The Collaborator of Bethlehem (28 page)

The soldier said something curt and guttural in Hebrew.

“Do you speak Arabic or English?” Omar Yussef asked in English.

The soldier answered in English. “You never learned Hebrew?”

“I was always too much of an optimist,” Omar Yussef said.

The soldier smiled a little. His teeth showed white through the camouflage make-up. He pushed past Omar Yussef and scanned the hall. Maryam and Nadia came out of the bedroom. Omar Yussef heard Ramiz behind the half-open door urging his wife to dress. Maryam’s face blanched when she saw the camouflaged soldier. Nadia’s was blank.

“Lower your gun, please,” Omar Yussef said.

The soldier let his M-16 barrel fall. “We’re conducting a search in the neighborhood. Some of the people who live in the building opposite have to stay out of the place while we search it. It’s raining, so we’re going to bring them in here.”

Omar Yussef nodded.

More than a dozen people came through the front door. Omar Yussef greeted them and asked them to come into the salon. Maryam went to make tea, but the soldier stopped her and told her to bring everyone else who was in the house to the salon and to wait with them there. As the people came in, they all bore the same bedraggled, frightened sleepiness. Some of the children whimpered.

The last to enter were Amjad and Leila. Amjad smiled and shook Omar Yussef’s hand, thanking him for letting them shelter in his house. Omar Yussef felt bad about his lust for Amjad’s wife. Amjad was a good fellow. Even so, Leila was beautiful in the jeans and sweatshirt she must have thrown on as the soldiers turfed them out of their apartment. She had brushed her hair, but it looked slept on, nonetheless, the way it would be on the pillow.

The soldier stood in the doorway, watching the crowd, which now included Ramiz and his family. Omar Yussef knew everyone in the room, except for a woman in the corner with her two children. He assumed they must be the newcomers, Jihad Awdeh’s family. He couldn’t recall the woman’s face from his visit to Jihad’s home earlier that night. He stepped carefully through the carpet of children sitting at their parents’ feet and greeted the woman.

“You are Jihad’s wife?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

The woman was young and quiet. Omar Yussef suddenly recognized the boy standing behind her. He had opened the door of his father’s apartment six hours before when Omar Yussef went in to appeal to Jihad to save George Saba.

“Ah, I met you earlier, didn’t I?” Omar Yussef said.

The boy nodded.

“What is your name?”

“Walid Jihad Brahim Awdeh.”

It struck Omar Yussef like a lightning bolt. “You are Jihad’s eldest son?”

“Yes.”

Jihad Awdeh’s eldest son was named Walid. Jihad was the “father of Walid,” Abu Walid. Could he have suspected the wrong man all along? Hussein Tamari’s eldest son was Walid. Tamari was Abu Walid. But perhaps Tamari wasn’t
the
Abu Walid that Louai Abdel Rahman spoke to just before he died. It could have been Jihad Awdeh. Jihad was Abu Walid, so perhaps he was also the killer, the collaborator.

George had seen Jihad picking something up from the roof of his house and putting it in his vest, when he confronted the Martyrs Brigades gunmen. It could have been cartridges spat out of the breech of Tamari’s big MAG. Louai wasn’t shot with the MAG, but there was a MAG cartridge at the scene of his murder. Could it have fallen out of Jihad’s pocket?

Omar Yussef wanted to lay out this revelation for Khamis Zeydan immediately, but there was no chance of using the phone with the soldier standing guard in the room. He would have to wait until the soldiers completed their search across the street and allowed everyone to leave the salon. He felt a moment of panic. What if the soldiers searched his house, too? They might find the gun, George’s Webley in among the socks in his closet. They would surely take him in, and they might keep him for months without trial. By that time, Jihad Awdeh would be far too powerful for him to persuade Khamis Zeydan to arrest him. Even now, he wasn’t sure that the police chief would bring him in. He must get to Khamis Zeydan tonight, while the guilt about George’s lynching remained heavy upon him.

“The soldiers won’t find your father at home, will they?” Omar Yussef said.

Jihad Awdeh’s eldest boy stared insolently at Omar Yussef. He lifted his chin, signaling that this was not a question he would ever answer. This boy would never believe that his father was anything but a hero, even if Omar Yussef managed to persuade a court to put the Martyrs Brigades leader on trial.

