The Fourth Assassin: An Omar Yussef Mystery

by Matt Beynon Rees

  She’s Lebanese, Omar Yussef thought. The Israelis wouldn’t let someone from an enemy state live in Bethlehem.

  He reached for Nizar’s hand. “My boy, tell me one thing more. What happened to Ismail?”

  Nizar registered a reluctant flicker of distaste, like a parched man who finds a fly in his water. “He left Palestine after we were released from the Israeli jail.”

  Omar Yussef scratched his neck and wished he could find time to shave. “I’m sure I saw him the other day at the UN conference, with the Lebanese delegation.”

  Nizar straightened, his features sharp and nervous.

  To be an Assassin is no longer a game, a schoolroom entertainment, Omar Yussef thought. Nizar turned out to be a murderer.

  What might Ismail be capable of?

  Chapter 27

  The bodyguard ran his hands down Omar Yussef’s slack torso and bony legs. He looked hard at the schoolteacher with brown eyes that had all the warmth of a mud brick and twitched his neck to signal that he could enter the president’s suite. Inside, the Palestinian delegation loitered about the long conference table and lounged in the armchairs by the window, watching the cherry-red taillights of the cars on the 59th Street Bridge disappear into the snow. Cigarette smoke choked the room.

  From the sofa, the former schools inspector, Haitham Abdel Hadi, rose to fill his coffee cup from a silver thermos on the sideboard. He wore a cheap suit the vibrant burgundy of a baboon’s bottom. He turned a nasty yellow smile on Omar Yussef.

  “You look tired, Abu Ramiz,” he said. “Have you been out on the town?” He rattled his cup in its saucer and covered his eyes, miming a hangover. The men in the armchairs—the justice minister and the chief peace negotiator—laughed. Abdel Hadi turned to them. “Our friend Abu Ramiz here is an old soak. He claims to have cleaned up.”

  “That’s right,” Omar Yussef said. “No matter how worthless something may appear, I always believe in the possibility of reform—for individuals, as well as for corrupt governments.”

  The ministers stroked their neckties over their fat bellies and glanced nervously at the surly chief of secret police, who was smoking a cigarette at the conference table. Colonel Yazid Khatib’s head was bald and bony, and at the moment it was lowered slightly, as though he were preparing to batter forward with it. His eyes were still and menacing beneath surprisingly pretty, long lashes. They had the attentive, restrained malevolence of a Canaan watchdog prowling an olive grove.

  Khatib must be in the U.S. to meet his CIA contacts, Omar Yussef thought, the ones who train his goons in torture and assassination—the SWAT teams making the arrests that prompted Islamic Jihad to try to kill the president. Suddenly it was obvious to him that the president’s speech would be so much hot air. The real business on this visit would be carried out by Khatib. It would be dirty and do no good for the Palestinian people.

  Khamis Zeydan took Omar Yussef’s elbow, drew him away from the other men, and whispered, “Stay quiet and show respect. Imagine you’re a student in your classroom. Whatever you do, don’t lose your temper.”

  Omar Yussef threw off his friend’s hand. “I’m in control,” he said.

  “Screw your mother. You don’t even recognize when you’re losing it,” Khamis Zeydan hissed.

  “Let’s go.”

  They went through a door off the lounge. The president sat on the edge of an armchair, reading a slim file and drinking tea from a white porcelain cup. A young aide with thinning black hair greeted Khamis Zeydan with a few muttered words and offered a clammy handshake to Omar Yussef.

  Buttoning the jacket of his brown business suit as he came to his feet, the president shook hands and wished each man a quiet welcome. “Greetings,” he murmured to Omar Yussef, leading him to the dark red couch.

  Omar Yussef had feared that he would be swept into the brisk, unforgivingly businesslike atmosphere that chiefs usually cultivated. But in his gold-rimmed spectacles and sober suit, the president seemed more like a bank manager than a politician. He unbuttoned his suit and settled into his armchair. The jacket rode up around his shoulders as he rested his chin on his fingers. His eyebrows were black, his short mustache gray. His cheeks were a pale olive color that suggested weak health, and the skin of his neck was loose over the white collar of his shirt.

  “Greetings,” he repeated.

  “Double greetings,” Omar Yussef whispered in response.

