chances are that Ishaq was killed elsewhere and the body was dropped here later. Murderers like to move their victims. They leave fewer clues that way.”
“He died up here, I’m sure of it. There was blood all over the rock.” Omar Yussef turned toward the Samaritan men in their white robes flanking the priest. They were gathered at the edge of the sloping gray stone, the center of their temple.
“What rock?” Khamis Zeydan followed his gaze.
“That’s the stone where Abraham bound Isaac. It’s where the ancient temple was built.”
“What are you talking about? That’s in Jerusalem.”
“This is where the Samaritans believe it was. Ishaq must have been alive when he was brought to the mountain, or he couldn’t have pumped out so much blood.”
Khamis Zeydan scratched his chin with the yellowed nail of his thumb.
“I think Ishaq was brought here and killed on that stone. His body was then thrown over the edge of the hillside into the darkness, and it rolled down into the trees.” Omar Yussef peered into the pines.
“He knew about the Old Man’s money. Did someone get the secrets of those accounts out of him and then silence him? Or is there something else?” Khamis Zeydan made a quick, summoning gesture with his fingers. “Give.”
The schoolteacher exhaled deeply. “I was about to tell you when we heard Nouri Awwadi cry out at the baths,” he said. “Those files of dirt on the Fatah leaders-Awwadi got them from Ishaq.”
Khamis Zeydan’s eyes seemed to recede into his head. “That’s very interesting. Awwadi bought them from Ishaq?”
“Awwadi stole the oldest Samaritan scroll and swapped it for the dirt files.”
“A straight swap? The scroll for the files? Nothing to do with Ishaq’s knowledge of the Old Man’s money?”
“Awwadi didn’t seem to know about that. When he showed me the files, I told him about the three hundred million dollars Ishaq had hidden and I got the impression that it was news to him.”
“If you were eager for the World Bank to get its hands on that money first, it wasn’t so smart to tell Hamas about it.”
“Don’t you think someone else who was after the money might have killed Awwadi? After I told him about the secret account details, he must’ve started trying to find them. Someone probably killed him to stop his search.”
Khamis Zeydan made a hissing sound and spat a gob of phlegm over the handrail toward the pines. “So this time
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, my brother, it was a nice trick. You knew there were ruthless people who wanted to be the first to get at that money, and you also knew that they were on your scent. So you set Awwadi on the trail of the secret accounts, knowing that he’d be a greater danger than you to the bad guys, whoever they are. They had to turn their attention to him. It was a nice distraction.”
Omar Yussef blinked. “You can’t possibly think I’d do something so wicked?”
“You’re right, I’m giving you too much credit. I was hoping you’d wised up.” Khamis Zeydan spat again, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and stared into the crowd. “Isn’t that the American woman from the World Bank?”
Omar Yussef squinted toward the crowd of foreigners. At first he failed to recognize Jamie King, dressed casually and with her red hair pulled under a baseball cap. He shuffled through the throng and greeted her.
“Hey there,” King said. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’m hedging my spiritual bets, in case the Samaritans are right,” Omar Yussef said.
“If the Messiah comes to Jerizim tonight, do you think the Samaritans will put in a good word for you?”
“I don’t like change, so I’m not interested in Paradise. I prefer to be sent straight to Hell, before all the worst punishments are taken.” Omar Yussef grinned. “I want to burn for eternity in a place that’s just as bad as Palestine.”
“Good evening, dear lady,” Khamis Zeydan said. He bowed slightly to King with his hand over his heart.
A nearby diplomat gestured for quiet. King whispered to Omar Yussef: “I was up here to look around a few days ago, but the caretaker wasn’t much good at explaining the history. Is that the Samaritan temple?” She pointed to the ruined walls and domed turret, bright in the moonlight beyond the group of Samaritans.
“That’s a Byzantine fortress,” Omar Yussef said. “The heart of their temple is the flat stone beside where the Samaritans are standing. The temple would’ve been built around it, here on the peak of their holy mountain.”
“Who destroyed it?”
“Religious rivals. Then the Greeks built a temple of Zeus over it.”
“When the Samaritan Messiah comes, he’ll rebuild it?”
“That’s the idea. Although their Messiah is only a prophet, not the son of God, so I can’t say how far his powers extend. He, too, may need a permit from the Israelis.”
“I’ll be up here again in the morning.” Jamie King pointed along the ridge. “I’ve got a meeting with the businessman Amin Kanaan at ten. One of those big houses belongs to him.”
The voice of the priest quieted the crowd. In a nasal tenor, he chanted from Exodus, the story of the first Passover. In the darkness, the Abisha seemed nothing more than an oblong blot across his white robe. The priest led the Samaritans down from the peak of Mount Jerizim. The crowd followed.
Omar Yussef detained King with a hand on her elbow. “Jamie, may I accompany you to your meeting with Kanaan?”
King hesitated. “It’s World Bank business,
“Kanaan worked with Ishaq. That means he could provide important leads in tracking the money.”
“My discussion with Mister Kanaan may include such topics. But there’re a number of World Bank development projects that involve him, too. Anyway, I imagine he’d prefer to be interviewed about the case by the police.”
Omar Yussef hid his frustration with a hand over his mouth. “I believe I would be able to extract certain information from him that you might not. It might be easier to question him in Arabic.”
King looked closely at Omar Yussef and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
“I’ll see you in the lobby at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.” Omar Yussef smiled. Satisfied, he allowed the crowd to separate him from the American.
Along the ridge, the lights in the windows of the Samaritan village were an icy blue. Flames flared from the pits where the sacrificial sheep were to be cooked.
Omar Yussef shambled along with Khamis Zeydan at the rear of the crowd, coughing on the dust it kicked up and stumbling on the rough pavement. The police chief was silent until they reached the village, and the charcoal scent of the fire pits drifted on the air. “That’s very interesting, indeed,” he said.
“Those are the pits where they’ll cook the sheep,” Omar Yussef said. “They slaughtered them in the afternoon, fleeced them with scalding water, gutted them and salted them. Now they’ll roast them and in a few hours they’ll eat them to mark the feast Moussa commanded of the Israelites before they left Egypt.”
Khamis Zeydan stared at him. “What?”
“They put the sheep upright on spits in those fire pits.” He pointed to the small park where the white-clad Samaritans at the head of the procession were spread out.
“I’m talking about the deal Awwadi did with this dead Samaritan,” Khamis Zeydan said. “Have you forgotten about that? You’re usually not led by your stomach.”
Embarrassed, Omar Yussef stroked his mustache. “I thought you-”
“I didn’t come here to eat. I came here to investigate a crime scene.”
“Only the Samaritans are allowed to eat, anyway. Their bible says that no one outside their community may take part in the Passover feast.”
“May Allah curse your father, schoolmaster. I’m not one of your foreign friends here as a tourist. Stop lecturing and let me think.”
The crowd jostled Omar Yussef, as the foreigners pressed to get a view of the skewers going down into the flames, four sheep speared on each. His shoulder bumped against Khamis Zeydan and he pushed resentfully against
