman? Maybe he can’t stop himself from setting her straight, even though he would consider it more appropriate to ignore her presence.
He put his arm on Khamis Zeydan’s shoulder. “Your son takes after you,” he said. “Argumentative.”
“No, he’s just like his damned mother. He’s stupid and self-righteous and he never says what he really means.” Khamis Zeydan took Omar Yussef’s hand. “Please, let’s go.”
Omar Yussef felt like a sordid accomplice to adultery. But Ishaq’s wife had said that the dead man was working with Kanaan. This visit might be a good pretext to enter Kanaan’s home and see what he could uncover there to help Sami’s investigation.
The electronic bell of the elevator sounded and Nadia stepped into the lobby. “Uncle Khamis,” she called, running to the policeman. Khamis Zeydan gave her a hug. “I’m writing a detective story about Nablus and there’s a character based on you, Uncle Khamis.”
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