frame.
They sat on the sofa opposite the fluorescent strip. The man who had greeted them at the door placed the light on a mahogany coffee table between the sofas. When he moved it, the icy glow illuminated his hands and face. They were the same broad farmer’s features Omar Yussef had noted in Bassam Odwan. The man’s high brow was alert, stiff with concentration. His eyes were black and watchful.
“You’re related to Bassam Odwan?” Omar Yussef asked.
“My brother,” he said, in a hoarse, dark voice.
“May Allah be merciful upon him. I met him briefly in the jail. I think he was calm in the face of death.”
“I don’t think calm is the right word.”
“What’s your name?”
“Attiah Odwan.”
“What would be the right word, Attiah?”
“Prepared. That would be the right word.”
The man in the corner completed the five prostrations of the Maghrib prayers, but didn’t stop. Omar Yussef counted two more repetitions of the motions-the standing and the kneeling, the moment of restful consideration and the bowing to the floor-that constituted a single prostration. The extra prayers signaled preparation for an imminent mission and, perhaps, death.
When the prayers were done, a woman, compelled to remain out of the visitors’ sight, passed a tray of coffee through the door and Attiah set it on the table. The man in the corner greeted them. His hand, when Omar Yussef shook it, was deformed, the bones broken and barely knitted together, the skin unnaturally smooth and hairless where it had been burned. Omar Yussef flinched.
“The work of an Israeli tank shell,” the man said. His voice was low and rasping. His deep, dark eyes were dry and bloodshot. Below them were thick rings the color and texture of cinnamon bark. His beard was smooth and shone black. He pulled a tissue from a box on the table and expectorated into it. He took a packet of throat lozenges from his pocket, slipped one into his mouth, and picked up his coffee cup.
“As you were with your parents and in your home,” he said.
“You’re Abu Jamal?” Omar Yussef asked.
The man nodded and retreated into the darkness.
Omar Yussef attempted to lighten the tension in the room. “Did we come to the right place?” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t expect to find you praying here. Perhaps we arrived at the headquarters of the Islamists by mistake.”
Abu Jamal smiled thinly. “Among the resistance, those who never used to pray are connected to Allah now, because death seems so close. We’re all ready to be martyrs before Allah at any moment. We put our souls in the hands of Allah.”
“I’m Omar Yussef Sirhan, from Dehaisha Camp. I work for UNRWA. One of my colleagues, a Swede, has been kidnapped by the Saladin Brigades and another has been killed, also by the Saladin Brigades.”
“That was the Gaza City people who did that,” Abu Jamal said, coughing and reaching for another tissue.
“The killing? Yes, well, sort of.”
“What do you mean?” Abu Jamal’s head dipped, menacingly.
“The Gaza City people acted on paid orders from someone in Rafah.”
“I’d know about that, if it was true.” Abu Jamal crunched the throat lozenge between his back teeth.
Omar Yussef smelled the menthol across the room. “Perhaps it was someone from Rafah, but not someone from the Saladin Brigades.”
Abu Jamal was silent. He drank his coffee and wiped his mustache with the back of his deformed hand.
“My colleague, the Swede, came to inspect the schools and found that one of our teachers had been arrested,” Omar Yussef said. “It should have been a simple matter, but in some way that we don’t fully understand it touched on other issues far beyond the case of the imprisoned teacher. Dangerous issues.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’d like you to free the Swede.”
“How can I do that?”
“There’s no need for you to hold him anymore, now that the brother Bassam Odwan is dead.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t have him.”
Omar Yussef tilted his head and gave his words a taunting, sarcastic bite. “Do you mean that the Gaza City wing of the Saladin Brigades killed the UN man and carried out the kidnapping, too?”
Abu Jamal found another piece of the throat lozenge to crunch. “Perhaps.”
“That’s not what they told us.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That the Swede was taken by someone from Rafah.”
“By the Saladin Brigades in Rafah?”
Omar Yussef thought hard. “They just said that it was someone from Rafah.”
“There are one hundred and sixty thousand people in Rafah. I’m only one of these.” Abu Jamal shared a scornful smile with Attiah, whose bulk was shrouded by the darkness at the other end of his sofa.
“The Saladin Brigades distributed a leaflet, announcing that the Swede would be released in return for the freedom of Bassam Odwan,” Omar Yussef said. “Besides, I witnessed the kidnapping. The gunmen were wearing Saladin Brigades headbands.”
“Anyone can get headbands made and anyone with a computer and a fax machine can call himself the Saladin Brigades. The leaflet didn’t come from us.”
“If you don’t have him, where should I look?”
“It’s not so easy to know who to trust and who to suspect in Rafah,” Abu Jamal said. “Of course, we expect to come under attack from the Jews-our holy Koran says that we will be in a continuous battle with them until the Day of Judgment. But now it’s other Palestinians who kill my men.”
“Like Bassam Odwan.”
“Like him.”
“These other Palestinians, do they steal your new missiles, too?”
Abu Jamal’s face was immobile. I have his attention, Omar Yussef thought.
“If you find the Swede,” Omar Yussef said, “you may find your missile, too.”
Abu Jamal’s dark eyes flickered.
Omar Yussef puzzled out what he had to say as he went along, speaking slowly and determinedly. “The Swede was kidnapped because he questioned the purchase of academic degrees by officers of the Preventive Security. Bassam Odwan was killed for shooting Lieutenant Fathi Salah. Fathi’s brother, Yasser, is in the Preventive Security. Odwan told me he was alone with Fathi when the shots were fired by a single shooter.”
“You met Bassam?”
“In his jail cell. Another UN man, James Cree, was blown up by the Saladin Brigades from Gaza City, but it was on the orders of someone in Rafah, who may, in fact, have been trying to kill me.”
Abu Jamal winced at the mention of James Cree. Someone powerful has blamed you for an embarrassing attack on the UN, Omar Yussef thought.
“The orders to kill the UN man came from Rafah,” Omar Yussef said. “From Yasser Salah.”
Now Abu Jamal spoke slowly and carefully. “Why did Salah want to kill you?”
“I had been to his family home in Rafah to investigate the kidnapping of the Swede. Yasser Salah is the one who connects all these strands. That’s where we’ll find the missile.”
Abu Jamal coughed and spat into a tissue. “Lieutenant Fathi Salah came to us to sell the missile. He was a Military Intelligence officer. Perhaps they have the missile.”
Omar Yussef shook his head and stroked his mustache. “Fathi was scared and alone when he met Odwan. That’s because he was operating without the permission of his boss General Husseini.”
“Why didn’t he sell the missile to General Husseini?”
“He would have, but Yasser couldn’t allow that. If his boss, Colonel al-Fara, discovered that he’d sold such a strategic weapon to his greatest rival, it would’ve been the end for Yasser.”
“Selling the missile to the Saladin Brigades was the neutral option?”
