The Collaborator of Bethlehem (29 page)

Omar Yussef reached the bottom of the steps. He held the gun in his left hand, so that when he turned into the cave his body would keep its detail obscured from the orange glow. He stepped around the corner.

Jihad Awdeh looked up and smiled at the schoolteacher. “So they sent the special forces.” He laughed and took a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. He flicked the cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame. He must have been lighting a candle when Omar Yussef had heard him upstairs, not a cigarette.

Omar Yussef squinted into the dim light. Jihad Awdeh’s Kalashnikov lay on the floor in front of him. The gunman had a small rucksack, presumably loaded with food in case of a siege. Omar Yussef wondered if there were explosives in the backpack. He might intend to take the cave, or the church, or anyone who came for him to Paradise at his side. Beneath his Astrakhan hat, Jihad Awdeh’s head was bandaged from the blow it took when the tank shell hit the Saba house.

“Get up and come with me,” Omar Yussef said.

“Come where? Are you collaborating with the Israelis still? Are they waiting outside the church for you to bring me in?” Jihad Awdeh laughed, and it echoed like a hundred angry voices around the low cave.

“
You’re
the collaborator, Jihad.” He wasn’t himself sure if he was bluffing and he didn’t care. He spoke with the conviction of a man who had seen so much wrong that he needed now to assert what he knew was right.

Jihad Awdeh’s smile disappeared. “If I’m a collaborator, why am I hiding from the Israelis in the middle of the night?”

“You must have done something to turn them against you,” Omar Yussef said. “You must have gone too far even for them.”

The bitter grin returned to Jihad Awdeh’s face. He pushed the gray Astrakhan hat back on his head and slipped a finger under his bandage to scratch his scalp. “Fuck your mother, schoolteacher. Are you a good shot?”

“How good would I have to be to hit you down here?” Omar Yussef risked pushing the empty gun forward a little, threatening Jihad Awdeh with it. He didn’t move toward Awdeh. He wanted to keep him where he was, eight yards away, in case the younger man rushed him.

“So you’re going to take me in for what, exactly?”

“You are the collaborator. You guided the Israelis to Louai Abdel Rahman. You used a laser sight to confirm for them that they had the right man and to point out exactly where he was. Your mistake was to leave behind a MAG cartridge at the site of the assassination. At first, when I found those cartridges it led me to suspect Hussein Tamari. Dima Abdel Rahman told me that her husband spoke in the darkness to someone called Abu Walid. Hussein Tamari was Abu Walid. But only tonight did I discover that your eldest boy is Walid, too. George Saba told me he saw you bending to scoop something off the roof of his house before you left that night. But he also said that only Hussein Tamari was firing. You must have picked up the spent MAG cartridges from his gun. You put them in your pocket, because you wanted to cover your tracks in case the Israelis came to Beit Jala to find out who was shooting from the roof of George’s house. If they found the cartridges, they’d know it was Hussein, and that made it a little too close to you. You were working for them, and you didn’t want them to know that your boss had been shooting across the valley at them, because maybe they’d figure that you were in on it. But when you were lying in the long grass waiting for Louai Abdel Rahman to come to his house, one of the cartridges must have fallen out of your pocket. That’s the one I discovered. I kept the shell casing as evidence. I picked up another one that you missed on the roof of George Saba’s house. Then you found out that Dima Abdel Rahman had overheard her husband speaking to Abu Walid and you killed her, too.”

Jihad Awdeh waved his cigarette. “No, I didn’t kill that bitch.”

“So the rest is true?”

“Fuck you. You don’t know what a mistake you’re making. I’m the head of the Martyrs Brigades.”

“So was Hussein, and look what happened to him.”

“Hussein died because he was greedy. The reason the Israelis wanted to kill Louai Abdel Rahman was because his family was operating explosives factories. They were all in on it, including the old man Muhammad. Louai was the family’s connection to all the resistance groups. He used to sell bombs to Fatah, but he also supplied Hamas and Islamic Jihad and the Popular Front. He sold to criminals, too. When Louai died, Hussein decided to take over all the Abdel Rahman businesses. I told him he should only take the auto shops. If he took control of the explosives factories, I warned him, the Israelis would come down on him. But he was greedy. The explosives used by the Abdel Rahman boy to blow himself up in Jerusalem yesterday came from one of the labs Hussein took over. So, just as I warned him, the Israelis killed him.”

