A grave in Gaza

Chapter 11

It was cold and dark when Omar Yussef came to. He shivered and hugged himself, and he heard a voice noting that he had moved. Where is Magnus? he thought. Are they holding us in the same room? He listened for signs that Wallender was there.

Omar Yussef shivered again. A hand lifted his head and fed him water. The movement of his neck was like a spike through his brain and he cried out. The water spilled onto his chin and chest, but he sucked down as much as he could. It tasted like an Alpine spring and he wondered if he was outside in the chilly night. He hoped it was true, because there were no Alps in Gaza, so perhaps he was somewhere else. When he choked, he rolled onto his side. His head gave a single massive pulse of pain with the motion and he bellowed again. A hand rested on his shoulder and patted him. Friendly kidnappers, he thought. Bastards. He pushed the hand away. “Fuck off,” he said.

There was a laugh. “I swear by Allah, he’s almost back to his normal cheerful self,” a voice said, and there was another laugh. He recognized the voice, but its owner was in Gaza, and Omar Yussef had convinced himself that the gunman had hit him so hard he had cleared the border fence, right out of the stinking Gaza Strip.

“Sami, help me get him upright.”

The familiar voice again, and he knew the name it spoke. His brain jarred as they propped him against the padded headboard. The friendly kidnappers had given him pillows and-now he felt it beneath him-a mattress. His squirming brain dropped the pain down into his neck and shoulders and on into his stomach, where it rolled like the boys he had seen roughhousing on the beach beside their fishing nets. The pain blotted out the lovely mountain views he had imagined when he tasted the water and forced him to remember that he was in Gaza. He was in bloody Gaza, he knew it, and he cursed again.

“Shame on you,” said Khamis Zeydan.

Omar Yussef breathed heavily. He put his hand to his face, on the left where the pain was worse. His eyes were covered in cloth. He put a finger beneath the cloth to lift it and a shiver of light bolted into his eyeball. Slowly, he rolled the bandage up to his forehead and exposed both his eyes to the light.

“We tried to fix your glasses,” Khamis Zeydan said. “The lenses aren’t broken, but the frame is a little bent.”

Omar Yussef took the glasses. He slid them on. They sat awkwardly on his nose, the right lens half an inch higher than the other one. His hotel room came into focus. Perched on the bed either side of him sat Khamis Zeydan and Sami Jaffari. They smiled, their faces pale, sensing the pain of the blow that had knocked him cold. Beyond the foot of the bed, James Cree sat in a gilt rococo chair with his elbow on the small vanity table. A bandage wrapped his head and his eyes were open wide, staring, drawn and sleepless.

“Sami found you outside,” Khamis Zeydan said. “He was down in the lobby and he heard shouting, so he went to look. He found the two of you, unconscious. It looks like you were both pistol-whipped. James came to about an hour ago. You’ve been awake for a while, but you haven’t made much sense.”

“Magnus?”

“Kidnapped by the Saladin Brigades. How do you feel?”

Omar Yussef groaned. “Can you turn off the air-conditioning? I’m very cold.”

Sami went to the corner of the room by the door, out of Omar Yussef’s sight. The infuriating purr halted and he felt warmer. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence, but he couldn’t get back to the mountains, so he opened his eyes and straightened his back.

“Are you okay, James?” he said.

Cree lifted a glass of whisky. “I’m well looked-after.” There was a bottle on the vanity next to him.

Khamis Zeydan laughed. “Scotch was the first thing James asked for when he came around in the lobby. Fortunately, there were no Islamists present. He was surrounded by delegates of the Revolutionary Council, who, as you know, are not strong adherents to the proscriptions of the Prophet, peace be upon him. A number of delegates were able immediately to oblige our Scots friend with their hipflasks. Though one of them, who claims to be a doctor, wanted to give you smelling salts.”

Omar Yussef looked confused.

“I said to him, Does it look like my friend has simply fainted? Put away your stupid smelling salts. Our party is full of people who obtained their medical degrees behind the Iron Curtain.” Khamis Zeydan smiled. “For medicinal purposes, I also gave James a bottle from the supply in my suitcase.”

