Exile: a novel (17 page)
“Even the Israelis?”
David hesitated. “That’s delicate. To be blunt, there’s the possibility of a security breach—theirs or ours. In the worst case, it was deliberate. Given the political situation in Israel, that’s potentially incendiary. The Israelis might want to handle their own people and conduct their own inquiry.
“Whatever the case, the investigation won’t be confined to the United States. The list of people who wanted to murder Amos Ben-Aron starts in the Middle East. He knew that himself, very well. So the intelligence agencies of both countries will be working all their sources in the region.” David
paused again. “But potentially the best source is lying in a hospital bed. The second suicide bomber.”
Chan’s brow knit, a pantomime of puzzlement intended for her audience. “Why would someone willing to be a human bomb talk to the FBI?”
“That’s a fair question. But another one is, Why is he still with us? Suicide bombers aren’t supposed to survive.” David felt his field of vision opening, and imagined himself as Marnie Sharpe. “Right now he’s all we’ve got—the only one who may know where his orders came from. If he tells what he knows, it could blow this case—and, potentially, the Middle East—wide open.
“First, they want his handler. Then they want to follow this up the chain, right to the top. So whatever they can do to him—short of torture, that is—they will.”
“Such as?”
“Under federal law, killing a foreign leader is publishable by death. So they’ll charge him with capital murder. They may also threaten to extradite him to Israel, the only tactical problem being that Israel doesn’t have the death penalty. They might even try to scare him with what they call ‘extraordinary rendition’—sending him to a foreign regime that
does
use torture.”
“That happens?”
“Sure—particularly since 9/11, though we don’t like to talk about it. If this man’s smart, he’ll know they’re bluffing: we can’t ship him to the Saudis with all the world watching. The one thing I’m sure of is that he won’t be getting a good night’s sleep. Assuming that he recovers enough to answer questions—”
“Or chooses to.”
“Yes. But he can’t conceal who he is, or where he’s from. That much we’ll find out by ourselves.”
“And when we do?”
There were many responses to this, David thought. But the one he chose surfaced from deep within his own past. “We hope he isn’t Palestinian,” David answered simply.
T
he producer at Channel 2 was so delighted that she invited David back. And so began the daily television appearances that David described to Carole as “the TV Stations of the Cross.”
On the morning of the third day following the assassination, David entered the greenroom at Channel 2 and encountered Betsy Shapiro, the somewhat starchy and imperious senior senator from California who— through her long friendship with Harold and Carole—was David’s political patron. Seeing David, Betsy awarded him a perfunctory embrace and smile. A businesslike woman, Betsy often gave the sense of having been interrupted by some unwelcome surprise; today, dressed in her senatorial uniform—suit, silk blouse, pearl necklace—she seemed focused on the interview to come. Senator Betsy Shapiro was always prepared, and she measured her words with precision.
“I guess you’re here to talk about Ben-Aron,” Betsy said tersely. “Be careful with it, David. You were good the other night. But raising the possibility of Israeli complicity in a security breach is not what most Jews want to hear. And if it’s true, it’ll tear Israeli society apart—”
The young producer of the morning news burst into the greenroom and switched on the television. “Sorry, Senator. But there’s an announcement on CNN.”
Marnie Sharpe stood at a podium, surrounded by reporters, microphones, and cameras. To David, her tension was apparent: though she usually spoke without notes, she read from a prepared statement, her voice much flatter than normal. “As of this morning,” she began, “we have conclusively identified the surviving assassin in the murder of Prime Minister Amos Ben-Aron. He is Ibrahim Jefar—a Palestinian national, a
citizen of the West Bank city of Jenin, and a student at Birzeit University in Ramallah...”
“Shit,” David murmured.
“Mr. Jefar and his coconspirator, Iyad Hassan, traveled from the West Bank to Mexico using their own passports. From there they entered the United States illegally, where Mr. Hassan rented a car under an assumed name, and the two men proceeded to San Francisco.” Sharpe paused, as though burdened by the weight of her next words. “Except to report that Mr. Jefar himself is in good condition, we cannot confirm any further information at this time. But our intelligence services believe that Mr. Jefar is affiliated with a Palestinian terrorist group, the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade...”
