Exile: a novel (20 page)

“Hana Arif is a friend of mine.” David strove to maintain a tone that sounded matter-of-fact. “From law school. This is strictly a one-time engagement. The FBI is holding her, her husband, and her daughter as witnesses. She’s asked me to advise them. Before I can, or can even know whether I can help them both, I need to know the nature of your interest.”

Sharpe took a moment to answer. “We’re interested in quite a lot,” she said brusquely. “We want to know what they did here, where they went, who they met, who they spoke with on the telephone, and what they know about Ibrahim Jefar and Iyad Hassan.”

“What does Jefar say?”

Sharpe ignored this. “So if
you
want to know about the husband and wife, they’re decidedly ‘people of interest.’ As for Munira Khalid, she’s the
daughter
of two people of interest, so that makes her of interest, too. More than that I’m not prepared to say. Except this,” Sharp finished tersely. “Until now, I never took you for a fool. Why this woman is of such concern to such an ambitious man eludes me.”

With that, Sharpe got off, leaving David to wonder what Sharpe was not yet telling him.

They sat in Carole’s apartment: David in his tuxedo, Carole in a black evening dress, ready to attend opening night at the opera, a modern restaging of
Don Carlo
. Instead they were running late, evidence, at least to Carole, that this discussion could not wait. “They were friends of mine,” David tried again.

“
She
was your friend,” Carole amended. “Who you haven’t seen—or thought about, as far as I know—for thirteen years. Suddenly she’s more important than Amos Ben-Aron.”

“Ben-Aron’s dead,” David said flatly.

“With Hana Arif ’s assistance, for all you really know.” Pausing, Carole added, “Of all cases, why touch one so disturbing to so many people? Starting with us, I thought.”

“They’re professors, Carole. They have a twelve-year-old daughter. This may be nothing more than Marnie Sharpe casting too broad a net. Everyone—the media, the Justice Department, even the White House—is desperate to know who planned the assassination.” David spread his hands. “The FBI simply wants to interview them, that’s all. They don’t have a lot of money, they want to take their daughter home, and they’re worried about being Palestinians in a post-9/11 America intent on atoning for the murder of a Jewish statesman in a city where they happened to be.”

“They didn’t just
happen
to be here. I saw Saeb Khalid on television, remember?” Catching herself, Carole spoke more softly. “Of the two of us, you’re the one who plays the cynic. This is the first time I’ve ever thought of
you as naive. How can you just blow off this memorial service—as my fiancé, as a man who wants to enter politics, and as a human being who met and admired Ben-Aron? All for a couple of Arab anti-Semites who despised him.”

Watching her, David had the odd sensation of doubleness: in his heart and mind, Hana Arif and Carole Shorr had resided in different places— one a searing memory, the other his settled future. Now, within hours, they had collided, disturbing his sense of psychic balance. “It
is
important,” David tried to temporize. “You’re important. But I’m the only lawyer in San Francisco that Hana knows. I also know that Hana Arif does
not
hate all Jews.”

Carole gave him a troubled look. “And you learned all this by knowing her in law school.”

David felt a stab of guilt. “Is that really so absurd? Look at us now. Every few months we’ll meet two of our friends for dinner and have a four-sided conversation, where each of us says whatever little we care for three other people to know. In law school, at least we had a little time—”

“Time for what, David?” Carole’s tone was pointed. “You’re talking about everything but Hana Arif. Tell me, please, how you got to know this woman so well that you’d just import her into our lives, confident that she couldn’t possibly have been involved with the terrorists who murdered Ben-Aron.”

This was so like Carole, David thought—her evenness, her persistence, her quiet perceptiveness.
We were lovers,
part of him wanted to acknowledge. But he could not. “Every now and then,” he said, “you meet someone whose character you grasp at once. I felt that the night I met you.”

“We’re lovers,” Carole protested. “We’re getting married. You’ve had two years to confirm your first impression. How can you compare that to someone you knew at law school?”

