Almost Dead Part 22

I couldn't shake the feeling that Grandfather Fahmi was somehow guiding my life from heaven. Bilahl hated it when I said that: he said that only Allah was guiding everything. But meeting the Croc made me wonder just who it was who was controlling my destiny. I remembered how Bilahl had said that we needed to kill the Croc because he'd been turned into a symbol for the Jews. He would have said that Allah had placed the Croc in my hands for just that reason. Our poor father would have said that Allah had introduced us so that I could see he was a human being like myself.

Thursday was my last day as a cleaner in the business park. On Friday, the day when everything converged, I woke with a powerful urge to pray. When the first call came I washed my face, hands and legs and went to the mosque, where I stayed longer than usual. I repeated the Surat al-Fatcha Surat al-Fatcha dozens or even hundreds of times, and the tears poured down my face. I missed Lulu, Father and Murair; I missed Rana; I missed Bilahl and Al-Amari; I missed t.i.ti, Natzer and limping Rami; I missed Halil Abu-Zeid and I missed my mother...and yet I felt strong. When you live on your own for months, you learn to live within yourself. dozens or even hundreds of times, and the tears poured down my face. I missed Lulu, Father and Murair; I missed Rana; I missed Bilahl and Al-Amari; I missed t.i.ti, Natzer and limping Rami; I missed Halil Abu-Zeid and I missed my mother...and yet I felt strong. When you live on your own for months, you learn to live within yourself.

As soon as I got back home I called Halil's cousin, who was pleased to hear from me. They'd been meaning to contact me some time anyway. Now that there was contact with Bilahl again, the big operation was back on.

'What did you say?'

She couldn't believe I didn't know. Bilahl had been in contact from his jail. He had confessed to planning the attacks, and would probably get multiple life sentences.

I was unable to breathe for a moment. Air jammed in my throat.

'What do you mean, confessed? He told them everything?'

'I don't know exactly what he said. You can call him, but be careful. They've given him this line just so they can monitor his calls.' She gave me the number and asked how I was doing. I told her about the Croc.

'The fool who couldn't die. Well, you must take care of him.'

'It's not that simple. I'm on my own here. Where am I going to find a weapon? Where can I escape to?'

'You've done more complicated things than this, Fahmi.'

I was still having trouble getting air into my lungs. The sense of convergence I'd had in the mosque that morning; the feeling that Allah, or Grandfather, was guiding things from above; Bilahl suddenly only a phone call away; and all of this happening when I still had my appointment with the Croc to come...It all felt connected.

I called the number and asked for Bilahl. Two minutes later I heard his 'h.e.l.lo?', and it was like something floating up from the depths of my memory.

'Bilahl.'

'Fahmi?'

We were silent for a long time. Strange, to have to think very carefully about every word you spoke to your brother.

'How are you?' he asked. 'How's the village?'

'Good. Comfortable. There's work...a little bit in the packing-house. You know, bits and pieces here and there.'

'Good. And you're praying? Continuing to fulfil the six commandments?'

'Yes.' He was playing with fire. I understood what he meant at once. There are only five main commandments in Islam. The sixth commandment was: to continue with our operations.

'Very important,' he said. 'All the commandments, all the time. Make use of every opportunity to be a good Muslim and fulfil all six. Every opportunity.'

'Yes.'

He meant the Croc. It was as if he knew that an opportunity had presented itself, even if he didn't know its details. He was my brother. He could sense it in my voice, in the fact of my making the call. He could sense an internal conflict, and he was demanding that I keep going.

'What about you?'

'All-powerful Allah will decide. When he wants me, I will be there. Let us hope it will be soon.'

It was a short conversation but it carried a lot of weight with me. My brother's power over me was always stronger than I was willing to admit to myself. Even over the phone, from a prison, in code, he was telling me something clearer than the sun: G.o.d had placed an opportunity in my hands. He had walked me through the mountains, on donkeys, broken my back with boxes of apples, he had burst an appendix and broken a computer and with infinite care brought me to the right place at the right time because he had a mission for me: to kill the Croc.

