Matt Rees - The Fourth Assassin

“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 objection. “-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.

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.”