The Samaritan's Secret

by Matt Beynon Rees

  The men joined Sheikh Bader in proclaiming the greatness of Allah, swaying and stumbling in the crush. Omar Yussef was pressed against the metal shutters of a vegetable store. The horsemen maneuvered their bucking mounts through the crowd to the social club at the end of the square and dismounted. As they entered the building, they accepted the happy kisses of the men around them like the victors of a sporting event.

  As men followed the grooms into the social club, the throng in the square thinned out.

  Omar Yussef put his face close to Khamis Zeydan’s ear. “Did you hear anything about an autopsy on the Old Man?”

  “No. There never was an autopsy, as far as I heard,” Khamis Zeydan said. “But if the Old Man died of AIDS as Sheikh Bader implied, it’s conceivable the party chiefs would keep it even from senior officials like me.”

  “He has been rumored to have died that way.”

  “If such rumors were true, then famous people must have been immortal until that disease came along to strike them all down.”

  Omar Yussef shook his head. “We aren’t talking about a pop star or an actor. This was our president. People expect different morals from such a figure.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t glad to hear this news. You hated the Chief, after all.”

  “I didn’t hate him,” Omar Yussef said. “I thought his methods were distasteful, but so are yours, and I consider you my best friend.”

  “Thanks be to Allah.” Khamis Zeydan picked at his teeth.

  Sami linked his good arm around Khamis Zeydan’s elbow. “Are you coming to the party, or are you waiting for a ride on one of the horses?”

  Omar Yussef looked around the square. The posters and banners and music had been irresistibly exciting to the mob that now pressed into the Hamas social club. It’s just as the sheikh told me, he thought. This shows that Hamas is working for the people. And the old president’s purported death from AIDS is a perfect moral contrast.

  Sami and Khamis Zeydan moved toward the social club. Omar Yussef walked slowly to the dais where Sheikh Bader had stood. The horses had left neat piles of dark brown feces in a row before the platform. Omar Yussef wondered if the sheikh had seen the horses defecating, their tails lifted toward him as he gave his speech, or if he had smelled their dirt on the ground.

  He crossed the square and followed his friends into the social club.

  Chapter 13

  Sheikh Bader stood unmoving and silent at the head of the receiving line. He acknowledged each handshake with a slow blink and the deceptive calm of a cruel father daring his children to call down his outrage.

  Omar Yussef worked his way through the crush in the social club. The sheikh’s black eyebrows lowered when he spotted him.

  “A thousand congratulations, Our Honored Sheikh,” Omar Yussef said.

  Sheikh Bader’s hand was limp in Omar Yussef’s grasp. He inclined his head and whispered his welcome.

  “This was more than just the political rally I predicted.” Omar Yussef kept the sheikh’s hand in his and pulled him close. “This was very dangerous.”

  “Are you threatening me, ustaz?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m only a teacher in a United Nations school, and corporal punishment has been banned.”

  The sheikh’s nostrils twitched. “The danger is not in my statements. The danger is in our people’s leadership, which ignores the corruption and impropriety in its ranks.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” Omar Yussef laid a second hand across the sheikh’s fingers. “But if you’re wrong—”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “—there’ll be a price paid in violence. A backlash.”

  “Allah is named in the holy Koran as the Executor of Justice. He will protect me in this struggle.”

  Omar Yussef inhaled sharply. He was sure Khamis Zeydan was right to warn him off the case of the dead Samaritan, but the sheikh’s condescending certainty needled him and he had to strike back. “Maybe it’s in the name of Allah, the Executor of Justice, that you told Sami Jaffari to back off his investigation into the murder of Ishaq, the Samaritan?”

  The sheikh took back his hand with a tug and touched it to his beard.

  “Did Allah tell you about the three hundred million dollars in the possession of the dead Samaritan?” Omar Yussef jerked his jaw toward the sheikh, quivering with anger. O peace, schoolteacher, you can’t keep your mouth shut, can you? he thought.

