Khamis Zeydan ordered coffee, sweet for him and bitter for Omar Yussef, and dropped his pack of Rothman’s on the white tablecloth. “What’re you doing here, Abu Ramiz?” He put another cigarette in his mouth.
Omar Yussef looked again at the sea. The boy with the net threw it angrily at one of the stonethrowers and wrestled him to the sand.
“The Swedish fellow is my boss,” he replied. “We’re supposed to be inspecting the UN schools here.”
Khamis Zeydan cocked an eyebrow. “Supposed to be?”
“One of our teachers has been arrested. Magnus wants to help get him released.”
“You know the proverb: It’s the business of the muezzin to make the call to prayers. In Gaza, it’s safest to stick to your own tasks and not to go freelance.”
“Oh, so it’s time for proverbs, Abu Adel? How about this one: Every knot has someone to undo it. Maybe fate brought us to Gaza to help this poor man.”
“You’re not going to undo the knot. You’re going to get tied up.”
The waiter brought the coffee. Khamis Zeydan lit his cigarette. “I want to tell you something, as one who cares about his dear old companion from university days, Abu Ramiz. Don’t get involved in the case of this schoolteacher.”
“You don’t even know why he was arrested.”
“I’ll bet you don’t, either. Not really. In Gaza, nothing is what it seems. The truth will be far below the surface. You can’t predict how deep it will go, but you can be sure that it will reach out to touch other victims and other crimes. You can’t solve all the crimes in Gaza.”
“Perhaps I can solve this single crime.”
“There is no single, isolated crime in Gaza. Each one is linked to many others, you’ll see. When you touch one of them, it sets off reverberations that will be felt by powerful people, ruthless people.” Khamis Zeydan squeezed his prosthesis with his good hand, thoughtfully. “By Allah, it’s dangerous here, Abu Ramiz. Do you think, for example, that I wander around unprotected?” The police chief gestured toward the corner of the room. A young man sat at a table smoking and nursing a glass of mint tea. He nodded to Omar Yussef. He was about twenty-five, lean and powerful. His hair was short and tightly waved. He had high cheekbones in his spare, bronzed, clean-shaven face. He sat with the absolute self-contained stillness Omar Yussef had observed in men who had spent time confined in Israeli jail cells. “You know who he is?”
“Isn’t that Sami Jaffari?” Omar Yussef asked. “From Dehaisha?”
“The Israelis deported him to the Gaza Strip, because he was a gunman in Bethlehem. Even the Israelis consider Gaza adequate punishment for a bad guy.”
“His father is my neighbor. Is Sami really a bad guy?”
“Sami was my best officer. He was only involved with the gunmen because I sent him undercover to keep tabs on them. Now he works for me in Gaza.”
“As a bodyguard?”
“During my visits, yes. But when I’m not in Gaza, he’s my eyes and ears here. Being a deportee earns him a lot of credibility with the local gangs and he gets a good deal of information that way. He also has friends in the security forces.” Khamis Zeydan leaned toward Omar Yussef. “Listen, I’ve told you in the past to keep your nose out of dirty business-you’re not suited to it. You didn’t pay attention to me then, and I have to admit you were right to ignore me in that case.”
Omar Yussef grimaced and waved his hand.
“No, it’s true,” Khamis Zeydan said. “I can only assume you won’t listen to me this time, either. If you’re determined once more to dig into things best left untouched, you should do so with Sami’s help. Gaza is a minefield and Sami knows where to step.”
Omar Yussef didn’t think Wallender would take to the idea of working with a man deported by the Israelis as a terrorist, no matter how innocent Khamis Zeydan said he was. “Thank you. But I think I’ll be okay. I’m not alone here. I’m with the UN.”
Khamis Zeydan inhaled smoke through his nostrils and stared at Omar Yussef, shaking his head. His pale blue eyes were sad and incredulous.
“Let’s not argue, Abu Adel.” Omar Yussef tried a light, raspy laugh. “Tell me, what’s the big Revolutionary Council meeting about?”
Khamis Zeydan clicked his tongue bitterly. He crushed his cigarette and warmed his fingertips on the coffee cup. “I hate this air-conditioning. It’s so fucking cold in here.”
“It’s your diabetes. It’s messed up your circulation. You should cut back on the cigarettes and watch the sugar.”
“Now you know what’s good for me?”
Omar Yussef’s jaw stiffened. He raised his voice. “Why is the Council meeting? To decide who should be killed next?”
“It’s more appropriate to wonder who’s not going to be killed.” Khamis Zeydan swept his arm to indicate the whole of Gaza beyond the hotel walls. “This place is at war. Not with the Israelis-the only people fighting them any more are the Islamists. We’re at war with ourselves. The meeting is a hopeless attempt to stop us all from killing each other.”
“Why are you killing each other?”
“Colonel al-Fara wants to be the next president and has the CIA behind him. General Husseini wants to overtake him in the favor of the Americans. So far, Husseini and al-Fara are each trying to force the other into a corner, to cut off their sources of power in the party. As soon as that’s done, the victor will strike. The loser and his supporters will be wiped out.”
“That’s what the Council meeting’s really about, right? To decide which of these two wins.”
“Perhaps.” Khamis Zeydan rubbed his eyes. “No one knows which of them to get behind. It isn’t a bet you’d want to lose, after all.”
“Who’re you supporting?”
The police chief squinted at Omar Yussef. He lit another cigarette and looked toward the sea.
“Why won’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me?” Omar Yussef said.
“The less you know about all this, the safer you are. It’s going to get very ugly, believe me.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Everybody’s in danger,” Khamis Zeydan said. “This is Gaza.”
Omar Yussef touched his friend’s hand and smiled. “I’m going to get settled into my room.”
Khamis Zeydan leaned across the table and held Omar Yussef’s fingers between his hands. Omar Yussef felt the cold leather of the gloved prosthesis against his knuckles. “Remember what I said about Sami’s help. May Allah protect you.”
“May Allah lengthen your life.”
Omar Yussef waved at Sami Jaffari as he left. The young man smiled and cut a slow salute.
Omar Yussef climbed the staircase to the second floor of the hotel. His knees ached. Perhaps Khamis Zeydan was right and Gaza was too dangerous for him. Ruthless people like al-Fara struggled for the grand prizes of the presidency and absolute power here. A vital, cunning young man like Sami Jaffari could infiltrate their networks and negotiate the dark relationships within. How could a history teacher in his mid-fifties, slowed by the effects on his body of youthful dissipation, hope to encounter such a dirty world and retain his decency, even his life?
He entered his room. The porter had placed his overnight bag on the bed. Omar Yussef drew back one of the curtains. Like the hotel entrance, the window was streaked by the marks of the rain that had broken the last dust storm.
The empty room made Omar Yussef feel lonely. He picked up the phone. It took him a few attempts to get an outside line. Then he dialed his wife.
“Maryam, it’s me,” he said.
“Omar, my darling, how are you?”
“Fine, may Allah be thanked.”
“How is Gaza?”
“I think there’s a dust storm coming.”
“Stay inside and drink a lot of mint tea. And don’t forget to put on a jacket, or the sand will get to your chest.”
“I will. How’re the children?”
“Nadia is here. She’s reading stories to Dahoud and Miral.”