Haddid followed Mansoor and disembarked in Yaffa. The stone walls quickly engulfed them as they wound their way west, moving from one narrow passageway to another. Near the water, they turned south and threaded their way through the maze of tourists who had come to see Yaffa, the “Bride of the Sea.”
Mansoor spat on the ground. “Ignorant bastards.”
Haddid was twenty-eight, too young to remember Yaffa in the early days, before al-Nakba, the 1948 occupation. But his father had told him how, prior to the war, Yaffa had been a thriving seaport surrounded by citrus groves that scented the air. It was renowned throughout the world for its fish and oranges, and the people had prospered. The exports to Europe afforded fishermen and farmers the chance to live in magnificent houses lining the shore.
Now those same houses had been made into flats for rich Israelis or converted into restaurants, art galleries, and shops that catered to the throngs of visitors happy to erase the Palestinians from memory. Even the streets were given Hebrew names. Not one Arabic sign remained. History had been washed until there was nothing left.
All around them, the crumbling houses, their colorful plaster walls fading and cracking, were destined for destruction. Haddid’s stomach roiled as they tromped past GivatHaZevel, the rubbish mountain, where the remains of the demolished homes festered. Israel’s intent had been to construct a knoll on which to build villas for wealthy Israelis. Instead, it ended with an unstable mountain—a mix of fetid water and crumbled asbestos. Here, iron gatherers worked, horses grazed, people were married, and children played. To view the sea, one had to climb GivatHaZevel.
Passing through the neighborhoods, Haddid eyed the laughing women uncovered in the sun, the playing children, and the old men lounging in the doorways, and he felt sorry. Like so many of mixed heritage, these people did not belong. Israel didn’t embrace them. Neither did Palestine. They were a people to be tolerated and used, cast off into the ruins of a brighter yesterday and expendable at the end of the day.
Mansoor tipped his head at the entrance to Najm’s apartment building. They climbed the stairs and knocked.
“Najm, it is Mansoor. Open the door.”
Haddid heard someone moving inside. A shadow crossed the peephole and then the door swung inward.
“Mansoor.” Najm held a beer in one hand. Mansoor swept through the door and gave Najm a hug.
“You remember Haddid.”
Najm nodded and closed the door.
Haddid glanced around the apartment and noted how nicely Najm lived. His was a spacious apartment, and he had furnished it well. The floors were tiled in Arab fashion, but he had covered them with authentic Persian rugs. A sofa with two matching chairs faced a state-of-the-art entertainment center, complete with a plasma screen television and high-tech stereo system. Not many young Arabs enjoyed these kinds of possessions. Only those who dealt drugs, had power through family ties, or had brains lived like this.
Mansoor looked around. “Where is Muatab? Tell me, did we succeed?”
Najm’s mouth twisted as though he felt pain. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Haddid felt a twist of fear. This did not bode well.
Najm told them how Muatab had killed the man from the State Department.
“That deserves a celebration,” Mansoor said, again looking around. “So tell me, where is my brother?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?” Mansoor’s expression froze, a mask of disbelief, fear of the truth, and pain.
Haddid placed a hand on his shoulder, while Najm told them about the shooting.
“It was over so fast. There was nothing I could do,” he said. He started to reach out and then turned away instead, taking another slug of his beer.
“No!” Mansoor’s grief spilled out in torrents.
First had been denial, then anger, then bargaining with Allah. Najm and Mansoor drank beer while Haddid drank soda, pressing the frosted bottle to his cheeks, dispelling the heat. As day turned to night, they talked of Muatab, reveling in his childhood feats. They spoke of honor and duty and sacrifice—and a pledge for revenge.
“Tell me Muatab’s death was not wasted. Tell me you have the information for Zuabi.”
“It’s right here, Mansoor.” Najm picked up the computer sleeve. He turned on the tablet and pulled two USB drives from the zippered pocket.
“You have verified it?”
“During the exchange at the square.”
“Show me,” Mansoor ordered.
Najm set the tablet on the ottoman and slipped a pink-tinged memory stick into the USB port on the back. Working the mouse, he struck a key on the keyboard. Mansoor leaned forward in anticipation. Najm took a swig from his bottle. Haddid remained rooted in his seat. The content only meant trouble if placed in the hands of men who wanted to derail the peace process, and Zuabi didn’t want peace.
R and B music erupted from the computer, and the three men jumped. Najm spit beer everywhere.
“What the fuck?” He set his bottle down on the end table and tapped a few more keys.
Using both hands, Mansoor gestured at the computer. “What is this?”
“It should be what Zuabi wants,” said Najm. “I verified it.”
“Could it be on the other one?”
“No.” Najm picked up the other USB drive and tossed it on top of his office ID badge in a bowl on the coffee table. “This one is the one with the plans. The one I was to give to the American. I put the information on it myself.”
Music blared from the tablet speakers.
Najm turned back to the machine. “Let me try a different file.”
More music.
Mansoor raked his hands through his hair. “What is this?”
Najm leaned in close to the screen. “Every one is a song.”
Mansoor pointed his finger at Najm. “You are a dead man.” He yanked the memory stick from the computer and flung it against the wall. “Zuabi expects us to return with usable information.”
“Maybe the music is code?” said Haddid.
Najm let go of the mouse. “No, the American gave me the documents.” He slammed his fist down on the table. The bowl in the center jumped. “I tried to tell Zuabi to make the trade over the Internet.”
“The American refused,” Mansoor said. “He didn’t trust our encryption technology to protect him.”
Haddid nodded. “He thought it safer to do this the old-fashioned way.”
“See how well that worked out.” Najm’s voice carried a note of bravado, but his hand shook when he lifted his beer. “Without the information, Zuabi has nothing. But we still have the plans Cline wanted. We still have something to trade.”
“With who? The Israeli police?” Mansoor said.
“Were the USB drives ever out of your hands?” asked Haddid.
Without warning, Najm pulled up his feet and kicked away the ottoman. “After Muatab was shot, I had them both. As I was running, I stumbled into this girl. She spilled the contents of her purse.”
“You think she has the drive?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Mansoor stopped pacing. “Where is this girl?”
“I don’t know,” Najm said. “But from something her father said, they often watch the fountain.”
Haddid’s hopes for an end to this mission faded. If they found the child, it would not end well for her. “But you don’t know for certain that we’ll find her.”
“It is our best lead,” Mansoor said. “Tomorrow, we will stake out the square. We will go and get what we came for. Muatab will not have died in vain.”