The soldier kept them in the salon more than an hour. The room grew rank. Some of the small children wet themselves on the carpet as they cried. Several of the women wept and rocked back and forth. All the men seemed to be smoking. The tension was dreadful for Omar Yussef. His back hurt from standing for so long, and he wished he had taken a hot shower when he came home to warm himself after the rain. The smoke in the room made him cough. He wanted to get out of there, to nail the bastard who had set up George Saba. He stared with hatred at the soldier.
Who is this guy to prevent me from getting to the police so that they can do justice? Finish your damned search and get out of my house with your stupid gun and your ridiculous camouflage make-up.
He considered telling the soldier that Jihad Awdeh had fled to the Church of the Nativity, but there was no way to speak privately to him. In any case, knowledge of Jihad’s whereabouts would only make him a suspect in the soldier’s eyes and he’d be arrested. There was something else Omar Yussef acknowledged: he knew he couldn’t bring himself to turn over a Palestinian to the soldiers. He didn’t want Jihad Awdeh killed. He wanted the man arrested, forced to confess. Dead, he would be a hero, a martyr, when he merited only humiliation.

It was almost 4:00 A.M. when the two-way radio clipped to the soldier’s shoulder sparked with a deep, incoherent voice. Immediately and without a word, the soldier left the room and went out of the front door. Omar Yussef followed after a moment. He looked out of the door. The soldier jumped into the back of the APC. Two last men got in beside him and pulled the metal doors shut. With a gush of diesel fumes and a grinding bellow, the Israeli vehicles pulled off toward the base on the other side of Dehaisha.

The soldiers were still in sight when Omar Yussef turned back to the people in the salon. They crowded by the window, watching the soldiers leave.

“They’re gone,” he said.

“Let me make everyone some tea,” Maryam said.

Omar Yussef desperately wanted to dress and go to Khamis Zeydan. “Maryam, our guests are tired. Surely they would like to go home and rest.”

“Nonsense, Omar, don’t be rude. We have to make some tea for our guests.”

Omar Yussef couldn’t argue in front of all those people. He frowned and went to his bedroom. He would dress, so that once the people did leave he would follow them out right away. He put on thick trousers, a shirt and a sweater, because it was the last, coldest part of the night. He dialed Khamis Zey-dan’s home and office numbers from the phone on the bedroom nightstand. There was no answer. He dialed both numbers again and let them ring. Eventually someone picked up at the police station.

“I need to talk to Abu Adel.”

“It’s very late.” The night sergeant clearly had been asleep.

“You weren’t awake? The Israelis are in the town.”

“Do you want me to arrest them?”

Omar Yussef took a breath. “I need to speak to Abu Adel about a murder.”

A pause. “Who is this?”

“Abu Ramiz.”

“Abu Ramiz, the schoolteacher?”

“Yes, I’m a friend of Abu Adel.”

“I know. Look, Abu Ramiz, if you’re his friend, you’ll see him in the morning. He can’t talk just now, if you know what I mean.”

Omar Yussef thought of the bottle of whisky in Khamis Zey-dan’s office. He understood what the sergeant meant. “Thank you. If you see him, tell him I called.”

As he lifted a pair of shoes from the bottom of his closet, Omar Yussef looked in the sock drawer. He took out the Web-ley and stuck it into his belt.

Maryam carried a tray of teacups past the bedroom door. “Omar, why are you dressing?”

He stepped around her and went to the front door. “I’m going to the church.”

Chapter 27

T
he rain came down cold as Omar Yussef hurried across Manger Square. He halted almost exactly where George Saba had died and looked up at the faint light of the fake gaslamp. The memory of George’s humiliated body, swinging from that metal arm, drained so much energy from him that he almost turned and went back down the hill to his house. He felt the jab of the Webley’s grip against his stomach, and he knew he must enter the church.

He crossed the slippery flagstones at the side of the Armenian monastery. The rain pattered onto his flat cap with a noise so loud that he almost wondered if Jihad Awdeh, hiding in the church, might hear him coming. A dark figure ducked quickly out of the church through the Gate of Humility. The figure saw Omar Yussef and froze. The two men blinked through the darkness. The wind wafted a wave of cold rain across them. Omar Yussef moved forward. The figure by the gate backed against the wall. It couldn’t be Jihad Awdeh. He wouldn’t cower that way. Omar Yussef picked up his pace. When he was only a few yards from the man, he recognized him. It was Elias Bishara. His thin black hair clung to his scalp and the rain fogged the thick lenses of his glasses. The water was rapidly soaking his black soutane, but Omar Yussef could see that sweat had already seeped through the robe under the arms. Elias Bishara extended his hands on either side of his body along the wall, as though his terror might propel him up the stones to safety.

“Elias, it’s me, Abu Ramiz.”

The young priest appeared not to hear at first, then he wilted as his tension and fear subsided. “I thought you would kill me out here.”

“He’s in there, isn’t he.”

