Saving Sophie: A Novel (26 page)

“I come for conversation.”

Abu Hammad squinted, as though that would help him more clearly see what Liam was all about. “I like the conversation where you want to buy something that I have and I want to sell it to you.”

“Perhaps a small item before I go, but I would like to talk to you about Dr. Arif al-Zahani.”

“Oh ho, now it comes to me.” Abu Hammad smiled broadly. “You are here about the girl, Sophie.”

“You know about her?”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “Hebron is a close community.”

“But you are in Jerusalem.”

“Business is better.”

“I have been told that you know the doctor.”

Abu Hammad pursed his lips and gave a nod. “Know him. Knew his father. Even knew his grandfather.”

“I have been hired to see what can be done to return Sophie to her home.”

Abu Hammad turned and walked to the back of his store. “Will you have a cup of tea?”

Liam followed, stopping to examine a copper plate.

“It’s junk,” Abu Hammad called out over his shoulder. “Eighteenth-century Persian.” He dragged a wooden chair into a small sitting area. A worn, overstuffed chair, covered in crackled maroon leather, sat next to an antique sideboard. He set out a pot of hot water, two cups and infusers on a table, poured a cup for himself, then sat down in his stuffed chair.

“I do not think Arif intends to return the girl. He is fond of her.”

“So is her father.” Liam measured a small amount of tea into the infuser and poured himself a cup. “I have heard that maybe the doctor seeks to make a deal.”

“I confess, sir, that you have heard more than I. From whom did you hear such things?”

Liam shrugged.

Abu Hammad shook his head. “Al-Zahani is a rigid man. Unforgiving. Bitter. He makes no compromises. It is in his bloodlines. He is just like his father and his grandfather. It is not like him to make a deal.”

Abu Hammad stood, shuffled to the back wall, and beckoned Liam with his index finger. He pointed to a black-and-white photograph in a black frame. Three men in white keffiyehs stood with rifles in their hands. Liam studied the picture.

Abu Hammad tapped the figure on the right. “That is Hamid al-Zahani.”

Liam nodded. “Arif’s father. And the others?”

Abu Hammad tapped his finger on the figure to the left, turned, and went back to his chair.

“That’s you? With the rifle?”

Abu Hammad picked up his tea. Age palsied his hand a bit. “In 1966.”

Liam returned to his seat and took a sip.

“I was born in Haifa.” Abu Hammad leaned back in his stuffed chair. “My family lived at the foot of the Carmel Mountains in the home of my ancestors. Arif’s grandfather, Ibrahim, moved two doors away after Hamid al-Zahani was born.

“Arif was born there. He grew up swimming in the sea, playing on the streets of Haifa. Ibrahim was counsel to the mufti and spent most of his time in Jerusalem. I remember him bragging to us that von Ribbentrop had invited the mufti to Berlin to sit with the Führer and that he, Ibrahim, was going along as well. During the Second World War, he and the mufti stayed in Germany, but Ibrahim would come back every now and then. He taught his son and his grandson to hate—the British, the Americans, the Jews.”

“But not you?”

Abu Hammad shook his head. “Ibrahim did not teach me. Besides, I was busy with other pursuits.” He pointed at a small, oval picture frame. The silver was tarnished a bit, but one could see it had been cared for over the years. In the frame was a black-and-white photo of a young woman.

“Very lovely. She looks kind.”

“She was that.”

“Did your family stay in Haifa?” Liam asked, though he knew the answer.

The old man raised his eyebrows. “We left Haifa in 1948, as ordered by the Arab Command. We were told that the Syrian Army would soon overrun the city and expel all the Jews. Then we could come back. It was pure fantasy. But my family was nonviolent and we listened to others in the community. We left when they did.”

“But there is a picture of you with a rifle.”

“Well, yes, when I was young. The PLO was passing out Soviet rifles. So I took one.” Abu Hammad shrugged. “I was not much of a soldier. I gave it back.” He chuckled. “I confess that I am a man of peace. Perhaps just a coward, as Arif has called me.”

“He called you a coward?”

“Many times. In May 1967, just before the war, his father was recruiting for the Jordanian Army. Hamid was commanding a division based in Hebron. They came to my house, Arif and Ibrahim, with enlistment papers. There would be great glory, they said. We would drive the Jews to the sea and rid Palestine of Jews forever. I declined. I stayed home with my Saja. I did not fight in ’67. Arif tried to shame me into joining, but I refused.”

