“No, no, I insist we enjoy an unhurried breakfast, the two of us.” Maki sat at the table. “I very much welcome your excellent company. The Revolutionary Council meetings are over. My cultured friends among the delegates are returning to the West Bank. All is once again deathly quiet in Gaza. Deathly, deathly, deathly.”
Omar Yussef detected a deeper layer of meaning in the repetition of Maki’s last word. Perhaps Maki had seen Omar Yussef’s notes on the back of the Saladin Brigades leaflet after all. But it didn’t matter now. Omar Yussef held the trump card.
“I didn’t come for cultured talk. I want to do business,” he said.
Maki tilted his head and opened his hand.
“I have something to offer, as a trade,” Omar Yussef said.
The Sri Lankan came with a plate of pastries. Maki pushed it across the table to Omar Yussef, smiling. “Is this another deal for the freedom of your friend Professor Masharawi?” he said.
“You know as well as I do that Masharawi’s dead,” Omar Yussef said.
The smile was gone from Maki’s face. He pulled the plate back across the table and bit into a chocolate croissant. As he chewed, the wet, black, tadpole eyes narrowed until they were hard and cunning. He wiped a few flakes of pastry from his wide upper lip. “I don’t know that quite as well as you do, but it’s true that I do know it.”
“I have the Saladin I.”
“The what?”
“The prototype missile that you and Yasser Salah stole from the Saladin Brigades.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Who is Yasser Salah?” Maki lowered his chin like a dog preparing to pounce.
Omar Yussef fought against his tiredness for concentration. “Yasser Salah was a Preventive Security officer in Rafah. You sold him his university degrees, so he could obtain promotion.”
“He was a Preventive Security officer, you said?”
“He’s dead now. Buried alive in his smuggling tunnel beneath the Egyptian border. I went to his house last night and found my kidnapped Swedish colleague there, thankfully still in good shape.”
“The Swede is safe? So everything is completed to your satisfaction.” Maki threw his arms wide, exposing the gray hairs on his chest at the neck of the pajamas.
“Not quite. I want to sell you the Saladin missile.”
Maki shook his head, as though deeply puzzled. “Why should I want it?”
“Because if you don’t buy it, I’ll sell it to Colonel al-Fara.”
“So?”
“He’ll want to know how this missile, which was smuggled into Gaza by the Saladin Brigades, ended up in the hands of a UN schoolteacher.”
“And what will you tell him?”
“That his ally on the Revolutionary Council, Professor Maki, wanted a piece of the arms trade. He arranged for degrees from al-Azhar University to be conferred on a nobody down in Rafah named Yasser Salah, so that the man could be promoted to a powerful position in the local Preventive Security branch.”
Maki laughed and clapped his hands. “Abu Ramiz, the dust storm has affected your brain, perhaps. This is all most fantastic.”
Omar Yussef ignored him. “With his status in the security forces to protect him from rival smugglers, Salah could smuggle weapons and sell them readily. When he heard that the Saladin Brigades were bringing in a new missile, Salah figured it was an opportunity to snatch the prototype and sell it back to the gunmen.”
Maki stopped laughing. His jaw was tight.
“Salah used his brother, a Military Intelligence officer, to carry out the trade,” Omar Yussef said, “so the Saladin Brigades would blame Military Intelligence for the theft. His brother lost his nerve and blew the sale, so Salah killed him. He was preparing to sell the missile to Colonel al-Fara, I believe, when things started to go wrong.”
“I don’t know anything about this missile.”
“Yes, you do. Yasser Salah had two bogus university degrees, but he was no historian. The missile was hidden in a grave in the British War Cemetery. That was your touch, professor. You’re the history man.” Omar Yussef watched Maki closely. “Do I need to remind you of your lecture over dinner about the British in the First World War?”
The professor pulled a croissant into pieces. He laid the strips on his plate, side by side.
“The degrees you sold to Preventive Security men like Salah gave you a strong network all over Gaza. These men owed their promotions and power to you. You used them to sell the weapons Salah smuggled under the border.” Omar Yussef raised his finger and looked hard at Maki. “But if Colonel al-Fara found out you were using the sale of degrees for more than just a little extra cash, he’d squash you. He wouldn’t want his people to owe even partial allegiance to anyone else.”
“I sold a degree to al-Fara, too.” Maki smiled. “So stop behaving as though you have the upper hand here.”
“I have the missile, remember,” Omar Yussef said.
Maki waved his hand dismissively. “All missiles look the same to me. Salah handled that end of things.”
“You’ve gone too far, Abu Nabil,” Omar Yussef said. “When Professor Masharawi made his accusations about corruption at the university, you had your network in Preventive Security frame him as a spy. In the end, you kidnapped the Swede, blew up James Cree and had Masharawi killed, because you saw that we were getting too close to the truth.”
“I didn’t order the UN fellow to be blown up,” Maki said. “That was Salah’s stupidity. In any case, he thought you’d be in the car, rather than the foreigner.”
“But you did want me killed?”
Maki lifted his chin arrogantly, then he dropped it and it was as though the fight had gone out of him. “I found a Saladin Brigades leaflet in my office after you left, with notes about the Salah brothers on the back. I knew then why you were in my office with my secretary. There was a phone number on the leaflet, too, so I had Salah call it. When you answered, he put the Swede on the line, to scare you off. It didn’t work, so I issued the order to have you killed.” He shrugged. “But your friend the Scotsman was already dead. At the time he died, I assure you I didn’t wish you killed. That roadside bomb was too much.”
Omar Yussef felt his shoulder twinge where the stone had hit him by Cree’s burning vehicle. It was one bruise among many, but he sensed it deep in his muscle now. “It was too much for me,” he said. “For you, it was only part of Gaza’s long, fatal history.”
“I’m not a monster, Abu Ramiz. I’m a politician.” Maki placed both hands over his heart and frowned. “How do you think politics is conducted in Gaza? With reasoned debate between men who call each other ‘the honorable gentleman’? I hoped you’d see that you were involved in something more than a trivial argument between a part-time professor and the head of the university. Masharawi’s torture should’ve shown you it was much bigger than that.” Maki shook his head slowly. “If you had been smarter, your friend the UN man would still be alive. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t understand the way Gaza works. But you’re a Palestinian-I told you to guide the foreigners away from the Masharawi case. Still you went ahead with your stupid investigation. If anyone killed the Scotsman, it was you.”
Omar Yussef’s jaw quivered and his hands shook with rage. “You admitted that you were prepared to go even further,” he said, as calmly as he could. “You put out an order for me to be killed.”
“That was a lesser thing than the murder of the Scotsman. Do you think anyone at the United Nations would worry about your death?” Maki said. He smiled, seeming to gain energy from Omar Yussef’s evident anger. “Even so, the Scotsman’s killing will come to nothing. If the UN found out that I was involved in his death-which they couldn’t prove, believe me-their diplomats would hush it up.”
“One of their colleagues is dead.”
“Oh, yes, you might expect them to want justice for their departed comrade. But they’d be far more concerned about the peace negotiations. They aren’t about to blame a senior member of the Revolutionary Council for the murder.” Maki gestured around the room, as though its luxury were proof that he was above justice and law. “The UN will close its eyes to this, agree that it was the result of some internal battle between criminal gunmen, and pay a pension to the poor man’s family, if he has one.”