“Did Colonel al-Fara make any reply to the letter from the human-rights group?” Cree said.

“The arrest was his reply,” Salwa said.

“You said they asked for his papers,” Omar Yussef said. “We can see from the empty shelf that he gave them the papers they wanted. Why did they arrest him, as well?”

“The policemen insulted him. I heard one of them say that the papers looked very suspicious and that they would need to interrogate him about them. Eyad lost his temper and shouted at them. I’m sure they wanted to provoke him, so they could arrest him.”

“Where were you?” Omar Yussef asked.

“I was upstairs. As I came down, I saw them taking Eyad through the door of this room and out of the front of the house. He was in handcuffs and one of them made him bend forward as he walked, pushing his neck down. I called out to him, but an agent stood at the bottom of the stairs and refused to let me pass.”

Omar Yussef heard the desperation of that moment even now in Salwa’s voice. “They were Preventive Security agents?”

“Yes. They wore leather jackets, even though it wasn’t cold. They took Eyad through the garden and went away very quickly.”

“Did anyone tell you why he was arrested?”

“First thing this morning I went to their local office. They told me Eyad was held at their headquarters in the south of the city. They said he was being investigated, that perhaps he worked for the CIA.”

“The CIA?” Cree shouted.

“That’s right.”

“Jesus Christ, they’re aiming for the bloody top.” Cree clapped his hands. “No messing around with piddling accusations of collaboration with the Israelis here. No, he’s a big CIA hotshot. Christ.”

Salwa drew herself straight. Her voice was soft and precise. “I agree, Mister Cree. If my husband is a spy, then take him to Palestine Square and shoot him, I told them. But he should be put on trial first. There should be justice.”