Exile: a novel (81 page)

Hertz remained unfazed. “This is the game you’ve played with us from the beginning. The consequences within Israel might be unpleasant, I’ll concede. But not so terrible that we would abet the escape of a known conspirator in the death of our prime minister.”

David parsed this answer. “But you don’t know if Hana conspired with anyone,” he said. “And you have other concerns beyond the simple fact that Ben-Aron’s security was breached. What’s really troubling is that—at least according to your theory—the
Iranians
seem to have breached it. That charge, if it’s made in public, raises some nasty issues of nuclear geopolitics. And it would force the government of Israel to respond, perhaps before it’s ready to do so.”

Hertz’s expression darkened. “And, of course, you are willing to put us in that position to advance the interests of Ms. Arif.”

“Someone needs to look after her interests,” David replied. “And even if Sharpe can keep me from raising this at trial, there’s nothing to keep me silent once the trial is done. For openers, I’m sure Larry King and the
Today
show would be pleased to have me back for a postmortem.”

Hertz stared at David without blinking. “Let me make clear to you, Mr. Wolfe, how dangerous it is for you to play with nuclear matches in this way.

“Put simply, we cannot permit Iran to become a nuclear power. It would trigger a nuclear arms race in the Middle East, provide a shield for Iranian aggression, strengthen the Islamic extremists within Iran, enhance the prospects of more assassinations of any world leader Iran does not like, help Iran further cement Hamas in power, and create the possibility that Iran, like the Pakistanis, would sell its nuclear know-how to other forces just as bad as it is. In short, it would be a catastrophe for Israel and the world.

“But there is no clear path to preventing such a thing. An invasion aimed at toppling the regime might encounter great resistance, while enraging the entire Middle East. An attempt to destroy Iran’s nuclear sites is far from certain to succeed—the sites are dispersed, hardened, and located underground. If we moved against Iran militarily, either through the air or on the ground the hatred toward Israel throughout the region would be inflamed. If we merely try to embargo Iranian oil, it would drive world oil prices higher, hurting the U.S. and others and enabling Iran to make a killing on the black market. And trifles like cutting political or cultural ties are just as pathetic as they seem.” Hertz’s tone became clipped. “The best chance that whatever course we choose will succeed is the absolute support of the United States and Europe and the acquiescence of the U.N. Right now those power centers are divided. The only way to unify them is to develop
proof
—not the mere suspicion—that Iran planned and carried out the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron.”

As they continued to circle Alcatraz, David considered his position. He was not sure that Hertz’s “story” was not another form of dissembling, concealing facts or motives he did not wish David to know. But whatever the case, playing this out might serve Hana’s interests. “I understand what you’re telling me,” David said at last.

“Then understand
this
.” Hertz placed a finger on David’s chest, taking off his sunglasses and staring into David’s eyes. “We cannot have you, private citizen David Wolfe, running about making charges prematurely, fucking up our investigation, and requiring us to respond in public. As Arif ’s lawyer, you cannot be allowed to place your clumsy fingers on the scales of history.
Your
concerns are merely parochial—the fate of a possibly guilty woman and the tender sensibilities of a twelve-year-old girl who might be forced to learn, in an untimely way, that her father is a Jew.”

Knowing they were reaching the endgame, David felt his nerves tingle. With mock contrition, he said, “Please forgive my lack of perspective.”

“Do not be so smug,” Hertz said coldly. “You forget that Sharpe could move for a mistrial, and then
we
could extradite Arif for trial in Israel. You do not hold all the cards.”

David had anticipated this. “You can extradite Hana, it’s true. But the only way to silence me is a bullet in the head. Unless you try to throw me overboard.”

Hertz shrugged. “It’s certainly a thought. Though the Iranians might beat us to it.”

“Even if I were dead, it wouldn’t change anything. The problem isn’t me anymore—it’s the prosecution of Hana Arif. Based on the record after I
cross-examined Saeb Khalid, any competent lawyer will have to raise the question of Iran. What you need is a way out.”

“Yes,” Hertz said. “I expected you would get to that.”

