Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Noah
Dusk shrouded the hills of Hebron, the sun slipping behind the low limestone ridges and stone houses.
Noah—tonight Yusef Karim—slowed with Fahad as they approached the diwan of the sheikhh’s house, the stone-walled structure detached from the man’s home.
Even from here, Noah smelled the earthy coffee poured from the copper dallah into the cups of the men gathered in front of the sheikhh on rugs.
A fly buzzed by through the warm air, the voices of the men still low murmurs.
Noah exchanged a look with Fahad, and the older man gave him a patient smile, but Noah saw the tension in the slight pull at the corner of his mouth.
Fahad had reassured him that he trusted Noah for this, but once this line was crossed, there was no going back.
Fahad would stake his reputation on Noah. If Noah was discovered, Fahad would bear the shame—or worse.
Noah’s stomach roiled at the thought of the price they both might pay.
Hower had explained in crisp detail what the British wanted him to do in Jerusalem—infiltrate the Arab nationalist circles and report back like a good, loyal informant. Specifically, he was to learn of any plans to meet with the Germans.
But these were the people whose plight he sympathized with.
And, yet, the loyalty wasn’t simple. He was British too.
The empire had brought rails, infrastructure, schools, order—but at what cost?
He’d seen the ugliness of occupation of these foreign lands with his own eyes, the stolen antiquities funneled out of Egypt, the lies sold to Arab tribes during the war, the Balfour promises that contradicted other promises on paper but bled the same in the dust.
Those lies now stirred unrest and murder. Here in Palestine, especially. The Arabs had believed whole-heartedly that the entirety of the Levant—from Palestine to Transjordan and Syria—would be theirs to rule freely after the war.
The French and the British had denied them that.
If those who felt betrayed looked to new allies who would help them achieve the freedom they sought, Noah understood it, even if he couldn’t support it.
He hoped, instead, the British would do better.
Fix this mess with the Arabs before it was too late.
But the situation here was a knot of half-truths and betrayal.
And I’m about to pull it tighter.
Acid burned Noah’s throat as he followed Fahad into the diwan. The long light-colored linen thobe swished over his sandaled feet. The keffiyeh head covering rested across his shoulders, the black agal biting faintly against his temples. He looked like any man from the plains villages.
But Fahad had warned him not to be fooled by the sheikh’s simplicity—he came from a well-respected and influential family who had deep connections throughout the entire region.
Most importantly, the sheikh still openly supported dialogue with the British authorities—and often expressed his friendship to those of Western cultures.
Stepping into the diwan felt like stepping out of time—back to the war, when a borrowed name and a slip of a lie could mean a shallow grave in the sand.
The voices stopped as they entered, the four men in the space looking toward them. A thin, barefooted boy paused by a stone wall covered with rifles, the coffeepot on the brass tray in his hands. The only man who took a chair—Sheikhh Omar—gazed up at Fahad and Noah.
His keffiyeh was draped loose around his shoulders, the edge of it fluttering as he shifted. His eyes, deep and dark under a prominent brow bone, flicked from Fahad to Noah. Weighing, not welcoming yet.
The corners of his lips turned up in a slow bloom of a smile meant for Fahad alone. “As-salaam alaykum,” the sheikh said as a greeting, then stood and approached Fahad.
“Wa ’alaykum as-salaam, ya Sheikhh,” Fahad answered. He stepped forward, shoulders squared, and the sheikhh met him halfway. Their hands clasped lightly, and then they leaned in—one kiss on the right cheek, one on the left—an old, familiar ritual that closed the weight of silence.
Fahad turned toward Noah, his hand settling on his shoulder with firm, reassuring pressure. Even without words, Noah could feel the meaning of the gesture. Hold steady.
“This is Yusef Karim,” Fahad said in Arabic, his voice low. “A man I trust as I trust my own kin.”
Noah dipped his head and answered in soft, perfect Arabic, “It is an honor, Sheikhh Omar.”
The sheikhh’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, his gaze drifting to Fahad’s fingers pressing into Noah’s shoulder.
The press of Fahad’s hand eased, but the hush held on as the men gathered continued to assess him.
The sheikhh invited them to sit, then the thin boy moved again, the brass tray balanced with the care of someone taught never to spill.
When the boy reached him, Noah lifted his eyes just enough to meet the boy’s gaze.
In those dark eyes, he read the question they were all too polite to ask aloud—who are you?
Noah took the tiny porcelain cup in both hands.
Bitter coffee steam touched his nostrils, the warmth of the cup seeping into his palm.
Could he really do this again? During the war, it had all felt so different—at least at first. Breaking bread with strangers he planned on betraying was necessary to keep bullets out of his countrymen’s bodies.
But now?
Fahad, now settled on a rug at Noah’s side, accepted his cup last, and the boy retreated to his place by the wall.
Sheikhh Omar drank from his coffee cup, eyes still focused on Noah, then he set it down on the rug in front of his feet. “What brings you here tonight, Fahad?”
“There are whispers in Jerusalem, Sheikhh. Whispers of new alliances on the horizon. Of new money. Yusef seeks to help where help is needed. He spent four years as a youth in Berlin and can be useful to our cause.”
The sheikhh didn’t look at Noah. His eyes flicked once to the rifles on the wall, then back to Fahad. “You trust him?”
“Like my own son.” Fahad inclined his head without a flicker of doubt. “And much more than any man who sits in Jerusalem’s cafés and calls himself a patriot.”
