Khamis Zey-dan. The policeman examined it for a moment. His pale face became stern.
“Where did you get this?” Khamis Zeydan asked.
“What type of gun does that come from?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Answer me first.”
“You don’t want to know the answer. Neither do I, although unfortunately I already do.”
Omar Yussef sat quietly. They stared each other down.
Khamis Zeydan broke the silence first. “It’s the casing from a 7.62 millimeter bullet. Now where did you get it?”
“What kind of gun would fire a bullet like that?”
“A heavy machine gun.”
“A heavy machine gun like Hussein Tamari uses?”
“Yes, the kind Hussein Tamari uses,” Khamis Zeydan said, irritably. “It’s called a MAG.”
“How do you know?”
“Most of the guns in this town are Kalashnikovs. They fire 7.62 caliber bullets, too. But Kalashnikov bullets are only 39 millimeters long. This one was 51 millimeters long, before it was fired. That’s the ammo for a MAG.” Khamis Zeydan glared at Omar Yussef. The playfulness was gone from his eyes. He looked very sober.
“Why are you staring at me so sternly?” Omar Yussef said. “Look, tell me about Tamari. All I know is what circulates by gossip about town.”
“You’ve been in Bethlehem longer than I have, so you know his tribe,” Khamis Zeydan said.
“The Ta’amra.”
“Right. Until fifty years ago, these Ta’amra were desert nomads. They settled in villages east of town, but they still follow the old tribal codes. All the top Martyrs Brigades guys are Ta’amra. They’re thugs and they run the place as a family racket.”
“All of the gunmen are relatives of Hussein Tamari?”
“All except one other guy, Jihad Awdeh,” said Khamis Zey-dan. “His family is from the Aida Camp, refugees of 1948 from a village on the plain toward Ramla, a small clan. Among the Ta’amra, he’s an outsider, and they never let him forget it. So he’s almost as much of a nasty piece of work as Hussein—he always feels the need to prove that he’s more ruthless than the Ta’amra. It’s the brutal zeal of the newly converted.”
“In the Bethlehem area, who has a gun that would use those cartridges?”
“A hundred or so Israeli soldiers.” Khamis Zeydan sounded angry. “And Hussein Tamari. It’s his symbol, as you know. He carries it on his hip everywhere, even when it’d be more convenient to use a pistol. He probably takes it to the bathroom with him. Now, Abu Ramiz, my old friend, tell me where you got this bullet.”
Omar Yussef recounted Dima’s recollection of the murder and his discovery of the bullet casing in the flattened grass. “Who would want to kill Louai Abdel Rahman?” Omar Yussef said. “Because the one who did that is the real collaborator, not George Saba. George doesn’t own a MAG heavy machine gun. I don’t think he could even lift one. Before the shots that killed Louai, his wife heard him speak to someone out in the darkness. He called him Abu Walid. Who could Abu Walid be?”
Khamis Zeydan lit another Rothman’s. “Abu Ramiz, a detective is a little like a psychiatrist. When you treat a mental illness, you had better know the workings of your own mind, or you risk becoming sicker than your patients. The disease can spread from one mind to another. That’s how it is for a policeman. To catch a villain, you have to think like a villain, and when you think like a villain, perhaps you already are a villain. The problem is that if a psychiatrist makes the wrong diagnosis, it’s the patient who pays. When a detective commits an error, the villain makes him pay for it.”
“Abu Adel, I want to find the real collaborator.”
“Are you listening to me? I’m trying to warn you that this is dangerous.”
“I don’t need to be a detective to understand that.”
“I may be a police officer now, but I was, for many years, what the world chooses to call a terrorist. In Beirut, in Rome, Paris. Wherever the Old Man sent me. You know that. We were all terrorists, the people who now govern you. That gives me an advantage over you. I know what it is to face danger.”
Omar Yussef sat forward. “You were all terrorists, you and your PLO buddies in exile. Now what? Now you are terrorized. By people like Hussein Tamari. I was never a terrorist, and I won’t be terrorized, either.”
Khamis Zeydan grimaced, as though it was hard to swallow what he had to say. “Get me another drink.”
Omar Yussef got the bottle of Black Label and put it on the table before his friend. The policeman poured a large shot as he spoke. “Louai Abdel Rahman worked for me, supposedly. He was a sergeant at the Irtas police station. But you know how things are now. Everybody is a general. Everybody is a military genius. Everybody has to have a crack at the Israelis. No one gets to be a hero writing parking tickets and solving domestic disputes, but if you fire off a few shots at an Israeli car you’re an instant resistance champion. Louai Abdel Rahman was not a bad guy. But he wasn’t prepared to be a policeman. He was another fucking immature outlaw of the type that we’re so good at breeding.”
“Why would anyone want him dead?”
“The Israelis would want to kill him because he shot a settler on the tunnel road last month.”
“He killed someone?”
“There’s a lot of it about. Don’t sound so surprised.”