“Not just expected—hoped. So don’t patronize me. This prosecution is bad for all of us. I’ve known that from the beginning, once I saw that my defense of Hana was at cross-purposes with Israel’s larger interests in the world. But by stonewalling our requests you forced me to prove it. You may not like the results, but you damn well guaranteed them. The question now is whether you want to stop at three dead witnesses or take this all the way to the end.”

To David’s surprise, Hertz laughed softly. “You may be an amateur spy, Mr. Wolfe. But you are a very able lawyer. So what is it you want?”

“For Sharpe to dismiss the case.”

Hertz merely shrugged again. “That I also expected. But Sharpe and her superior, the attorney general of the United States, do not work for us.”

“But they do work
with
you, and it’s the death of
your
prime minister that made this case one our government had to bring.” David kept his tone dispassionate. “Only Israel can give the U.S. cover. It’s not enough for me to have tied Khalid to the murder—Israel needs to say that it has newly discovered information suggesting that Hana Arif is innocent but cannot disclose it for national security reasons—”

“Impossible,” Hertz said flatly. “For one thing, it’s a lie. We have no information about Arif, one way or the other.”

“I didn’t know
your
sensibilities were quite that tender,” David answered sardonically. “I’ll leave it to you and Sharpe to come up with something that allows the U.S. to save face and my client to go free. But at an absolute minimum, the Israeli government will have to tell the world that it can’t comply with Judge Taylor’s order.”

Hertz considered this. “When you say ‘go free’—”

“I mean go anywhere she wants. Here, I hope—I want the U.S. to agree to that up front. But wherever she chooses to live, I’d want you to guarantee that you’ll never lay a glove on her.”

“And if she wants to return to the West Bank?”

The question aroused in David a deep feeling of dismay. “We both may hope she doesn’t,” he answered. “But ‘free’ means just that.”

Hertz focused his gaze on Alcatraz. “And if I manage to accomplish all these wonders?”

“Then I’m sure you’ll want very little from me,” David said with quiet sarcasm. “Merely to abandon those in Israel who want peace, and let the
Palestinians serve as scapegoats for Iran’s little game of geopolitics. At whatever cost to all of them.”

“Sadly,” Hertz corrected, “I want even more than that, however distasteful it may be to both of us as people. You will tell Hana Arif nothing of this conversation—I don’t want to arouse her patriotic fervor, so that she decides to exculpate her fellow Palestinians by blaming Iran prematurely. And all three of you—Arif, you, and your daughter—will be silent, as if your lives depended on it. Which they may.

“So yes, this means that you will have to betray the people who helped you in Israel, as well as many Palestinians more innocent, perhaps, than your client. Otherwise, we will try her in Israel, and the girl will learn the truth. So if we give Arif her freedom without the exoneration you seek, too bad. She’ll have to suffer her damaged reputation without complaint or comment, no matter how many people still consider her a murderer. Better that than death or a life sentence.”

David was silent. He despised turning his back on those Israelis with whom he sympathized—Moshe Howard, Avi Masur, and Anat Ben-Aron—while consigning Palestinians to the role of scapegoat. But he was, in the end, Hana’s lawyer. “We’ll have a deal,” he said with deep reluctance, “the moment Hana goes free. But not before, and not if you so much as lay a hand on her anytime later.”

For a long time, Hertz merely watched David’s face, his own expression neutral. “I think we understand each other,” he said. “Perhaps, in time, the truth can emerge without us.”

Calling out to his driver, Hertz pointed toward the shore. The minutes it took to get there passed in silence. When they reached the St. Francis Yacht Club, David and the Israeli parted without a word.

David stood alone on the pier, gazing at the commonplace sight of two sailboats tacking with the wind in front of the barren rock of Alcatraz. He could scarcely believe what had just transpired, or the role that fate was forcing him to play. Nor was he certain that Hertz could achieve what David had asked. All he could do was wait.

For a moment, oddly, David’s thoughts turned to Ibrahim Jefar, condemned to die in a federal prison. Whatever the truth, Jefar was a plaything of history. But all of them—Hana, David, Munira, Saeb, even Amos Ben-Aron—had become the playthings of history. All that remained was to see what history offered those who remained alive.

