Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

“They really did hit you hard on the head. You’ve lost all sense of reality.”

The spots cleared from Omar Yussef’s eyes and he sat upright. “They knocked my head clean out of Gaza,” he said. “I’m thinking the way people think out there in the real world, not as they do in this madhouse.”

Khamis Zeydan shook his head and lit a Rothman’s.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Omar Yussef said. “I feel nauseous.”

Khamis Zeydan hesitated, stared at the cigarette, horrified to forgo its nicotine, then stubbed it into the ashtray by the bed. He drummed his fingers against the nightstand and jiggled his knee up and down. Omar Yussef thought it might be less irritating just to let the man smoke.

Cree took a swig of whisky. “I think you’re correct, Abu Ramiz. Your summary of our options is right on the nose.”

Khamis Zeydan stared at Cree, incredulously. “I’m not sure which one of you is more badly concussed.”

“They hit me at least twice, but I’d be willing to bet that I’ve got a thicker skull than Abu Ramiz.” Cree laughed and toasted Khamis Zeydan.

The Bethlehem police chief poured himself a drink from the bottle on the desk beside Cree. “Look, when you two were out cold, I confess that I had the same thought as you, Abu Ramiz. But I discussed the reality of what you’re suggesting with Sami. He understands Gaza best. That’s why I know your idea’s crazy.”

Omar Yussef put his hand on Sami’s lean forearm. “What’s he talking about?”

Sami grinned. His teeth were discolored but healthy, and it was a sympathetic smile. “I’ve heard from the guys in the Saladin Brigades that Lieutenant Fathi Salah had gone to meet Odwan late that night in Rafah when he was killed.”

“To meet him? Not to arrest him?”

“To meet. The Saladin Brigades people in Rafah wouldn’t tell me much, because I’m tight with their outfit here in Gaza City and there’s a big rivalry between the two wings,” Sami said. “But I managed to get a little information out of them. They’re adamant that Odwan didn’t kill Salah.”

“Who would have framed him?”

Sami shrugged and looked at Khamis Zeydan.

The Brigadier nodded. “There would be so many candidates, so many enemies for a man like Odwan. There are rival smugglers down in Rafah. Then the security forces, which want to make trouble so they can get bigger budgets. Gaza’s in a state of anarchy. You can see that from your window by the guard General Husseini has outside his home.”

“He has extra soldiers there tonight. I saw them arrive.”

Khamis Zeydan glanced at Sami. “These military men are all fighting for power,” Sami said. “Particularly General Husseini and Colonel al-Fara.”

“Sami, there’s a rivalry, you said, between the Saladin Brigades in Rafah and in Gaza City?” Omar Yussef frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re the same organization in name alone, Abu Ramiz,” Sami said. “They’re arguing over the profits from weapons smuggled under the Egyptian border. Parts for missiles are the big thing at the moment. In Rafah, the Brigades leaders say that they’re the ones who bring in the weapons, so they should get the majority of the money. The Gaza City gang says it faces a greater risk of Israeli attack, so the big money should come to them.”

Omar Yussef took another drink of water. It no longer tasted cool like the mountains. It was lukewarm and there was a bitter aftertaste. He put his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s forearm. “It’s strange. When the gunman hit me on the head, I remembered what you told me in the breakfast room, about each crime in Gaza being connected to every other apparently separate offense. Could there be a connection between the case of Eyad Masharawi and Magnus’s kidnapping?”

Khamis Zeydan scoffed and drank his whisky.

“I was walking home from Professor Maki’s place,” Omar Yussef said. “The gunmen who did the kidnapping came down Maki’s street after me.”

“Are you saying the professor set up the kidnapping? Come on. Those same gunmen were here at the hotel while you were out,” Khamis Zeydan said.

“Here?”

“While you were still dining with Professor Maki, they came into the lobby. Sami was sitting there making eyes at the pretty receptionist, and he saw them come in a little after nine. Some of them spoke to the desk clerk and went upstairs. Then they left. Sami checked what they wanted. It turns out they asked the desk clerk what rooms the Swede and the other UN schools inspector were in.”

“We need to see this Odwan,” Omar Yussef said.

“You want to break him out of jail?” Khamis Zeydan said, pouring another glass of Scotch.

“We’ll have to ask General Husseini to let us interview him.”

“If you ask politely, why not?”

Omar Yussef was angry with his friend’s poor humor and the whisky scent in the room that made him wish for a forbidden drink. “His home is just across the street. Why don’t you stroll over and ask him? You’re buddies with all these bastards. Husseini’s on the Revolutionary Council, and so are you. Give him the secret handshake.”

Khamis Zeydan looked hard at his Scotch. “The secret handshake usually has ten thousand dollars in it, at least.”

“I could try to set up a meeting with General Husseini,” Sami said. He turned to Khamis Zeydan. “I don’t want you to risk involvement in this affair, Abu Adel. It would be dangerous for you. Politically.”

Khamis Zeydan slugged down his whisky. He tapped the empty glass against his prosthetic hand and shrugged.

“I know a few people close to Husseini,” Sami said. He put a hand on Omar Yussef’s leg. “I warn you, General Husseini is a really bad type. Obviously he’s a liar and a thief-that goes without saying. But Husseini is also a sadist. He personally tortures some of his prisoners, for his own entertainment. He likes to slice off the tips of a prisoner’s fingers and wrench out the fingernails. At the prison, they call it a Husseini Manicure.”

Omar Yussef linked his fingers and rested them on his belly. He pressed them tightly together so no one would see his hands shaking. This was no longer a matter of a misunderstanding at the university, or even a case of a vindictive, corrupt boss punishing a whistleblower. It had extended into kidnapping and murder. His friend’s life was in danger. He remembered his sense on the road into Gaza City, when the UN car passed the coffin of Fathi Salah, that death was pursuing him. He felt the dead man’s breath cold on his neck.

“The Husseini Manicure,” Khamis Zeydan said, refilling his tumbler with whisky. “He started that back in Beirut during the civil war. I knew the bastard well at that time. We both worked on the Old Man’s personal staff. Husseini was dirty, cruel and corrupt even then.”

“He must have fit right in,” Omar Yussef said. He stared at Khamis Zeydan. The police chief met the stare, rolling the Scotch around in his glass.

Cree poured another long glass of whisky. “Before the gunmen stopped our car, Magnus said to me, ‘Oh, look, it’s Abu Ramiz.’ There you were, hurrying toward us with your arms waving.” He drank slowly. “It was as though you knew what was about to happen.”

“The gunmen stopped me a few minutes before on the street,” Omar Yussef said. “They said they were on a mission. When I saw your car heading toward them, I thought you might be in danger. I was trying to warn you.”

Cree swilled the whisky around in his cheek and was silent, but he kept his gaze on Omar Yussef.

“So you don’t trust me, now?” Omar Yussef raised his voice. “You think I tipped the gunmen off, pointed out your car, made sure they didn’t grab the wrong UN people? Of course, and then they bashed me on the head to make it look like it wasn’t a set-up.”