The Fourth Assassin

Chapter 27

The bodyguard ran his hands down Omar Yussef’s slack torso and bony legs. He looked hard at the schoolteacher with brown eyes that had all the warmth of a mud brick and twitched his neck to signal that he could enter the president’s suite. Inside, the Palestinian delegation loitered about the long conference table and lounged in the armchairs by the window, watching the cherry-red taillights of the cars on the 59th Street Bridge disappear into the snow. Cigarette smoke choked the room.

From the sofa, the former schools inspector, Haitham Abdel Hadi, rose to fill his coffee cup from a silver thermos on the sideboard. He wore a cheap suit the vibrant burgundy of a baboon’s bottom. He turned a nasty yellow smile on Omar Yussef.

“You look tired, Abu Ramiz,” he said. “Have you been out on the town?” He rattled his cup in its saucer and covered his eyes, miming a hangover. The men in the armchairs-the justice minister and the chief peace negotiator-laughed. Abdel Hadi turned to them. “Our friend Abu Ramiz here is an old soak. He claims to have cleaned up.”

“That’s right,” Omar Yussef said. “No matter how worthless something may appear, I always believe in the possibility of reform-for individuals, as well as for corrupt governments.”

The ministers stroked their neckties over their fat bellies and glanced nervously at the surly chief of secret police, who was smoking a cigarette at the conference table. Colonel Yazid Khatib’s head was bald and bony, and at the moment it was lowered slightly, as though he were preparing to batter forward with it. His eyes were still and menacing beneath surprisingly pretty, long lashes. They had the attentive, restrained malevolence of a Canaan watchdog prowling an olive grove.

Khatib must be in the U.S. to meet his CIA contacts, Omar Yussef thought, the ones who train his goons in torture and assassination-the SWAT teams making the arrests that prompted Islamic Jihad to try to kill the president. Suddenly it was obvious to him that the president’s speech would be so much hot air. The real business on this visit would be carried out by Khatib. It would be dirty and do no good for the Palestinian people.

Khamis Zeydan took Omar Yussef’s elbow, drew him away from the other men, and whispered, “Stay quiet and show respect. Imagine you’re a student in your classroom. Whatever you do, don’t lose your temper.”

Omar Yussef threw off his friend’s hand. “I’m in control,” he said.

“Screw your mother. You don’t even recognize when you’re losing it,” Khamis Zeydan hissed.

“Let’s go.”

They went through a door off the lounge. The president sat on the edge of an armchair, reading a slim file and drinking tea from a white porcelain cup. A young aide with thinning black hair greeted Khamis Zeydan with a few muttered words and offered a clammy handshake to Omar Yussef.

Buttoning the jacket of his brown business suit as he came to his feet, the president shook hands and wished each man a quiet welcome. “Greetings,” he murmured to Omar Yussef, leading him to the dark red couch.

Omar Yussef had feared that he would be swept into the brisk, unforgivingly businesslike atmosphere that chiefs usually cultivated. But in his gold-rimmed spectacles and sober suit, the president seemed more like a bank manager than a politician. He unbuttoned his suit and settled into his armchair. The jacket rode up around his shoulders as he rested his chin on his fingers. His eyebrows were black, his short mustache gray. His cheeks were a pale olive color that suggested weak health, and the skin of his neck was loose over the white collar of his shirt.

“Greetings,” he repeated.

“Double greetings,” Omar Yussef whispered in response.

Khamis Zeydan lit a Rothmans. “Abu Raji, forgive me for speaking bluntly-”

“On which occasion? I don’t remember a time when you prevaricated.” The president laughed, and his aide slapped his hand on the file that rested over his knees.

“There’s a significant threat to your life, we believe,” Khamis Zeydan said.

The smile faded from the president’s face. His fingers slipped over his mouth and played in his mustache.

“We’ve broken an Islamic Jihad cell here in New York. Their hit man is still out there.”

“I’m sure he’ll try to strike during your speech at the UN,” Omar Yussef said. “The cell uses the motif of the medieval Assassins in its communications. The Assassins used to carry out their operations in public. They attacked sultans and caliphs when they were in procession or praying at a mosque. I believe these modern Assassins will do the same thing, and the UN is the most public stage in the world.”