“Who told the Israelis the bomb was made at one of those labs?”

“Well, of course, I did, Abu Ramiz.”

“You?”

“I planned the mission. I sent the boy off with the bomb. The Israelis weren’t sure if they should kill Hussein. But after the bomb exploded in the market, I knew they’d have to get rid of him.”

“And with Hussein gone, you’d be in charge of the Martyrs Brigades in Bethlehem.”

Jihad Awdeh nodded and breathed smoke from his nostrils.

“But why did Yunis Abdel Rahman become a suicide bomber?” Omar Yussef said.

“A martyr, Abu Ramiz. You should refer to him only as a martyr.” Jihad Awdeh smiled sarcastically. “Self-disgust, I suppose you might say. It’s his father’s fault really. He’s a nasty piece of work, old Muhammad Abdel Rahman. Muhammad told the kid that Dima was fucking Hussein Tamari. He said she had wanted Louai out of the way so she could be with Hussein and that she had persuaded Hussein to help the Israelis kill her husband. Muhammad expected the boy to kill Hussein, so the family could take back their stolen auto business. Maybe the explosives workshops, too.”

“But Yunis killed Dima instead.” The boy had spoiled his father’s plan by directing his anger not at Hussein, but at the woman he considered the most unconscionable of his brother’s betrayers.

“That’s right. He killed her for betraying his brother. It must have seemed easier than killing Hussein—he didn’t know the Israelis were going to do the job for him. He killed her and tried to make it look like a random rape. Or maybe he got a kick out of seeing what she looked like in the dirt with her ass up in the air. By the way, you were there too. Did you like her ass? I hear she was a special little pet of yours. How special was she? The police had covered her body by the time I got there, but the guards let me have a look. A lot of the guys got an eyeful.”

Omar Yussef swallowed hard. “Why were you there?”

“To tell Yunis Abdel Rahman that his dear Dad had made him a killer for nothing. I told him Dima was innocent and that Hussein didn’t even know who she was. The boy was quite upset at the news, you can imagine. Disgusted with himself and his father. Guilty. No family business, no future. I told him he could redeem himself by carrying out an operation. He agreed immediately.”

“Why did the Israelis come to your apartment tonight, if you’re their collaborator?”

“They wanted to warn me not to keep the explosives factories operating. Or perhaps they just wanted to give me some cover. No one’s going to think they’d raid a collaborator’s home.”

Omar Yussef pointed at the second staircase out of the cave. “Let’s go. I’m taking you to the police.”

Jihad Awdeh rose and stretched. “Fine. They will, of course, let me go. And I’ll start building another bomb.” He moved along the cave. “This time it won’t be your American boss who gets blown up by it. I’ll make sure it takes you out, and your family, too.”

Omar Yussef gestured to Awdeh to keep to the opposite side of the cavern. He followed the gunman up the short flight of stairs, slowly. When his prisoner reached the top, Omar Yussef said: “Keep going. Not too fast.”

The darkness in the church seemed to have lifted. As Omar Yussef reached the top of the stairs, he pulled the Webley closer to his side, hiding it in the folds of his jacket.

Jihad Awdeh turned. He stared at the old gun.

“Keep going,” Omar Yussef said. His eyes were adjusting. It was too light in the church. He had spent too much time down in the cave. The killer would see the old pistol was useless. “Come on, move it.”

Jihad Awdeh pointed at the Webley and laughed. “What are you going to do? Beat me to death with that old thing?”

Omar Yussef felt his mouth dry up. He looked down and saw that the hand holding the pistol shook. “This gun is an old one. But it works.”

But Jihad Awdeh was already upon him. He punched Omar Yussef in the temple, shoved him backward, and tripped him so that he fell to the floor. From the back of his boot, Jihad slowly drew a six-inch hunting knife. He twirled its jagged blade, smiling. Omar Yussef saw the light glint off the shaft of the knife. How could he have been so stupid as to stay below in the cave until there was this much daylight in the church?

Jihad Awdeh kicked him in the side, just below the ribs. The impact stabbed through his kidneys as surely as if it were a thrust of the knife. He groaned. Then Jihad kicked again and Omar Yussef screamed, a deep bellow.

