The Fourth Assassin

Chapter 33

A heavy truck ran over a speed bump, rustling the two flags at the center of Dehaisha Street in its draft. The Iraqi tricolor, with its stars and its imprecation of the greatness of Allah, flapped across the lamppost toward the red, white, black, and green of the Palestinian banner. Omar Yussef grimaced at the din of the stones rattling in the back of the truck as it turned up the hill toward the limestone quarries. He waved to the last of the girls leaving through the blue gate at the front of the schoolyard and wondered when his budget would permit him to plaster over the bullet holes in the perimeter wall. It was his first day back at work since his return from New York. He felt at home behind his scratched old desk.

He wore a short-sleeved light-blue shirt in the warmth of late February. He loved the final weeks of winter, when the clear desert days were mild because the nights were still cold, but the sun was hot enough for him to detect the laundry scent of his shirt on the air, as though it were fresh from the spin-dryer.

By the time he reached the other end of the camp and came onto the porch of his gray-stone Turkish house, his armpits were damp, and he was glad to put down his mauve leather briefcase. His favorite granddaughter Nadia rounded the dining table in the foyer, setting a deep dish of broth at its center. The cool air filled with the scent of lentils and fried onions.

“A wife is supposed to cook this rishtaye when she makes a wish for something,” Omar Yussef said, pointing at the dish. “What does your grandmother desire today?”

“Maybe she’s hoping that Uncle Ala will stay for good and that you won’t have to go to any more UN conferences.”

Then I’m glad she cooked this, Omar Yussef thought.

His youngest son came out of the sitting room with Dahoud over his shoulder and Miral playfully punching his stomach. Ala pretended to wrestle with the ten-year-old boy Omar Yussef had adopted after his parents’ death, then he let the thin child slip down his body to the floor and ushered him to his seat.

Ala smiled, and the exuberance in his face was a deep relief to Omar Yussef, who had worried for him so much. “Mama made musakhan, Dad,” the young man said.

Maryam brought in a plate of chicken, fried and baked, served over flatbread with sauteed onions and purple sumac, slick with olive oil. “Sit down, Omar, my darling. I want to serve Ala first in honor of his return. I made his favorite dish.”

“To your doubled health, O Ala.” Omar Yussef took his seat at the head of the table. His eldest son Ramiz brought his boy, Little Omar, from the apartment in the basement, and Ramiz’s wife laid out plates of green olives, parsley salad, and a cold mutabbal of eggplant and sesame paste. Omar Yussef rolled his tongue in his mouth, anticipating the delicate smokiness of the eggplant and the sesame’s milky flavor.

Ala closed his eyes and groaned with pleasure as he ate, making the children laugh. Maryam piled more chicken onto his plate. “Americans are supposed to be fat,” she said. “Why did you come home from New York so skinny, Ala?”

“He was pining for his mother’s cooking,” Omar Yussef said. “And so was I. I nearly starved.”

Maryam patted Omar Yussef’s little paunch. “The UN should pay for you to stay there another month, then.”

When the meal was over, Ala tickled Nadia as she carried the plates to the kitchen and Little Omar fell asleep on his father’s lap. I may never see a houri, Omar Yussef thought as he watched them, but this family is the part of Paradise for which I would sacrifice myself.

In the sitting room, he rested on the gold brocade sofa, waiting for his tea, and tuned the television to an Arabic satellite news station. During a report on the long peace negotiations with the Israelis, Omar Yussef’s attention wandered. After his tea, he decided, he would pay condolence calls on the families of Rashid, Nizar, and Ismail. He would talk only of the days when he had been their teacher. Their relatives didn’t have to know that they had planned to murder the president or that one of them had killed his oldest friend. He would reminisce about the days when they had been a gang of innocent Assassins.

The phone rang on the Syrian mother-of-pearl side table. Omar Yussef fumbled with the remote until he found the mute button and silenced the television.

“Greetings, ustaz Abu Ramiz.” The hearty voice sounded distant on the crackling phone line.

“Hamza? Double greetings. How’re you?”

“Thanks be to Allah. May Allah bless you, dear ustaz Abu Ramiz.”

“His blessings be upon you. What time is it where you are?”

“It’s six in the morning in New York, but I’ve been up all night. We’ve busted the Islamic Jihad drug-trafficking ring.”

“Congratulations.”

“A thousand congratulations to you, my dear friend.”

“Why to me?”

“It was your discovery of the Alamut Mosque prayer timetable that led us to these men. You saw that every week there was one prayer time that seemed to be off by an hour and guessed that this was some kind of code.” Hamza’s voice was raw with excitement and fatigue. “You found the mosque’s schedule in the apartments of Nizar and Marwan. Both men were involved in the drug trade, so I figured that the off-schedule prayers might mark the times when the drugs would be delivered to Marwan’s cafe. Yesterday evening, three Lebanese guys came to the cafe with a case full of hashish, right on schedule, and I was waiting for them.”

“My congratulations to you.” Omar Yussef sensed that Hamza had something else to talk about. He waited.

“I’m still very sorry to have shot that boy, ustaz,” Hamza said. “I heard the gunshot and-”

Omar Yussef detected deep contrition in the detective’s voice. He had wished many times that Hamza hadn’t shot Nizar, though he also felt the boy wouldn’t have wanted to survive after Rania had been killed. His part in the girl’s death troubled him, too. Remorse is a heavy thing for a man to carry, he thought, but to give a little kindness will make my load lighter. “I insist you feel no regret over that, Hamza. You were doing your job.”

Hamza’s voice became wistful. “By Allah, what is it like to be home, ustaz?”

“Praise be to Allah, it’s wonderful.”

“What’s Bethlehem like now? How is my hometown?”

It’s the same as it always was, Omar Yussef thought, though I’ve changed. I’ve seen people I loved do dreadful things, yet I’ve also come to love one of them even more. I’ve seen New York, a city I never imagined I’d visit, and I’ve experienced it at its worst. But I also found people there to trust. “Bethlehem has no policemen as dedicated as you, Hamza.”

“Thank you, uncle. Let me reminisce about the old town with you a little. You’ve eaten lunch, I assume. Where will you go now for the afternoon?”

Omar Yussef glanced at the muted television. The satellite channel was broadcasting footage of the president’s abortive speech at the UN. Over the politician’s shoulder, Omar Yussef noticed the green windows of the translators’ gallery. He caught the outline of a dark head through the glass of the last booth. “This afternoon,” he said, “I’m going to visit the parents of a friend.”