Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

“Fortunately there’s no hanging in Gaza. I expect to be beheaded when the time comes.” Omar Yussef tapped a forefinger against the two crossed scimitars of the Saladin Brigades’ crest. He looked more closely at the leaflet.

“My point is this: after the Revolutionary Council meeting, there’ll be some kind of response against the Saladin Brigades,” Khamis Zeydan said. “A military response. Arrests. Maybe the Brigades’ll fight back. It could get nasty on the streets today. We can’t let it look like they’re getting away with the assassination of one of our own, no matter that we all thought Husseini was a son of a bitch. Don’t get caught in the crossfire, okay.”

Omar Yussef popped the top off a miniature pot of honey and drizzled it over a croissant. “If self-protection was my main priority, I wouldn’t even be in Gaza.”

Khamis Zeydan drew an impatient breath. “The atmosphere today is very, very dangerous. You need to be careful.”

“You told me you love this dirt, this intrigue and deceit, this violence,” Omar Yussef said. “But those pleasures are reserved for members of your select club? I want to join in the fun.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know you hate all this. You damn near broke down yesterday when you couldn’t keep the different security forces and the various gunmen straight in your head.”

“I took the advice you gave me then: I’m not trying to keep track of their organizations, only their intentions.” Omar Yussef bit into the croissant. “They want to eat me alive.”

“That was only a turn of phrase.” Khamis Zeydan leaned close. “They don’t really care if you’re alive.”

Omar Yussef smiled and waved the croissant. “How long will this meeting of the Revolutionary Council go on?”

“Everyone will say how shocked they are and pretend that Husseini wasn’t a bastard. That should take about two hours, I’d say. Then add a little time for someone, probably al-Fara, to say that such things can’t be allowed in Gaza and to order the arrest of those responsible. Two hours fifteen.”

Omar Yussef nodded and bit the croissant. The honey ran into his mustache. He sucked it away with his lower lip.

“I have to go,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Why don’t you just walk on the beach and keep out of trouble?”

Omar Yussef looked out of the breakfast room window at the dust in the wind along the narrow strand. “It’s a lovely day for it,” he said.

Khamis Zeydan sighed, rapped the table in exasperation with his gloved prosthesis and went to the door.

On the beach, a boy with his head and face hidden by a red and white keffiyeh laid out a net. The hot wind ruffled his ripped T-shirt. The first time Omar Yussef sat in this breakfast room, three boys had been fighting on that beach. He wondered if this was one of them and where the other two boys were. He hoped they were only keeping out of the dust storm.

He could go no further with his investigation of the Saladin Brigades and the fate of Odwan’s stolen missile until he heard from Sami. If Sami arranged a meeting for him with the Saladin Brigades men, he would need to have something to give them in return for Wallender’s freedom. The Brigades had wanted to exchange Odwan for Wallender; now Odwan was dead, they would demand something else, if Wallender was still alive. Sami was right: he couldn’t offer them the missile. Even if he found it, he knew he would have to destroy it-or bring it to someone decent, who would disable it and wouldn’t sell it back to the militias. He wouldn’t give them a new toy for their murderous game.

With the Odwan end of the puzzle blocked, Omar Yussef turned to the plight of Professor Eyad Masharawi. Masharawi was held in a Preventive Security jail. He didn’t think the professor’s case could really be connected to Wallender’s kidnapping or Odwan’s death. But he surmised that if he pursued the Masharawi case, any dirt he unearthed about the Preventive Security would at least interest the Saladin Brigades, particularly since the Revolutionary Council-now dominated by al-Fara-was about to set the security forces on them in revenge for the Husseini hit. In exchange for Wallender’s release, he could offer the gunmen information they might use against the Preventive Security head.

He thought back to the efforts he and Magnus had made to free Masharawi. Before the Swede’s kidnapping, he had dined with Professor Maki and discussed the case. He should investigate Maki’s real reasons for calling down the security forces on a troublesome teacher. Omar Yussef recalled the degree certificates from al-Azhar hanging behind Colonel al-Fara’s desk and on the wall of the Salah home in Rafah. He had suspected that al-Fara’s degree was phony. Perhaps the Salah brothers’ degrees also were fakes.

Omar Yussef pushed another croissant into his cheek and chewed, thoughtfully. He folded the Saladin Brigades leaflet and slipped it into his shirt pocket next to the other one. Professor Maki would be at the Revolutionary Council meeting that morning. Omar Yussef decided to go to the professor’s office and ask his secretary to show him the files on the Salah brothers. If they had bought their degrees, it might be information worth offering the Saladin Brigades: some dirt on the dead lieutenant who had been held up as a hero and in revenge for whose death their man Odwan had been murdered.

At the front desk, he asked Meisoun to call him a taxi. “Where to, ustaz?” she asked, as she dialed the cab company.

“I prefer not to say.”

She leaned forward, smiling. “Do you have another girlfriend? My father is waiting for his camel. Are you going to disappoint him?”

He coughed. “I’m on my way to steal the camel now, as promised.”

“I await you. But don’t get caught. They’ll put you in a special jail for camel thieves. There’s a special jail for everyone in Gaza. Even for unfortunate lovers.”

Omar Yussef stroked his mustache awkwardly. It was still sticky with honey.

He paid the taxi driver at the gate of al-Azhar and walked past the posters of the suicide bombers into the main building.

Umm Rateb rose with an exclamation of pleasure when Omar Yussef reached the open door to Maki’s suite of offices. “Morning of joy, ustaz Abu Ramiz,” she cried.

“Morning of light, dear Umm Rateb.” Omar Yussef tried to take his eyes off the smile on her wide, sensual mouth.

“Sit and drink coffee.”

“Allah bless you, but I enjoyed a big breakfast only a short while ago.”

“To your double health, ustaz, in your very heart.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Omar Yussef glanced toward Maki’s personal office.

“But Professor Maki is not here.” She gestured toward the blinds dropped over the window between her office and Maki’s inner sanctum. “He’s at the Revolutionary Council. They’re having a special meeting to discuss the assassination of General Husseini.”

“I know,” he said. “I came about something else.” Umm Rateb looked blank. Then she smiled. “What’re you up to, Abu Ramiz?” She wagged a finger at him.

“I need to look at the files of a couple of students.”

“They’re supposed to be private.” The finger continued to wag.

“It’s okay. When I was here the other day, Professor Maki discussed certain issues with me and my colleagues from the United Nations. In fact, his very words were that we could ask Umm Rateb to bring the file of any student and we would be able to see their records, and so on.”

“I should really check with him.”

“He’s in the Council meeting, as you said.”

Umm Rateb’s smile subsided. She glanced at the empty desk where the other secretary had sat during Omar Yussef’s last visit. “You’re lucky that my colleague Amina is not here this morning. She’s a real stickler.” She went to the outer door and closed it. “This has to do with Salwa’s husband, ustaz? With Professor Eyad Masharawi?”