He grabbed Jihad Awdeh’s leg, but the gunman shook free. Omar Yussef looked up. Jihad crouched above him with the knife held to his own throat. He grinned, as though he would bite the schoolteacher and drink his blood. He drew the knife lightly across his throat, sighing with pleasure. It was the same murderous gesture George Saba had described, when Omar Yussef saw him in the jail. Omar Yussef would die now, like George.

The knife was at Omar Yussef’s throat. It felt warm from having been stashed inside Jihad Awdeh’s boot. He gasped. There was a moment of pressure against the flesh of his neck. Then there was a massive blast, and another. Omar Yussef thought it was the sound of his carotid ripping under the sharp metal, the tearing of the cartilage thundering through his head. But then Jihad Awdeh toppled over onto his victim’s chest. He held his head directly before Omar Yussef’s face and gave a ghostly moan that was heavy with the stale reek of cigarettes. Then he dropped his head. His brow struck Omar Yussef on the chin. The murderer was dead.

Chapter 28

O
mar Yussef shoved Jihad Awdeh’s corpse away. It rolled heavily onto its back. The dead man’s hand released the knife. It tinkled on the stone floor. Blood seeped from two wounds in Jihad Awdeh’s side and pooled about Omar Yussef. The schoolteacher felt its warmth melting through his jacket. He pushed himself up to escape the gore and backed a few paces away from the corpse, as though unsure that the murderer wouldn’t rise and try to take his life once more.

There was a silhouette in the doorway to the church. It moved toward Omar Yussef. This was the man who had saved him, firing from the other end of the church with enough accuracy to strike Jihad Awdeh, rather than the victim pressed to the stone beneath him. As the shooter came on, his footfalls echoed about the ancient walls. Omar Yussef stared at the dark figure. When Awdeh had held the knife to his throat, he had been sure he was about to die. So sure that the relief of his reprieve was still somehow unreal.

The figure passed through the first dusty shaft of light from the high windows. The police beret on the man’s head was askew. Omar Yussef saw a hand gloved tightly in black leather straighten it. The footsteps came closer. It was Khamis Zeydan. Now was the time when Omar Yussef would learn if his suspicions were misplaced, if the police chief were as befouled by murdered blood as he thought. Khamis Zeydan had saved him by killing Jihad Awdeh, the man who had beaten and humiliated the police chief only two hours before. But would he finish off Omar Yussef too?

Three other policemen rushed through the Gate of Humility and ran down the aisle behind their commander. The police chief turned to look at them and then quickened his pace toward Omar Yussef. He reached the schoolteacher and stared at him hard, tapping the barrel of his pistol against his false hand. His face had the fierce callousness of one who has killed, one who will kill. Omar Yussef lifted his eyes toward the sunlight where it cut the blackness high inside the church. He filled his lungs, and in that moment he pictured Khamis Zey-dan, young and suave and filling their favorite student café in Damascus with laughter, and he knew that whatever his old friend had become, he would remember that youthful warmth on his face and it would draw him far from this gloomy church in time and space. Omar Yussef held that breath.

Khamis Zeydan holstered his gun. He looked down at Jihad Awdeh. “This bastard’s dead,” he said. He turned to his men. “Get this son of a whore out of the church. I don’t want anyone to know that I shot him, and certainly not that it happened inside this holy place. You two, carry him over to the station. You, get a bucket and a mop. Clean up the blood.”

“His rifle is down in the cave,” Omar Yussef said.

“Let’s go and get it. We’ll see what else he left down there.”

Omar Yussef hesitated.

Khamis Zeydan cocked his head and wrinkled his moustache. “I just saved your life. Do you think I’ll murder you, now?”

“I’m sorry, Abu Adel,” Omar Yussef said. “I’m not thinking straight.”

“Well, that has been to your credit lately. You had reason to suspect people. Even me. But now you can start taking things at face value once more.”

“I don’t know if I will, ever again.”

Khamis Zeydan went down the steps to the Cave of the Nativity. Omar Yussef followed. His legs felt weak. In two days, he had been near to his own death three times, and he had seen even more dead bodies, of people he loved and of those he feared. It was too much. He sat on the bottom step and put his hands on his head.

“He was about to kill me,” Omar Yussef said.

Khamis Zeydan slung Jihad Awdeh’s Kalashnikov over his shoulder and looked inside the rucksack. “What’s in here? Food.” He looked over at Omar Yussef. “You’re right about that. You’d be dead now for sure, if Maryam hadn’t told me you were coming to the church.”