  Khamis Zeydan lit a Rothmans. “Abu Raji, forgive me for speaking bluntly—”

  “On which occasion? I don’t remember a time when you prevaricated.” The president laughed, and his aide slapped his hand on the file that rested over his knees.

  “There’s a significant threat to your life, we believe,” Khamis Zeydan said.

  The smile faded from the president’s face. His fingers slipped over his mouth and played in his mustache.

  “We’ve broken an Islamic Jihad cell here in New York. Their hit man is still out there.”

  “I’m sure he’ll try to strike during your speech at the UN,” Omar Yussef said. “The cell uses the motif of the medieval Assassins in its communications. The Assassins used to carry out their operations in public. They attacked sultans and caliphs when they were in procession or praying at a mosque. I believe these modern Assassins will do the same thing, and the UN is the most public stage in the world.”

  “I’m a leader. There’s always someone who wants to shed my blood,” the president said.

  “Because you have other people’s blood on your hands.” Omar Yussef held up his palm. “Even if it was only left there by the hands you agreed to shake.”

  The president cleared his throat. “We haven’t been introduced, brother—”

  “Abu Ramiz. He’s part of the UN delegation.” Khamis Zeydan laid his good hand on Omar Yussef’s knee. The strong pressure from his fingers was a command for restraint. “I told you about his son, who’s being held by the American police.”

  “Greetings, Abu Ramiz,” the president said. “Remember, you shook my hand, too.”

  “I’ve been covered in blood since I arrived in New York.”

  Khamis Zeydan grimaced at his friend, then leaned across the glass coffee table. “Abu Raji, I’ve interrogated a member of the Jihad cell. I, too, believe they’ll try to get you at the UN. We have only a day to track down the assassin before your speech. It’s not enough time. You have to postpone.”

  The president shrugged beneath the bunched shoulders of his suit. “How would it look if I just went home? What would people say?” He shook his head slowly. The loose skin of his neck rolled around the knot of his tie.

  “What would they say if you didn’t come back at all?” Omar Yussef said. “More to the point, whom would they shoot? Whom would they arrest or lynch? What buildings would they burn to the ground?”

  “It’s a risk I must take.”

  “The risk is someone else’s in the end. Our society will be destroyed because of your pride.”

  The president fingered the buttonhole in his lapel. “I remind you it’s my life we’re talking about.”

  “Many lives are at stake. There’ll be a civil war if you’re killed. That’s what Islamic Jihad wants. Do you think they care so much about you personally?”

  Khamis Zeydan grabbed Omar Yussef’s hand again, but the schoolteacher pushed him away. “Let go of me,” he said.

  “Are you sure you aren’t more concerned for your little crew of Assassins than for the president?” Khamis Zeydan muttered into Omar Yussef’s ear. “You’re too emotional. Stop it.”

  “These terrorists want to show that I don’t represent the Middle East, because I came to New York to work with the Americans,” the president said. “They want to destroy our coordination with Washington. Look, I told the American president I’d make a statement about the peace process at the UN. I can’t let him down—”

  “But that’s not why you’re—”

  The president raised his voice above Omar Yussef’s objec
tion. “—no matter what the risks are.”

  May Allah save me from the self-importance of politicians, Omar Yussef thought. “It isn’t your talks with the U.S. that make you a target,” he said. “It’s the ties of your secret police chief to the CIA—the training his special forces receive in interrogation and killing.”

  “Colonel Khatib? His work is vital. We can’t police Palestine just by handing out parking tickets, you know.”

  “The people want a decent police force, and Khatib gives them gangsters and the gun.”

  The aide tapped his wristwatch with his forefinger.

  The president turned his teacup carefully, aligning the hotel logos on the saucer and on the rim of the cup. “It’s my job to speak at the UN tomorrow, and that’s what I intend to do.” He raised his eyes to Khamis Zeydan. “Abu Adel, I expect you to help protect me and share this information about Islamic Jihad with Colonel Khatib. As for you, ustaz Abu Ramiz, you have a speech to make at this conference, too, I gather. Perhaps it’s you they really want to assassinate?” The president laughed heartily and held out his hand to his aide for a big, loud slap. “Would that start a civil war?”