And yet, and yet...I squirmed restlessly in my chair. I was sorry that I'd ever met the Croc; but I was sure that G.o.d had sent him to me. I should never have told anyone that I'd met him, but Bilahl had sensed something without my even saying anything. It was destined; it was random. One minute I wished I was somebody else; the next I felt that I had been chosen by a higher power to complete a mission I had started.

At last the thought came to me, like a balm: it didn't matter. Whatever was fated to happen would happen.

'There was a female soldier there in a grey uniform with her hair sc.r.a.ped tightly back, blus.h.i.+ng and looking insecure. She had gla.s.ses with purple plastic frames and three stripes on her shoulder. A soldier shouted, "All rise for the judge!" and everyone stood up. Except for Bilahl, Fahmi! He said: "This is an illegal court whose authority I do not accept. It is illegal just as your occupation is illegal." The soldier girl in the grey uniform and the purple gla.s.ses and tight hair read the indictment. She talked about the attack on Jerusalem. How Halil Abu-Zeid had planned it before they killed him, how Safi Bari had made the bomb...'

Safi? Well, that's not...what about me?

'Both of whom are now dead anyway. She talked about how he'd carried out the Shaar Hagai attack with Safi as well. Then she gave a long speech about everything that had happened in Al-Amari. Meetings in secret flats, details of the planning, the bomb-making, recruiting the bomber. But your name never came up. Father was overjoyed. He said he knew you'd never deal with...'

Bilahl. My brother. My big brother...

'...every Jew killed in the attacks was an intentional murder. Bilahl would get a life sentence for every person killed. It's going to be something like four hundred years, the sentence. But he's happy. He says that Allah...'

Wasime knocked on my door and invited me for dinner. We made tedious small talk about pharmacies, the economy and little Atta's behaviourthe boy was cranky, crying, throwing his food around the table and smearing his own face yellow and brown with egg and Egozan. When we'd finished and Atta had calmed down sufficiently to be put to bed, we had coffee in the living room and watched Noah's Ark Noah's Ark. I was thinking about Al-Amari, and the first time I ever saw the Croc. Tommy was on good form. One couple consisted of the cover girl of a new men's magazine called Pa.s.sion Pa.s.sion and a brilliant student from a rabbinical college in Jerusalem. The model kept saying that she thought the guy was s.e.xy. He wouldn't look at her. Again and again the close-ups showed him averting his eyes. 'Almost!' Tommy said every time. 'But and a brilliant student from a rabbinical college in Jerusalem. The model kept saying that she thought the guy was s.e.xy. He wouldn't look at her. Again and again the close-ups showed him averting his eyes. 'Almost!' Tommy said every time. 'But not quite... not quite...' and the audience laughed and clapped their delighted little hands.

'Goodnight, Fahmi...'

Don't go, Lulu...Tell me more about Bilahl. Where is he? Does he have friends with him in jail? What...

'I wish I could understand your language. It sounds so pretty...'

'It's Arabic, Svetlana. It is is beautiful. See you. Keep taking good care of him, yeah? beautiful. See you. Keep taking good care of him, yeah?'

'Yeah, I will. Goodnight, Lulu. Goodnight...I...'

'Svet?'

'No, don't worry. I'm sorry. Don't mind me. I'll keep taking care of him.'

Oh, Svetlana.

The lights are blinding, and baking, and sweat is pouring from my forehead and armpits.

'Fahmi Omar Al-Sab.i.+.c.h?' Tommy asks.

'Yes. Good evening.'

'Good evening! So, after three major attacks, Fahmi, you decide it's time to finish off the Croc, the great CrocAttack, the symbol of our survival, is that right?'

'That's correct, Tommy.'

'I'm sure you know what happens next...' he says and the audience scream. 'Two by two! Two by two!' Among the audience I can see Bilahl, Abu-Zeid, Rana and Grandfather Fahmi. They're all giving me encouraging smiles and making victory Vs with their fingers.

