Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

“It’s the owner’s son,” the boy said. “He was martyred in the operation at the pizza restaurant.”

Omar Yussef remembered hearing about that bomb. It went off in a pizzeria in Tel Aviv or one of the featureless towns nearby. A dozen people in the restaurant died.

“You’re safe from such an attack here,” the waiter said. “It’s the only advantage of dining in Gaza.”

“You should wait for me to taste the food before telling me that.” Omar Yussef rasped a laugh.

The youth sniggered and went away with their order.

“You’re remarkably cheerful,” Sami said.

“You think I don’t take seriously the idea that there’s an order to kill me? I’m in your hands. Tell me how to handle this.”

“You’re onto something, Abu Ramiz. That’s all I can tell you. Somehow the business with Eyad Masharawi touches on things much bigger than the freedom of one professor. I don’t know how, but I’m trying to find out.”

“Let me come with you, as you track down the truth.”

Sami smiled and opened his arms wide. “I already did.”

Omar Yussef looked around the empty restaurant. “Who’s meeting us here?”

“I found out who killed James.”

“By Allah!”

“They’ll be here any moment now.”

Omar Yussef rose from his chair and slammed his hands on the tabletop. “The bastards are coming here?”

“Cool it, Abu Ramiz. I don’t think they’re really the people you’re after.”

“They killed a UN official. They killed James.”

“Because someone told them to. Or paid them. It’s the one who gave the order that you want, not these guys. But you need to tease it out of them, carefully.”

“Bastards.” Omar Yussef brought his hands down on the table again.

“True. But bastards who realize that perhaps they got in too deep and now believe they might be able to cover their asses by helping me.” Sami reached out and gently pulled Omar Yussef down into his seat. “And helping you.”

“Who are they?”

“Saladin Brigades men. From here in Gaza City. Remember, the Saladin Brigades are divided. The most powerful branch is down in Rafah, where the group was founded on the profits from smuggling arms and contraband under the Egyptian border. The Rafah gang needed an operation up in Gaza City, because it’s the biggest market for goods and weapons. So they recruited some guys here to set up a wing of the Saladin Brigades.”

“The Rafah gang smuggles the stuff in; the Gaza City people sell it, right?”

“Yes, and everyone’s happy. Except, after a while, the Rafah gang started to think the Gaza City bunch were keeping more than their fair share of the profits. The quarrel got nasty. They’ve patched things up, but there’s still bad blood between the different wings of the group,” Sami said. “More importantly, no one in the Gaza City gang is ever sure that Rafah isn’t about to sell them out to the security forces. That makes them easy to manipulate.”

“By whom? Who’s manipulating them?”

“That’s what I hope they’ll tell us. I’m expecting two of them to meet us here. They chose this restaurant. They know the owner.” Sami smiled sourly and gestured to the photos and pictures on the wall. “The Saladin Brigades sent his son to blow himself up.”

“I suppose they get some kind of discount on their meal for that?” Omar Yussef said, with a laugh that was full of scorn.

Sami was silent, smoking, staring through the dusty air to the street below. Omar Yussef watched him. He was a good boy, a hard man, and he was all that stood between Omar Yussef and a lonely death in Gaza. Back in Bethlehem, Omar Yussef’s clan was big, with ties to all the different security forces and militias. The gunmen would hesitate before killing him there. In Gaza, he was an alien and yet not a foreigner, so he could be made to disappear with fewer problems than Wallender or Cree, and no one with the power to do anything about it would care that he had vanished.

The waiter brought a small plate of olives and pickled slices of radish that had been dyed purple with beetroot juice. Omar Yussef looked at his watch. They had waited twenty minutes. He realized he was hungrier than he had thought. “Where’s our food?”

“It’s coming,” the waiter mumbled.

It was another ten minutes before a plate of cold falafel and mediocre hummus arrived at the table. Omar Yussef asked for a bottle of water and stared at the disappointing food. Sami picked up a falafel, rolled it in the hummus and took a bite. He put the second half back on his plate and lit another cigarette.

Omar Yussef ripped a corner of flat bread and tasted the hummus with it. The nausea of the previous day returned. Every tiny chip of chickpea in the puree seemed to cut into the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat like the crystal that had choked Odwan. He swigged a glass of water and rinsed it about his mouth until the nutty taste was gone. He covered his lips with his hand, so that Sami wouldn’t see the quivering tension that tightened his lower face.

They had been at their post by the window an hour. Downstairs the noise of customers in the restaurant grew louder, but no one ascended to the dining room. The owner of the restaurant stamped up the stairs just before one o’clock. He was a sad-looking man with a drooping mustache and a spare frame that suggested he thought little more of his establishment’s food than Omar Yussef did. He nodded to Sami, who snapped upright in his chair. The owner lifted a catch on a metal door in the back of the dining room. He took a step up the unlit staircase of bare concrete outside and whispered.

Two men came down the steps and into the restaurant. The first was tall, gaunt and mournful, with graying hair and a slouching curve to his back and neck. He looked around the room quickly, grimacing and touching his uneven front teeth with his tongue as though they pained him. Behind him came a smaller man in a blue baseball cap with skin almost as light as a European. He wore a rounded black beard and a black vest. Both carried M-16s across their chests, their right hands on the triggers, left hands low on the barrel ready to lift and fire. They came toward Sami and Omar Yussef, their heavy military boots resounding on the thin floor.

The restaurant owner went down the stairs.

Sami rose to greet the men. Omar Yussef held his hands tight to his sides, fighting the temptation to step forward and strike these murderers in their faces. Both men offered him their hands. He looked at the floor and gave them quick, light handshakes. The tall gunman’s shake was weak, but the smaller man’s hand was thick and hard against Omar Yussef’s palm. The tall man pulled out two chairs at the table where Omar Yussef and Sami were sitting and placed them far enough away to be out of reach.

Sami introduced Omar Yussef as the colleague of the UN official who had been killed. The shorter gunman flicked his eyes toward Omar Yussef. The irises were dark brown, surrounded by malevolent sclera the color of milky coffee.

The tall gunman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, ustaz, for the death of your colleague. We acted upon instructions, but we were misled.” He coughed again. “I’m Walid Bahloul from here in the camp. This is the brother Khaled al-Banna, who’s also from the Saladin Brigades in Gaza City.”

The second man’s eyes twitched, as though his name shouldn’t have been disclosed.

“Why did you carry out this act against the UN?” Omar Yussef said. He concentrated on the taller gunman, Walid. His wet, gray eyes were less disconcerting and he seemed ready to talk.

“We really are sorry about the foreigner, ustaz,” Walid said. “We thought there would just be a driver or some local staff in the car.”