“Who are the Saladin Brigades? That’s what was written on those headbands the gunmen wore. But how did you know they kidnapped Magnus?”

Khamis Zeydan pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and gave it to Omar Yussef.

The top of the page bore a crest with a rampant eagle and two scimitars. When Omar Yussef tried to read, his brain pitched and rolled and, in his stomach, the rough and tumble started again. He handed it to Khamis Zeydan. “I can’t. Please read it to me.”

“ The Saladin Brigades demand the release of the brother and struggler Bassam Odwan of Rafah. Corrupt forces in the ranks of Military Intelligence wish to transfer the guilt for their cruel crimes to the brother Odwan and the Saladin Brigades. The Brigades demand Odwan’s release in return for the freedom of the supposed UN official currently in the custody of the Brigades. The foreign UN official, who is under investigation for spying activities, will be handed over to the authorities in return for the release of Odwan. Odwan must be returned to his comrades in Rafah to continue his resistance against the Occupation. ” Khamis Zeydan folded the paper and put it on the nightstand. “There’s more of the usual sort of heroic verbiage, but that’s the essence.”

Omar Yussef gave an exasperated, furious exhalation. “What is this all about? Who the hell is Bassam Odwan?”

“Bassam Odwan was arrested for killing the officer who had the big funeral yesterday. You heard the officer’s comrades firing into the air during his funeral when you arrived at the hotel.”

Omar Yussef remembered the truck and the coffin draped in the Palestinian flag on the way into Gaza City. “Why did Odwan kill the soldier?”

“Odwan is a member of the Saladin Brigades.” Khamis Zeydan glanced at Sami. “Usually, the police don’t touch the Saladin Brigades. It’s the most powerful gang in the Gaza Strip. On this occasion, a Military Intelligence officer tried to arrest Odwan. Apparently Odwan didn’t want to be arrested and he killed the soldier.”

“What does that have to do with Magnus? And he isn’t a spy.”

“Don’t get excited about that accusation,” Khamis Zeydan said, laying his hand on Omar Yussef’s leg. “They can’t announce that they kidnapped a foreigner just to use him as a hostage. They have to make it look as though they did this to protect the Palestinian people.”

“We must find Magnus.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“What are you talking about?” Omar Yussef grabbed Khamis Zeydan’s arm.

“This needs to be handled at a senior level. Even if we could find out where they’re keeping Magnus, they wouldn’t just give him up after we knock quietly on the door. And if we take along the security forces, there’ll be one hell of a shootout. That’d be a lot more dangerous to Magnus than whatever they’re doing with him now. After all, this isn’t Iraq-they aren’t about to chop off his head.”

“Then we need to persuade whoever’s holding Odwan to let him go. After that, Magnus can be freed.”

“The commander of Military Intelligence, General Husseini, personally went to Rafah to coordinate Odwan’s arrest. Do you think he’ll just allow the killer to stroll away?” Khamis Zeydan grimaced. “Look, the Saladin Brigades run tunnels under the Egyptian border into Rafah to smuggle weapons into the Gaza Strip. A Military Intelligence officer named Lieutenant Fathi Salah tried to arrest Odwan, to stop the smuggling. Then Husseini paraded the coffin all over the Gaza Strip and put on a hero’s funeral for Salah, as a way of showing that his men make sacrifices to preserve law and order. He can’t just let Odwan go a day later.”

Omar Yussef pushed himself up onto his elbows. The dizziness spotted his vision with bright colors. “In the flyer, the Saladin Brigades claim Odwan is innocent. If Odwan killed Lieutenant Salah, we need to prove to the Saladin Brigades that their man is in the wrong. Or if someone else killed Lieutenant Salah, we can show General Husseini that Odwan’s not guilty. But we need to investigate, to find out the truth.”

“They really did hit you hard on the head. You’ve lost all sense of reality.”

