Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

The guard brought them to the table and resumed his place at the door. A youth in olive fatigues asked if they wanted coffee or tea. He was bony and, high on his cheeks, there was the kind of purple acne that works deep beneath the skin. His uniform was unmarked by any insignia of rank, even the lowest. He retreated with their order through a door that led to a short passage.

Three men appeared in the passage. Omar Yussef could see only their silhouettes, but he guessed that the short one in the middle was General Husseini. He spoke into a cellular phone and walked with the slow, absent paces of a man who’d forgotten that he could talk just as well sitting down. Husseini reached the big room. The two men with him took up their posts on either side of the door. They were tall, but only one of them, a shaven-headed, heavy man who breathed through his mouth, watched the new arrivals like a bodyguard. The other folded his delicate hands over a clipboard and rested his chin on his chest. He was evidently Husseini’s aide de camp.

Husseini waved to acknowledge that he would soon finish on the phone. He was doing more listening than talking and he stared intently into the dust storm, as though whatever the man on the other end of the line was telling him about might emerge from the cloud in front of the window. He was shorter than Omar Yussef, who was himself not quite five feet seven. He wore an olive battle shirt, which must have been specially tailored to accommodate his rotund belly, and pants that were tucked into tall, maroon parachutist’s boots. His fingers were stubby, thick and hairy and his skin was the color of a baked potato. He turned from the window, flipped the cellphone shut, stroked his trim gray mustache thoughtfully, then opened his arms wide in greeting. He had a broad, avaricious smile and eyes like pebbles in the rain.

General Husseini kissed Sami five times, puckering his thick lips and closing his eyes with pleasure. In between each kiss, he uttered a greeting. Sami introduced Cree and Omar Yussef. Husseini shook Cree’s hand and pulled it low, so the Scotsman knew to bend for the kisses. When the kisses were over, Husseini kept Cree’s hand low. He chuckled and, with his free hand, brushed some dried blood from Cree’s ginger mustache. The Scot looked deeply embarrassed. Omar Yussef was glad he’d taken the opportunity to shower, instead of drinking through the night.

“Don’t worry, I heard about your troubles from the brother Sami,” Husseini said. His reedy voice was quiet, cloying and cajoling, as though he were calming a nervous animal.

Omar Yussef wondered how close the brother Sami was to this man. He thought of the Husseini Manicure as the general took his hand and delivered three kisses. Husseini’s lips left a wet dab on Omar Yussef’s right cheek. The general caressed his guest’s bruised temple, gently, moaning with his tenor of reassuring sweet-talk. He led Omar Yussef by the hand to the table and pulled out a chair for him. The coffee boy brought the drinks and Husseini nodded to him curtly, signaling it was time for the food.

“The brother Sami tells me you’re a respected man in Bethlehem, Abu Ramiz.” Husseini smiled.

Omar Yussef nodded, modestly.

“Do you know my local commander there?” the general asked.

“Major Qawasmeh?”

“He’s a colonel. But, yes, Qawasmeh is his name.”

“I haven’t met him.” Omar Yussef knew this was a warning, a reminder that Husseini’s power reached beyond Gaza to Bethlehem and that Omar Yussef’s family could be threatened there.

“He’s a good man. A strong man.” Husseini sat forward in his chair and bounced a little in excitement. “I like strong men. They don’t drop any of the things I ask them to lift. Unless I tell them to do so.” The general laughed. The low wheedling voice surrendered to a high-pitched squawk, like a parrot disturbed from its perch. “And so long as they aren’t strong enough to lift me.” He slapped his fat stomach and reached out a hand for Sami to give him five.

The coffee boy brought a platter big enough to hold a small child. It was loaded with hummus and ground lamb. With a rolling sensation in his stomach, Omar Yussef realized that the hummus and meat was mixed with tiny gobs of lamb fat that were almost invisible in the chickpea paste. Cree held his hand to his mouth; Omar Yussef could tell that the Scot had been treated to this particular dish at some previous breakfast and was now regretting the whisky.

General Husseini stood next to the coffee boy and scooped copious portions of the meaty hummus onto his guests’ plates with a wide, flat spoon. As Omar Yussef ate, he fought to maintain an expression of pleasure on his face.

“Mister Cree, I apologize on behalf of all Gazans for the scandalous assault against you and your colleagues,” Husseini said.

Cree’s mouth was full of hummus. It looked like it might take some time for him to swallow, so he just nodded gravely.

“We also have seen the outrageous accusations of the Saladin Brigades against my Military Intelligence in this leaflet they released after the kidnapping.” Husseini scowled and waved his hands dismissively. “I want to assure you, we shall not rest until we have freed your friend, our friend-”

“Magnus Wallender,” Sami whispered.

“Our friend Wallender.”

Omar Yussef swallowed a bite of the breakfast. He thought he’d better talk, to get his mind off the food and his stomach. “Mister Cree would very much like to talk to Bassam Odwan.”

“A deadly criminal. I cannot allow it.”

“The United Nations wishes to aid your investigation in any way that it can.”

“Odwan didn’t kidnap your UN man.”

“But his friends did.”

“So you should talk to his friends, not to him.”

“Perhaps he can help us reach his friends.”

“Do you think we haven’t asked him the same questions?” Husseini smiled broadly around the table.

“He may find Mister Cree a more neutral figure.”

“How can anyone be neutral in a question of murder? This Odwan fellow killed one of my best officers in cold blood.”

Cree cleared his throat. “There’s a team arriving later this afternoon from the United Nations office in Jerusalem. They’ll negotiate for the hostage, of course, at a very high level. But they consider it important that no time is wasted while they’re en route to Gaza. They asked me to secure a meeting with Odwan.”

Omar Yussef hadn’t heard about the negotiators. It must have been decided during Cree’s phone call, while Omar Yussef slept. It was another card for him to play with Husseini. “The UN negotiators know that you’re the most trusted of Palestinian security chiefs among the foreign diplomats stationed in Tel Aviv,” Omar Yussef said.

Husseini looked interested.

“This is a great opportunity for you to boost that position still further,” Omar Yussef said.

Cree managed to get some more hummus down. “We’re coordinating the response to the hostage situation with the American ambassador, because the Americans have the best contacts on the ground with your security forces. Their ambassador’s most interested to hear your ideas,” he said.

Husseini closed his gray eyes and nodded slowly. “I am a good friend of the ambassador.” The pleasure on his face suggested that the general was visualizing a convivial supper with the ambassador at his residence overlooking the beach in Herzliya Pituach. Omar Yussef wondered if Husseini coveted that connection for the kickbacks it would bring or for the power of the ambassador’s favorite to brutalize and kill his enemies with impunity.

“The ambassador values you as a friend and wishes you to have all the aid you need to conduct your operations,” Cree said.