Selected Detective
MYSTERIOUS THREAT LETTER

It was the afternoon before Layla finally reached Jerusalem. Kamel led him to the end of Nablus Road, with a nod of his irregular head. Kamel himself resumed his journey, disappearing around the corner that leads to Sultan Sulaiman street. Just as it began to drizzle, a splash of cold and soft water swept down from above like a bulging veil, dashing into his hair and jacket, drenching the roof of the house and patio silently. The piece of blue sky was clearly visible above Mount Scopus far to the east, above his head the sky was gray and pitch, pressing down on the city like a cover of an enormous steel trash can.

Layla bought half a dozen loaves of bread that were still warm in the sidewalk tavern and up the hill, passing through the entrance to the Garden Cemetery, Jerusalem's hotel, and rows of strange-looking Palestinians queueing to renew their residency outside the gray metal fence at the Israeli Interior Ministry office. Finally he arrived at the narrow door between the bakery and the grocery store, opposite the closed area of the high-walled ecole Biblique. An old man in a dirty grey suit and keffiyeh was sitting on the inside, leaning against his cane, watching the rainwater.

“Assalamualaikum, fathi,” said. The old man looked up, narrowed his eyes and raised his arthritic hand to return the greeting.

“We're worried about you.” He coughed. “We thought maybe you were being detained.” Layla laughs. “Israel will not dare. How's Ataf?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. His wrinkled fingers tapped on the handle of the stick.

“Regular. Her back hurt today, so she was resting in bed. You want hot tea?” Layla shook her head.

“I want to shower immediately. There are many tasks I have to do. Another time. Tell Ataf to tell me if he wants to shop.” Layla stepped past the old man and across the main hall, climbing two steps up towards his room which occupied the top of the house. This place is so simple, high-ceilinged and cool with two bedrooms, one of which doubles as a workspace, as well as a spacious living room. Behind there are kitchens and bathrooms, a narrow concrete staircase leading up to the roof with a view down to the Damascus Gate and a collection of checkboards from the Old City.

He has lived there for nearly five years, renting it from a local businessman whose parents, Fathi and Ataf, live on the ground floor and act as building overseers. With the amount of money he earns from freelancing, he can easily buy something classy in the area of Sheikh Jarrah for example, with apartment blocks and high-walled houses.

He had already taken the basic decision to remain there in the heart of East Jerusalem, among the hustle and bustle, noise and rubbish. All of that implies a message: I'm not one of those journalists who got what I wanted from you and then retired as a security guard hilton or an American colony. I'm one of you Palestinians. It's a little body language, but it's necessary. He always tried to prove himself, maintaining his outward appearance.

Layla threw her luggage onto the sofa with a small dining table, TV and several hand-drawn chairs that were her furniture in the living room. Then, while grabbing an evian bottle from the refrigerator, he entered his study. The message recording machine's light flashes on the phone. While

gulping down water, he walked in the room and sat down at his desk, observing for a moment, as usual, a large photo of his father in a frame on the top wall, in the doctor's white jacket and his stethoscope. It was the photo of his father that he liked the most, the only one he kept after his death. Layla suddenly felt her throat clenched for a moment, before looking down again and pressing the “play” button. There are eleven messages. One of the Guardian's billed her writing on Palestinian accomplices; one of Tom Roberts, the man at the British consulate who has tried and failed to ask her out over the past six months; another one from his friend Noah, who asked if he wanted to meet later for a drink together at the Jerusalem hotel; and one from Sam Rogerson, a Reuters contact, Reuters reported, which reminded him of the occupation of the David Fighters in the Old City, which he had heard in Ramallah. The rest is a death threat. “You're disgusting, pervert, liar.” “Enjoy today Layla, as this will be your last”. “We're watching you, and one day we'll come and put a bullet in your skull. After we raped you of course.” “We will plug a knife into your cock and slice it, you ******list!” “die you Arab! Israel! Israel!” From his accent, most phone calls are, as usual, if not from Israelis, yes Americans. He changes his phone number periodically, but they can always

finding the new number within a day or so of the new number being activated, and phone calls kept ringing incessantly. Years ago, when he first made the trip, they had angered him. He was used to all that until they had no effect at all. He was more distressed by the editor who chased him and asked for a copy of his writing.only at night, silent, alone, the disturbance came, also the horror of something involving him, like poison entering his bloodstream. those nights can be so scary. How frightening.

