The Fourth Assassin

“The assassination of the president by another Palestinian here would’ve been a first, would it not?” Abdel Hadi said. “Many Palestinians were killed by rival factions during the seventies and eighties in Europe and the Arab world, but never, I believe, in New York.”

Omar Yussef thought of Nizar’s father. “There was one. A writer named Fayez Jado.”

“Who told you about that? Was it your old friend the police chief of Bethlehem?”

Omar Yussef’s head cleared, and his eyes snapped to Abdel Hadi’s face.

“I see the former PLO hit man has been reminiscing,” Abdel Hadi said. “If only he was as good at doing his job today.”

Omar Yussef’s thoughts came in a rush. Nizar’s father was the only Palestinian official assassinated in New York during the eighties. What did Khamis Zeydan say? It was difficult to organize a hit in New York, but he managed it anyhow. It was him. When he was a PLO assassin, he killed Nizar’s father, and Nizar knows it. That’s why he agreed to come with me after I found him at Grand Central-to see the man who shot his father. Now he’ll try to murder him. What if Nizar goes back to Ala’s place as Hamza thought he would? He’ll find my friend there, and he’ll kill him.

Omar Yussef jogged to the chair where he had left his coat. Water spilled over his wrist. He drank the remainder quickly, put the glass on the chair, and picked up his coat. He hurried to the exit.

He stumbled along First Avenue, searching the steady traffic for a vacant taxi. He needed to get to Khamis Zeydan to warn him. There was no time to take the subway. A cab pulled over, and Omar Yussef dived inside. The driver, a Sikh in a black turban, leaned toward the divider for instructions. “Brooklyn, Bay Ridge,” Omar Yussef said.

The cab raced down the FDR Drive to the Manhattan Bridge. Omar Yussef blinked into the dark as the driver dodged between the brake lights from lane to lane.

They came off the bridge in Brooklyn and turned onto the Interstate that followed the shoreline. Across the bay, the Statue of Liberty bent her head under the dark clouds moving in from New Jersey. It’ll rain soon, Omar Yussef thought. That’s all right. Finally I’ve started to like this cold weather. It reminds me that my body is warm and alive.

As he reached Bay Ridge, the rain was coming down hard and thick, like blood from a sheep gutted for the ’Eid. It was six o’clock. The day, which had never been bright, was dark and gone.

Chapter 32

Omar Yussef hurried to the shelter of the doorway that led up to his son’s apartment. Raindrops slashed onto the deserted sidewalk and drummed on the awning of the Cafe al-Quds. The skyscrapers and the avenues like canyons and the bridges of the great city of New York were reduced in his mind to this one street in Brooklyn where the Arabs lived. He scanned the darkness, looking for Nizar. It was as if the whole metropolis flooded down like the rain onto this block, a teeming, distracting chaos of noise and smells, flashing lights and video screens. He tried to close the city out of his head and imagined that he was leaving it behind him, watching it recede from the window of an airliner. He backed through the entrance, as though to ensure that neither Nizar nor New York stalked him up the stairs.

Ala opened the door at his knock and kissed him three times on the cheeks. The boy had been weeping, and his mustache was slick. Rania stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms folded and her big mouth a pouting crescent.

Omar Yussef stared at her with surprise and disapproval. She dropped her eyes to the floor.

Ala took his father’s hand. “I asked Rania to come so we could say good-bye. Abu Adel is in the bedroom.” He gestured toward the room where Omar Yussef had discovered the body.

“Since the local police don’t seem to have been too sharp, I’m looking for evidence they may have missed. Maybe something about the Islamic Jihad cell,” Khamis Zeydan shouted. He grunted, and Omar Yussef heard a sliding sound, as though the police chief had gone under the bed.

Omar Yussef blew out a long, shaky breath. He realized that he had been worried he might find Khamis Zeydan murdered. He glanced out of the window. The blue glow of a wristwatch briefly illuminated the interior of a car in front of the Community Association. Hamza, on surveillance stakeout, he thought.

A lone man walked quickly along the opposite sidewalk, his head covered by the hood of his coat, his shoulders hunched. He crossed the street and went under the awning of the cafe.

The model of the Dome of the Rock sat on the low table by the door. Omar Yussef touched his fingertip to the brown bloodstain on the yellow dome. “You aren’t packing this to take with you, Ala?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’ll bother. Where I’m going, you know, we have something similar.” Ala smiled, and Omar Yussef wagged his finger at him, nodding.

The door swung open behind Omar Yussef. As he turned toward it, Nizar stepped into the room, dripping rainwater onto the floorboards. He pushed back the hood of his coat. Around his face his long black hair was wet, clinging to his skin. He shook his head and sprayed water over Omar Yussef.

“You’re here, Rania, my darling,” Nizar said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. This place was my last hope of finding you.”

“Ala came to me,” Rania said, poking her hair behind her ear and straightening the embroidered edge of her black headscarf.

Nizar glared at Ala. “What did you want with her?”

“To say good-bye and to be sure she wasn’t alone,” Ala mumbled. “I’ve been worried about her since her father-”

“She’ll never be alone. She’ll be with me.” Nizar’s teeth were set, and his lips rolled back.

Omar Yussef glanced toward the bedroom, nervously. “Take Rania and go, Nizar,” he said. “Make a break for it now.”

Khamis Zeydan emerged from the bedroom. “Nizar, what did you run off for?” he said.

Surprise registered on Nizar’s face, but it was replaced instantly by a dark satisfaction. He reached for his coat pocket.

“Wait,” Omar Yussef called.

Nizar drew out a pistol. Khamis Zeydan’s eyes widened, and he pulled his own gun from his shoulder holster. They held their weapons on each other, arms tensed and breathing shallow. Nizar’s tongue flicked against the gap between his front teeth. “This is what the Americans call a Mexican standoff,” he said.

“It’ll be a Palestinian standoff when you both kill each other,” Omar Yussef said. He fingered the Omani dagger in his pocket. Take your hands off it, he thought. You’ll never use it. “Nizar, you can’t win. Let us help you. Abu Adel can still get you immunity.”

“Help from the man who killed my father? No, thanks, ustaz.” Nizar sneered. “I would’ve killed the bastard at the hotel if I could’ve done it and got away.”

Khamis Zeydan stepped toward Nizar. “Drop the gun.”

“That’s close enough.” Nizar’s handsome face flushed with panic, and his finger tightened on the trigger. The sweat lay in beads on his face.

Stop sitting in your car checking your watch, Hamza, Omar Yussef thought. Get in here.

Rania reached for the young man’s arm. “My darling, forget all this. Take me away from here, please.”

Inside his pocket, Omar Yussef wiped the perspiration from his palm. He grasped the dagger. If he distracted the boy, Khamis Zeydan could overpower him, and the danger would be over.

He tossed the dagger. The stones in its scabbard flashed garnet and green, as it twisted through the air. He shouted, “Nizar.”

The dagger struck Nizar on his gun hand. His arm jolted to the left. The pistol discharged, and Rania spun back against the wall.

The reverberations of the shot died away. The room was silent but for Nizar’s horrified moan and Rania’s desperate breaths. He went down on his knees, lifting her torso with his free arm and stroking her head with the