  “I imagine not,” Omar Yussef said. “But that isn’t because no one would wish to avenge me. The difference between me and you is that no one would celebrate my death.”

  The president’s laughter halted, and he fiddled with his glasses. He rose and shook hands with his two visitors.

  They left the room. When Khamis Zeydan had closed the door behind them, he bared his teeth and grabbed Omar Yussef near the top of his arm. “Didn’t I tell you to keep calm?”

  “He was determined to speak at the UN. It made no difference what I said,” Omar Yussef whispered.

  Khamis Zeydan glared around the lounge. The ministers and their aides dropped their eyes, but the chief of secret police stared back, his expression sullen and blank.

  Chapter 28

  Abdel Hadi rattled his coffee cup again in imitation of a shaky drunk and sniggered. Omar Yussef stared at him and muttered, “May Allah curse your father, you son of a whore.” Khamis Zeydan shoved his friend toward the exit of the president’s suite.

  The door came open sharply, and Hamza Abayat staggered through it, bracing himself against the dining table. Colonel Khatib pulled his heavy body straight in his chair and slipped his hand inside his shapeless black leather jacket.

  Hamza surveyed the room with wide unfocused eyes. One of the president’s bodyguards followed him through the door and shoved the police I.D. he’d been examining into Hamza’s pocket. A cut over the detective’s eyebrow dribbled blood across his temple.

  “Hamza, what happened?” Omar Yussef said.

  “Nizar knocked me out.” Breathless, Hamza winced as he touched his swollen brow.

  Khamis Zeydan laid his hand on Hamza’s back. “Where is he?”

  “Gone, pasha,” Hamza said. “He jumped me at the elevator. I think he knocked me out cold with a flowerpot—it was on the floor when I came to. I went to the lobby, but I couldn’t find him.”

  Omar Yussef dabbed the cut on Hamza’s forehead with his handkerchief. A blue bruise swelled around it, lengthening the split in the skin.

  “I got one of the police officers detailed to the hotel during the conference to wait in your room, Abu Ramiz,” Hamza slurred, “in case Nizar returns.” He stumbled to the phone on the sideboard and dialed the 68th Precinct.

  “What’s this fugitive supposed to have done?” Colonel Khatib spoke from behind hands cupped to light a new cigarette.

  Khamis Zeydan watched the secret police chief with blank reserve and spoke slowly. “He was helping us track someone down.”

  “Allah is the only one whose help can be relied upon.” Colonel Khatib took a tissue from a box on the table and blew his nose. He tossed the wet pink ball toward a burgundy leather wastebasket beside Khamis Zeydan.

  The tissue landed at Khamis Zeydan’s feet. He kicked it away and glared at Khatib.

  “We can’t afford sloppiness.” Khatib made his eyes burn at Khamis Zeydan. “You’re only an adviser on security. I’m the real protection. If there’s a danger to the president, I want to hear about it.”

  Omar Yussef pointed a finger toward Khatib. “If any harm comes to the president from these assassins, it’ll be because of you. You’re a thug and you’re corrupt.”

  “What assassins?” Khatib said, his voice low and rumbling.

  “In America, a man like you would be in jail,” Omar Yussef said. “In the Arab world, you’re the recipient of hundreds of thousands of dollars in American aid. Ordinary Arabs hate America for supporting our rulers when they do things that would carry a life sentence in the U.S. The president is hated because of your torture squads and your thugs.”

  Colonel Khatib slammed his hands on the table and pushed his chair back to rise. Khamis Zeydan grabbed the man’s heavy shoulder. “Did you finish your call, Hamza?” he said.

  The detective nodded.

  “Then let’s take Abu Ramiz to his room.”

  Colonel Khatib subsided into his chair and resumed his sullen smoking.

  Omar Yussef hurried along the corridor to keep pace with Khamis Zeydan, wincing with each step on his injured ankle. “Do you think Nizar escaped because he didn’t trust Hamza to get him immunity?”

  “Could be.”

  They came to Omar Yussef’s room. He pulled the key card from his pocket. “Maybe he escaped because he still intends to take part in the assassination,” he said. “The medieval Assassins employed the doctrine of taqiyya. It allowed them to deny their faith if that helped them carry out their missions. When he told us about losing his belief in Islam and rejecting the ideology of Islamic Jihad, perhaps he was just engaging in taqiyya.”

