Omar Yussef waved his hand. “Coffee is unnecessary. Your regular place of prayer is on top of the mountain?”

“As you surely know, Brother Abu Ramiz, the Samaritans have a long history in Palestine.” The priest’s face became grave and proud. “We have lived here in the shadow of our holy mountain, Jerizim, since the Israelites entered the land of Canaan. Our community has dwindled to little more than six hundred, but we remain, protected by Allah and our adherence to the ways of our people.”

“It’s one of the greatest traditions of Palestine,” Omar Yussef said.

The priest bowed his head. “During the violence of the eighties, we moved out of this neighborhood and created a new village on top of Jerizim, including, of course, a synagogue.” He lifted a long finger and pointed out of the window toward the ridge. “We wanted to be close to our holiest place.”

“I’m new to Nablus,” Sami said. “I’ve never been up there.”

“Welcome to our city.” Ben-Tabia lowered his head, closed his eyes and placed his palm over his heart. “The site of our ancient temple is just beyond the crest of the ridge, the smooth flat stone where Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. It’s where Adam and Eve lived when they were expelled from Eden. It’s the home of Allah.”

“Quite an address.” Sami smiled. “I’d like to come up and see it.”

Omar Yussef thought the priest hesitated before he said, “You will be most welcome, Lieutenant.”

“What exactly was stolen from you, sir?” Omar Yussef asked. “It was an old religious document of some kind, I understand.”

“Though we moved our community to the mountain, we maintained this synagogue and we continued to keep our most precious documents here. It was one of these that was stolen.”

“From where?” Sami said.

“From a safe in the basement.”