“Jihad Awdeh? Yes. I was waiting for him, as I promised you I would be, Abu Ramiz. I was praying for the church and for George Saba. But I was weak. My strength failed and I ran away when Awdeh held his gun on me and told me to leave the church.”

“Is he alone?”

“Just him. Oh, God, I wanted to stay there and guard the church. I’m sorry, Abu Ramiz, I didn’t have the strength.”

“You were alone in the church, Elias. You did your best.” Omar Yussef pitied the distraught man before him. “Where exactly is he hiding?”

“He was in front of the altar, but he could be anywhere now. The soldiers will come here, Abu Ramiz. The soldiers will come and invade the church to arrest him. It’ll be a disaster. It was as though I was confronted by the Devil himself.” Elias Bishara wiped his glasses on the loose sleeve of his robe. He looked up. “But what are you doing here, Abu Ramiz?”

Omar Yussef looked toward the dark gate into the church. Jihad Awdeh was in there, somewhere.

“Abu Ramiz, it’s about George, isn’t it? That’s why you came here.” Elias Bishara held the lapels of Omar Yussef’s jacket. “Don’t sacrifice yourself, Abu Ramiz. Jihad will kill you, right here in the church. You can’t take him on.”

Omar Yussef laid his hand on Elias Bishara’s arm. “I have to learn my own lessons, Elias,” he said.

The monk gave a barely audible sob. Then, he stepped back and nodded.

Omar Yussef paused at the Gate of Humility. There would be no other monks about. In his pounding heart, he knew there was only one man inside the Church of the Nativity.

Bending, he went through the low Gate. He straightened and rubbed the small of his back. The narthex of the church was pitch black and silent. He remembered what Jihad Awdeh told Leila. As soon as the soldiers came, he would flee to the Church of the Nativity. The Israelis wouldn’t dare enter the birthplace of Jesus to arrest him. The world would be outraged, if they did. Omar Yussef thought about that: why should anyone be angry on the part of that man, that murderous bloody man? In Europe they wouldn’t know the reality of Jihad Awdeh’s life. They might even think of him as a hero, or believe that the people of Bethlehem at least saw him that way. So the Israelis wouldn’t come here for him. But Omar Yussef would.

He ran over the layout of the church in his mind. He walked himself through memories of so many visits to the old Byzantine basilica, of the Christian friends who had married or baptized their babies here and invited Omar Yussef to share the occasion. He rarely came to the church now. The Christians had been driven almost underground. They went to Chile, where George Saba ought to have stayed. Or they took Holy Orders, as Elias Bishara had, and hid themselves behind the fortress walls of the church. It seemed appropriate that the church where Christianity was born should be shrouded in 5:00 A.M. darkness, cold and barren, as he found it now.

Omar Yussef moved into the main basilica. He went left to cover himself behind the red limestone pillars of the Franciscan cloister, moving carefully. He hid behind a pillar decorated by the Crusaders with a painting of St. Cathal. The Irishman glared down at him, his beard sharp, his oval face terrible and white, lined thickly with black, as though caught in the moment when the Almighty had informed him of the precise tortures that would lead to his martyrdom. Or perhaps it was the severe face of a man who knew the sordid conditions under which
you
would perish, poor sinner, gazing up from the cold stone floor of the church. Omar Yussef shivered and looked away from the harsh portrait. He peered toward the Greek Orthodox altar. The first gray light of a damp dawn glinted through the high windows onto the gold lamps, strung above the aisle on long chains. He had to move fast. He needed the darkness to disguise the antiquity of the Webley.

The sound of a man coughing stuttered from the direction of the altar. The cough was protracted, then the man expectorated. Omar Yussef heard the quick, impatient, repeated rasp of a cigarette lighter that wouldn’t catch. The unseen man cursed and tried the lighter again. Then the noise stopped.

Omar Yussef took the Webley from his belt and moved toward the back of the church. He came out into the open aisle, but could see no one at the altar. Then the cough came again, and he knew that Jihad Awdeh was hiding in the Nativity Cave. A dimly flickering glow illuminated the broad, fan-shaped stairs to the cave at the side of the altar. Omar Yussef listened. The cave was silent. He took the first step down, and the next. With each movement, he wondered what the hell he was doing. Jihad Awdeh might not be alone. He might call his bluff with the Webley. Omar Yussef descended further. He remembered that the cave was about six yards wide and ten yards long. The wide staircase funneled down to two entrances, both at the same end of the grotto. Tourists went down one set of stairs and came up the other, after they bent to kiss the ring of bronze beneath which, according to the monks, was the very spot where Jesus’s manger had lain. Where would Jihad Awdeh be? Probably as far as possible from the stairs, to give himself time to react in case the soldiers came.