The spots cleared from Omar Yussef’s eyes and he sat upright. “They knocked my head clean out of Gaza,” he said. “I’m thinking the way people think out there in the real world, not as they do in this madhouse.”

Khamis Zeydan shook his head and lit a Rothman’s.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Omar Yussef said. “I feel nauseous.”

Khamis Zeydan hesitated, stared at the cigarette, horrified to forgo its nicotine, then stubbed it into the ashtray by the bed. He drummed his fingers against the nightstand and jiggled his knee up and down. Omar Yussef thought it might be less irritating just to let the man smoke.

Cree took a swig of whisky. “I think you’re correct, Abu Ramiz. Your summary of our options is right on the nose.”

Khamis Zeydan stared at Cree, incredulously. “I’m not sure which one of you is more badly concussed.”

“They hit me at least twice, but I’d be willing to bet that I’ve got a thicker skull than Abu Ramiz.” Cree laughed and toasted Khamis Zeydan.

The Bethlehem police chief poured himself a drink from the bottle on the desk beside Cree. “Look, when you two were out cold, I confess that I had the same thought as you, Abu Ramiz. But I discussed the reality of what you’re suggesting with Sami. He understands Gaza best. That’s why I know your idea’s crazy.”

Omar Yussef put his hand on Sami’s lean forearm. “What’s he talking about?”

Sami grinned. His teeth were discolored but healthy, and it was a sympathetic smile. “I’ve heard from the guys in the Saladin Brigades that Lieutenant Fathi Salah had gone to meet Odwan late that night in Rafah when he was killed.”

“To meet him? Not to arrest him?”

“To meet. The Saladin Brigades people in Rafah wouldn’t tell me much, because I’m tight with their outfit here in Gaza City and there’s a big rivalry between the two wings,” Sami said. “But I managed to get a little information out of them. They’re adamant that Odwan didn’t kill Salah.”

“Who would have framed him?”

Sami shrugged and looked at Khamis Zeydan.

The Brigadier nodded. “There would be so many candidates, so many enemies for a man like Odwan. There are rival smugglers down in Rafah. Then the security forces, which want to make trouble so they can get bigger budgets. Gaza’s in a state of anarchy. You can see that from your window by the guard General Husseini has outside his home.”

“He has extra soldiers there tonight. I saw them arrive.”

Khamis Zeydan glanced at Sami. “These military men are all fighting for power,” Sami said. “Particularly General Husseini and Colonel al-Fara.”

“Sami, there’s a rivalry, you said, between the Saladin Brigades in Rafah and in Gaza City?” Omar Yussef frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re the same organization in name alone, Abu Ramiz,” Sami said. “They’re arguing over the profits from weapons smuggled under the Egyptian border. Parts for missiles are the big thing at the moment. In Rafah, the Brigades leaders say that they’re the ones who bring in the weapons, so they should get the majority of the money. The Gaza City gang says it faces a greater risk of Israeli attack, so the big money should come to them.”

Omar Yussef took another drink of water. It no longer tasted cool like the mountains. It was lukewarm and there was a bitter aftertaste. He put his hand on Khamis Zeydan’s forearm. “It’s strange. When the gunman hit me on the head, I remembered what you told me in the breakfast room, about each crime in Gaza being connected to every other apparently separate offense. Could there be a connection between the case of Eyad Masharawi and Magnus’s kidnapping?”

Khamis Zeydan scoffed and drank his whisky.

“I was walking home from Professor Maki’s place,” Omar Yussef said. “The gunmen who did the kidnapping came down Maki’s street after me.”

“Are you saying the professor set up the kidnapping? Come on. Those same gunmen were here at the hotel while you were out,” Khamis Zeydan said.

“Here?”

“While you were still dining with Professor Maki, they came into the lobby. Sami was sitting there making eyes at the pretty receptionist, and he saw them come in a little after nine. Some of them spoke to the desk clerk and went upstairs. Then they left. Sami checked what they wanted. It turns out they asked the desk clerk what rooms the Swede and the other UN schools inspector were in.”

“We need to see this Odwan,” Omar Yussef said.

