The Samaritan's secret

Chapter 14

Omar Yussef retraced the route he had taken with Awwadi through the vaulted alleys, until he once more breathed the dense sewage stink of Yasmina. The people of the casbah had gravitated to the Hamas wedding and the passages seemed emptier than ever. Omar Yussef recognized the small spice shop of the Mareh family, where Awwadi had stared down the hostile young man in the blue overalls. Though its entrance was locked, the shuddering hum of the electric grinders rose from a basement window and the dim air was clouded with the gray dust of crushed cardamom pods. Omar Yussef stopped to savor the bouquet. As he inhaled, he recalled a thousand delicate coffees flavored with this spice that he had shared with his good friends. Then he remembered the same odor on the breath of the masked thug who had slapped him and he looked down the alley to the next corner, wondering if that man waited for him there.

He turned right and descended toward the Touqan Palace.

Ishaq was with the Old Man at the end, when he died in Europe, he thought. Perhaps Ishaq knew what really killed the president. Could the young man have been murdered by someone in Fatah because he passed that knowledge on to Hamas?

At the bottom of a sloping alley, he stopped. He was sure the Touqan Palace had been down here, but he had reached the end of the lane and hadn’t seen the tall gate of the old mansion. He retraced his steps and went right, assuming Awwadi’s home was on the next parallel street, but the alley led him diagonally up the hill. He cursed his sense of direction. He had to get to the Touqan Palace to examine that cellar before Awwadi left the wedding celebrations. That gave him little more than an hour. There might be many files to sort through, if he was right about Awwadi’s hiding place. Omar Yussef cared little about the leaders of Fatah and he could hardly destroy the entire set of files, even if he did manage to find them, without bringing down the wrath of Hamas. But he wanted to protect Khamis Zeydan, to find his file and dispose of it.

Here you are, running around like a rat in a maze, he thought, as he checked his watch. The clock’s ticking and you’re wasting time wandering these old alleys.

He felt sure the palace had been lower on the hillside, so he cut into a smaller alley and dropped down some steps. He sniffed. The drainage scent seemed less ripe here. Had he taken a wrong turn and left Yasmina altogether?

He came to the head of a flight of steps, which descended beneath a dingy vault, and noticed the capital of a Roman column built into the base of the wall. It was worn almost beyond recognition. Omar Yussef bent to touch its rough, knotty surface.

Something whipped through the air above him and struck the wall with a sudden hiss. His hand still on the ancient stone, he glanced behind him. That was a bullet, he thought. What have I walked into?

He stood, and another bullet cut away a chunk of the Roman capital, spraying dust onto his shoes. In the alley behind him, he heard feet approaching fast. Only one pair of boots, he thought. I haven’t stumbled into a gunfight. Someone’s after me.

A shot came out of the alley. Omar Yussef saw the muzzle flash orange in the shadows and threw himself to his right. He landed on the steps and rolled into the darkness, protecting his head with one hand and clasping his glasses with the other.

He held himself rigid, as he fell. He would have ugly bruises, but so long as he didn’t allow his body to bend nothing would break. He slammed to a halt against a box of rotting chicken bones and a startled cat fled the impact. He lay groaning, until he heard the shooter coming along the alley toward the steps. He pushed the box to the center of the passage, groped fast along the wall and turned a corner. He saw light through an arch ahead and he hobbled toward it.

When he emerged from the dark, he was in the empty souk. On any other day he would’ve been safe in the crowd, but everyone had shuttered their shops to attend the big wedding. Behind him, he heard someone tumble over the box of chicken remains and curse.

Across the souk, an iron fence caged some old tombs. A building had been erected behind and above the graves, but the wall beside the fence lay in a pile of smashed bricks. The Israelis must have entered on one of their night raids, blowing a gap to search for weapons hidden behind the tombs. Omar Yussef edged through the hole.

Stumbling on a loose brick, he grabbed for the nearest grave. The stone was smoothly dimpled like an orange. He scrambled behind it and squatted, pressing his face against a decorative rectangle of Koranic verse carved in stately thuluth calligraphy. He ran his fingers over the text and picked out the Touqan name engraved on the limestone. It’s the tomb of a wealthy man who once inhabited the palace where Awwadi lives, he thought.

Omar Yussef stared at the stone until the face of the corpse within seemed to glow through it. Please be quiet, he told the corpse. I’ll forgive you any sins you committed centuries ago, so long as you don’t give me away now.

He heard someone running through the souk. With a limp. Probably from falling over the box of trash, he thought. He tried to emulate the dead beneath the gravestones, who obliged him with their silence.

The footsteps halted outside the iron fence. Omar Yussef heard a man breathing hard. He thought he smelled the scent of cardamom and recalled once more that same spice on the breath of the man who had slapped him. The metal fence squeaked. He’s coming inside, he thought. But then he heard the feet move along the souk.

A door swung open, slamming against a wall some distance away, and cheerful voices rushed into the street. Omar Yussef heard his stalker curse in a low voice and turn back toward the casbah.

Omar Yussef dropped to the ground, his back against the Touqan tomb, and breathed desperately, like a swimmer surfacing from a long dive. He closed his eyes and shivered. Whoever that was, he probably saw me with Nouri Awwadi. Whatever I know about the dirt files or Ishaq’s murder, that man must suspect I know even more. He’ll try to kill me again.

A strong wind swept through the casbah and the evening sun dropped behind Jerizim. A deep chill emanated from the old tombs. It was too late to return to the Touqan Palace to hunt for the files. Omar Yussef climbed over the rubble, lowered himself onto the worn flagstones of the souk and rushed away.