“And Arif, did he join his father?”

Abu Hammad chuckled and shook his head. “He did not. He went to medical school. But Hamid, like his father, was a born fighter. It was as if he started battling the moment he came out of the womb. He was always in the middle of some skirmish. With guns and grenades. He met his maker in the Kidron Valley during the siege of Jerusalem in 1967. Arif blames many for his father’s death: the weak Jordanians, the aggressive Israelis, and me.”

“You?”

“People like me. I refused to fight. I did not stand on the hill and fire weapons alongside Hamid. To Arif, I will always be a coward.”

“And his father’s death, that would account for Arif’s vendetta?”

The old man scratched the side of his cheek. “It doesn’t take much to impassion a displaced Arab, one who thinks his land has been taken from him. Double so for Arif, who lost his father and his grandfather to Israeli gunfire. He has a vendetta, to use your word, against many. The British. The State of Israel, the UN, the US. Peaceful Arabs. And me.”

“Because you didn’t fight.”

“Partly. Also because I’m a shopkeeper. I get my money in Israel. I am like a, uh, a collaborator. A traitor to the cause. Maybe I should live in a refugee camp in Jordan? Pretend that Israel does not exist? Take the meager welfare handouts from the UN? Wait for the great uprising? According to Arif, that would be honorable. Doing business with the Israelis is dishonorable. We have been on opposite sides of the philosophical fence for many, many years.”

“But Arif does not live in a camp.”

Abu Hammad chuckled. “The gentleman doctor? He lives in his father’s fortified castle.” He stood and stretched. “I am tired. I have talked too long.”

Liam stood as well. “I thank you very much for sharing that information with me. I would like to know a little more about Sophie Sommers. Whether there are arrangements.”

“I have heard no talk of plans to return the girl, or as you say, to make a deal. There are some in Hebron who would know. For you and for her father, I will inquire. Come back. Next time, buy something.”

Upon returning to the King David, Liam found a note waiting for him:
We are going to Hebron tomorrow. Be ready at noon. Kayla.

Liam reached for his cell phone and dialed Catherine.

“Hi, Cat. It’s me.”

“Hi, me. How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess. I met with a shopkeeper today who has contacts in Hebron, and I’m hoping he’ll flush out a little information for us. We’re going there tomorrow. How was court today?”

“Surprising. Kelsen showed up. It was just a routine status call, just the attorneys positioning themselves for an upcoming round of depositions. It was not the kind of thing that clients ever attend. But there was Victor Kelsen, brash as ever, barking at the courtroom, trying to get his case accelerated for trial. Judge Sherwin almost threw him in jail.”

“Where does the lawsuit stand? Is there a trial date?”

“Preliminarily. January seventeenth. Of course, that’ll be kicked back, it’s far too early in the game. There are several cross-complaints and motions pending. At this stage, there’s no evidence proving who was at fault or how the wire instructions were altered. Key witnesses are dead or missing. And no one knows where the money is. It’s actually quite fascinating.”

“Isn’t there a presumption that Jenkins and Fairchild was responsible?”

“A presumption, but rebuttable. J and F never had possession of the money. It was under the control of the title company.”

“But didn’t J and F direct the title company to send the money to a false account?”

“The wire instructions bore three signatures: Sommers, Harrington, and Ellis. At this point, we don’t even know if the signatures are valid.”

“Oh, come on, Cat. Sommers had the motive and the means. He took off right after the money was wired.”

“So did Harrington. So did Ellis. Eighty million dollars is a lot of motive. Anyway, those are the competing arguments. This case is just beginning.”

“Cat, I miss you and I love you.”

“I know. Me too.”

F
ORTY
-T
WO

“C
HILD, YOU’RE WEEPING.” AL-ZAHANI
stood next to Sophie’s bed. She lay on her side, facing away from him, holding tightly to her bear. “Tell me what troubles you so.”

Sophie shook her head.

“Were the children mean to you? I will send Bashir to punch them all right in the nose.”

Sophie smiled, shook her head again, and sniffled. “Jamila can’t play with me anymore. She was my only friend.”

“Why not? I thought you were good friends.”

“We are, but her father won’t let us play anymore. She told me at school.”

“Did she say why?”

Sophie sadly shook her head.