  “An interesting theoretical question. You can write an academic paper on it for The Journal of Things You Remembered Too Late to Be of Use.” Khamis Zeydan pushed open Omar Yussef’s door.

  A uniformed police officer turned toward them, reading the Metro Muslim. “The guy didn’t come back, Sergeant,” he said to Hamza.

  Hamza slumped into a chair by the minibar, his face pale and tired. Khamis Zeydan took his hand. “We’re leaving. You and I have work to do.”

  The detective and the uniformed man went into the corridor. Omar Yussef made to follow them, but Khamis Zeydan blocked his way.

  “Not you. Your little display of moral outrage with Colonel Khatib is about all I can take from you,” Khamis Zeydan said.

  “Someone needs to tell that bastard the truth.”

  “The important thing to remember is that he’s a bastard, and bastards have their uses. I need him today to ensure that the president is safe. After the speech tomorrow morning, I’ll have time to debate human rights and justice in Palestine with you. Until then, I’m all business, and I want you to go across the avenue to the UN conference as if everything was normal.”

  Omar Yussef slapped his palm to his thigh in irritation.

  Khamis Zeydan laid a hand on his chest. “My dear old friend, you have my cell-phone number. If you see anything unusual at the conference, call me. There’s nothing you can do to help the security operation now. Your job is finished, and I want you out from under my feet.”

  He gave Omar Yussef three kisses on his cheeks and closed the door behind him.

  Omar Yussef sat on the edge of the bed. He took his diary from his suitcase, found Ala’s phone number, and dialed. “Ala, my son, greetings. It’s Dad.”

  “Double greetings, Dad.” The boy’s voice was quiet and somber.

  “I’m at the hotel.” He had intended to tell his son what he had learned from Nizar, but Ala sounded so burdened that he only warned him: “Nizar is on the loose. He was in custody, but he escaped. Bolt your door, and don’t open it to him.”

  “If I opened the door, he’d find nothing here anyway. I’m packing. I already booked a ticket on your flight.”

  “But he’s a killer. He confessed to murdering Rashid,
and Rania’s father.”

  “Like I said, he’ll find nothing here. Good luck with your speech, Dad.” Ala hung up.

  The emptiness in his son’s voice shocked Omar Yussef. He realized how deep was the void that had been left within Ala when he had lost Rania. Don’t look for a woman who lights you on fire, he thought. She may just as easily douse your flames, and then she has only consumed you.

  Outside his window, the blue glass of the UN building glimmered in the dull morning light. Omar Yussef slouched to the bathroom, showered, shaved, and fussed with the tendrils of white hair that he combed across his bald scalp. The mirror steamed up. It wouldn’t stay clear even after he rubbed cold water across its surface. He felt as though he had been hit in the head as hard as Hamza: no matter where he looked, his vision was obscured.

  Chapter 29

  The morning session at the conference was an emotional parade of pledges to finance schools and clinics in the refugee camps of Palestine, which convinced few among the UN staff that the money would ever be forthcoming. From his seat beside Magnus Wallander in the observers’ section, Omar Yussef stared across the hall of the Economic and Social Council toward the Lebanese delegation. Ismail’s place remained empty until shortly before the lunch break, when the boy entered through the double doors. He joined his colleagues at their long desk, whispered a few words to the man beside him, who covered a snigger with his hands, then set to taking notes on the speeches.

  Omar Yussef tapped Magnus Wallander on the arm. “Back soon,” he whispered.

  He padded across the thin green carpet in the gallery at the back of the conference hall and waited in an empty seat a few rows behind the Lebanese delegates. When the Egyptian chairman wearily mumbled that the proceedings would recommence after a two-hour break for lunch and slapped down his gavel, Omar Yussef stepped toward the boy who had once been his pupil.

  He found Ismail in conversation with the tall Iranian representative whose round collar and trim beard he remembered from the opening reception. They spoke in a language Omar Yussef didn’t understand, and he realized that Ismail must have learned Farsi. You don’t just pick that up in Lebanon, he thought. He’s been with Iranians, maybe the Revolutionary Guards that Rania said were stationed in the Bekaa Valley. Ismail’s companion gave him an affectionate stroke on the cheek and slipped away.