Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

Omar Yussef nodded.

“Whose file do you want?”

“Fathi Salah and Yasser Salah.”

Umm Rateb nodded gravely. She went to the tall gray filing cabinets along the wall and pulled one of them open. She wrenched a file from the crush in the drawer and handed it to Omar Yussef. “Read it at Professor Maki’s desk,” she said, “in case someone comes in. They won’t see you behind his blinds.”

He laid the file on Maki’s desk. It held the academic record of Lieutenant Fathi Salah. Fathi’s high school grades were quite good, and Omar Yussef noted with approval that Fathi had earned top marks in history. Next was a transcript of the courses Fathi took at al-Azhar: grades from C up to A, a full transcript. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the Saladin Brigades leaflets. He put the newer one back and unfolded the first one. He laid it on the desk and, below where he had scrawled Sami’s cellphone number, copied out Fathi Salah’s transcript. He flipped through the file to a computer print-out from the accounts department. It listed dozens of payments, all small amounts, the last of which was shortly before Fathi’s graduation. It had the look of a poor man struggling even to meet the meager financial requirements of a local university. Omar Yussef closed Fathi’s file, went to the door of Maki’s inner office, and handed it back to Umm Rateb. She gave him another file in return.

It was Yasser Salah’s record. The high school graduation certificate showed straight Bs. A transcript for his bachelor’s degree-more straight Bs. Then his law degree transcript. Surprise me, Omar Yussef thought. “Straight Bs,” he said aloud. The accounts department summary of Yasser’s payments was missing. He wrote on the back of the Saladin Brigades leaflet: Yasser Salah all Bs. No money. He turned the sheet over and re-read the Brigades’ demand for Odwan’s freedom in exchange for Wallender’s release. Could there really be a connection between the grades scribbled on the back of the page and this message printed on the front? He laid his notes on the desk and went to Umm Rateb, who stood next to the filing cabinets, waiting. He gave her the file and she slid the drawer shut.

They breathed in relief. Omar Yussef patted his breast pocket and remembered the leaflet on the desk. He took a step toward Maki’s office to retrieve it. Then the door opened.

“Abu Ramiz, what a delightful surprise,” Adnan Maki said. As he entered, the university chief bit his bottom lip and opened his eyes wide, flirtatiously. “Umm Rateb, has this cosmopolitan, glamorous West Banker lured you away from your religious morals?”

Omar Yussef and Umm Rateb took a step away from each other, as though they had been caught in an illicit clinch.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Maki said. “I’m quite sure you two are up to something naughty. And I thoroughly approve.” He laughed and caught Omar Yussef’s hand. He fondled the back of it with his thumb and leered, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip. His fingers were so light Omar Yussef had the sensation of being touched by a web of fish bones.

Maki dropped his leather briefcase on the black sofa so that he could embrace Omar Yussef. He gave him five kisses and touched the bruise on Omar Yussef’s head. “You’ve been in the wars, as they say in England.”

Gallows humor, Omar Yussef thought. “Everyone’s quoting the British to me today.” He coughed and it became a choke.

“Umm Rateb, bring water for our friend and then some coffee,” Maki said. “Come into my office, Abu Ramiz.”

Omar Yussef continued coughing. He shook his head and sat on the black sofa in the outer office, holding Maki’s hand and pulling him down next to him. He glanced at Umm Rateb and flicked his watery eyes toward Maki’s office, hoping she would rescue the Brigades leaflet, but in her nervousness she was blind to his hints. “Abu Ramiz, you stay just where you are,” she said. “I’ll bring you a glass of water. Abu Nabil, what did the Revolutionary Council decide?”

She’s trying to make sure he doesn’t wonder what I’m doing here, Omar Yussef thought. Umm Rateb brought the glass of water. She doesn’t know about that piece of paper on Maki’s desk.

“The meeting was much as expected, Umm Rateb,” Maki said. He opened his arms wide and, as Omar Yussef sipped the water, he slapped him on the back, making him cough again. “Sorry, Abu Ramiz, but I feel in a fine mood this morning.”

It’s not the stinking weather that made you so breezy. It must have been a good assassination, Omar Yussef thought.

“At the Council meeting, I spoke at length about the strong response that must be ordered,” Maki said. “Colonel al-Fara agreed with me and said that he will join with the other security forces to apprehend the murderers of General Husseini. It was all very quick, as there was complete agreement with my statement among all the members. It was a proud moment for me.”

Omar Yussef had one last cough. “Shall we go into your office to talk privately?” he said. Perhaps he could grab his notes before Maki saw them.

Maki picked up his briefcase and led Omar Yussef by his hand into the inner room. The leaflet, wrinkled and curling at the edges, lay on the blotter. Maki put his briefcase flat on the desk. Without noticing it, he had covered the leaflet. Omar Yussef stared. He leaned forward. The corner of the leaflet protruded from under the briefcase. If Maki left the room for a moment, he could snatch it back.

Umm Rateb brought two coffees on a tray. “Now that you’re back early, Abu Nabil,” she said to Maki, “your postponed schedule can be resumed?”

She’s trying to save me, to get me out of here, Omar Yussef thought. She’s going to make me leave before I get the paper from his desk. He tried to catch her eye.

“Yes, of course, back to work.” Maki smiled broadly. “With a vengeance.”

“I’ll inform your next appointment.” Umm Rateb winked at Omar Yussef. She leaned forward with the tray of coffees.

Omar Yussef smelled her soap. She put the coffee on the edge of the desk. Maki dragged his briefcase away from the tray to make room and, reaching for the coffees, carelessly laid the briefcase on the floor beside him. The leaflet went with it. Which way up did it land? Omar Yussef wondered. Perhaps it fell straight into a wastepaper basket and I’m in the clear. Either way, he couldn’t retrieve the paper now.

Umm Rateb went to locate Maki’s next appointment.

“May there always be coffee for you,” Omar Yussef mumbled.

“Blessings,” Maki said, acknowledging the formula of gratitude for hospitality. “I heard about the problem of your Swedish friend. It was discussed briefly at the Revolutionary Council.”

“Briefly?”

“So many other pressing issues. Last night, Colonel al-Fara urged General Husseini, the departed one, to release Odwan so that the Saladin Brigades would free your friend and colleague.”

“Well, Odwan’s dead and so is General Husseini. Why doesn’t Colonel al-Fara release someone himself?”

“Are you back on the subject of that liar, the awful Professor Masharawi?” Maki dropped the corners of his mouth and screwed up his wet, black eyes, as though he’d just accidentally sucked down the thick grounds at the bottom of his tiny coffee cup.

“That’s why I’m here, after all.”

“Is it?” Maki said, quietly. He put his cup down. A new voice sounded in the outer office. “My next appointment has arrived, Abu Ramiz. We shall have to continue our discussion another time. I have much to do before attending the funeral of the departed General Husseini.” He stood. “I keep a rigorous schedule here. It’s most un-Palestinian. But it’s one of a number of characteristics I picked up during my travels.” Then he whispered: “In the civilized world.” He giggled.