The Collaborator of Bethlehem (10 page)

Before Omar Yussef could think, he returned the greeting: “Morning of light.”

The gunmen went on talking quietly. Omar Yussef wondered at himself. He was so angry with their general rudeness that his resentment was particularly acute at a rare moment such as this when they behaved well.
Do I need so much to blame them for all the things that are wrong in our society that I can’t even see them as human beings any more? Perhaps they’ve been up all night on patrol,
he thought.
Some of them, at least, are willing to sacrifice their family lives for what they consider to be their duty. Some of them die for it, too.

Omar Yussef came to a dingy storefront. The picture window was covered by a gray venetian blind. He opened the door. A middle-aged woman rose from behind her desk when she saw him. She was thick around the middle, but well dressed. She wore an Yves St. Laurent scarf around her neck, and earrings by the same designer gleamed from her fleshy lobes.

“Welcome, Abu Ramiz,” she said. She reached out her hands to hold his shoulders and kissed Omar Yussef on each cheek.

“Nasra, you have a new haircut,” Omar Yussef said.

The woman’s hair was short at the sides, blow-dried and combed back. It was a deep red, though Omar Yussef knew that this was not her natural color.

“Do you like it, Abu Ramiz? I have to keep looking young or Abu Jeriez will fire me and hire a pretty little girl.”

“That will be the day his business fails. He always tells me you run everything.”

Nasra gave a deep, smoky laugh and guided Omar Yussef to the office at the back of the room. The door opened and Charles Halloun looked out.

“Abu Ramiz, I knew it must be you. No one makes Nasra laugh as you do,” he said. He grasped Omar Yussef’s hand and pulled him into the office. He nodded at Nasra to prepare coffee.

Charles Halloun seated Omar Yussef on the couch and only then did he sit at its other end. His hair was black and trim. He had a long, shapeless nose and thick, agile eyebrows. He wore a check tweed sport coat, a brown cardigan, and a brown woolen tie. He looked like a bumbling old Oxford don.

Halloun’s father had been accountant to Omar Yussef’s father. The sons now kept the same relationship.

“You just missed your son, Abu Ramiz. He was here to deliver some papers. His account is fast becoming one of my biggest jobs.” Halloun rubbed the bulbous end of his nose. “Ramiz inherited your brains, I must say. Mobile phones are an amazing business.”

“Ramiz is very smart. But I can’t claim so much credit for that. I don’t understand at all how these phones work.”

“As long as the cash isn’t counterfeit, who cares where it comes from?” Charles Halloun laughed, twirling the pointed end of his eyebrow.

Nasra brought in two coffees and a glass of water. Like the Sabas, Nasra and Halloun were Christians who knew that Omar Yussef didn’t observe Ramadan and would enjoy a drink.

“God bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said.

“Blessings. How is Umm Ramiz?” Nasra asked.

“Well.”

“And Zuheir and Ala?”

“Zuheir is visiting us later this month. He’s coming in from Wales to celebrate the
Eid
with us. Ala just changed his job and is selling computers in New York.”

“Tell them I want to see them when they visit.” Nasra smoothed her skirt and closed the door behind her.

“Double-health and well-being in your heart,” Charles Hal-loun said as Omar Yussef began to drink his coffee.

Omar Yussef put the coffee on the table. “Abu Jeriez, I will ask you a direct question. How is my family provided for?”

Charles Halloun sat forward. The dense eyebrows drew close to the bridge of his nose in concern. “Is something wrong with your health, Abu Ramiz?”

“No, not really.”
Not yet.
“I’m considering retirement. If I were to stop earning at the school, would I be able to continue to live as I do?”

“Well, you have the income from the investments your dear father made. There are some shares in the Arab Bank, some Egyptian bonds, and there is the rent from the land Abu Omar purchased in Beit Sahour shortly before he passed away. Most of this has been reinvested, because you live on your UN salary. But you could draw an income from it. I think retirement probably wouldn’t alter your lifestyle too much.” Charles Halloun cocked his head. “Are you sure it is only retirement that’s on your mind, Abu Ramiz? You’re a young man.”

“I’m fifty-six.”

“But you’re in good health, thank God.”

