Murder Under the Fig Tree Read online

  “Okay, thanks,” Chloe murmured. She was afraid she didn’t sound very grateful. “I’ll call you next week and make a date for dinner.”

  “Good, then.” Nehama sounded like her usual, cheerful self. She dealt with such cases every day. To her, Rania was just another unlucky Palestinian.

  The next morning, Chloe caught a Ramallah-Tulkarem bus which dropped her on the highway near Ariel. The sprawling Jewish settlement, with its rows of identical, red-roofed houses, swimming pools, shopping centers, and university, sits smack in the middle of the West Bank, a teeming monument to the failure of twenty years of peace talks.

  The stale, smoky smell of the settlement’s police station jolted her back to the day she had spent there a year ago. She recalled in her joints the mingled fear and excitement that had accompanied her first brush with the Israeli authorities. How little she had known then about the true dangers haunting this land. She had barely known Rania then. The Palestinian policewoman had been there that day, but Chloe had not even seen her. Rania had hidden in Benny Lazar’s office, listening for evidence that Chloe was an Israeli spy.

  Now Chloe was knocking on the door of that same office, hoping she could persuade Benny to get Rania out of Israeli prison. Even as she tapped on the half-open door, Chloe wondered if this was a terrible gamble. Benny liked Rania, and he had seemed to harbor no ill will toward Chloe, but that could all have been part of his act. He was capable of donning a lot of personalities.

  “Ken?” Yes? He was looking at her expectantly now, no doubt wondering why this person he barely knew was interrupting his work, only to stand there motionless. Big and bald, he reminded her of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.

  “Hi,” she said. “Remember me?”

  Even as she said the words, it hit her that he didn’t. Why would he remember some American he talked to for an hour ten months ago?

  “I’m a friend of Rania’s,” she said.

  That did it. “How did you get back in?” he asked.

  Not the response she was hoping for. Please, she prayed, don’t let this mission of mercy end with me being led out of the station in handcuffs.

  “Through the airport,” she said.

  “You didn’t have any problems?”

  “No, why should I?”

  In fact, the agreement under which she had left the country the last time had said that she could return. Nonetheless, he seemed as surprised as she had been that the Israeli government had lived up to its side of the bargain. Could he have her thrown out again? She didn’t think so. If someone was supposed to put her on a watch list and hadn’t, wasn’t that their problem? But she never understood who could do what in this crazy country.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Benny asked, his bulging, blue eyes twinkling at her.

  He clearly wasn’t going to invite her to sit. Well, she wasn’t going to stand like a supplicant in front of her lord. The chair directly opposite his desk was host to a pile of manila folders with papers falling out of them every which way. There was another chair off to the right. If she sat in the free chair, she decided, she would be giving up a subtle advantage. Plus, the one with all the papers on it was a vinyl-covered armchair, and the free one was of a hard, metal, folding variety. She carefully transferred the files to the metal chair and plopped down in the armchair.

  “I want you to get Rania out of jail,” she said.

  “Rania’s in jail?” His eyes popped out even more. He sounded legitimately surprised.

  “Yes. Neve Tirzah. Which I’m sure you already knew.”

  “How would I know? What did she do?”

  “Why do you think she did anything? You know her; she’s the most law-abiding person on the planet.” Not strictly true, by Israeli standards. Rania had broken any number of Israeli laws in her quest to save Chloe and Fareed. Benny had no direct knowledge of those escapades, as far as she knew. Nonetheless, he looked skeptical. Maybe he knew more than she thought. Or maybe he just understood that it was basically impossible for any Palestinian to live strictly within Israeli law.

  “You worked with her on that case last year,” Chloe said. “You know why the army wants to keep her quiet.”

  “If the army took her, it’s a security matter. I wouldn’t have any influence there.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It is. The army doesn’t like the police, especially me.”

  “You just don’t want to help her.”

  “She wasn’t very nice to me.”

  He was leaning back in his chair, his feet resting on an open desk drawer. She remembered that pose from her interrogation in this room. She understood that his practiced air of relaxation was meant to produce a corresponding lowering of his prey’s guard. Just because she wasn’t here as a suspect didn’t mean she should fall for his tricks.

  “There’s no reason any Palestinian should be nice to you,” she said. “Probably, it’s the ones who are that you should worry about.”

  He seemed to like that. He leaned his chair back precariously on two legs, placing both hands behind his neck.

  “What about due process? She hasn’t committed any crime,” Chloe said. He was an American, born and raised in Minnesota. He must have retained some of what he’d been taught about justice.

  “There are lots of Palestinians locked up who didn’t commit any crime,” he told her, his broad face alive with the joy of having won a point in debate.

  How could she have let herself get boxed into such a stupid assertion? She thought of herself as good in an argument, yet she couldn’t hold her own with this guy.

  “This is Rania we’re talking about. She has a seven-year-old son. She’s a policewoman, for God’s sake. You should at least have a professional courtesy reason for helping her.”

  He shook his head.

  “The days when I ate lunch with Palestinian policemen are over,” he said.

