The Samaritan's secret

Yussef jerked his jaw toward the sheikh, quivering with anger. O peace, schoolteacher, you can’t keep your mouth shut, can you? he thought.

The haughtiness went out of Sheikh Bader’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“Your boy Nouri Awwadi knew Ishaq. Ishaq’s dead. You warned Sami away from the murder. So where’s the three hundred million dollars?” Omar Yussef sucked on his mustache. “See if you can figure it out, Our Honored Sheikh. Without the inspiration of Allah.”

Sheikh Bader swallowed hard and reached for the extended arm of another well-wisher, who shouldered Omar Yussef gently aside.

Omar Yussef breathed deeply and tried to calm himself. At the back of the crowded social club, he found Nouri Awwadi. The young man threw his thick arms wide and kissed Omar Yussef five times on the cheeks. His loose white wedding shirt smelled of the sweat he had shed keeping his anxious mount under control in the square, but his beard still gave off the scent of sandalwood. His big hands gripped the schoolteacher’s shoulders.

“Welcome, dear ustaz Abu Ramiz. What did you think of the wedding ceremony, dear friend?”

Omar Yussef’s laugh was rasping and cynical. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” he said. “I enjoy gossip.”

Awwadi frowned. “You picked up some gossip?”

“The sheikh broadcast it.”

“That wasn’t gossip, ustaz.” Awwadi leaned in close to Omar Yussef. “That was based on documents, real evidence that Hamas has obtained.”

“From where? From whom?”

Awwadi smiled, but raised a warning finger. “Are you investigating the death of the Samaritan on the hilltop? Or are you investigating Hamas?”

“I’m not a policeman. By Allah, the police force doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to investigate, anyway. But I’m naturally curious.”

“Take my word for it, we have the proof.”

“If I was going to take someone’s word for it, the sheikh’s would have sufficed.” Omar Yussef laid a hand on Awwadi’s deep chest. “Nouri, in the Arab world, you may not need proof to accuse people of certain things, but in this case it’s such a scandalous accusation that you’re really going to have to produce some evidence.”

Awwadi waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone knows what killed the Old Man.”

“No, everyone has a conspiracy theory. No one knows what actually killed him.”

Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him through the crowd. He whispered to a brawny, bearded man at the door, whom Omar Yussef recognized as one of the gunmen he had seen watching over the sheikh at the mosque. The man handed an M-16 to Awwadi and stared blankly at Omar Yussef.

Outside, a few small boys kicked a soccer ball against the shutters of the vegetable store where Omar Yussef had stood during the ceremony. The sun was at its zenith, but a raw wind whirled down from the mountain and ruffled the green banners on the clock tower. The metal shutters rattled and the football bounced through the horse dung by the dais, making the boys laugh. One of them rolled the ball back into the square and gave it a strong kick. His play-mates doubled over as the manure sprayed off the ball into the boy’s face. Omar Yussef followed Awwadi down the steps of the social club.

“It was I who obtained this evidence for the sheikh,” Awwadi said, quietly.

“How?”

“On behalf of Hamas, I acquired files containing dirt on all the top Fatah men.” Awwadi glanced about him and shifted the weight of the M-16 across his chest. “You’re a friend of Sami Jaffari. He’s Fatah, but so far he’s pretty honest. The rest of them are crooks. You shouldn’t trust them. Certainly don’t listen to what they say about me.”

“From whom did you buy the files? How do you know they’re real?”

“I got them from a Fatah guy. He gave them to me, because he was just like the rest of those people-all he cared about was getting what he wanted for himself, and even his own party could go to hell.”

“It could be a plant.” Omar Yussef hugged himself against the cold wind.

“Why would they plant information that’ll make them and their former leader look bad?” Awwadi took Omar Yussef’s hand and led him into the alley beside the social club, sheltering from the wind. “Ustaz, most of the infor-mation we obtained was from the files of the Old Man himself. He kept scandal dossiers on everyone around him, so that if they ever became too popular or tried to confront him, he could blackmail them into submission.”

“But the information about the president’s illness-that couldn’t have come from him.”

“That was a little bonus thrown in by the man I did the deal with.”

The metal door of the social club swung open. The wind caught it and it struck the wall with a heavy resonance. Awwadi stepped further into the darkness of the alley, pulling Omar Yussef after him. Khamis Zeydan appeared on the steps, lighting a cigarette. He scratched his head and called back inside. Sami emerged and the two walked toward the newer part of town.

Omar Yussef watched Khamis Zeydan hurry down the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind. The police chief limped on his left foot. His diabetes is acting up, he thought.

“Brigadier Khamis Zeydan. He’s with your friend Sami. Is Zeydan a friend of yours, too?” Awwadi murmured.

Omar Yussef turned toward the young man. “Do you have a file of dirt on him?”

Awwadi nodded. “Want to read it?”

“I want to destroy it,” Omar Yussef said.

“I thought you were a historian. These are the unofficial archives of Palestinian politics.”

“They stink.”

“So does Palestinian politics.”

“Is there a file on Ishaq?”

Awwadi clicked his tongue to signal a negative.

Whatever this man reveals about these dirt files should hardly surprise me, Omar Yussef thought. What could they contain? Theft, rape, corruption? Murder? There’s no injustice that I wouldn’t believe those who rule over the Palestinian people to be capable of.

“These aren’t just historical documents,” he said. “They could change the future, too. They could make it more bloody-cause a civil war between Fatah and Hamas.”

“We’re in a civil war now. A long one, with some breaks so everyone can pretend it’s not their fault. But it’s a war anyway.” Awwadi came closer. “You ought to know the truth about these Fatah people who ruled us for so long. The things they’ve done, the shameful things. All the billions of dollars in aid our people received-wasted. Look at our town. We have no theater. We have no cinema. But the whole place is a circus. Thanks to the people whose names are in the files I obtained.”

Even the board of the World Bank is about to come to that conclusion, Omar Yussef thought. But why must everyone in the Middle East who aims to right a wrong do so with violence? “How much did you pay for the files?”

Awwadi shook his head.

“A million dinars?” Omar Yussef stepped toward the big man. “What do you think will happen to the money you paid? You’re part of Fatah’s corruption now, don’t you see?”

Awwadi’s eyes grew angry. “I didn’t pay Fatah anything. I made a trade. I gave them the Abisha Scroll.”

“But the Samaritans showed me that scroll yesterday. Who gave it back to them? ”

“I gave the scroll to the Samaritans. There are Samaritans who’re in Fatah. It was one of them who gave me these dirt files.”

“Ishaq,” Omar Yussef said.

Awwadi exhaled. Omar Yussef smelled garlic on the man’s breath.

“You stole the Abisha Scroll from the synagogue. Then you swapped the scroll for these dirt files,” Omar Yussef said.

“If you say so.”