The moment he stepped into the dust cloud, thicker yet than it had been the day before, he knew this would not be the day of health the receptionist had wished for him. Sami crossed the beach road and clapped a big handshake on the officer in the guard hut outside General Husseini’s house. The other guards, their mouths wrapped with checkered keffiyehs against the dusty air, regarded Omar Yussef and Cree with narrow, suspicious eyes. Sami gestured for them to follow him.
The officer led them into the building, still holding Sami’s hand.
Husseini’s home was laid out like an apartment block. The lower floors were home to the General’s sons and their families. He kept his wife on the sixth floor and saw her as often as anyone would who had been married thirty years and had to climb six flights of stairs to get there. The third floor was where he entertained.
When Omar Yussef caught up to the others at the door of Husseini’s reception room, Cree was staring out of the window, swaying, blowing air through pursed lips like an athlete building concentration before a race. The officer’s hand was poised to knock on the door. He smiled at Omar Yussef, who nodded for him to proceed. The schoolteacher inhaled as much air as he could, but the dust in the staircase was almost as thick as it had been outside. A guard opened the shiny rosewood door.
“Enter, and may Allah grant you a safe entry into Paradise,” the tall officer said, before returning to his post downstairs.
General Husseini’s reception room was the width of the building and occupied almost its whole length. It wasn’t the kind of place you could pick up on a police officer’s salary; this was the fruit of years of corruption. Four sets of lounge furniture each sectioned off a different area of the room in a neat square, so that a large party could divide into smaller conversational groups. The sofas and armchairs in each set were in different pastels, with gaudy whirling patterns like a cheap sweater. The far wall sparkled with crystal glasses and decanters in a glass cabinet. A long dinner table and a dozen bentwood chairs stood along the far side of the room. Above the table, there was a chandelier that looked like it had been made in the same workshop as the louche number in Professor Maki’s dining room. Omar Yussef noticed with an apprehensive stirring in his stomach that the table was, indeed, set for breakfast.
The guard brought them to the table and resumed his place at the door. A youth in olive fatigues asked if they wanted coffee or tea. He was bony and, high on his cheeks, there was the kind of purple acne that works deep beneath the skin. His uniform was unmarked by any insignia of rank, even the lowest. He retreated with their order through a door that led to a short passage.
Three men appeared in the passage. Omar Yussef could see only their silhouettes, but he guessed that the short one in the middle was General Husseini. He spoke into a cellular phone and walked with the slow, absent paces of a man who’d forgotten that he could talk just as well sitting down. Husseini reached the big room. The two men with him took up their posts on either side of the door. They were tall, but only one of them, a shaven-headed, heavy man who breathed through his mouth, watched the new arrivals like a bodyguard. The other folded his delicate hands over a clipboard and rested his chin on his chest. He was evidently Husseini’s aide de camp.
Husseini waved to acknowledge that he would soon finish on the phone. He was doing more listening than talking and he stared intently into the dust storm, as though whatever the man on the other end of the line was telling him about might emerge from the cloud in front of the window. He was shorter than Omar Yussef, who was himself not quite five feet seven. He wore an olive battle shirt, which must have been specially tailored to accommodate his rotund belly, and pants that were tucked into tall, maroon parachutist’s boots. His fingers were stubby, thick and hairy and his skin was the color of a baked potato. He turned from the window, flipped the cellphone shut, stroked his trim gray mustache thoughtfully, then opened his arms wide in greeting. He had a broad, avaricious smile and eyes like pebbles in the rain.
General Husseini kissed Sami five times, puckering his thick lips and closing his eyes with pleasure. In between each kiss, he uttered a greeting. Sami introduced Cree and Omar Yussef. Husseini shook Cree’s hand and pulled it low, so the Scotsman knew to bend for the kisses. When the kisses were over, Husseini kept Cree’s hand low. He chuckled and, with his free hand, brushed some dried blood from Cree’s ginger mustache. The Scot looked deeply embarrassed. Omar Yussef was glad he’d taken the opportunity to shower, instead of drinking through the night.
“Don’t worry, I heard about your troubles from the brother Sami,” Husseini said. His reedy voice was quiet, cloying and cajoling, as though he were calming a nervous animal.
Omar Yussef wondered how close the brother Sami was to this man. He thought of the Husseini Manicure as the general took his hand and delivered three kisses. Husseini’s lips left a wet dab on Omar Yussef’s right cheek. The general caressed his guest’s bruised temple, gently, moaning with his tenor of reassuring sweet-talk. He led Omar Yussef by the hand to the table and pulled out a chair for him. The coffee boy brought the drinks and Husseini nodded to him curtly, signaling it was time for the food.
“The brother Sami tells me you’re a respected man in Bethlehem, Abu Ramiz.” Husseini smiled.
Omar Yussef nodded, modestly.
“Do you know my local commander there?” the general asked.
“Major Qawasmeh?”
“He’s a colonel. But, yes, Qawasmeh is his name.”
“I haven’t met him.” Omar Yussef knew this was a warning, a reminder that Husseini’s power reached beyond Gaza to Bethlehem and that Omar Yussef’s family could be threatened there.
“He’s a good man. A strong man.” Husseini sat forward in his chair and bounced a little in excitement. “I like strong men. They don’t drop any of the things I ask them to lift. Unless I tell them to do so.” The general laughed. The low wheedling voice surrendered to a high-pitched squawk, like a parrot disturbed from its perch. “And so long as they aren’t strong enough to lift me.” He slapped his fat stomach and reached out a hand for Sami to give him five.
The coffee boy brought a platter big enough to hold a small child. It was loaded with hummus and ground lamb. With a rolling sensation in his stomach, Omar Yussef realized that the hummus and meat was mixed with tiny gobs of lamb fat that were almost invisible in the chickpea paste. Cree held his hand to his mouth; Omar Yussef could tell that the Scot had been treated to this particular dish at some previous breakfast and was now regretting the whisky.
General Husseini stood next to the coffee boy and scooped copious portions of the meaty hummus onto his guests’ plates with a wide, flat spoon. As Omar Yussef ate, he fought to maintain an expression of pleasure on his face.
“Mister Cree, I apologize on behalf of all Gazans for the scandalous assault against you and your colleagues,” Husseini said.
Cree’s mouth was full of hummus. It looked like it might take some time for him to swallow, so he just nodded gravely.
“We also have seen the outrageous accusations of the Saladin Brigades against my Military Intelligence in this leaflet they released after the kidnapping.” Husseini scowled and waved his hands dismissively. “I want to assure you, we shall not rest until we have freed your friend, our friend-”
“Magnus Wallender,” Sami whispered.
“Our friend Wallender.”
Omar Yussef swallowed a bite of the breakfast. He thought he’d better talk, to get his mind off the food and his stomach. “Mister Cree would very much like to talk to Bassam Odwan.”
“A deadly criminal. I cannot allow it.”
“The United Nations wishes to aid your investigation in any way that it can.”
“Odwan didn’t kidnap your UN man.”
“But his friends did.”
“So you should talk to his friends, not to him.”
“Perhaps he can help us reach his friends.”
“Do you think we haven’t asked him the same questions?” Husseini smiled broadly around the table.
“He may find Mister Cree a more neutral figure.”
“How can anyone be neutral in a question of murder? This Odwan fellow killed one of my best officers in cold blood.”
Cree cleared his throat. “There’s a team arriving later this afternoon from the United Nations office in Jerusalem. They’ll negotiate for the hostage, of course, at a very high level. But they consider it important that no