  The haughtiness went out of Sheikh Bader’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your boy Nouri Awwadi knew Ishaq. Ishaq’s dead. You warned Sami away from the murder. So where’s the three hundred million dollars?” Omar Yussef sucked on his mustache. “See if you can figure it out, Our Honored Sheikh. Without the inspiration of Allah.”

  Sheikh Bader swallowed hard and reached for the extended arm of another well-wisher, who shouldered Omar Yussef gently aside.

  Omar Yussef breathed deeply and tried to calm himself. At the back of the crowded social club, he found Nouri Awwadi. The young man threw his thick arms wide and kissed Omar Yussef five times on the cheeks. His loose white wedding shirt smelled of the sweat he had shed keeping his anxious mount under control in the square, but his beard still gave off the scent of sandalwood. His big hands gripped the schoolteacher’s shoulders.

  “Welcome, dear ustaz Abu Ramiz. What did you think of the wedding ceremony, dear friend?”

  Omar Yussef’s laugh was rasping and cynical. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” he said. “I enjoy gossip.”

  Awwadi frowned. “You picked up some gossip?”

  “The sheikh broadcast it.”

  “That wasn’t gossip, ustaz.” Awwadi leaned in close to Omar Yussef. “That was based on documents, real evidence that Hamas has obtained.”

  “From where? From whom?”

  Awwadi smiled, but raised a warning finger. “Are you investigating the death of the Samaritan on the hilltop? Or are you investigating Hamas?”

  “I’m not a policeman. By Allah, the police force doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to investigate, anyway. But I’m naturally curious.”

  “Take my word for it, we have the proof.”

  “If I was going to take someone’s word for it, the sheikh’s would have sufficed.” Omar Yussef laid a hand on Awwadi’s deep chest. “Nouri, in the Arab world, you may not need proof to accuse people of certain things, but in this case it’s such a scandalous accusation that you’re really going to have to produce some evidence.”

  Awwadi waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone knows what killed the Old Man.”

  “No, everyone has a conspiracy theory. No one knows what actually killed him.”

  Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him through the crowd. He whispered to a brawny, bearded man at the door, whom Omar Yussef recognized as one of the gunmen he had seen watching over the sheikh at the mosque. The man handed an M-16 to Awwadi and stared blankly at Omar Yussef.

  Outside, a few small boys kicked a soccer ball against the shutters of the vegetable store where Omar Yussef had stood during the ceremony. The sun was at its zenith, but a raw wind whirled down from the mountain and ruffled the green banners on the clock tower. The metal shutters rattled and the football bounced through the horse dung by the dais, making the boys laugh. One of them rolled the ball back into the square and gave it a strong kick. His play-mates doubled over as the manure sprayed off the ball into the boy’s face. Omar Yussef followed Awwadi down the steps of the social club.

  “It was I who obtained this evidence for the sheikh,” Awwadi said, quietly.

  “How?”

  “On behalf of Hamas, I acquired files containing dirt on all the top Fatah men.” Awwadi glanced about him and shifted the weight of the M-16 across his chest. “You’re a friend of Sami Jaffari. He’s Fatah, but so far he’s pretty honest. The rest of them are crooks. You shouldn’t trust them. Certainly don’t listen to what they say about me.”

  “From whom did you buy the files? How do y
ou know they’re real?”

  “I got them from a Fatah guy. He gave them to me, because he was just like the rest of those people—all he cared about was getting what he wanted for himself, and even his own party could go to hell.”

  “It could be a plant.” Omar Yussef hugged himself against the cold wind.

  “Why would they plant information that’ll make them and their former leader look bad?” Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him into the alley beside the social club, sheltering from the wind. “Ustaz, most of the infor-mation we obtained was from the files of the Old Man himself. He kept scandal dossiers on everyone around him, so that if they ever became too popular or tried to confront him, he could blackmail them into submission.”

  “But the information about the president’s illness—that couldn’t have come from him.”

  “That was a little bonus thrown in by the man I did the deal with.”

  The metal door of the social club swung open. The wind caught it and it struck the wall with a heavy resonance. Awwadi stepped further into the darkness of the alley, pulling Omar Yussef after him. Khamis Zeydan appeared on the steps, lighting a cigarette. He scratched his head and called back inside. Sami emerged and the two walked toward the newer part of town.