That earned a grunt of amusement from the eldest of the watchers, a grey-haired man who shifted his cane across his lap.
The sheikhh’s eyes moved to Noah. “And you, Yusef? What is it you want from my house tonight?”
Noah kept his shoulders loose. “I want nothing that is not offered, Sheikhh. I came because I have heard too many promises made behind closed doors that turn to ash and dust. Too many lies that cost us everything. If the Germans oppose the Zionists, I’m interested in hearing what they have to offer our people. ”
“Did the Germans send you, then?” The sheikhh raised a brow.
There it is. An opening.
“No, I am seeking those who might introduce me to our friends who have been speaking to the Germans. Fahad tells me you may be able to arrange this.” He waited for a moment, then added, “I hear talk that the Germans send men to promise what the English won’t.
I want to know if that talk is wind or worth listening to. ”
The sheikhh said nothing, but his gaze shifted to Fahad again.
Noah kept still, feeling the burn of distrust settling between his ribs. Fahad’s word carried weight, but if these men decided Noah was a liar—or a spy—Fahad would lose everything.
The sheikhh leaned back, fingertips drumming against his knee. The silence was only broken by the sound of the boy feeding another pinch of charcoal to the coals in the brazier. An orange glow flared across the rifles on the wall.
“You speak of promises, Yusef Karim,” the sheikhh said at last, his tone mild, “but whose promises do you keep? A man can say he hates the English or the Germans and yet line his pockets with their gold all the same.”
Noah felt the weight of his words press into his throat. He paused, forming his response carefully. “I have seen the worth of English gold. They give generously, then shoot while our backs are turned and steal it for themselves once again.”
The elder with the cane let out a soft huff—whether in approval or doubt, Noah couldn’t tell.
“And what would you do,” Sheikhh Omar asked, “if you found out the talk was true? That the Germans do whisper?”
Betray whoever allies themselves with the Germans. His instinctive response burned in his throat. That’s what Hower and the British wanted him to do, of course. And what he had to do. Find out who might be talking to the Germans and report on them.
He wished, instead, he could attempt to persuade his Arab brethren that alliances with the Germans were madness—and would most likely only end in more betrayal and death. But he said, “I would listen. And carry those words where they might do some good—for us.”
Fahad bowed his head. “His tongue is mine. If it runs false, so does mine. He will bring back what he hears.”
The Sheikhh’s mouth curved at last. “There is a man who speaks of these things—not here, not tonight. But his ears are sharper than mine. His reach wider.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and peered closer at Noah. “If you are what you claim to be, he will see it. And if you are not …”
He didn’t have to finish.
Noah kept his gaze steady. “When?”
The sheikhh grunted. “When he wishes it. I will send word through Fahad. Until then”—he flicked his fingers at the boy who was already stepping forward with the tray—“drink more coffee. Sit on my rug. And remember … the hills hear more than you think.”
Threats and progress. At least they were getting somewhere.
Noah drank the second coffee, the bitter flavor biting at his throat. Nothing more to be done about learning about the Germans tonight—that much was clear. The sheikhh wouldn’t trust him or set up a meeting yet.
But Fahad had said Sheikhh Omar knew of all comings and goings in the area—and even beyond. That might be useful too. If Jack had come through here, the sheikhh might know of it.
“I also seek a man. A man who came through Jerusalem asking about two American women. The women are archeologists—one fair and one dark. The dark one bears a tattoo on her forearm.”
The sheikhh made no reaction—but the boy carrying coffee did. The tray tipped suddenly, a jerky motion that sent drips onto the rug below him.
Was that fear?
“Out.” The sheikhh gave the boy an annoyed glance, and the boy fled with soft, inaudible steps. He looked back at Noah and frowned. “Two American women? What use do you have for them?”
“I do not seek the women,” Noah said, but his heart ticked faster. Could it be possible that the sheikhh has heard of Alice and Kit? “But the man who searched for them.”
The sheikhh’s eyes grew darker. “Why?”
“He owes Yusef a debt,” Fahad said quickly, the warning in his face to Noah clear—back down and let me handle this. Noah had clearly said something alarming. “He came through our village, asking for information. Promised a reward if Yusef asked after the women. He never paid.”
Time stretched as the sheikhh considered Fahad’s explanation.
A few tense beats of silence held.
At last, the sheikhh nodded. “That is unfortunate.” He gave Noah a warning look. “Be careful whom you agree to help, Yusef. Let it be a lesson to you.” But the sheikh’s eyes said what he did not—Noah’s questions worried him. Made him suspicious.
He did not trust Noah.
He might not ever trust him now.
Noah released a slow breath, cautious not to let the men around him see any hint of nerves as Fahad and Sheikhh Omar moved into a quiet conversation.
His eagerness had almost cost him dearly. He’d hoped maybe the sheikh could lead him to Jack, but hadn’t considered the possibility that someone other than Jack might have come asking about Kit and Alice.
Then his gaze traveled to the doorway where the servant boy had fled.
Did the boy fear the man who’d come asking about the women?
It couldn’t have been Jack the boy feared—Jack would never do anything to make that boy so afraid.
Then who? Prescott? Or one of his cronies?
Either way, the sheikhh knew more than he’d admit. But Noah may have ruined his chances with him already. And if Noah was to learn anything—about the Germans, Prescott, the women, or Jack—he’d have to listen twice as carefully and push half as hard in the future.
One slip and the desert could silence him forever.