“I’m a leader. There’s always someone who wants to shed my blood,” the president said.

“Because you have other people’s blood on your hands.” Omar Yussef held up his palm. “Even if it was only left there by the hands you agreed to shake.”

The president cleared his throat. “We haven’t been introduced, brother-”

“Abu Ramiz. He’s part of the UN delegation.” Khamis Zeydan laid his good hand on Omar Yussef’s knee. The strong pressure from his fingers was a command for restraint. “I told you about his son, who’s being held by the American police.”

“Greetings, Abu Ramiz,” the president said. “Remember, you shook my hand, too.”

“I’ve been covered in blood since I arrived in New York.”

Khamis Zeydan grimaced at his friend, then leaned across the glass coffee table. “Abu Raji, I’ve interrogated a member of the Jihad cell. I, too, believe they’ll try to get you at the UN. We have only a day to track down the assassin before your speech. It’s not enough time. You have to postpone.”

The president shrugged beneath the bunched shoulders of his suit. “How would it look if I just went home? What would people say?” He shook his head slowly. The loose skin of his neck rolled around the knot of his tie.

“What would they say if you didn’t come back at all?” Omar Yussef said. “More to the point, whom would they shoot? Whom would they arrest or lynch? What buildings would they burn to the ground?”

“It’s a risk I must take.”

“The risk is someone else’s in the end. Our society will be destroyed because of your pride.”

The president fingered the buttonhole in his lapel. “I remind you it’s my life we’re talking about.”

“Many lives are at stake. There’ll be a civil war if you’re killed. That’s what Islamic Jihad wants. Do you think they care so much about you personally?”

Khamis Zeydan grabbed Omar Yussef’s hand again, but the schoolteacher pushed him away. “Let go of me,” he said.

“Are you sure you aren’t more concerned for your little crew of Assassins than for the president?” Khamis Zeydan muttered into Omar Yussef’s ear. “You’re too emotional. Stop it.”

“These terrorists want to show that I don’t represent the Middle East, because I came to New York to work with the Americans,” the president said. “They want to destroy our coordination with Washington. Look, I told the American president I’d make a statement about the peace process at the UN. I can’t let him down-”

“But that’s not why you’re-”

The president raised his voice above Omar Yussef’s objection. “-no matter what the risks are.”

May Allah save me from the self-importance of politicians, Omar Yussef thought. “It isn’t your talks with the U.S. that make you a target,” he said. “It’s the ties of your secret police chief to the CIA-the training his special forces receive in interrogation and killing.”

“Colonel Khatib? His work is vital. We can’t police Palestine just by handing out parking tickets, you know.”

“The people want a decent police force, and Khatib gives them gangsters and the gun.”

The aide tapped his wristwatch with his forefinger.

The president turned his teacup carefully, aligning the hotel logos on the saucer and on the rim of the cup. “It’s my job to speak at the UN tomorrow, and that’s what I intend to do.” He raised his eyes to Khamis Zeydan. “Abu Adel, I expect you to help protect me and share this information about Islamic Jihad with Colonel Khatib. As for you, ustaz Abu Ramiz, you have a speech to make at this conference, too, I gather. Perhaps it’s you they really want to assassinate?” The president laughed heartily and held out his hand to his aide for a big, loud slap. “Would that start a civil war?”

“I imagine not,” Omar Yussef said. “But that isn’t because no one would wish to avenge me. The difference between me and you is that no one would celebrate my death.”

The president’s laughter halted, and he fiddled with his glasses. He rose and shook hands with his two visitors.

They left the room. When Khamis Zeydan had closed the door behind them, he bared his teeth and grabbed Omar Yussef near the top of his arm. “Didn’t I tell you to keep calm?”

“He was determined to speak at the UN. It made no difference what I said,” Omar Yussef whispered.

Khamis Zeydan glared around the lounge. The ministers and their aides dropped their eyes, but the chief of secret police stared back, his expression sullen and blank.