warning.
Omar Yussef’s room was hot and stuffy. He searched near the door for the switch Sami had used to shut off the air-conditioning, so that he could reactivate it. He found a digital gauge, a small dial and tiny, colored icons of a red sun and a blue snowflake. He fiddled with the dial, elicited some electronic bleeps, and waited, but nothing happened. He undid the buttons of his shirt, went to the telephone and dialed the number on Meisoun’s note. The line connected to a cellphone surrounded by the low, rushing sound of a speeding car’s interior.
“This is Nancy,” said a voice in the car in English.
It was a hands-free phone, like the one Omar Yussef’s son Ramiz had in his car. It gave him an uneasy feeling of talking into nothingness. “Missus Nirnberger?” Omar Yussef said.
“ Miz Nirnberger.”
Omar Yussef wondered what that meant. “This is Omar Yussef speaking.”
“Mister Yussef, thank you for calling me back.” Nancy Nirnberger sounded American to Omar Yussef. She spoke with a deliberate excitement, as though it were delightful to receive a call, and whose call could be more unexpected and agreeable than one from the principal of the UN girls’ school in Dehaisha camp? “I’m heading up the negotiating team that was on its way to the checkpoint when James was hit.”
Omar Yussef nodded at the phone. Then he remembered that she couldn’t see him. “Yes, of course,” he said.
“We’ve talked through the situation with our guys in Jerusalem and New York, and we’re inclined to think that it’s too risky for foreign nationals to be in the Gaza Strip right now. In light of what happened to James. So we turned around at the checkpoint and we’re en route to Jerusalem again. As we speak, all other foreign employees at our Gaza City office are on their way out of the Strip.” Then, as if she were holding up a new dress for him to admire, Nirnberger added: “What do you think?”
I think it’s too risky for me, too, even if I’m not a foreigner who’s worth keeping out of harm’s way. “I agree that it’s very dangerous.”
“We’ll coordinate negotiations for Magnus’s release from the office in Jerusalem. We feel that from there we’ll be able to manage contacts with senior government and security guys on the Palestinian side. But we need for you to remain on the ground in Gaza to provide situation assessments and to make material contacts.”
“To make what?”
“To meet the guys who have Magnus, if they want to set a meeting.”
Omar Yussef gripped the receiver tightly. “I see.”
“None of the local hires in our Gaza City office are as close to this as you, so you’re the man on this one, Mister Yussef.” Nirnberger’s tone reminded Omar Yussef of the American politicians he had seen in television interviews. He imagined her with her head held to the side, nodding archly, a knowing smile slightly suppressed, as though she had heard all the secrets. “Is there anything you need, in the meantime? Just name it.”
“The hospital would like James’s details so they can notify the next of kin and transport the body.”
“Taken care of, Mister Yussef. Already done. We haven’t just been sitting around. Don’t worry. We’re behind you.”
You certainly are. “Did James have close family?”
“I don’t know, really. I didn’t personally handle that.”
“He had a great-grandfather who’s buried in the British War Cemetery here in Deir el-Balah. I know the grave meant a lot to him. Perhaps his family would like him to be buried there, because of his personal bond with the place.”
Nirnberger dropped the bonhomie. She sounded as though she were speaking without moving her jaw. “Well, we can put that to them, but I think it’d be a mistake to set up a new tomb that might be the focus of anti-UN demonstrations down there.” She cleared her throat and reverted to her cheery tone. “So there’s a British cemetery in Gaza, huh? What’s up with that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who’d have thought there’d be a bunch of dead Brits buried way the heck down in Gaza?”
“Gaza has a special relationship with the dead.” Omar Yussef’s grip grew tighter still. “I will keep you informed of what I learn here, Missus Nirnberger.”
She let the missus go this time. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get Magnus out of there.”
“If Allah wills it.”
“You bet.”
The hotel room was dark. Omar Yussef flicked the switch on the nightstand lamp. He rubbed his shoulder where the stone had hit him in the riot at Cree’s burning car. He gave a rasping laugh when he realized that the shoulder hurt so much he’d almost forgotten the wide bruise on the side of his head. The idea of food had made him nauseous all day, but now he was famished. He put the shish tawouk out of his mind; it only made him more ravenous to think of it being prepared downstairs. He dialed his home. Once again, Nadia answered.
“Hello, Nadia. What’s happening there? Everything all right?”
“Grandpa, did you see the website?”
“I was only able to have a very quick look at it.”
“What did you think?”
Nadia’s voice was reedy with excitement. Omar Yussef wondered how much he could tell her about the reality of what her Agent O had gone through since she last saw him. He feared that the filth surrounding him like the dust on the air would harm her. “I liked the website,” he said. “The lady who showed it to me on the computer was very impressed, except that now she thinks I’m a spy.”
Nadia laughed.
“When I come home, I want you to show me how you do the design,” Omar Yussef said, “and how you put it into the computer so that it comes out in a computer on this end, too.”
“It’s easy, Grandpa.”
“Only because you’re very clever. Is Grandma there?”
When Maryam came to the phone, a child was whimpering in the background. “It’s Dahoud,” she said. “He misses you. He saw something about Gaza on the news and he’s been crying all evening. He said he wouldn’t go to bed ‘until uncle calls.’”
Maryam and Omar Yussef had adopted Dahoud and his sister Miral at the turn of the year, after the violence of Bethlehem took their parents. The boy’s concern for him touched Omar Yussef. The poor little fellow had already lost a beloved father and no doubt feared the death of the man who had stepped into his place. “Tell him I’m fine, he can go to bed now, and I’ll see him soon.”
“When will that be, Omar?”
“I don’t know.” He cleared his throat and tried to sound nonchalant. “You saw the news?”
“No, I told you, Dahoud saw it. But I can’t get any sense out of him. Why? What happened?” Maryam’s voice was edgy and loud, as though she had dived suddenly into the phone.
Omar Yussef hesitated. “Well, Magnus was kidnapped by the Saladin Brigades and another UN fellow who was working with me was blown up in his car-”
Maryam gave a high-pitched gasp. “By Allah, Omar, you have to get out of there.”
“I have to see to Magnus’s release, Maryam. The UN won’t send anyone else. They’re scared to have a foreigner here.”
“Don’t they have local Gazan staff?”
“I assume they’re keeping their heads down.”
“So should you. Are you to be sacrificed?”
“Maryam, I can handle this.” He could imagine her shaking her head at the other end of the line.
“You’re not so tough, Omar. Just because you stood up to the gangs in Bethlehem last year, doesn’t mean you can do the same thing in a strange town. Gaza is a terrible place.”
“I can take care of myself. And Abu Adel is here too. He won’t let me do anything risky.”
“Abu Adel may be police chief in Bethlehem, but in Gaza he’s nothing. They’ll kill him as though they were squashing an insect. And he can be just as rash as you, Omar.”
“Who are they, Maryam?”
“Whoever it was who kidnapped Magnus and blew up this other man.”
“It might not be the same group.”
