The Collaborator of Bethlehem

The fire truck arrived. The firemen took a hose down the corridor and began pouring water into the history classroom.

A few of the children cried, though most were morose and silent. Omar Yussef stood on the step of the school. “Director Steadman has been killed. We can’t say yet what happened, but as you can see the school cannot operate today. Go home now, and tell the children from the afternoon shift not to come to school today.”

As the crowd of children slowly cleared, Khamis Zeydan arrived with two jeeps. Omar Yussef watched the police chief approach him. Something in the way Khamis Zeydan looked at him suggested that he hadn’t expected to see his old university friend standing at the entrance to the school issuing orders to the children. Then Omar Yussef understood. Someone had intended to kill the teacher in the history classroom. There was no reason anyone would have wanted Steadman dead. The bomb—and this surely had been a bomb—was intended for Omar Yussef.

“Abu Ramiz, what happened here?” Khamis Zeydan said.

“There was a bomb. It exploded in the history classroom. Steadman was preparing to take my class. The explosion killed him. The ambulance took him away just a minute ago.”

“Why was the American taking your class?”

Omar Yussef thought Khamis Zeydan spoke with a hint of disappointment. He remembered that he’d told the police chief yesterday that he would be back in the classroom this morning. Could it be that Khamis Zeydan had set the bomb? Or that he had passed on the information, just as Omar Yussef suspected he did in the case of Dima Abdel Rahman’s death? Omar Yussef felt the smoke in his throat again and coughed until his eyes wept. Khamis Zeydan reached out to touch his arm, but he pulled away.

“He was taking my class,” Omar Yussef spluttered, “because I told him it would be an insult to me in the eyes of the camp if he continued to employ a replacement.”

“He was in the classroom at your request?”

“No, not directly. But partly, yes.”

“Is that so.” Khamis Zeydan stared at him, hard, his head turned to the left, but his eyes looking straight at Omar Yussef.

“Are you suggesting that I had him killed?” Omar Yussef was furious.

“He was trying to get rid of you, wasn’t he? Despite his recent public denials, he still intended to force your retirement.”

“You’re insane.”

“Listen, Abu Ramiz, you’ve been getting involved in some crazy things lately. I don’t know with whom you’ve been associating or what they’re doing for you, but I do know that you went to Hussein Tamari’s headquarters two days ago.”

“Are you having me watched?”

“I keep an eye on who goes in and out of Tamari’s hideout. What were you doing there?”

“You know perfectly well that I was trying to help George Saba. Do you really think I went to Tamari to arrange for the American to be killed? Why don’t you arrest the people who killed Louai and Dima Abdel Rahman? They’re the ones who framed George Saba, and they’re the ones who set this bomb. Can’t you see they wanted to kill me? They thought I’d be in that classroom. You, in particular, know that very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because I told you last night that I’d be teaching this morning.”

“I didn’t believe you for a minute. I didn’t even think you’d be on your feet this morning. You’re tougher than I thought.” Khamis Zeydan stepped aside as the firemen came out of the corridor. He stopped one of them. “Is the fire under control?”

“Yes, you can go in now.”

“Look, Abu Ramiz, we shouldn’t suspect each other,” Khamis Zeydan said, quietly. “We should be calm. Why don’t you take control of the staff, of the school, and arrange the cleanup? I’m going to start investigating the scene of the explosion.”

Khamis Zeydan went into the school with half of his squad. The others stood in a semicircle around the entrance, surrounded by a dozen curious pupils who remained nearby. Omar Yussef noticed that Khadija Zubeida’s father was among the policemen who stood in the mud with their Kalashnikovs. He had come to the school that morning to ask the girl how to find her father, and here he was. He put his hand out to him in greeting.

The policeman was friendly. “Morning of joy, ustaz,” he said.

“Morning of light,” Omar Yussef replied. “Mahmoud, I need to talk to you.”

Omar Yussef passed along the corridor with Mahmoud Zubeida behind him. The policeman glanced blandly into the broken classroom, where his colleagues were assessing the size and source of the blast. He’s seen this kind of destruction many times, Omar Yussef thought. It doesn’t even concern him that this is his own daughter’s classroom.

The two men went into Steadman’s office. Omar Yussef closed the door and gestured for Mahmoud Zubeida to sit. The man tried to rest his Kalashnikov across his lap, but the arms of the chair got in the way, so he laid it on the floor. He rubbed the back of a finger nervously across his black moustache. He swiped off his beret and gripped it in front of his chest, like a medieval peasant doffing his cap to the seigneur. Omar Yussef remained standing behind the desk.

“First, Mahmoud, thank you for allowing me to remain in the courtroom a little late the other night,” Omar Yussef said.

“It’s nothing, ustaz. May I ask, was that the collaborator’s father? The old gentleman who was crying?”

“Yes, he’s an old friend of mine.”