  Omar Yussef watched Khamis Zeydan hurry down the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind. The police chief limped on his left foot. His diabetes is acting up, he thought.

  “Brigadier Khamis Zeydan. He’s with your friend Sami. Is Zeydan a friend of yours, too?” Awwadi murmured.

  Omar Yussef turned toward the young man. “Do you have a file of dirt on him?”

  Awwadi nodded. “Want to read it?”

  “I want to destroy it,” Omar Yussef said.

  “I thought you were a historian. These are the unofficial archives of Palestinian politics.”

  “They stink.”

  “So does Palestinian politics.”

  “Is there a file on Ishaq?”

  Awwadi clicked his tongue to signal a negative.

  Whatever this man reveals about these dirt files should hardly surprise me, Omar Yussef thought. What could they contain? Theft, rape, corruption? Murder? There’s no injustice that I wouldn’t believe those who rule over the Palestinian people to be capable of.

  “These aren’t just historical documents,” he said. “They could change the future, too. They could make it more bloody—cause a civil war between Fatah and Hamas.”

  “We’re in a civil war now. A long one, with some breaks so everyone can pretend it’s not their fault. But it’s a war anyway.” Awwadi came closer. “You ought to know the truth about these Fatah people who ruled us for so long. The things they’ve done, the shameful things. All the billions of dollars in aid our people received—wasted. Look at our town. We have no theater. We have no cinema. But the whole place is a circus. Thanks to the people whose names are in the files I obtained.”

  Even the board of the World Bank is about to come to that conclusion, Omar Yussef thought. But why must everyone in the Middle East who aims to right a wrong do so with violence? “How much did you pay for the files?”

  Awwadi shook his head.

  “A million dinars?” Omar Yussef stepped toward the big man. “What do you think will happen to the money you paid? You’re part of Fatah’s corruption now, don’t you see?”

  Awwadi’s eyes grew angry. “I didn’t pay Fatah anything. I made a trade. I gave them the Abisha Scroll.”

  “But the Samaritans showed me that scroll yesterday. Who gave it back to them?”

  “I gave the scroll to the Samaritans. There are Samaritans who’re in Fatah. It was one of them who gave me these dirt files.”

  “Ishaq,” Omar Yussef said.

  Awwadi exhaled. Omar Yussef smelled garlic on the man’s breath.

  “You stole the Abisha Scroll from the synagogue. Then you swapped the scroll for these dirt files,” Omar Yussef said.

  “If you say so.”

  “How did Ishaq come to have these files?”

  “They were the Old Man’s files. After he died, I figured Ishaq would be able to get them for me. If he didn’t have them, they might be in the possession of his friend Kanaan, who’d do anything Ishaq asked. So I stole the Abisha and forced him to give me the files in return for his people’s holy scroll. It was a good deal.”

  “You think so?” Omar Yussef stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Ishaq also had the Old Man’s secret account details. I imagine he feared people like you would try to track down the money. So he offered you these dirt files to throw you off the scent.”

  “This information is very valuable. I got a good deal.”

  “Is it worth three hundred million dollars?”

  Awwadi grunted, as though he’d taken a light punch in the stomach.

  “That’s how much Ishaq had stashed away for the Old Man. He pulled the wool over your eyes and now someone else is going to get the money. Maybe someone from Fatah already has it. That sort of cash could buy enough weapons to wipe out Hamas.”

  The younger man scratched his head angrily.

  Omar Yussef narrowed his eyes. “Is there a file on Amin Kanaan? Or his wife Liana?”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe they’re clean?” Awwadi sneered.

  What would my file look like, if anyone ever bothered to compile it? Omar Yussef wondered. I did some jail time when I was young. I can explain it, of course, but on paper it would be stark and accusing and make me look like a criminal. There’d be a record of my drinking days, things that I can’t even remember doing during my drunken blackouts. Files like this can’t tell you the essence of a person. They can only smear someone with a surface of filth.

