Maki laughed and clapped his hands. “Abu Ramiz, the dust storm has affected your brain, perhaps. This is all most fantastic.”
Omar Yussef ignored him. “With his status in the security forces to protect him from rival smugglers, Salah could smuggle weapons and sell them readily. When he heard that the Saladin Brigades were bringing in a new missile, Salah figured it was an opportunity to snatch the prototype and sell it back to the gunmen.”
Maki stopped laughing. His jaw was tight.
“Salah used his brother, a Military Intelligence officer, to carry out the trade,” Omar Yussef said, “so the Saladin Brigades would blame Military Intelligence for the theft. His brother lost his nerve and blew the sale, so Salah killed him. He was preparing to sell the missile to Colonel al-Fara, I believe, when things started to go wrong.”
“I don’t know anything about this missile.”
“Yes, you do. Yasser Salah had two bogus university degrees, but he was no historian. The missile was hidden in a grave in the British War Cemetery. That was your touch, professor. You’re the history man.” Omar Yussef watched Maki closely. “Do I need to remind you of your lecture over dinner about the British in the First World War?”
The professor pulled a croissant into pieces. He laid the strips on his plate, side by side.
“The degrees you sold to Preventive Security men like Salah gave you a strong network all over Gaza. These men owed their promotions and power to you. You used them to sell the weapons Salah smuggled under the border.” Omar Yussef raised his finger and looked hard at Maki. “But if Colonel al-Fara found out you were using the sale of degrees for more than just a little extra cash, he’d squash you. He wouldn’t want his people to owe even partial allegiance to anyone else.”
“I sold a degree to al-Fara, too.” Maki smiled. “So stop behaving as though you have the upper hand here.”
“I have the missile, remember,” Omar Yussef said.
Maki waved his hand dismissively. “All missiles look the same to me. Salah handled that end of things.”
“You’ve gone too far, Abu Nabil,” Omar Yussef said. “When Professor Masharawi made his accusations about corruption at the university, you had your network in Preventive Security frame him as a spy. In the end, you kidnapped the Swede, blew up James Cree and had Masharawi killed, because you saw that we were getting too close to the truth.”
“I didn’t order the UN fellow to be blown up,” Maki said. “That was Salah’s stupidity. In any case, he thought you’d be in the car, rather than the foreigner.”
“But you did want me killed?”
Maki lifted his chin arrogantly, then he dropped it and it was as though the fight had gone out of him. “I found a Saladin Brigades leaflet in my office after you left, with notes about the Salah brothers on the back. I knew then why you were in my office with my secretary. There was a phone number on the leaflet, too, so I had Salah call it. When you answered, he put the Swede on the line, to scare you off. It didn’t work, so I issued the order to have you killed.” He shrugged. “But your friend the Scotsman was already dead. At the time he died, I assure you I didn’t wish you killed. That roadside bomb was too much.”
Omar Yussef felt his shoulder twinge where the stone had hit him by Cree’s burning vehicle. It was one bruise among many, but he sensed it deep in his muscle now. “It was too much for me,” he said. “For you, it was only part of Gaza’s long, fatal history.”
“I’m not a monster, Abu Ramiz. I’m a politician.” Maki placed both hands over his heart and frowned. “How do you think politics is conducted in Gaza? With reasoned debate between men who call each other ‘the honorable gentleman’? I hoped you’d see that you were involved in something more than a trivial argument between a part- time professor and the head of the university. Masharawi’s torture should’ve shown you it was much bigger than that.” Maki shook his head slowly. “If you had been smarter, your friend the UN man would still be alive. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t understand the way Gaza works. But you’re a Palestinian-I told you to guide the foreigners away from the Masharawi case. Still you went ahead with your stupid investigation. If anyone killed the Scotsman, it was you.”
Omar Yussef’s jaw quivered and his hands shook with rage. “You admitted that you were prepared to go even further,” he said, as calmly as he could. “You put out an order for me to be killed.”