  Daoud checked his watch. His gaze lingered on it for an extra few seconds, admiring the bold, roman numbers on the oversized face and how the black leather band sat on his muscular forearm. He had admired it in the shop, but the shopkeeper had refused to meet his price. Then, his friends had surprised him with it at his engagement party. He hoped they hadn’t over-paid, but, even if they had, it was worth it.

  He had twenty minutes until his assignation. Not enough time to get any homework done. His mother was resting upstairs, as was her habit in the afternoon, and his sister, Mayisa, was upset, because he had shooed her inside earlier when the boys were throwing stones at the jeeps. She said he was treating her like a baby. Maybe he should go talk to her. He walked down the hall and heard soft voices behind Mayisa’s closed door. As he hesitated outside, the voices rose in pitch, one girl telling a story and the others shrieking “No!” as she got to the scandalous parts. Never mind that a western audience would fail to find even a hint of scandal in these girls’ lives. This was Palestine.

  He would talk to Mayisa later. He was not in the mood to deflect the flirtations of thirteen-year-old girls. If they’d been eighteen-year-old boys, that might be another story. But, of course, that was just a fantasy.

  “Mais, I’m going now,” Daoud called, using his sister’s nickname. “See you at the party.”

  “Okay,” came her less-than-interested response. Good thing she had company. Otherwise, she surely would have asked why he was leaving early.

  He’d left his leather jacket in Ramallah, so his mother wouldn’t ask where he got it. He pulled a black windbreaker over his crisp, white shirt. The creases in his black pants were perfect, a product of his mother’s careful ironing. He’d have to make sure not to get them wrinkled before the party.

  He took off up the hill, toward the big, empty mansion a Palestinian-American family had built years ago but never lived in. Before he had walked a few feet, though, he heard some kind of commotion down near the entrance to the village. Shouts and an engine, which might have been a jeep. Soldiers had been in the village earlier, clashing
with some kids near the school. Could they be returning? He should go make sure no kids were on the street. He glanced at his watch again. If he headed down to the entrance, he might be late getting to the house, but no matter. The meeting hadn’t been his idea.

  By the time he reached the village entrance, whatever conflict might have taken place was over. The evening was quiet. He could hear Um Mahmoud’s chickens squawking in their coop, and mothers calling their kids to come in for supper. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of Um Mahmoud’s olive and fig trees.

  Daoud turned to walk toward his destination, humming a popular Arab tune under his breath. Footsteps behind him made him turn, a smile on his face to greet whichever of his neighbors was arriving home. It wasn’t a friend, but it was someone he was glad to see. Now, he wouldn’t need to make the trek up to the Palestinian American’s house, because the person he was supposed to meet was walking toward him.

  The meeting was to make an exchange, and he could see that the other person had brought the goods. But they couldn’t do it here, on the main village road, right when people were coming home from work. Daoud looked around and gestured for the other person to follow him. The thick, broad leaves of that giant fig tree would just shield them from sight, if they positioned themselves properly. Moving under the tree’s canopy, Daoud grasped a branch for balance, then pulled his hand away with a coating of sticky, white sap from the unripe figs. He nearly wiped it on his windbreaker, but picked off a wide leaf instead and swiped at it, as the other person rounded the tree and came into sight.

  A few minutes later, Um Mahmoud, about to put spinach soup and lamb stew on the table, heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. Or were there two?

  Chapter 10

  Rania lay on her cot, trying to remember every detail of Khaled’s third birthday. They had taken him to Serafi, an amusement park near Nablus. The little airplane ride, where you went around and up and down at the same time, had frightened him and made him cry. Bassam had taken him from her arms, while she continued to fly around, getting a little dizzy, and, when she finally got off, they had bought Khaled a big fluff of pink cotton candy. He had stuffed so much of it in his mouth that he nearly choked. They had never gone back to Serafi. Khaled would probably enjoy it now that he was older, but it was in ruins, a casualty of the tight closure around Nablus. Last time she had passed it, the little airplane cars had been lined up, rusting by the side of the road, like a miniature remnant of World War I.

  A loud clanging disrupted her reverie. Tali Ta’ali was unlocking her cell with a giant key. They had not spoken since Tali had brought her the book.

  “Bo’ee he’na,” the policewoman said.

  “Come where?” Rania asked in English.

  “Yesh po mishehu.” Someone is here.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lo yodaat.” I don’t know.

  Rania turned her face to the wall. The only people she wanted to see were Bassam, who couldn’t get a permit to come, and Khaled, whom she would not allow to see her in chains. Chloe’s visit had brought a faint glimmer of hope, but she could not allow herself to believe in it.

  “You don’t want to come?” Tali’s voice sounded a little farther away, like she was already leaving. Rania thought quickly. It might feel noble for a second to refuse to go, but, really, what would it get her? Maybe it was Chloe. If she was back so soon, it must mean she had some information to report.

  “Wait,” she called in English. “I am coming.” At least she would hold onto a little dignity by not conversing in Hebrew, even with Tali Ta’ali.

  “Come on then,” Tali Ta’ali said in Hebrew. “They are waiting.”