He was stumbling, David thought, hitting one false note after the other. And yet the truth, he rationalized, would cause more hurt than his well-intentioned dissembling. “There’s no comparison,” he assured her. “I’m just asking you to trust my judgment.

“I just spent two hours with Hana. She’s a mother now, and she’s sick to death of killing. She knows that Ben-Aron’s assassination is as much a disaster for Palestinians as for Jews—bigger, maybe. It looks to me like Hana and her family have been caught up in the riptide.”

“Even her husband?” Carole asked.

Though it went to the heart of his uncertainty, her question about Saeb
was a welcome diversion from Hana Arif. “Carole,” David said firmly, “if I had a concrete reason to believe that Saeb
or
Hana know anything about what we saw on Market Street, I wouldn’t touch this. That holds true tomorrow, and the next day. Not just because the case would be political plutonium, but because I couldn’t sleep at night.”

Carole appraised him—unsatisfied, he thought, but reluctant to go further. “All right,” she said with a tone of resignation. “Maybe Dad will go with me to Israel.”

The following morning, David drove Carole and Harold Shorr—both unusually quiet—to the airport.

Entering David’s office, Saeb Khalid shepherded his wife to the couch, his manner protective, even proprietary. Although they sat together, David noticed—or perhaps wished—that Hana seemed distant from her husband.

Saeb’s handshake had been perfunctory; moving closer to Hana, his gaze at David was wary and unsmiling. Then, to David’s surprise, Saeb said quietly, “You are good to help us. Especially me, who you barely knew.”

That was gracious enough, David thought, although the remark could have been double-edged. “After the three of us finish talking,” David said to Saeb, “I’ll have to speak with you in private, as I did with Hana. At least I’ll know—at least as much as I can—that there’s no conflict between the two of you.”

“As in conflict of interest?” Saeb inquired with an indecipherable smile. “I think I understand. But I can tell you right away that I know nothing. Having studied the pictures of Iyad Hassan, I believe now that I may have met him—though where or how I cannot resurrect. As for Ibrahim Jefar, nothing. Which is what I know about the murder of Ben-Aron.”

This response, at least, was mercifully free of cant. Quickly, David cataloged the changes in Saeb Khalid. Though, as on television, the beard made the contours of his face seem harder, his liquid eyes remained sensitive, and his small frame was even slighter, conveying a frailty at war with his fierceness of spirit. “Let’s turn to what you’re dealing with,” David said. “Right now, no one knows that Sharpe and the FBI are looking at you. But they’re under enormous stress—hour after hour of television, front-page article after article, pressure from the White House, the Department of Justice, the State of Israel, and the Jewish community in America, with the rest of the world—particularly the Arab countries—looking on. That’s their dilemma, and it’s yours. Because it colors whatever they decide to do.”

Though Hana shot her husband a look of concern, Saeb’s expression
remained impenetrable. “Ibrahim Jefar is talking,” David continued. “That much we know. But Sharpe’s got the investigation locked down tight—no statements, no calculated leaks. So we can only guess what Jefar’s saying, or where the government is going with it.

“Sharpe wants you for a reason, and we don’t know what it is. But to succeed she needs a whole lot more than Ibrahim Jefar. She needs to nail down who gave Jefar his orders, and who conspired to kill Israel’s prime minister.” Gazing at Saeb, David kept his voice clipped, factual. “So let me be plain, at the risk of being insulting. If Jefar knows anything that can implicate either one of you, that person should consider shutting up, at least with the FBI. Of course, that would bring you greater scrutiny. But if they already know you’re involved, lying can make it worse. There’s no point in cooperating unless the truth is helpful.”

Saeb’s eyes narrowed. “That’s admirably direct.”

“And?”

“I’ve nothing to hide from your authorities. Nor does Hana.”

To David’s ears, the last remark was ambiguous—it could be taken as a statement of confidence or as an order to his wife. Hana said nothing; in Saeb’s presence, she seemed to recede, perhaps deferring to his complex feelings regarding David. “Then let’s talk about Munira,” David suggested.

