The Samaritan's secret

“You always did do things your own way,” Kanaan said.

“I disagree. I took orders. I did what the Old Man told me to do.”

“Come on, he didn’t issue orders. He gave hints. You had to interpret them, just as I did. It’s what made him so treacherous. It’s how he kept all of us in his power. You never knew when he was going to pull the rug from under you and deny everything. He did it to you in Damascus once, don’t you remember?” Kanaan turned to Omar Yussef. “Our friend Abu Adel was sold out to the Syrians, who put a bullet in his back.”

“He told me all about that,” Omar Yussef said.

Kanaan glanced at Khamis Zeydan. “Did he?” he said, slowly. “Did he indeed?”

“We’re not here to reminisce,” Omar Yussef said. “I have some questions.”

“I thought you told my servant that you had some information. But, anyway, wait for the coffee, ustaz Abu Ramiz,” Kanaan said. The servant returned with a silver tray and three small cups, each painted with a golden cartouche.

Omar Yussef took his coffee. “May Allah bless your hands,” he said to the servant.

“Blessings,” the servant said.

Omar Yussef turned formally to Kanaan. “May there always be coffee in your home,” he said.

Kanaan watched Khamis Zeydan receive his cup, balancing the saucer between thumb and forefinger. “There certainly will be, ustaz,” Kanaan said. He kept his eye on Khamis Zeydan, smiling at the police chief’s reluctant acceptance of his hospitality. “You can be sure of that.”

By the window, a pedestal of jadecolored marble rose to the height of Khamis Zeydan’s chest. It was designed to hold a bust, but it was empty. He laid his coffee cup on it.

“Your double health, Abu Adel,” Kanaan said, lifting his own cup. “Welcome.”

Khamis Zeydan shifted from foot to foot.

Kanaan licked his lips with pleasure at the policeman’s discomfiture. “Abu Adel-”

“Fuck your mother,” Khamis Zeydan yelled. “I won’t touch your coffee. I won’t pretend I don’t wish you were dead.”

“And I thought you came here to accuse me of killing Ishaq,” Kanaan said. “Instead I discover that perhaps you’ve come here to kill me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Your Honor Amin,” Omar Yussef said. He raised a finger at Khamis Zeydan. “Be careful, Abu Adel.”

“Ridiculous? I wouldn’t be the first one to die because your friend decided to settle a score,” Kanaan said. “This fellow was the party’s top assassin for two decades. He hates me because I know him for who he really is.”

“What do you mean?” Omar Yussef said.

Khamis Zeydan gripped the head of the marble pedestal and stared fiercely at the tiny coffee cup in its center.

“Since he returned from exile to live in Bethlehem, I’ve kept an eye on Abu Adel. I had to. I never knew when he might try something against me, given our history.” Kanaan sneered. “He portrays himself as an honorable policeman. But men like him gave Palestinians a bad reputation, with their terrorist attacks all over Europe and their airplane hijackings and their war in Lebanon.”

Khamis Zeydan backhanded his coffee cup off the pedestal. It smashed onto the floor. “If it was down to me, there’d have been peace decades ago,” he shouted. “But people like you made too much money out of the chaos, the lack of rules, the opportunities for corruption. You kept me fighting and others dying, so you could exploit our people and get rich.”

“But we both got what we wanted out of it in the end. I got rich, and you got excitement, the chance to be a tough guy.” Kanaan raised his eyebrows mockingly. “We both got what we wanted.”

Khamis Zeydan lurched toward Kanaan and grabbed the sofa. Kanaan jerked back, expecting a blow.

“No, we didn’t,” Khamis Zeydan said. His breath came loud through his nose. He leaned close to Kanaan, his lips spread, showing his teeth, like a dog preparing to pounce. “I didn’t get what I wanted.”

Kanaan composed himself. “I suppose you didn’t,” he grinned.

Liana, Omar Yussef thought. My friend didn’t get her, and now it seems to him she was all he ever wanted. “Abu Adel, perhaps it would be best if you waited in the garden,” he said.

Khamis Zeydan rolled his pale eyes. He slammed the French doors behind him and hobbled across the lawn to the gazebo.

Omar Yussef drained his cup and laid it on the Armenian tiles of the coffee table. He wiped the dregs from his mustache. “Abu Adel is a dear friend and I don’t think it’s fair of you to continue this animosity from so long ago,” he said.

Kanaan put his hand to his heart. “Isn’t it your friend who harbors the grudge?”

Omar Yussef leaned his elbows on his knees. “You sent Mareh to kill me, but you’re lucky that I’m more forgiving than Abu Adel. I’m not after you. I have a different aim. I want to know the truth about you and Ishaq.”

Kanaan shrugged.

“Aren’t you going to protest that you already told me the truth?” Omar Yussef said. “That you’re offended I should suspect you of covering something up?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Kanaan said. “You’re welcome to ask me whatever you want.”

“You gave Ishaq files of dirt on all the top Fatah people,” Omar Yussef said. “In return he was supposed to give you the information on the Old Man’s secret bank accounts. But he backed out.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Why did he back out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ask the priest Jibril why the deal wasn’t completed?”

Kanaan blinked and spoke slowly. “Should I ask him?”

“What did you want the money for?” Omar Yussef said.

“I don’t understand your question. Does one need a reason to want money?”

“What I mean is, don’t you already have plenty of it?”

“The money wasn’t for me. I wanted it to go into the official Palestinian treasury, where the international donors intended for it to be in the first place.”

“Do you think I’m naive enough to believe that?”

“After your last visit, I thought it best to learn more about you, ustaz.” Kanaan aimed his index finger at Omar Yussef. “First I discovered that you weren’t with the World Bank. Then I heard that you have something of a troublesome background.”

“What do you mean?” Omar Yussef felt a jolt of adrenaline. What does this man know about me? He experienced a surge of guilt for things he knew he had done wrong and anger at false accusations that had been made against him over the years.

“You were fired from your job at a nice school. Why was that? Was it your alcoholism? Or did something happen with one of the pupils? For some men, a school is full of sexual temptation.”

“How dare you.”

“You had some trouble with the Jordanian authorities when you were a student radical, too, didn’t you? Murder, wasn’t it? You’re probably going to tell me that the charges were dropped. But in an Arab country, with our corrupt justice systems, that doesn’t exactly clear your name. I also gather you had some dubious connections in Damascus, when you were a student there.”

“You’re just rehashing old nonsense.”

“Then why are your cheeks burning?” Kanaan stroked his gray sideburns. “Really, as you point out, I don’t need this money for my personal use. I’ve made many millions in construction and banking. But the Palestinians are poor.”

“Because of men like you.”

Kanaan waved his hand as though wafting away a bad smell. “I wanted to collect all the money hidden around the world by the old president and use it to build hospitals and schools for our people. If you insist on seeing