“Yes and no. I no longer consume alcohol, but I drank enough for a lifetime before I quit ten years ago. It’s only five years since I stopped smoking, and I sometimes feel a little short of breath even today. I don’t exercise, except for walking to the school in the morning. And, well, there are some things that I won’t go into except to say that they cause me a great deal of worry, which I’m sure is something of a stress on my heart.”

“No alcohol, no cigarettes? Your life is one long Ramadan.”

“But for almost fifty years, it was a continuous
Eid
.” Omar Yussef laughed. “Rest assured that my retirement will preserve my health. I only want to know all the facts about my financial situation before I make any final decisions.”

“I shall prepare a report for you with some projections of the income that you would be able to live on.”

“All I need is food and money to treat my grandchildren to presents. I don’t travel very much, just once a year to Amman with Maryam to visit my brother, and once a year a vacation in Morocco by myself.”

“This should be no problem, Abu Ramiz. You will be able to afford to continue with those trips.”

The two men drank their coffee.

“I spoke to Ramiz this morning about something delicate,” Charles Halloun said. “I thought perhaps you might discuss it with him, too. He wants to expand his business, to open several more mobile phone shops around the Bethlehem area. The problem is that expanding businesses tend to attract the attention of some disreputable types these days. There are a number of them that have been taken over rather suddenly by the Martyrs Brigades.”

“You mean protection money?”

“No, that’s old hat. I mean, they take over. Just like that.” Charles Halloun snapped his fingers. “These days they come to the house of the owner with a contract and say, ‘Sign it over to us or we’ll kill you and take the business anyway.’”

“You’re worried this might happen to Ramiz?”

“All the gunmen use mobile phones. They can see that it’s a real business. That attracts them. Look how they just took over the Abdel Rahman auto shops.”

Omar Yussef felt his heart draw an extra pulse. “What?”

“When the Israelis killed Louai Abdel Rahman, the family lost its protection within the resistance factions. So long as Louai was alive, no one could touch the Abdel Rahmans, unless they wanted to fight the part of the militia that was loyal to him. Their auto shops became very successful. They have one in Irtas, two in Bethlehem and one in al-Khader. But as soon as Louai was killed, the Martyrs Brigades went to his father and told him to hand over the keys to the business. Now it’s all in the hands of Hussein Tamari’s brother.”

“I’m shocked,” Omar Yussef said. “Louai has only been dead two days.”

“Nothing Hussein Tamari does could shock me.”

Omar Yussef thought back to the mourning tent for Louai Abdel Rahman. When Hussein Tamari came along the path firing his MAG in the air, it wasn’t just a noisy sign of tribute: it was a threat. He remembered how Louai’s father had looked disturbed by something Hussein Tamari said to him, even as he was supposed to be offering his condolences.

“No,” said Charles Halloun. “The resistance-hero pose doesn’t fool me. I’ve known that bastard Hussein Tamari for exactly what he is ever since he jailed me for tax evasion.”

Omar Yussef looked perplexed.

“Oh, I didn’t evade any taxes, Abu Ramiz,” Charles Halloun said. “It was a racket. Tamari pulled the same trick on a dozen other businessmen here and in Hebron, too. Six years ago, he came here with a squad of Preventive Security officers. They were disrespectful to Nasra, and they took me away. They didn’t confiscate any of our files or records. There was no investigation. They just took me to the jail in Jericho and locked me up. Tamari told me, ‘Look, you haven’t paid your taxes. Give me thirty thousand dollars or I’ll have you accused of collaboration with the occupation and you’ll sit in this cell until you rot.’”

“What did you do?”

“I told him to fuck himself and demanded to see a lawyer. Pardon my language, Abu Ramiz.”

“That’s all right. And so?”

“He laughed in my face. Then he slapped it.” Charles Hal-loun gasped at the memory. “He tortured me, Abu Ramiz. I don’t like to tell you everything he did to me, but let me just say that every time I stand up I still get a shooting pain through my back and it reminds me of my time with Abu Walid.”

Omar Yussef looked up.
Abu Walid
.

“I was in the jail in Jericho for a week,” Halloun said. “I didn’t eat the whole time. They gave me a little water, but the bastards urinated in it and I was so desperate I drank it. They shaved one side of my head and made me wear a dress. In the end, they gave me a phone and I called Nasra. I told her to get the money from the bank and hand it over. Even then, Abu Walid gave me another beating before he sent me home.”