  “Once a man has sinned, he ought to have the chance to redeem himself,” Omar Yussef said. “One of our Arab sages wrote that he who wishes to purify his soul can’t do it by a single day’s worship, nor can he prevent it by a single act of rebellion.”

  “I’ve read Ghazali, too, ustaz, and you’re leaving some-thing out. He concluded that one day’s abstention from virtue leads to another and, thus, the soul degenerates little by little.” Awwadi lifted his index finger. “The file on Khamis Zeydan didn’t get to be as bulky as it is from only a single day’s sinfulness.”

  “Stop it. He’s my friend.”

  “Maybe you don’t know enough about him to judge whether you ought to be his friend. The real Khamis Zeydan is the one in his dirt file, not the man you think is your friend.”

  “Where are the files?”

  Awwadi lifted his chin and shook his head. He stepped past Omar Yussef to return to the wedding hall. The motion reminded Omar Yussef of the way Awwadi had blocked his view of the cellar behind the horse’s stable at the Touqan Palace. It isn’t weapons you’ve cached in that cellar, he thought. You’ve got the files in there, haven’t you?

  Awwadi hesitated on the steps to the social club. “I’ll still see you tomorrow morning at the Turkish baths,” he called.

  Omar Yussef saw that the young man regretted their confrontation. He nodded and waved. He waited for Awwadi to enter the hall, and went into the casbah.

  Chapter 14

  Omar Yussef retraced the route he had taken with Awwadi through the vaulted alleys, until he once more breathed the dense sewage stink of Yasmina. The people of the casbah had gravitated to the Hamas wedding and the passages seemed emptier than ever. Omar Yussef recognized the small spice shop of the Mareh family, where Awwadi had stared down the hostile young man in the blue overalls. Though its entrance was locked, the shuddering hum of the electric grinders rose from a basement window and the dim air was clouded with the gray dust of crushed cardamom pods. Omar Yussef stopped to savor the bouquet. As he inhaled, he recalled a thousand delicate coffees flavored with this spice that he had shared with his good friends. Then he remembered the same odor on the breath of the masked thug who had slapped him and he looked down the alle
y to the next corner, wondering if that man waited for him there.

  He turned right and descended toward the Touqan Palace.

  Ishaq was with the Old Man at the end, when he died in Europe, he thought. Perhaps Ishaq knew what really killed the president. Could the young man have been murdered by someone in Fatah because he passed that knowledge on to Hamas?

  At the bottom of a sloping alley, he stopped. He was sure the Touqan Palace had been down here, but he had reached the end of the lane and hadn’t seen the tall gate of the old mansion. He retraced his steps and went right, assuming Awwadi’s home was on the next parallel street, but the alley led him diagonally up the hill. He cursed his sense of direction. He had to get to the Touqan Palace to examine that cellar before Awwadi left the wedding celebrations. That gave him little more than an hour. There might be many files to sort through, if he was right about Awwadi’s hiding place. Omar Yussef cared little about the leaders of Fatah and he could hardly destroy the entire set of files, even if he did manage to find them, without bringing down the wrath of Hamas. But he wanted to protect Khamis Zeydan, to find his file and dispose of it.

  Here you are, running around like a rat in a maze, he thought, as he checked his watch. The clock’s ticking and you’re wasting time wandering these old alleys.

  He felt sure the palace had been lower on the hillside, so he cut into a smaller alley and dropped down some steps. He sniffed. The drainage scent seemed less ripe here. Had he taken a wrong turn and left Yasmina altogether?

  He came to the head of a flight of steps, which descended beneath a dingy vault, and noticed the capital of a Roman column built into the base of the wall. It was worn almost beyond recognition. Omar Yussef bent to touch its rough, knotty surface.

  Something whipped through the air above him and struck the wall with a sudden hiss. His hand still on the ancient stone, he glanced behind him. That was a bullet, he thought. What have I walked into?

  He stood, and another bullet cut away a chunk of the Roman capital, spraying dust onto his shoes. In the alley behind him, he heard feet approaching fast. Only one pair of boots, he thought. I haven’t stumbled into a gunfight. Someone’s after me.