“Abu Ramiz, what happened here?” Khamis Zeydan said.
“There was a bomb. It exploded in the history classroom. Steadman was preparing to take my class. The explosion killed him. The ambulance took him away just a minute ago.”
“Why was the American taking your class?”
Omar Yussef thought Khamis Zeydan spoke with a hint of disappointment. He remembered that he’d told the police chief yesterday that he would be back in the classroom this morning. Could it be that Khamis Zeydan had set the bomb? Or that he had passed on the information, just as Omar Yussef suspected he did in the case of Dima Abdel Rahman’s death? Omar Yussef felt the smoke in his throat again and coughed until his eyes wept. Khamis Zeydan reached out to touch his arm, but he pulled away.
“He was taking my class,” Omar Yussef spluttered, “because I told him it would be an insult to me in the eyes of the camp if he continued to employ a replacement.”
“He was in the classroom at your request?”
“No, not directly. But partly, yes.”
“Is that so.” Khamis Zeydan stared at him, hard, his head turned to the left, but his eyes looking straight at Omar Yussef.
“Are you suggesting that I had him killed?” Omar Yussef was furious.
“He was trying to get rid of you, wasn’t he? Despite his recent public denials, he still intended to force your retirement.”
“You’re insane.”
“Listen, Abu Ramiz, you’ve been getting involved in some crazy things lately. I don’t know with whom you’ve been associating or what they’re doing for you, but I do know that you went to Hussein Tamari’s headquarters two days ago.”
“Are you having me watched?”
“I keep an eye on who goes in and out of Tamari’s hideout. What were you doing there?”
“You know perfectly well that I was trying to help George Saba. Do you really think I went to Tamari to arrange for the American to be killed? Why don’t you arrest the people who killed Louai and Dima Abdel Rahman? They’re the ones who framed George Saba, and they’re the ones who set this bomb. Can’t you see they wanted to kill me? They thought I’d be in that classroom. You, in particular, know that very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because I told you last night that I’d be teaching this morning.”
“I didn’t believe you for a minute. I didn’t even think you’d be on your feet this morning. You’re tougher than I thought.” Khamis Zeydan stepped aside as the firemen came out of the corridor. He stopped one of them. “Is the fire under control?”
“Yes, you can go in now.”
“Look, Abu Ramiz, we shouldn’t suspect each other,” Khamis Zeydan said, quietly. “We should be calm. Why don’t you take control of the staff, of the school, and arrange the cleanup? I’m going to start investigating the scene of the explosion.”
Khamis Zeydan went into the school with half of his squad. The others stood in a semicircle around the entrance, surrounded by a dozen curious pupils who remained nearby. Omar Yussef noticed that Khadija Zubeida’s father was among the policemen who stood in the mud with their Kalashnikovs. He had come to the school that morning to ask the girl how to find her father, and here he was. He put his hand out to him in greeting.
The policeman was friendly. “Morning of joy, ustaz,” he said.
“Morning of light,” Omar Yussef replied. “Mahmoud, I need to talk to you.”
Omar Yussef passed along the corridor with Mahmoud Zubeida behind him. The policeman glanced blandly into the broken classroom, where his colleagues were assessing the size and source of the blast. He’s seen this kind of destruction many times, Omar Yussef thought. It doesn’t even concern him that this is his own daughter’s classroom.
The two men went into Steadman’s office. Omar Yussef closed the door and gestured for Mahmoud Zubeida to sit. The man tried to rest his Kalashnikov across his lap, but the arms of the chair got in the way, so he laid it on the floor. He rubbed the back of a finger nervously across his black moustache. He swiped off his beret and gripped it in front of his chest, like a medieval peasant doffing his cap to the seigneur. Omar Yussef remained standing behind the desk.
“First, Mahmoud, thank you for allowing me to remain in the courtroom a little late the other night,” Omar Yussef said.
“It’s nothing, ustaz. May I ask, was that the collaborator’s father? The old gentleman who was crying?”
“Yes, he’s an old friend of mine.”
“Even if he did raise a collaborator, one must have respect for the grief of a father. God knows it isn’t necessarily the father’s fault if the child is bad.”
“Of course.” Omar Yussef leaned forward. “Mahmoud, I need you to explain for me what happened during the arrest of George Saba. Khadija told me you were there when Saba was taken in. I found her description very interesting. Would you mind telling me?”
“Why? I mean, how does it interest you, ustaz?”
“Mahmoud, something terrible happened here this morning, in the very classroom where Khadija studies. I hope you’ll understand that I can’t tell you everything right now, though I will share all I know with Brigadier Khamis Zeydan. But I believe there’s a possible connection between what happened to Director Steadman and the incident with Saba.”
“Why would a collaborator be involved in the death of the UNRWA school’s director?”
“It’s not as simple as that, Mahmoud. But, look, for the sake of your daughter, please tell me about the arrest.”
Mahmoud Zubeida seemed nervous. His face was puzzled. He’s a simple man, Omar Yussef thought, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to get himself in trouble with Khamis Zeydan, or even Hus-sein Tamari, by talking to me. He’s also simple enough that anyone standing behind a desk intimidates and commands him.
“We went to Beit Jala early,” Mahmoud Zubeida said. “There were three jeeps. We blew in the front door. We couldn’t wait to knock, because our commander told us that George Saba was dangerous. He might attack us or kill himself with a cyanide capsule. The Israelis give poison to their collaborators in case they are caught, you know.”
“Who was the commander?”
“Major Awdeh.”
“Jihad Awdeh?”
“Major Jihad, yes.”
“He’s a major?”
“In Preventive Security. We were assigned to work with his detectives that morning.”
“What happened once you were inside?”
“We got the Christian against the wall.”
“Did he resist?”
“No, he was very cowardly and frightened.”
“Did he confess?”
“Immediately. He said, ‘I know what this is about.’”
“Did Major Jihad tell him the charges?”
“Yes, he told him he was accused of collaboration with the Occupation Forces in the death of Louai Abdel Rahman.”
“And George Saba confessed to that?”
“Yes.”
“Jihad Awdeh told him the charge and Saba said, ‘I know what this is about.’”
Mahmoud Zubeida paused. “No, he confessed even before the major told him the charge.”
“So he might have been confessing to something else?”
“I don’t understand.”
“He said that he knew why you came to arrest him. But he could have been wrong about the reason. Did he look surprised when Major Jihad told him the charges?”
“I don’t remember, ustaz. I’m sorry.”
“Did Major Jihad say anything else?”
“Not that I remember.”
“You took Saba out to the jeep?”
“Yes. I rode with him back to the jail.”
“Did he go quietly?”
“Yes, he was very cowardly and scared, like I said.” Mahmoud Zubeida smiled. His teeth were the color of old ivory, from chewing betel. “Major Jihad really frightened him.”