He listened to all the messages and then wiped the records clean, put his phone into the battery charger and made a few phone calls quickly. One went to Nuha to organize an afternoon joint drinking event, the other to get details about the occupation of the house by the Jews in the Old City. He has written a number of articles over the past few years about Chayalei David, and was recently commissioned by the New York Review to produce an in-depth profile of the group's leader, the militant, the Soviet-born Baruch Har-zion. The current occupation would provide a good opportunity, and he was just weighing whether he should not immediately descend to the Old City. He decided that a few hours would not make any difference and, while draining his drinking water, he headed to the bedroom and took off all his clothes.

He took a long hot bath, soaking up his slender body, leaning his head, letting the water wash his face and sighing with pleasure as the warmth wiped the claws and sweat off the surface of his skin. For the last thirty seconds, he turned the button to a cold temperature, then wrapped his body in a towel robe, he returned to the study, sat down and turned on his Apple laptop.

Layla worked for the next two hours, finishing the writing she had started on malnutrition among Palestinian children, and began compiling a collaborative article with the Guardian, which sometimes refers to the notes he writes but mostly awakens from memory. His fingers danced between the keys of his computer keyboard, the imagery and sounds in his head gushing effortlessly into the tangles of words within his laptop screen.

In fact, despite being so easy to do, journalism is not a first or even second career choice. As a teenager, prior to his father's murder, he had prepared to become a father-like doctor, working in refugee camps in Gaza and the West Bank. But then, at Beit zeit University, where he had read contemporary Arabic history, he was tempted by the idea of deepening politics. Finally he decided it was the journalist who would give him the best chance to bring him to realize what he planned as his life mission.

Once graduated, Layla got a job at the Palestinian daily Al-Ayyam, where her then editor was a heavy-backed smoker by the name of Nizar Sulaiman, inviting her to join under his wing, it drew a lot of criticism in the process because Layla's family history was so widely known. His first feature writing, an article about a Palestinian indoctrination camp where six-year-olds are taught various anti-Israel songs and the art of making Molotov cocktails (lots of Vaseline around the rounds, that's the key, he said, so the flaming petrol could be attached to the target), having undergone sixteen rewrites before Sulaiman reluctantly allowed it to be published. With a heavy heart he thought to stop his career there. Sulayman refused to let her go

“If you stop now I'll kick you!” and the second feature, about the removal of the Bedouin tribes by Israel in the Negev, has been rewritten five times.

The third feature is about Palestinians who, due to economic pressures, have been forced to accept jobs to help build Israeli settlements, have been syndicated to three different newspapers and given him his first journalism victory. After that, his popularity rose steadily. His background is a mixture of an English mother and a Palestinian father, as well as a deep knowledge of the Palestinian world, not to mention his fluency in Arabic, Hebrew, English, and French, gave him a good start on many other correspondence. And he accepted offers to be a staffer at the Guardian and the New York Times (he turned them down). He worked for al-Ayyam for four years, then became a freelance journalist, writing everything from the use of torture by Israeli security services to the project of growing spinach in the Lower Galilee, gaining a reputation depends on which direction you see it—for a journalism campaign or anti-Israel bias that turns a blind eye.

Bias affairs are one of a number of criticisms and many are constantly directed at him; that he only tells from one side only; that he is telling from one side only; voicing Palestinian suffering but ignoring the same thing that happened to Israeli civil society; reported horrors that took place in the refugee camp but never reported innocent people who were reduced to minced meat by car bombs and suicide bombs. It's totally unfair. After many years, he has successfully completed many articles on Israeli civil society that have been victimized, not to mention corruption and criminal violations within the Palestinian authority. However, in reality, this is not a conflict that you can objectively report. No matter how hard you try to be balanced, in the end you will not be able to survive except by taking sides.

