That might be almost three months salary for the coffee boy. Omar Yussef looked at the stopper of the decanter in Husseini’s thick hand. It was cut with hundreds of tiny, hard edges.
Omar Yussef asked Husseini not to pour for him. Cree hesitated, but he took the brandy and sipped it in silence. Sami lit a cigarette and rolled the brandy in his glass. Husseini put two doubles away before the small talk was over. The porcelain carriage clock on the dining table showed ten-thirty.
“Now I will call the American ambassador to update him,” Husseini said, as he showed them to the door, “and you will go to jail.” As Omar Yussef reached the bottom of the staircase, he could still hear Husseini laughing.
Chapter 13
To Omar Yussef’s dismay, Cree insisted on taking the wheel of the Suburban, protesting that Nasser’s erratic driving would make him nauseous in his current condition. The Scot had to concentrate just to hold a straight line on the way to Gaza’s central jail and military headquarters.
The Saraya’s twelve-foot perimeter wall was a prime canvas for political graffiti artists. Its whitewash was daubed in green, red and black with exhortations to Allah, the president and his predecessor, the people, the land and the martyrs. Omar Yussef wondered when Bassam Odwan would join the list.
The guards lifted a red and white bar from across the entrance and directed Cree to the side of the main building, a three-story, dirty-gray block. At the end of a line of camouflaged trucks, a Military Intelligence officer awaited them. He recognized Sami. “How’re you doing, ya zalameh?” he said, raising his hand and bringing it down to make a loud, slapping shake. Omar Yussef wondered again about Sami’s connections. Everywhere he went, these security people were his friends. This one even called him man.
The officer held Sami’s arm, leading him into the jail and up the dingy stairwell. Omar Yussef and Cree trailed, breathing heavily. The air was dense with the dust that hung over Gaza City and the thick smell of enclosed men, of sweat and laundry, of stewing meat and cigarettes.
The officer led them through the jail like a cheerful tour guide, eager to share his knowledge of a place few saw and even fewer wished to see. “This floor is where the officers have their quarters. At the end of that corridor is the bureau of the commander of the National Security Forces.”
They climbed another two flights of stairs. A guard at the top stood and rattled his Kalashnikov over his shoulder, as they approached. His keys clattered in a heavy metal door painted a soapy blue, and he locked it behind them.
The block was thirty yards long with five cells on each side of the walkway. From the first cell came the rustle of men rising in prayer and the words of the prayer leader, answered in unison with a deep, mumbled crescendo. The wind brought the dusty air along the corridor from an unglazed, barred window at the opposite end. Two guards in camouflage fatigues and red berets leaned against the door of the first cell, smoking and resting their elbows on their assault rifles.
“The prisoners aren’t locked in at the moment,” the officer informed Cree. “It’s time for midday prayers, so they’ve congregated in cell number one. This fellow leading the prayers, you see, is a big sheikh on the outside. This is the most exclusive mosque in Gaza City.”
Cree peered into the cell through a metal grille cut along the corridor at head height. “Reckon it is,” he said.
“Odwan is at the end of the corridor.” The officer beckoned. “He’s in solitary confinement.”
“Even more exclusive,” Cree whispered to Omar Yussef.
The officer unlocked a solid iron door. Omar Yussef stepped into a small, unlit room with a stainless steel sink, some empty buckets and mops. It stank of dirty washcloths. At the other side of the room, a grille was cut in another metal door. Omar Yussef looked through it.
“That’s the murderer Odwan,” the officer said.
Bassam Odwan stood with his head lowered and his open palms held before him. He knelt and prostrated himself on a cheap mat, touching his forehead to the gaudy synthetic weave. Omar Yussef hadn’t prayed in years. He watched Odwan go down.
The prisoner had his back to the door as he prayed. Holes in his thin, dirty white T-shirt exposed his bulky back. His shoulders sloped from a thick neck and the muscles of his upper back undulated as he brought his hands up to cover his face in prayer. His was a broad, rounded, peasant muscularity. Odwan made his final prostration and rolled his prayer mat.
“His prayers are over,” Omar Yussef said.
The guard unlocked the door. Odwan didn’t turn. The officer called to him in a voice that had lost the tour-guide liveliness. “Hey, Odwan. You have visitors.”
Odwan placed the rolled prayer mat on its end in the corner of the room. He turned. From the front, his body looked thicker still. His chest was wide and heavy and his belly was deep and strong against the T-shirt. He wore baggy army pants and his feet were dirty and shoeless. His black beard was thick and his lips were big and red and wet. His hair was black and layered to a straight fringe halfway down his forehead. The edge of the hair rose over a dark brown welt at the center of his brow, abraded by years of being lowered to the prayer mat. The weal looked like a massive wart. Omar Yussef estimated Odwan was a little less than thirty years old.
Odwan took in Omar Yussef quickly and mildly. His eyes twitched with suspicion when Cree ducked through the door and he regarded Sami with even greater distrust. Sami smiled and leaned against the wall. The officer shut the door behind them.
Omar Yussef approached Odwan and shook his hand. The man’s grip was light, but it swallowed Omar Yussef’s fingers. It was a worker’s hand, strengthened and made large and clumsy by generations of simple toil. With a sudden relief that surprised him, Omar Yussef noted that Odwan hadn’t endured the Husseini Manicure. He introduced himself and Cree.
“As with your family and in your home,” Odwan said. He looked around the cell and smiled at the absurdity of the traditional greeting. His smile was disarming and simple, reminding Omar Yussef of the innocent grin of the mentally handicapped, but the eyes were tough and astute.
The cell was empty but for a thin sleeping mat against the wall and a bucket for slops. Odwan had his prayer mat and a plastic bottle of water, its label worn away by reuse. A single window, too high to see through, was bolted shut and the air in the cell was oppressively hot. Sweat stood out on Odwan’s face and soon Omar Yussef felt his own perspiration in the armpits of his shirt. Cree and Omar Yussef sat on the sleeping mat. Odwan crossed his legs in the center of the cell and kept his eyes on Sami, who squatted by the door.
“Who’s he?” Odwan asked. His voice was hoarse. Omar Yussef thought of the tortures that Eyad Masharawi had undergone and wondered if Odwan had sandpapered his vocal chords screaming in pain.
“He’s Sami Jaffari, a deportee from Bethlehem. He’s helping us in our investigation.”
“What investigation, uncle?”
“At first, we thought we were investigating the case of one of our schoolteachers who was jailed by Colonel al-Fara.”
Odwan dropped his thick lips open and frowned, hard.
“But since last night our investigation has changed course. The Saladin Brigades kidnapped our colleague, a Swede who runs the UNRWA schools in Gaza and the West Bank. In return for his release, they want you to be freed.”
“If Allah wills it.”
“Bassam, we need to find our friend.”
“Was there a leaflet?”
Omar Yussef nodded. “The Saladin Brigades distributed a leaflet saying they carried out the kidnapping.”