  Rania put on her sandals and reached for the jilbab hanging on the rail of her bunk. It was still damp, though she had washed it a day ago. In the small sink, she could never wring it out well enough. If it was Chloe who was here to see her, perhaps she could do without it. But there would certainly be men in the halls. She was wearing black, stretchy slacks that showed her legs clearly and a red pullover that hugged her breasts. She pulled on the wet coat, grimacing as the clamminess enveloped her, and tied a hijab over her hair.

  She started down the hall while Tali was still locking the cell behind her.

  “Wait,” Tali said. “Give me your hands.”

  Rania had momentarily forgotten what humiliation was involved in deciding to receive a visit. Should she turn around and walk back to the bed or acquiesce and be ground into the dirt like a bug?

  She didn’t have to commit. Tali grabbed her wrists firmly but gently and snapped the cuffs on in front. It didn’t hurt her injured arm as much as when they pulled her arms behind her. The policewoman knelt and fastened the shackles around her ankles. Rania shuffled after Tali, holding her head high, telling herself it was totally normal to be bound up like a cow about to be slaughtered for a feast.

  She recognized Benny Lazar’s booming voice before she saw him in the captain’s office. He turned to watch her enter, a broad smile on his open, goofy face.

  “Are those necessary?” he asked the captain in Hebrew, gesturing toward the chains.

  “Standard procedure,” the man answered.

  If Benny argued, she would stay. But he merely nodded slightly.

  “Take me back,” she said to Tali Ta’ali.

  The young woman looked at her captain for orders. He looked at Benny.

  “What, aren’t you happy to see me?” Benny said in English.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I want to talk to you. Sit down.”

  Just because she was chained up, he thought he could order her around? He should know her better than that. She stood, shifting uncomfortably from one shackled foot to the other.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you,” she nearly spat in his face.

  She turned to leave.

  “Mustafa said you would say that.”

  She hesitated. If her boss had sent him, maybe it meant something. Hold up, she told herself. You know this guy. He’ll say anything to get what he wants. God only knew what he might want from her. She couldn’t imagine she had any information that would be useful to him. She had been in this prison for less than four weeks, but it seemed she had been locked away forever, and all her knowledge of the outside world had fled.

  “I will not talk to any Israelien, ever again,” she said. She couldn’t stomp out the way she wanted to because of the shackles. She simply turned her back to Benny and gestured with her eyes to Tali that she was ready to go.

  “So, don’t talk. Listen for a change.”

  He was telling her to listen for a change? That was funny.

  “Do you have some coffee?” Benny asked the captain.

  The captain, of course, sent Tali to get it. When she returned, she put two cups down on the desk along with a little bowl filled with sugar packets. She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Do you mind?” Benny said to the captain, who shrugged and left them alone.

  Benny emptied four sugars into his cup. The coffee smelled a lot better than the swill they brought her in the morning. In fact, it smelled divine. She told herself she had no choice but to stay and drink coffee with him, but of course that was ridiculous. If she walked out into the hall, someone would materialize fast enough to lock her back into her little cell. She wanted to sit here like a normal person and drink coffee. She wanted to smell something besides half-rotten food and her own body odor and hear something besides her own breathing. She reached her right hand out for the cup, and the left hand was dragged along for the ride. She took the cup in both hands and lifted it to her face. She took only the tiniest of sips, so it would last a long time.

  Benny had gulped his in three swallows. She hoped he wasn’t going to call for more, which would force her to decide again whether to stay and hear what he had come to tell her or stand on principle and go back to stare at the walls some more. He leaned back, smiling at her. She felt like he could hear her thoughts and remem
bered that she had thought that in the past, when they were tracking down the murderer of the foreign woman. She fleetingly remembered drinking lemonade in an outdoor café in Tel Aviv, with the sun making her so warm she had taken off her hijab.

  This was not right. How dare he come here and act like they were friends?

  She slammed the half-full cup down on the desk. Some of the liquid jumped out and splashed onto her sleeve. She dabbed at it ineffectually with her other sleeve. Benny leaned over and plucked a Kleenex from the box on the captain’s desk, handing it to her with a flourish.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  “I would rather rot in this jail for the rest of my life than help you,” she said, ignoring the absurdity of his needing help from someone who was clearly as helpless as you could get.

  “Just hear me out,” he said. “A young man has been killed. In Kufr Yunus.”

  “Who killed him?” she asked in spite of herself.

  “We are not sure. No one saw the incident. His body was found under a fig tree near the entrance to the village. People say he had a confrontation with the army earlier in the day.”

  “In Kufr Yunus?” Kufr Yunus rarely had clashes. It was a tiny village, barely more than a hamlet, and one of only two villages in the Salfit District that did not border any settlements. The army seldom went near there, since it was not on the settler road.

  “That’s one of the things that doesn’t make sense. There are rumors—reasons to think that it could have been a political fight.”

  “With the army?”

  He rolled his eyes. “In the village.”

  “You’re saying Palestinians killed him?”

  “You’re saying that’s not possible?”

  “How would I know? I don’t even know who he was. I’ve only been in Kufr Yunus twice in my life. But you tell me he was in a confrontation with the army and, now that he’s dead, suddenly Palestinian factions are supposed to have killed him. I’ve heard that story before.”