The Fourth Assassin

The detective stared at Omar Yussef, even as he posed his next question to Ala. “When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday evening, when I went out to do my night shift in the taxi.”

“Anything unusual? Did he seem especially nervous or excited?”

Ala folded his arms. “Especially nervous? Since he came to New York, Rashid has always behaved like there was someone around the next corner who might want to kill him. He’s constantly terrified of being mugged or shot or stabbed or pushed under a subway train.”

“Why?”

“He thinks Americans are all blood-crazed street hoodlums who hate Arabs.” Ala stuck out his jaw and sneered. “What do you think of Americans?”

“Stick with Rashid, okay?”

“He’s perpetually terrified.”

“And that’s how he seemed last night?”

“No more than usual.”

Hamza turned to Omar Yussef. “What’s your name, ustaz? Where in Bethlehem does your family live?”

“I’m Omar Yussef Sirhan, from Dehaisha Refugee Camp.”

His eyes on the notepad in his hand and his voice quiet, the detective said, “You’re the schoolteacher called Abu Ramiz. From the UN Girls’ School in the camp?”

Omar Yussef looked in surprise at the policeman. “How do you know?”

Hamza rocked his head from side to side on his thick neck. “I don’t seem familiar to you?”

Omar Yussef swallowed. “You do look like someone with whom I had a run-in a couple of years ago.”

“Hussein Tamari.”

“The gunman. The head of the Martyrs Brigades in Bethlehem.”

“He was my uncle, may Allah have mercy upon him.”

“May his lost years be added to yours by Allah to lengthen your life,” Omar Yussef mumbled. “Your uncle and I-”

“It’s in the past, ustaz.”

Omar Yussef examined the damp, dark eyes of the big detective and wondered if his conflict with the man’s uncle was truly forgotten.

“I hadn’t seen him for years, anyway,” Hamza said. “My father brought me to Brooklyn when I was barely a teenager. All those things, the intifada, the Israeli occupation, they seem so far away.”

“Lucky for you.”

Hamza sucked his back teeth and tapped his fingernail against his notebook. “If you don’t mind, ustaz?”

Omar Yussef gestured with his open palm for the detective to continue.

“What time did you arrive at the apartment?”

“It was noon. I checked my watch, because I couldn’t believe that the sun would be so obscured at that hour.” Omar Yussef glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that Nizar’s blood still smeared its face. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed it away.

“Where were you before you came here?”

“My hotel in Manhattan. I’m here for a conference at the UN.”

Hamza raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not so important,” Omar Yussef said. “It’s a conference on the ‘situation in Palestine.’ I’m supposed to give a talk on the UN school system in the refugee camps. I dropped off my bags at my hotel and came here to see my son.”

“And before you got to the hotel?”

“I took a taxi to Manhattan from the airport,” Omar Yussef said.

“What time did your flight land?”

“About half past nine.”

“Do you have anything from the flight? To verify your statement.” The detective shrugged an apology.

Omar Yussef produced the stub of his boarding pass from his jacket. Hamza took it and said, “I’ll have to check this.”

Is that flight my alibi? Do I really need an alibi? It was as though by being drawn this far into the case, Omar Yussef had assumed some of the murderer’s guilt. “What time was Nizar killed?” he asked.

Hamza glanced at the stub. “About the time you say your plane touched down, as far as we can tell at this stage,” he said. “What about you, sir?”

Ala raised his eyes, keeping his jaw tight.

“Where were you at nine-thirty?” the policeman said.

“I was somewhere else.”

Hamza worked his tongue around his mouth and lifted his chin.

“That’s all I can tell you,” Ala said.

“It’s not enough.”

“My son, you have to give the policeman an alibi,” Omar Yussef said. “Weren’t you with someone who could verify where you were?”

“Yes, but I can’t say who.” Ala’s stern face became momentarily desperate and childlike. “I just can’t, Dad.”

“It isn’t your Dad who’s asking you,” Hamza said. “If you can’t give me an alibi, we’re going to have to take you in.”

“You can’t arrest him,” Omar Yussef stammered.

“Calm down, ustaz Abu Ramiz. This isn’t Palestine. If your son has to come to the station with me, he’ll have all the rights that are due to him.”

“But he’s innocent.”

“He’s guilty of hiding something, and I want to know what that is.”

“Ala, tell him where you were. This is serious.”

Ala clasped his hands, but Omar Yussef saw that they were shaking.

“You won’t tell Mama about this, will you?” the young man said.

Chapter 4

An officer put his palm on the crown of Ala’s head, guiding him down into the patrol car. When he took it away, the boy’s curls fell across his eye. Omar Yussef stepped forward to smooth the hair back, but the policeman slammed the door. As the car turned the corner onto Bay Ridge Avenue, Omar Yussef shivered.

“You’ll need a better coat if you’re going to walk the streets of New York, uncle.” Hamza came to Omar Yussef’s side, pushing his big hands into the pockets of his blue parka. “It’s colder than a water-carrier’s donkey, as they say back home.”

Omar Yussef was about to tell the detective that his shivers were for his son, but a sharp gust of icy wind stopped him. His hands trembled as he tried to zip the front of his windbreaker. “I’m going to the police station,” he said. “I don’t need a coat.”

“Not a good idea. You won’t be able to see your boy for a long time, unless he changes his mind and decides to talk.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Even if he isn’t the perpetrator-”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course he’s not.”

“-he’s hiding something. The killer may know that and want him out of the way, in case your boy decides to spill. Could be he’s safer in custody than out here. Maybe that’s why he clammed up.”