“That was a lesser thing than the murder of the Scotsman. Do you think anyone at the United Nations would worry about your death?” Maki said. He smiled, seeming to gain energy from Omar Yussef’s evident anger. “Even so, the Scotsman’s killing will come to nothing. If the UN found out that I was involved in his death-which they couldn’t prove, believe me-their diplomats would hush it up.”
“One of their colleagues is dead.”
“Oh, yes, you might expect them to want justice for their departed comrade. But they’d be far more concerned about the peace negotiations. They aren’t about to blame a senior member of the Revolutionary Council for the murder.” Maki gestured around the room, as though its luxury were proof that he was above justice and law. “The UN will close its eyes to this, agree that it was the result of some internal battle between criminal gunmen, and pay a pension to the poor man’s family, if he has one.”
Omar Yussef recalled bitterly how swift the UN negotiating team had been to turn back to Jerusalem, after the bomb killed James Cree. “Perhaps you’re right. They’ll allow the incident to be buried,” he said. “Why should it only be Palestinians who’re corrupted by Gaza?”
“Did you come here to listen to me confess? You think three thousand years of death in Gaza will be ended if you take me in to the police? I gave you a lesson in Gaza’s history when we had dinner the other night. But you didn’t pay attention.” Maki leaned over the table and wagged his finger at Omar Yussef. There was a smear of melted chocolate on the knuckle. Maki sucked it away. He smiled and smacked his lips. “Yasser Salah and Eyad Masharawi and your UN man, these are all small issues. These three men all benefited from the violence and corruption here-Salah ran guns, Masharawi was the principled defender of justice, and your UN man got a tax-free salary and the warm feeling that he was helping the poor, dark natives.”
“It cost them their lives.”
“That was the risk they took. While they lived, they thrived on the same system that killed them.”
Omar Yussef waved his bandaged hand. “Let’s forget that we’re both history teachers. I don’t care about ending Gaza’s violent story. When you invited me to your house for dinner, you said you could offer me incentives to bury the Masharawi case. I know what you meant by that, and I’m prepared to let you buy my silence now.”
Maki was still. He smiled tentatively, then he raised his eyebrows and laughed. He slapped the tabletop with both hands and laughed harder. “Abu Ramiz, I liked you from the moment I met you.” He pointed a finger at Omar Yussef. “You’re a very, very bad man, my friend. My dear, darling friend. A very bad man.”
Maki called to the Sri Lankan for a whisky. She brought it before he’d finished laughing and he paused in his laughter only long enough to slug it down. He held out his glass. “One for you, Abu Ramiz?”
Omar Yussef shook his head. “I want twenty thousand dollars,” he said.
“That much?”
“That’s the price at which you offered the missile to the Saladin Brigades.”
“Well, I’m sure I can manage that.”
“In cash. Now.”
Maki stopped laughing and sighed. He smiled. “How do I know that you have the missile?”
“Open the door of your garage. My assistant will bring our car inside and leave the missile there for you.”
Maki took Omar Yussef through the kitchen to the side entrance of the garage. He rolled up the street door and pulled his Mercedes out into the sunlight to make room. Omar Yussef beckoned to Sami, who reversed into the garage. With Sami, he maneuvered the plywood missile crate out of the rear of the Jeep and onto the oil-stained floor. Maki came back in and pulled down the door. Sami pried open the lid of the crate.
Maki looked inside and smiled. He ran his hand along the missile, breathlessly, as though it were a naked woman. “The Saladin I. Close it up, Abu Ramiz. I’ll get you the money.”
In Maki’s living room, Omar Yussef paced the shiny marble floor. The professor returned with a black leather briefcase. He laid it on the dining table and opened it. Inside were twenty bundles of U.S. dollars. Omar Yussef riffled the end of one wad of bills. “No need to count it, Abu Ramiz,” Maki laughed. “I consider this a fine price and an excellent deal.”