And the point is, with the background he has, he cannot be seen as giving unwanted things to the sensibility of Israel.

Layla produced about a thousand words in her handwriting, then sent an article on malnutrition to al-Ahram's office in Cairo via e-mail and turned off her laptop. He had not slept enough for the past few days and now his eyelids were heavy. Years of reporting, with unpredictable work hours and tight deadlines have brought him to burnout. Nevertheless, he still wanted to descend to the Old City to find out about the occupation.

Fathi, the housekeeper had just arrived at the top rung with a breath. One hand holds a stick, the other holds an envelope.

“It arrived for you this morning,” he said. “I forgot to tell you earlier. sorry.” He held out an envelope. There was no postmark or address, only his name was written in blood red ink,

with letters pressed and orderly, like a line of soldiers standing ready to stand.

“Who's dropping off?” tanyakanya.

“Kids,” replied the parent, turned around and started going down the stairs again. “Never seen him before. He came to know, asked if you stayed here and gave me this

to me, then go.”

“palestinian?”

“Of course Palestinians. Since when do Jewish children play around in this part of town?” He flicked his hand as if saying “odd questions” and disappeared in the corner of the road.

Layla flips the envelope, researches it, senses whether there is a wire or potentially threatening contents. Feeling safe, she takes it to the apartment, puts it on the table, carefully opens it, and, pulling out two sheets of paper put together with a stapler. At the top is a cover letter in gothic writing as shown on the envelope, the other is an A4-sized copy of something like an old document. He caught a glimpse of the second, and focused on the existing notes, written in English.

Miss Al-Madani, the,

I've admired your journalism for so long, and would like to make an offer to you. Some time ago you interviewed a leader known as al-mulatham. I have invaluable information for this man in his struggle against the oppressive Zionists; and wish to contact him. I'm sure you'll be able to help me. In return, I can offer you what, I'm sure, will be the biggest exclusive report of your already brilliant career.

With such a precarious situation, you will appreciate my desire to continue moving with great care in this regard. Up to this point, I won't reveal much more.

Please consider my offer, and if possible, tell this to our friend. I can be contacted soon.

PS. Small hints, just to stimulate your appetite.

The information I presented earlier was closely related to the attached document. If you are a journalist half of what I expected, then of course you will not take long to find the significance of my offer.

There's no signature.

He read the note over and over again, then looked back at the photocopy document. It's like a letter, when judged by its writing style, old, very old. The document uses an embossed alphabet, but far beyond that, it does not know the end of its base, other than individual words and sentences that appear to consist of sequences of single letters without being split, or even, no matter how hard he saw it, it still failed to translate into the language he knew.

At the bottom, somewhat apart and in larger writing, there is the initials GR which means nothing to him other than the confusing part.

He saw her back for a while.His eyes narrowed, confused, then he returned to the cover letter. The interview referenced by the letter was one he had published over a year ago. The interview had attracted interest at the time because it was the only occasion when his subject, ****** Palestine al-mulatham, had removed the veil of secrecy that enveloped him and was willing to speak in public. Israeli security services have shown special interest, confiscated his notepad and laptop and asked him many questions. He has been able to reveal little about the purpose of the letter as he has described in his article, the interview was conducted in a secret place and his eyes were closed throughout the activity and his suspicion now is that the letter and the photocopy documents were not a good form of Shin Bet trickery to know if he knew more about the origin of the leader****** than just the one he wrote. This was certainly not the first time they had tried to frame and discredit him. In recent years he has been approached by a man who claims to be a Palestinian activist and asked if he could use his press status to help carry weapons across the Erez military outpost to Gaza, a type of provoked agent he laughed and replied in Hebrew that he would rather accompany Ami Ayalow to dinner.

Yes, he thought, this letter must be some kind of security service guide. Or, an elaborate joke. It's not worth spending time thinking about it. Then, after seeing the photocopy documents again, he threw them, along with the accompanying letter, into the trash basket and left the flat.