The Samaritan's secret

them awkwardly into the hip pocket of his pants.

“Concealing evidence?” Sami smiled.

“Are you going to search me?”

“I wasn’t anxious to investigate all along. I’m not about to begin now.”

Khamis Zeydan slouched out of the synagogue and leaned over the railing by the steps.

“The priest interrupted another attempted theft of the Abisha Scroll,” Sami said. “The thieves killed him, but they panicked and left the scroll behind. That’s the official version. What do you think?”

Omar Yussef touched his mustache. “Sami, what’s wrong with the truth?” he said. “Abu Adel was doing his job as a police officer by stopping a criminal. I’m sure we could explain the priest’s death honestly.”

Sami’s eyes darkened above his bony cheeks. “The truth is in your pocket, Abu Ramiz. The truth is that the former president salted away hundreds of millions of dollars in secret bank accounts, while ordinary Palestinians lived in crappy refugee camps and studied in crowded schools. What’s wrong with the truth? A great deal is wrong.”

Omar Yussef saw the hardness in the young man’s eyes. Khamis Zeydan expectorated into the basement yard of the synagogue. Is this the moment when Sami becomes like his mentor, Omar Yussef wondered, dirtied and compromised?

“It’s the truth, nonetheless,” he said. “Don’t give up on that, Sami. At least this money will no longer line the pockets of corrupt leaders. I don’t expect you to become idealistic about the Palestinian people, but tell me I’ve restored a little of your faith.”

Sami shoved the protruding roll of documents firmly into Omar Yussef’s pocket. “Watch out or you might lose them,” he said. The hardness left his face. “Really, Abu Ramiz, is it the job of a detective to make sure everyone knows just how bad things are?”

Omar Yussef lifted a finger, as he did when he lectured in his classroom. “Detectives are like the cloth that polishes a tarnished piece of silverware. The silver is displayed proudly, shining and admired. The cloth is tossed into a cupboard, filthy and unseen, imprinted with a record of the dirt everyone else believes to have been erased forever.”

Sami smiled. “You promised me you’d be cheerful by the time my wedding came around, Abu Ramiz.”

“You’re going ahead with the party?”

Sami raised his good arm, then tapped a knuckle against his cast. “My bride will walk on my left in the procession, and there’s no other reason to delay, anymore. Listen, what do you hear?”

“Nothing.”

“Precisely. The gunfire has stopped,” Sami said. “The battle in the casbah came to an end around the time when you and Abu Adel were in the synagogue with the priest. While we’ve been photographing the position of the corpse and dusting for prints, Amin Kanaan’s men have taken complete control of Nablus.”

“So the fighting is over?”

“Hamas conceded for now. They were at a disadvantage after Awwadi was killed. He was their military leader in the casbah. The people were angry, too, about the way the sheikh slurred the Old Man. Hamas had to back down. My wedding will take place this afternoon.”

“A thousand congratulations.”

Sami went up the steps. He slapped Khamis Zeydan gently in the lower back and gave a nod to a pair of paramedics. They entered the synagogue with a folded, orange stretcher and emerged a few minutes later with the corpse of Jibril the priest.

The priest’s hand dangled from the stretcher, bumping the steps as they descended. Omar Yussef halted the paramedics. He lifted Jibril’s arm and laid the hand on the blanket covering the dead man. He rested his palm on the leathery skin and felt the thin bones.

One of the medics adjusted his grip on the handles, jolting the body on the stretcher, and for a second Omar Yussef thought the old priest had come to life. It left his pulse quick and anxious, even as the paramedics descended the last steps to the street.

At the curb, Jamie King watched the stretcher pass. She took the steps to Omar Yussef three at a time, her brown work boots loud on the stone, and clasped his hand in both of hers. She was dressed for the chill of early morning in a purple fleece and black jeans, but her palms were clammy with excitement.

“I’m amazed, ustaz,” she said. “When did this happen?”

“In the middle of the night,” Omar Yussef said. “I would’ve called you immediately, but the police asked me to wait until the man’s nearest relatives could be notified, up there.” He gestured toward the Samaritan village on Jerizim.

“That was the priest I just saw on the stretcher? What happened to him?”

“He couldn’t keep a secret.” Omar Yussef glanced up the synagogue steps.

Khamis Zeydan stared into the sparse gardens of a neighboring apartment building. Sami came out of the synagogue. He lit a cigarette and handed the smoke to Khamis Zeydan. The older man took it without lifting his head. Sami rested his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s back.

“Jamie, can you give me a ride to the hotel? I need to get some rest. I have a wedding to go to later,” Omar Yussef said.

He pulled himself into the high cab of Jamie King’s Chevrolet. King shut her door, turned to Omar Yussef, and raised one eyebrow. Omar Yussef took the manila folder from his hip pocket and unrolled it. He handed it to her.

The American opened the freezer bag. She flipped quickly through the papers, sucking her freckled lip behind her lower teeth.

“How much is there?” Omar Yussef asked.

“It looks like almost everything.” King didn’t raise her eyes from the documents. She fanned the papers in the file with her thumb. “Hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“You have time to prevent the boycott?”

“I’ll write my report to the board in D.C. as soon as I get back to the hotel. I’m sure this’ll convince them to scrap the boycott. Just in time.”

The American slipped the documents into the map pocket on the driver’s door. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans and grinned, excited and embarrassed. As she started the engine, she turned to Omar Yussef. “You could have been very rich,” she said.

“I’m a Palestinian,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m giving you this money to spend on my behalf, Jamie. After years of official theft, the money is mine at last, because it’s finally in the right hands.”

“It’ll be transferred to the Palestinian Ministry of Finance,” King said. “They’ve instituted proper accounting procedures to track the money now.”

“Keep your eye on them, Jamie.” Omar Yussef grated out a guttural laugh. “Not everyone in Palestine is as pure as I am.”

Chapter 32

Nadia preened before a mirror in the foyer, stroking the lacy pink shirt her grandmother had bought for her at the souk. Maryam took her hand and led her toward the women’s hall for the wedding celebrations. “Remember, I want you to tell me everything that happens at the men’s party, Grandpa,” Nadia called.

Omar Yussef raised his arm to wave and felt a jab in the ribs from the wad of documents stashed in the inside pocket of his jacket. He moved politely through the bland stream of women in their loose gowns of brown or navy blue or beige, cream scarves pinning their hair out of sight. He heard a series of sharp clicks and noticed Liana approaching in highheeled shoes and a yellow suit.

“Greetings, ustaz,” she said.

“Double greetings, my lady.”

Heavy black kohl ringed Liana’s eyes. It seemed to Omar Yussef that her eyeballs themselves had been painted in and that the woman before him would have receded into complete invisibility had her sadness not been