“Who is Abu Walid?”

“Hussein Tamari. The bastard father of a bastard son. Did you never meet Walid, his eldest boy? He’s a bullying swine, too. Ask any teenager around town. They’ve all got their lumps from that nasty scum. Just like his father.”

Omar Yussef felt the weight of the Webley and the two spent cartridges in his pocket. Here was the information he needed. Abu Walid. Was Hussein Tamari the man in the bushes to whom Louai Abdel Rahman spoke before he died? How many men would there be among those gunmen who were known as “the father of Walid”? With Louai dead, Abu Walid took over the Abdel Rahmans’ business. He had a motive, something to gain from Louai’s death. But was he also the killer?

Omar Yussef said farewell to Charles Halloun and Nasra. He drove down the hill to Dehaisha. He had always been sure that George Saba was innocent, but now he believed he knew the identity of the real collaborator. He felt his pulse rise and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. How was he going to prove that George Saba had been set up by the head of the resistance in Bethlehem? He knew that he must carry on, for the sake of George and for the sake of his town, which was quickly becoming a place where these gangsters could do whatever they wanted. Khamis Zeydan had told him this was a dangerous path to take. It wasn’t getting any less risky.

Omar Yussef parked his car in the sandstone garage behind his house. He came in through the basement door and went up to his bedroom. He opened the drawer beneath his closet. His socks filled the drawer, bulbed in matching pairs. He took the Webley from his pocket and shoved it into the back of the pile. He looked about guiltily and closed the drawer.

What did I bring this gun here for? I’m behaving like a detective,
he thought.
I’m gathering evidence. This gun is evidence, so I have to keep it. But I’m scared. Things could become dangerous, if a man like Hus-sein Tamari is involved. How will I react if Tamari confronts me? Already I’m frightened by the presence of a useless, antique gun amongst my socks.
He rolled the two MAG cartridges in his palm, thick and stubby. He imagined them filled with gunpowder and tipped with a lead slug.

Omar Yussef went into the salon. He picked up the phone and dialed Khamis Zeydan.

“I need to talk to George Saba,” he said.

There was a pause. “Come and see me in the morning. At eight A.M. At my office.” Khamis Zeydan hung up.

Omar Yussef sat in silence. He listened to the blood pumping hard through his temple. He thought of what Charles Hal-loun had told him about his income. It wasn’t retirement he was planning for. He wanted to be sure that Maryam would be comfortable if he came to some harm. He felt determined. Nothing would happen to him, so long as George Saba needed his help. If he didn’t stick to his path, George wouldn’t be the last victim of Hussein Tamari.

I’m not a victim,
Omar Yussef thought. He held his hand out before him and laughed. For the first time in years, it wasn’t shaking.

Chapter 10

T
he bells in the Church of the Nativity resounded about Manger Square as Omar Yussef crossed to the police station. The tourist shops on the south side would open later, though few pilgrims braved Bethlehem now. There were no buyers for the cherubic newborn Christs, which lay in silent rows along the shelves in the windows of the Giacomman family’s store, gazing blandly at the equally numerous Virgin Mothers. The earthy scent of yesterday’s
foule
drifted from the shuttered restaurant next door. Omar Yussef never ate breakfast, but the smell of the fava bean mash made him crave a plate. His hunger made him cold and he pulled his coat up at the collar.

Omar Yussef traversed the carefully laid-out expanse of stone paving and tree planters in the square. In the thin light, the dark buttresses of the Armenian monastery that fronted the church were as foreboding as the tolling bells. The liveliness that he remembered of the church in his youth was gone, swamped by the Muslims of the surrounding camps and villages, who came like him as refugees and with swelling numbers soon felt entitled to treat the once-Christian town as their own. The symbol of Bethlehem, the basilica of the birthplace of Christianity, was beleaguered, its massive stone walls a futile bastion against a hostile religion and a declining congregation. It seemed like a place for burial, not birth. George Saba’s cell was in the police station at the corner of the square closest to the church. Omar Yussef imagined George assaulted by the ominous pealing of the bells that reckoned his slow minutes of imprisonment, just as they chimed a doleful countdown to the extinction of the Christians in his town.