21     
D
avid spent the next three days willing himself to prepare for the trial as though he had no hope of freeing Hana. But hope kept breaking his concentration, most insistently when he outlined his questions for Munira. His other distraction—the thought that he might be in considerable danger—surfaced most often in public places, and at night. He was not quite as dismissive of this fear as logic told him he should be; the act of killing someone was so foreign to him that he could not quite believe that it was governed by the rules of reason.

But on the surface, little happened. His three days were hermetic, as though he were waiting for some fuller, more human life to resume. He could not stop wondering how Marnie Sharpe was spending the weekend, what discussions were taking place between Israel and the United States. David took no press calls; though the media was filled with speculation, no one came close to the story David and Avi Hertz had crafted in the middle of San Francisco Bay. That story would become “real,” David knew, only if Sharpe made it so on Monday. Until then, he tried not to imagine the life Hana and Munira would lead thereafter.

Monday morning dawned bright and crisp. David tried to see that as an omen.

At nine
a.m.
, instead of reconvening in a courtroom filled with avid reporters, Judge Taylor summoned David and Sharpe to her chambers. “You wanted to meet in private,” she said to Sharpe. “What is it?”

Sitting in a chair beside David, Sharpe seemed composed but quietly miserable, an advocate about to relinquish an obsession—the hope of winning a high-profile trial in which she had invested countless hours and
every last particle of her abilities, a trial that would be remembered when every other case she tried was long forgotten. Without looking at David, she spoke in a monotone, as though reciting a statement written by someone else.

“The government,” she told Judge Taylor, “wishes to dismiss the case against Ms. Arif, without prejudice to our ability to refile it should new evidence come to light.

“We’re far from convinced that she’s innocent. But Mr. Khalid’s testimony raises questions that his death makes difficult to answer.”

Taylor looked at her keenly. “That might be grounds for a mistrial,” the judge cut in. “What about the Israeli government? I ordered it to send a representative.”

“That’s the second factor in our decision,” Sharpe said in the same grudging tone. “The government of Israel has authorized us to say that it is aware of information regarding the broader conspiracy—none of which in itself exculpates Ms. Arif, but which is implicated by Mr. Wolfe’s defense and this court’s order of last Thursday. For reasons of national security, and so as not to jeopardize Israel’s ongoing inquiry into the conspiracy to assassinate Prime Minister Ben-Aron, Israel does not wish to provide these materials to the defense.”

Could this be over?
David thought in wonder.

“I’m also authorized to say,” Sharpe continued, “that based on the record and other facts that are not yet public, the Israeli government believes that Saeb Khalid was complicit in the assassination. All
our
government need say is that Israel’s position and the events of the trial create sufficient ambiguity to justify dismissal. There’s no statute of limitations for murder, and this crime is plainly too serious for us to stop investigating. But that’s our position until further notice.”

“So Hana is stuck in limbo,” David said to Sharpe. “What makes you think the case against her will ever get any better—”

“Don’t press your luck,” the judge interrupted with a tight smile. “And just so you don’t tantalize yourself with the specter of total victory, Mr. Wolfe, the best I’d have done for you is a mistrial.” Turning to Sharpe, she added, “But I must tell you, Ms. Sharpe, that I doubt a reasonable jury would convict Ms. Arif unless you come up with more than I think you ever will. So don’t stay up nights brooding about how Mr. Wolfe has gamed the system.

“At the risk of sounding cynical, Mr. Wolfe may not be the only one whose sense of the rules is, shall we say, elastic. It occurs to me that Israel may want you to dismiss the case so it can extradite Arif for trial in Israel. I
hope they understand that I won’t provide a sympathetic venue for an extradition motion.”

“The State of Israel,” Sharpe responded, “has authorized me to say that it will not seek extradition.”

The judge raised her eyebrows. “Someone,” she said, “seems to have thought of nearly everything. Are there any other outstanding issues, Mr. Wolfe?”

David nodded. “There
are
some practical considerations, Your Honor. I believe that Ms. Arif and her daughter may be in danger if they return to the West Bank. I’d like them to be able to remain in the United States indefinitely.”