Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

All the aid, Omar Yussef thought. In a suitcase or wired to a Swiss bank.

Husseini bowed. “I shall call to let him know the progress of our investigation into this important case.”

“He’ll be waiting for your call, eagerly.”

“And the Swedes?”

Omar Yussef almost smiled. Husseini had the Americans and the UN promising him backhanders and the prestige of their connections, but he didn’t hesitate to squeeze a little more.

“The Swedish ambassador has communicated to my superiors that he, too, wants your assistance very much,” Cree said. “He’s prepared to cover the costs of any operation you undertake to secure the release of Mister Wallender.”

Husseini took a pickle from a sideplate and crunched it. “Odwan is held at the Saraya, our central jail. It’s an easy matter for you to see him. I only request that you should not be taken in by this man. You are intelligent fellows, but you are not police officers. It takes years of police work to face a deadly criminal and not to fall for his tricks. Don’t believe anything he says.”

“We can meet him? Thank you,” Cree said.

“What’s your understanding of the events that led to Lieutenant Fathi Salah’s death?” Omar Yussef asked.

Husseini cleaned his plate with a wedge of pita and gave a pensive belch. “Lieutenant Salah went to arrest this Odwan for his smuggling activities. We can’t allow weapons to come under the Egyptian border unchecked, as has sometimes been the situation in Rafah. When Lieutenant Salah confronted Odwan, the criminal resisted and killed Salah.”

“How was Odwan eventually arrested?”

“He gave himself up, when my men went to his family home an hour after the incident.”

“Why did he give himself up?”

“He’s a coward.”

“If he was prepared to kill Salah to avoid arrest,” Omar Yussef said, “why would he give himself up only an hour later?”

“He was confronted with overwhelming force. I told my commanders not to take any chances. I went to Rafah to take personal control of the operation. I ordered all my forces to the scene, even from Khan Yunis and Deir el-Balah.” Husseini gave the parrot squawk once more. “If someone had raided the jail here in Gaza City that night, they would have found it guarded by no one except this coffee boy.”

The pimply boy shuffled from foot to foot, glaring. He looked at Husseini as though he’d love to be the only guard at the prison, with the general as the sole inmate.

“I made sure the Saladin Brigades couldn’t oppose the operation, because I brought such a big force. We surrounded the house of the Odwan family. They’re very poor and live in a rotten part of the refugee camp in Rafah. Really, Odwan is scum. I shouted through a bullhorn that I would destroy every house in the camp, if I had to, but I would find Bassam Odwan and arrest him. Then he came out.”

Husseini seemed to enjoy bragging about the operation. Omar Yussef decided to demonstrate his appreciation of the General’s police work. “You were very thorough and effective, Pasha, ” he said. “If I may, I’d like to ask you about last night. Did you hear anything during the kidnapping?”

Husseini shrugged. “Why would I?”

“It occurred below your window. Wallender was coming back to the Sands Hotel across the road, when he was taken.”

“I live a quiet life. I’m in bed early. I’m not up at all hours like these Westerners.” Husseini smiled at Cree.

It’s time to needle him a little, Omar Yussef thought. “You may have been asleep, but you had extra guards on duty last night. What did they see?”

Husseini brushed that off. “In honor of my foreign friend Mister Cree, I would like to offer you a pleasure denied to most in Gaza.” The pebble eyes glittered mischievously. Husseini snapped his fingers twice and the coffee boy took one of the decanters from the cabinet. The liquid swilling around in its wide bottom looked like brandy and Omar Yussef heard Cree breathing hard again. Evidently the hummus wasn’t sitting too well with the night’s whisky intake and mixing brandy wouldn’t do his stomach any favors. The Scot was pale. The blood seemed to have drained even from his swollen, bruised lips.

The general took the stopper from the decanter and inhaled the brandy’s aroma deeply. The coffee boy brought glasses.

“This is a little vice of mine,” Husseini said. He laughed. “I don’t mean the brandy. Rather, I’m referring to the bottle. It’s leaded crystal, Bohemian. I love the weight of it, so heavy and yet so delicate. I have collected many of them, as you see.” He gestured toward the sparkling wall of bowls and bottles, candlesticks and vases, all glimmering with reflected light from the chandelier. “I developed a taste for Bohemian crystal when I was a student in Prague thirty years ago. I completed a Master’s Degree in Economics, but you don’t need an advanced qualification to understand the value of these little trinkets. In Prague, they’re so cheap as to be almost disposable. This decanter costs less than one hundred and fifty dollars.”

That might be almost three months salary for the coffee boy. Omar Yussef looked at the stopper of the decanter in Husseini’s thick hand. It was cut with hundreds of tiny, hard edges.

Omar Yussef asked Husseini not to pour for him. Cree hesitated, but he took the brandy and sipped it in silence. Sami lit a cigarette and rolled the brandy in his glass. Husseini put two doubles away before the small talk was over. The porcelain carriage clock on the dining table showed ten-thirty.

“Now I will call the American ambassador to update him,” Husseini said, as he showed them to the door, “and you will go to jail.” As Omar Yussef reached the bottom of the staircase, he could still hear Husseini laughing.

To Omar Yussef’s dismay, Cree insisted on taking the wheel of the Suburban, protesting that Nasser’s erratic driving would make him nauseous in his current condition. The Scot had to concentrate just to hold a straight line on the way to Gaza’s central jail and military headquarters.

The Saraya’s twelve-foot perimeter wall was a prime canvas for political graffiti artists. Its whitewash was daubed in green, red and black with exhortations to Allah, the president and his predecessor, the people, the land and the martyrs. Omar Yussef wondered when Bassam Odwan would join the list.

The guards lifted a red and white bar from across the entrance and directed Cree to the side of the main building, a three-story, dirty-gray block. At the end of a line of camouflaged trucks, a Military Intelligence officer awaited them. He recognized Sami. “How’re you doing, ya zalameh?” he said, raising his hand and bringing it down to make a loud, slapping shake. Omar Yussef wondered again about Sami’s connections. Everywhere he went, these security people were his friends. This one even called him man.

The officer held Sami’s arm, leading him into the jail and up the dingy stairwell. Omar Yussef and Cree trailed, breathing heavily. The air was dense with the dust that hung over Gaza City and the thick smell of enclosed men, of sweat and laundry, of stewing meat and cigarettes.

The officer led them through the jail like a cheerful tour guide, eager to share his knowledge of a place few saw and even fewer wished to see. “This floor is where the officers have their quarters. At the end of that corridor is the bureau of the commander of the National Security Forces.”

They climbed another two flights of stairs. A guard at the top stood and rattled his Kalashnikov over his shoulder, as they approached. His keys clattered in a heavy metal door painted a soapy blue, and he locked it behind them.

The block was thirty yards long with five cells on each side of the walkway. From the first cell came the rustle of men rising in prayer and the words of the prayer leader, answered in unison with a deep, mumbled crescendo. The wind brought the dusty air along the corridor from an unglazed, barred window at the opposite end. Two guards in camouflage fatigues and red berets leaned against the door of the first cell, smoking and resting their elbows on their assault rifles.