Shapiro puffed her cheeks, slowly expelling air. “That tears it. If this assassin were Hamas, it would be bad enough. But Al Aqsa is an offshoot of Fatah, Faras’s party, Ben-Aron’s last hope for a viable peace partner. Like Ben-Aron, Faras had even proposed that Al Aqsa give up armed resistance and join his internal security forces. Now this pits him against Israel
and
Al Aqsa.”
David’s gaze returned to the screen. “This,” a CNN analyst was saying, “may severely jeopardize any chance of a negotiated peace . . .”
“ ‘May’?” Betsy Shapiro waved a disdainful hand in the direction of CNN. “I’d lay odds we’re getting a hardliner as Israel’s next prime minister. But
any
leader who wants to survive will cut off contact with Faras, retaliate militarily against Al Aqsa, accelerate building the security fence, and declare the Palestinian Authority responsible for Ben-Aron’s assassination. And that can only destabilize Faras and further strengthen Hamas. If someone had designed a plan to destroy all hope of peace, they couldn’t have done better.”
It was this thought, taken literally, that stuck in David’s mind.
By five o’clock that evening, though the embattled Marwan Faras had swiftly repudiated the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, Israeli warplanes had screamed down from the sky above the refugee camp at Jenin, demolishing a home in which, the Israelis asserted, members of Al Aqsa were hiding. Palestinian claims of civilian casualties swiftly followed, laced with vitriol from the leaders of Hamas.
Watching television with Carole, David could not help but wonder what Hana Arif and Saeb Khalid were feeling, and how this might affect their future and that of their daughter. The lives of millions of Palestinians had changed, he feared—adding a generation, perhaps more, to all those
held hostage to six decades of hatred. “We’re watching a tragedy,” he told Carole.
“What else could Israel do?” she inquired simply.
Her tone implied the rest: the “tragedy” was the murders she and David had witnessed, not the reprisal that followed. After a time Carole said, “There’s a memorial service in Jerusalem for Amos Ben-Aron. We should go, David.”
The comment, David sensed, held multiple meanings: that it was not only important politically but important to Carole, sealing David’s connection to Israel.
“I’ll do my best,” he answered, then rushed off to Channel 2.
Only when David arrived did he hear, from Amy Chan, that Ibrahim Jefar had been transferred from the hospital to a detention center, and had retained a lawyer from the federal public defender.
“Our sources,” Amy told him on camera, “say that the lawyer, Peter Burden, has initiated discussions with the U.S. attorney. What might those discussions be?”
David sat back. “In one sense, Jefar holds all the cards—he’s the only one who may know for sure who recruited them, who helped them, who handled them, how they breached Ben-Aron’s security, and how they could come to a strange city and acquire all they needed to pull of this assassination.”
“Seems like that makes him invaluable as a witness,” Chan said. “He’s the survivor who wasn’t intended to survive.”
“Sure. But this man helped kill the prime minister of Israel. Marnie Sharpe’s not free to cut a deal—I’d be shocked if any potential deal wasn’t first vetted at the White House. The most Jefar can aspire to is a life sentence in a safe place, maybe with the possibility of parole—a brief window of freedom between old age and death, in a world that has forgotten to despise him.” David’s tone was sardonic. “He’s free to hope, I guess. After all, he’s only twenty-two.
“As for the prosecutor,” David continued, “the aggressive approach is for Marnie Sharpe to tell Jefar’s lawyer that his client has one day—and one day only—to tell the government what he’d say in court without having it used against him. But if Sharpe and his lawyer make a deal and then Jefar’s testimony about the plot is different from the
basis
for that deal, Sharpe can use his admissions to convict him.
“It’s called ‘Queen for a Day.’ This particular game has only one rule: tell the truth or die.” David paused for emphasis. “There won’t be a lot of trust here. A decent defense lawyer will demand a deal in writing. And
Sharpe is going to want corroborating evidence—something that says Jefar’s telling the truth. If she goes to trial and Jefar changes his story, he’ll immortalize her as a fool. Even sending him to the death chamber won’t compensate for
that
.”
