Sami waited at the top of the first flight of steps. “But they don’t even live here anymore.” He pointed above the roof of the synagogue to a cluster of buildings on the ridge of Mount Jerizim. “They went up there, out of the way of everyone.”

“Out of the way of the first intifada, Sami. Those were violent times in Nablus. You can’t blame people for trying to get away.”

They reached the final set of steps. To their left, grilles of curling black metal guarded the six arched windows of the synagogue.

“The bars on that first window are new,” Omar Yussef said. “They’re the only ones that aren’t rusty.”

Sami leaned over the railing at the side of the entrance and examined the bars. “You’re right, Abu Ramiz. The window has been scorched by something, too.”

Omar Yussef glanced at the ledge. Jagged black smudges slashed the polished stone. In the yard below, a square frame of rusty metal leaned against the pink wall, its bottom edge ripped away. “The original bars.” He turned to Sami and smiled with one side of his mouth. “As the representative of the police, I think perhaps you might draw some conclusions from this.”

Sami tapped the new black grille. “The thieves got in through this window.”

Omar Yussef rubbed his chin. “Thieves who had enough explosives to blow away those bars.”

“Nablus isn’t short of explosives experts.”

“But it is short of Samaritans, and even shorter of their priceless historical documents.”

Sami lit another cigarette and took in some smoke with a sharp breath. “Let’s go and see this priest.”

Chapter 2

Along each jaundice-yellow wall inside the synagogue, ragged prayer books were wedged tight or stacked haphazardly on their sides behind the glass of their book-cases. A curtain of blue velvet embroidered with Hebrew characters in gold thread hung behind a dais at the head of the hall. The thick walls preserved the chill of night in the air. Omar Yussef shivered and pulled his French collar higher, pressing it to the slack skin of his jaw.