Yussef managed to persuade a court to put the Martyrs Brigades leader on trial.
The soldier kept them in the salon more than an hour. The room grew rank. Some of the small children wet themselves on the carpet as they cried. Several of the women wept and rocked back and forth. All the men seemed to be smoking. The tension was dreadful for Omar Yussef. His back hurt from standing for so long, and he wished he had taken a hot shower when he came home to warm himself after the rain. The smoke in the room made him cough. He wanted to get out of there, to nail the bastard who had set up George Saba. He stared with hatred at the soldier.
It was almost 4:00 A.M. when the two-way radio clipped to the soldier’s shoulder sparked with a deep, incoherent voice. Immediately and without a word, the soldier left the room and went out of the front door. Omar Yussef followed after a moment. He looked out of the door. The soldier jumped into the back of the APC. Two last men got in beside him and pulled the metal doors shut. With a gush of diesel fumes and a grinding bellow, the Israeli vehicles pulled off toward the base on the other side of Dehaisha.
The soldiers were still in sight when Omar Yussef turned back to the people in the salon. They crowded by the window, watching the soldiers leave.
“They’re gone,” he said.
“Let me make everyone some tea,” Maryam said.
Omar Yussef desperately wanted to dress and go to Khamis Zeydan. “Maryam, our guests are tired. Surely they would like to go home and rest.”
“Nonsense, Omar, don’t be rude. We have to make some tea for our guests.”
Omar Yussef couldn’t argue in front of all those people. He frowned and went to his bedroom. He would dress, so that once the people did leave he would follow them out right away. He put on thick trousers, a shirt and a sweater, because it was the last, coldest part of the night. He dialed Khamis Zey-dan’s home and office numbers from the phone on the bedroom nightstand. There was no answer. He dialed both numbers again and let them ring. Eventually someone picked up at the police station.
“I need to talk to Abu Adel.”
“It’s very late.” The night sergeant clearly had been asleep.
“You weren’t awake? The Israelis are in the town.”
“Do you want me to arrest them?”
Omar Yussef took a breath. “I need to speak to Abu Adel about a murder.”
A pause. “Who is this?”
“Abu Ramiz.”
“Abu Ramiz, the schoolteacher?”
“Yes, I’m a friend of Abu Adel.”
“I know. Look, Abu Ramiz, if you’re his friend, you’ll see him in the morning. He can’t talk just now, if you know what I mean.”
Omar Yussef thought of the bottle of whisky in Khamis Zey-dan’s office. He understood what the sergeant meant. “Thank you. If you see him, tell him I called.”
As he lifted a pair of shoes from the bottom of his closet, Omar Yussef looked in the sock drawer. He took out the Web-ley and stuck it into his belt.
Maryam carried a tray of teacups past the bedroom door. “Omar, why are you dressing?”
He stepped around her and went to the front door. “I’m going to the church.”
Chapter 27
The rain came down cold as Omar Yussef hurried across Manger Square. He halted almost exactly where George Saba had died and looked up at the faint light of the fake gaslamp. The memory of George’s humiliated body, swinging from that metal arm, drained so much energy from him that he almost turned and went back down the hill to his house. He felt the jab of the Webley’s grip against his stomach, and he knew he must enter the church.
He crossed the slippery flagstones at the side of the Armenian monastery. The rain pattered onto his flat cap with a noise so loud that he almost wondered if Jihad Awdeh, hiding in the church, might hear him coming. A dark figure ducked quickly out of the church through the Gate of Humility. The figure saw Omar Yussef and froze. The two men blinked through the darkness. The wind wafted a wave of cold rain across them. Omar Yussef moved forward. The figure by the gate backed against the wall. It couldn’t be Jihad Awdeh. He wouldn’t cower that way. Omar Yussef picked up his pace. When he was only a few yards from the man, he recognized him. It was Elias Bishara. His thin black hair clung to his scalp and the rain fogged the thick lenses of his glasses. The water was rapidly soaking his black soutane, but Omar Yussef could see that sweat had already seeped through the robe under the arms. Elias Bishara extended his hands on either side of his body along the wall, as though his terror might propel him up the stones to safety.
“Elias, it’s me, Abu Ramiz.”
The young priest appeared not to hear at first, then he wilted as his tension and fear subsided. “I thought you would kill me out here.”
“He’s in there, isn’t he.”
“Jihad Awdeh? Yes. I was waiting for him, as I promised you I would be, Abu Ramiz. I was praying for the