Ibrahim sat in a sterile room facing his lawyer, a skinny, bearded man who seemed more like a teacher than a fearsome advocate. “It’s remarkable,” the lawyer had told him on their first meeting. “Not only did you not succeed in dying, but you came out with nothing but scrapes and burns. So now you get to choose again.”
Ibrahim was alone, cut off from all he had known, denied the honor of death. A miasma of nothingness descended on him. He was staring into the void of an afterlife he had never imagined, in the company of strangers— including this man who spoke to him of cooperation, of making his own situation better, of living with air to breathe instead of dying. His soul felt more shattered than his body.
“They know nothing,” the lawyer was saying. “Suppose, just for argument, that you were recruited on the West Bank. Suppose you start your story there. Whatever you tell me, I can’t tell anyone unless you let me.”
Ibrahim rubbed his temples. He could not bring himself to eat; his stomach was empty, and the hunger fed a pulsing headache, which made him feel nauseous. “I never talked to her—it was always Iyad.”
“How did they communicate?”
“Cell phones, always new ones—he’d throw the old ones away. One time he borrowed mine. His wasn’t working, he said.”
“When was this?”
“The day before we killed the Jew, I think. It was one of the phones he threw away.”
“What number did Iyad call?”
Ibrahim struggled to remember. “At the motel, there was a piece of paper with a telephone number. I saw him memorize it.”
“What happened to the piece of paper?”
“I don’t know.” To Ibrahim, the sound of his own voice seemed to come from a great distance. “He threw that away, too, I think.”
Ibrahim’s lawyer smiled. “You’re lucky,” he said. “They found a slip of paper in the trash. If they showed it to you, would you know if it’s the one?”
Dully, Ibrahim nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“And those places you described—the bus station, the shopping mall, the storage container. Would you recognize them?”
Ibrahim shook his head. “I don’t know where they are. Like that storage place—all I know is it was somewhere off a highway . . .”
“They think they’ve found it.” The lawyer smiled encouragingly, a teacher prompting a student. “Can you remember the number on the container’s door?”
Ibrahim closed his eyes. The images were like slides—the gate; the guard . . .
“Thirty-four,” Ibrahim ventured. “I think it was thirty-four.”
“Good.” The lawyer took off his wire-rimmed glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief. Softly, he inquired “How would you like to get out of this alive, Ibrahim?”
A
bruptly, David’s television appearances tapered off: the Justice Department and Marnie Sharpe had gone completely silent—there were no leaks from the investigation, no hint of where it might be headed. David was not certain how to interpret this blackout, but it eased the juggling of commitments necessary for attending Ben-Aron’s memorial service. And so, three days before he was due to go, he arrived at his office at seven-thirty, hoping to catch up on his work.
When the phone rang, shortly before eight, he was certain that his caller must be Carole.
“David?”
He felt a moment’s surprise—it was as though Hana had pervaded his thoughts until, finally, she had known to call him. Quietly, he asked, “How are you?”
“All right. And you? I’ve been watching you on television—you are very good, and you look well. But you seem sad to me.”
“I saw him die, Hana. That’s some of it. I also feel like our lives—yours and even mine—won’t ever be the same.”
“Yes—sometimes I think that, too.”
“So why haven’t you gone home? Too dangerous?”
Hana hesitated. “Not that. Your government’s holding our passports.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But they have something called a material witness warrant. They want to question us about Ben-Aron’s assassination.”
David sat up straighter. “You and Saeb?”
“And Munira, too.” Hana paused again, then said more urgently, “It’s absurd, I know. But I may need to see you.”
David touched his forehead. “As a lawyer?”
“Yes. Also as a friend, I hope.”
David settled back in his chair, acutely conscious of the passage of time, Hana awaiting his answer. “We were once more than friends, as I recall. Or was it less?”
In the silence, he imagined her intake of breath. “I am sorry, David. But I never lied to you.”
“No. I suppose you never did.” Glancing at his watch, David asked, “Would Saeb be coming with you?”
“Not for this. It’s been stressful enough...”
Her voice trailed off. David stood, gazing out the window. “I’m not sure that I can help you. But you do need someone, it seems.”