Al-Zahani ran his hand smoothly over her hair. “I will speak to him. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. It will get straightened out. Don’t be sad.”

Despite his reassurance, she sobbed. “I miss my mommy and my daddy. I miss my friends. I want to go home. I don’t belong here.”

“Oh, Sophie, so many times I tell you, there is no one at your American home. It is empty. I proved it to you. You made the telephone calls. This is now your home. You do belong here. Of all people, I know it is sad to lose your home. Do you know when I was just a boy, about the same age as you, I lost my home?”

Sophie looked up. “You did?”

“My family’s home in Haifa was taken from us by the Israelis. We were forced to run off to Jordan. But now I have a new home and you have a new home. We are here for you now because your parents have left you. Your Jadda and I will make sure you are well loved always and grow up to be a beautiful, strong woman.”

Sophie rolled over to face al-Zahani. Her eyes were red. “My mommy didn’t leave me. She went to heaven.”

“It is hard for me to speak of her with you. It makes me sad, just like you. Maybe someday.”

“Why did she have to die?”

Al-Zahani hesitated. “It is because she had turned from her faith.”

“Was Allah angry with her?”

“I do not know what is in the mind of Allah. But perhaps.” He reached down and smoothed the covers. “It is time for sleep.”

“Could you read me a story?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any children’s books and I don’t know many children’s stories. I can tell you stories about the Prophet Mohammed. He too lost his father and his mother.” Al-Zahani pulled back her covers and tucked her in. “What is your favorite book?”

“
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
That’s my favorite.”

“I will find it and buy it for you.”

“It’s very good and funny.”

“I will send Bashir first thing in the morning. And we will find out what happens when you give a mouse a cookie,” he said, which elicited a few giggles. “Now tonight, you go to sleep.”

Al-Zahani kissed her on the forehead, turned out the lights, and left the room. In the sitting room, Lubannah was smiling. “Are you building your relationship, Arif?”

Al-Zahani looked serious. “What is the situation with Jamila? Sophie is upset. This was her only friend. We cannot allow a setback.”

Lubannah lowered her head. “Hassan will no longer let Jamila associate with Sophie. He says that Sophie talks constantly of her life in America and the things that she does. She tells Jamila how wonderful it is. She praises America. Hassan says he cannot allow such ideas to be put into Jamila’s head. He has ordered Basima to keep their daughter away from Sophie. Basima is sorry but there is nothing she can do.”

Al-Zahani curled his lip. “Well, there is something I can do. I will talk with Hassan. He does not know Sophie. If he took the time to know her, he would see that she is worthy of his respect. She’s not like other Americans. I will change his mind. You will see Jamila back here very soon; that I promise you. Do not worry.”

Lubannah wrapped her arms around al-Zahani. “I like it when you’re strong for our Sophie.”

“She is so much like Alina.” He kissed Lubannah on the forehead. “She has a will, that one. A curiosity. I see much in her future. In a few weeks, though, I may need you to take her to Amman until my business is finished.”

“Why must we leave?”

“Because it is my wish. For your safety. And hers.”

“I thought the years of such business were over.”

“No more questions, please. I have to leave.”

“Where are you going tonight, Arif? Again. Every night. Why do you go out so often?”

“I have many responsibilities. Why do you interrogate me?”

“When will you be home?”

“Do not wait up.”

F
ORTY
-T
HREE

O
N HER WAY TO
Hebron, barely thirty minutes south of the Old City, Kayla took a cutoff through the Rachel’s Crossing Checkpoint and drove the Agency car into the crowded city of Bethlehem, where she made her way to the central area and the Church of the Nativity.

“The square is now a pedestrian mall, so we’ll have to park a few blocks away.” She maneuvered her way past several parked tour buses.

“Why are we stopping here?” Liam asked.

“I need to meet with someone. Just for a minute. And I thought you might like to see Bethlehem. It’s a Palestinian town, although very touristy. It’s friendly. Very different from Hebron. Westerners are commonplace here.”

Kayla pulled into a parking space, locked the car, and fed the meter. “Called Beit Lechem, ‘house of bread,’ Bethlehem has always been a small, poor town,” she said as they walked. “When Jesus was born, there were maybe four hundred residents. Compared to the larger West Bank cities, Bethlehem is still very small—twenty-two thousand today. The economy is almost entirely tourist driven. It was one of the areas handed over to the PA in 1995 after the Oslo Peace Accords.”