“You want to break him out of jail?” Khamis Zeydan said, pouring another glass of Scotch.

“We’ll have to ask General Husseini to let us interview him.”

“If you ask politely, why not?”

Omar Yussef was angry with his friend’s poor humor and the whisky scent in the room that made him wish for a forbidden drink. “His home is just across the street. Why don’t you stroll over and ask him? You’re buddies with all these bastards. Husseini’s on the Revolutionary Council, and so are you. Give him the secret handshake.”

Khamis Zeydan looked hard at his Scotch. “The secret handshake usually has ten thousand dollars in it, at least.”

“I could try to set up a meeting with General Husseini,” Sami said. He turned to Khamis Zeydan. “I don’t want you to risk involvement in this affair, Abu Adel. It would be dangerous for you. Politically.”

Khamis Zeydan slugged down his whisky. He tapped the empty glass against his prosthetic hand and shrugged.

“I know a few people close to Husseini,” Sami said. He put a hand on Omar Yussef’s leg. “I warn you, General Husseini is a really bad type. Obviously he’s a liar and a thief-that goes without saying. But Husseini is also a sadist. He personally tortures some of his prisoners, for his own entertainment. He likes to slice off the tips of a prisoner’s fingers and wrench out the fingernails. At the prison, they call it a Husseini Manicure.”

Omar Yussef linked his fingers and rested them on his belly. He pressed them tightly together so no one would see his hands shaking. This was no longer a matter of a misunderstanding at the university, or even a case of a vindictive, corrupt boss punishing a whistleblower. It had extended into kidnapping and murder. His friend’s life was in danger. He remembered his sense on the road into Gaza City, when the UN car passed the coffin of Fathi Salah, that death was pursuing him. He felt the dead man’s breath cold on his neck.

“The Husseini Manicure,” Khamis Zeydan said, refilling his tumbler with whisky. “He started that back in Beirut during the civil war. I knew the bastard well at that time. We both worked on the Old Man’s personal staff. Husseini was dirty, cruel and corrupt even then.”

“He must have fit right in,” Omar Yussef said. He stared at Khamis Zeydan. The police chief met the stare, rolling the Scotch around in his glass.

Cree poured another long glass of whisky. “Before the gunmen stopped our car, Magnus said to me, ‘Oh, look, it’s Abu Ramiz.’ There you were, hurrying toward us with your arms waving.” He drank slowly. “It was as though you knew what was about to happen.”

“The gunmen stopped me a few minutes before on the street,” Omar Yussef said. “They said they were on a mission. When I saw your car heading toward them, I thought you might be in danger. I was trying to warn you.”

Cree swilled the whisky around in his cheek and was silent, but he kept his gaze on Omar Yussef.

“So you don’t trust me, now?” Omar Yussef raised his voice. “You think I tipped the gunmen off, pointed out your car, made sure they didn’t grab the wrong UN people? Of course, and then they bashed me on the head to make it look like it wasn’t a set-up.”

Cree swallowed. “I suppose not.” His voice was low and dark.

Omar Yussef cursed and slammed a hand down on the nightstand. The motion bounced him slightly on the bed and his glass of water spilled on the crotch of his pants.

Cree seemed to take pity on him. He put a convivial hand on Khamis Zeydan’s back, pointed at Omar Yussef and lightened his tone. “My Arabic’s not so great, but I made out some of what Abu Ramiz said to the gunmen during the hold up. ‘I’m much more important to the UN than they are. I’m important to the whole UN operation in Palestine,’ he said. Look, here he is, the UN’s big fish, with his trousers underwater.” Cree and Zeydan laughed. Sami squeezed Omar Yussef’s knee, reassuringly.

Khamis Zeydan clinked glasses with Cree to celebrate the joke. “You used to have a nice quiet life, Abu Ramiz,” he said. “These days you seem to attract trouble. Last year with the gunmen in Bethlehem, and now here with the Saladin Brigades and only Allah knows who else. What happened?”

“I’m the same as I ever was,” Omar Yussef said. “There’s just more trouble to go around.”