'That's right: two by two! So now, let's meet Fahmi's partner on Noah's Ark Noah's Ark this evening...ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm this evening...ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Noah's Ark Noah's Ark welcome towho else?the Croc!' welcome towho else?the Croc!'

The audience go wild and I go white. I hadn't been expecting this. My downpour of sweat is becoming a monsoon. The Croc bounds on to the stage, waving to the audience and the cameras, clasps my hand in both of his and sits down.

'So, Croc,' says Tommy Musari, 'tell us what your first thought was when you heard about Fahmi's exciting new plan...'

39

Friday was the beginning of the end of the summer. The wind had gained a little strength, and clouds were cooling some odd corners of the sky. The first days of the end of the summer are the best days of the year. They're the farthest point in time from the next summer.

Bar bought a large bouquet in the lobby of Ichilov and described nuclear medicine to me on our way to the department. 'It's basically mapping of the body. Huge cameras that photograph the inside of the body.'

'X-rays,' I said.

'Not X-rays. It's similar but a lot more top-end. In X-rays you can only see the bones, but nuclear mapping lets you see everything.'

'What's nuclear about it?' I was picturing the blood flowing, white blood cells, muscles being stretched and relaxed, fat, microbes, lungs dirty from nicotine.

'The nuclear cameras can decipher radiation emitted by the body,' continued Bar. We'd arrived at a quieter part of the hospital. 'They inject this radioactive fluid, a really low isotope, whatever, into the blood and the...'

'Can I help you?' asked a brown-haired nurse.

'Ah, yes, we're looking for Professor Binyamin-Moshe Warshawski.'

'Can I ask what it concerns?'

'Yes. He recently treated our mother, so we just wanted to give him these flowers and ask him a couple of brief questions about the diagnosis.' I don't know how Bar comes up with this stuff sometimes.

'And your mother's name?'

'Enoch,' Bar said. I kept my head down in a women's magazine, whose cover promised me twenty-five tips for a perfect s.e.x life in Chapter 5. I flicked through to Chapter 5.

'Sorry, sir. There doesn't appear to be any Enoch in the system.'

'Look, is he here? We just need to ask him one small thing.'

'I'm afraid that's impossible. The professor's extremely busy this morning.'

'Tell him it's related to Giora Guetta,' Bar said, deciding to deploy the one weapon we had in our armoury.

He came out immediately. He looked old. Later, we would learn that he was only sixty-one, but our first impression of him was of a man in his mid-seventies. White hair, white beard, a high-blood-pressure colour to him, a wide mouth and large tombstone-like teeth. His eyes were clear and intelligent, but there had been fear in his first glance towards us. It was the fear which had made him seem old. Weak handshake. He took us to the cafeteria and ordered coffee for us and tea for himself.

'Who are you?' he said. Professors of nuclear medicine tend not to watch Noah's Ark Noah's Ark.

'We're investigating the death of Giora Guetta,' said Bar.

'Guetta...he was killed in a terrorist attack, wasn't he?'

Warshawski's hands were both palm down on the table, like he was braced against a shock. His voice was weak and defeated-sounding.

'Yes he was. But a short time before the bombing he met a Professor Binyamin-Moshe Warshawski in a cafe in Yehuda Maccabi Street.'

'How do you know that?'

'Let's just say that we know,' said Bar. 'And we know that money was involved.'

Warshawski raised his eyes and looked at us in turn.

'Who are you?' he said. 'What do you want?'

'Why did you meet Guetta?' asked Bar, with a persistence that reminded me of Duchi.

Warshawski didn't answer for a while.

'Who are you, and what do you want?' he repeated. And we could have told him the truth: that we were trying to find out about Guetta as a gesture to his girlfriend, who had since died. He looked like a basically decent man to me. I thought he'd give us the answer and we could put the whole story behind us. But Bar suddenly stood up, scribbling his phone number on a piece of paper: 'We'll be back, Professor,' he said. 'If you remember why you met Guetta on the morning of his death, give us a call.'

'What was all that about?' I asked Bar, trying to catch him up. 'What are we hiding?'