Matt Rees - The Samaritan's secret

“I’m impressed that she’s already reading in English,” King said.

Nadia flashed the cover of her book at Omar Yussef. He only had time to notice that it was by a man named Chandler. “Miss King is going to help me to write a novel in the style of my favorite American detective writer,” she said. “I started it today, because I was bored waiting for my grandfather to come and take me to eat qanafi. ”

Omar Yussef gave a thin smile. The waiter brought a small coffee cup and set it on the low table. “May Allah bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said.

“Blessings,” the waiter said, putting a plastic ashtray and a glass of water beside the coffee cup.

“Nablus is famous for qanafi, Miss King,” Nadia said. “It’s a very sweet dessert made with wheat and cheese and- Grandpa, what do you call fustoq halabi in English?”

Omar Yussef scratched his chin. “I don’t know. Aleppo peanuts?”

From behind his hand, Zuheir murmured: “Pistachios.”

“Ah, pistachios. Nablus is famous for this dessert and for making soap in old factories in the casbah. They make the soap out of olive oil.” Nadia giggled. “If my grandfather ever takes me out of this hotel, I expect to find the people of Nablus are very fat and very clean.”

“What’s the title of the book you’re writing, Nadia, my darling?” Omar Yussef asked.

“ The Curse of the Casbah. ” Nadia shared a smile with Jamie King.

Omar Yussef noticed that the American tapped her finger impatiently against her chair, despite her grin. “That sounds exciting,” he said.

“The murder victim in my book is going to be killed with poisoned qanafi. ”

Omar Yussef tasted his coffee. Its bitterness pleased him, but it was too weak, so the grounds floated in it, instead of sinking to the bottom. He turned to frown at the waiter, but the man was leaning on his elbows, staring at his newspaper.

He twisted toward the American. “Miss King, I believe I saw you on the road today,” he said. “Do you work for the World Bank?”

“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.”