Saeb held up his hand. “There’s no reason to discuss Munira. I will not have my daughter bullied by your government.”

“That’s up to you,” David said, then quietly amended, “and Hana, of course. But we still need to talk about Munira’s situation. They’ve already taken her passport, so they can keep her here as long as they keep you. What they can’t do is make her talk.” David looked from Hana to Saeb. “Nonetheless, I’d like to talk with her myself.”

Saeb folded his arms. “If she’s not talking to them,” he answered, “why is it necessary that she even meet you?”

Hana, David noted, watched her husband carefully, seeming to suppress a frown. “Not ‘necessary,’ ” David answered. “But preferable. You asked for my advice, so I’m giving it to you. Were there ever a trial, for
any
reason, the government could force her to testify, and whether we allow her to meet with the FBI has some strategic pros and cons.

“The cons are that she’s twelve years old. You—or Hana—don’t have to be hiding something to worry about carelessness, or thoughtlessness, in a child being interrogated by adults. But every question the FBI asks, of anyone, tells us more about what they’re thinking. Munira may even know something that turns out to help one or both of you.” David looked toward Hana. “I’d also like to get some sense of her maturity.”

“Munira,” Hana asserted with a quick glance at Saeb, “is highly intelligent, and quite mature. I see no problem with her meeting you.”

A moment’s irritation flashed in Saeb’s eyes, and he placed a hand on Hana’sarm. “If you must speak with her,” he told David, “I must be present. As her father.”

“As her father,” David answered, “you might influence what she has to say. I’d hope to achieve some sort of rapport, if only to see how Munira reacts when she’s not with either one of you. That will also help me advise you about the FBI. After that, the three of you can decide what Munira should do.”

Slowly, Hana nodded. Though silent, Saeb looked even more resentful—an Arab man in America, dealing with another man he disliked, in a treacherous realm the other man had mastered. Turning to Hana, David asked, “Have you gathered up everything I’ve asked for?”

“Whatever we have,” she answered. “Cell phone records, credit card slips, hotel receipts, and the documents from our rental car—mileage, even the amount of gas we used.” Frown lines appeared on her forehead. “I hope all that won’t be necessary.”

“I hope so, too. But if the FBI tries to reconstruct every day you spent here, I’d like to have done that first.”

Staring at the carpet, Saeb remained quiet. “Saeb,” David said with a fair attempt at wryness, “let’s visit without Hana for a while. You and I have some catching up to do.”

Alone with David, Saeb made no attempt at social niceties. “Let’s get this done,” he said.

“Why don’t we. Starting with whether you really want me to represent you.”

Saeb shrugged dismissively. “That was Hana’s notion. But I’m sure you’re more than capable.” His tone became quietly caustic. “Though if innocence counts for anything in the murder of this great man, any lawyer would do nicely.”

David sat back. “I admired Amos Ben-Aron,” he said curtly. “Remembering that will make this easier on us both.”

“All right.” Saeb spread his hands in a pantomime of openness. “To you, he was great. To me, he’s just dead. But I had nothing to do with that—”

“Do you have anything to do with the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade?”

“No. They profess to believe in a two-state solution. I do not. My sympathy is with Hamas.”

“Including suicide bombers?”

“Including suicide bombers. Especially the martyr who died with Amos Ben-Aron—as distinct from this coward who lived to talk.” Saeb fixed David with an adamantine stare. “To me, killing Ben-Aron was an act of resistance. If it also kills this phony peace plan, the better for my people.”

David felt his jaw tighten. “I appreciate your candor. But you’ll want to skip the editorials when you tell the FBI you’re innocent. Your enthusiasm for murder might confuse them.”

Saeb accorded him an icy smile. “Are
you
so sure you wish to represent me?”

“I’m doing this for Hana—we both know that. And, I suppose, for a twelve-year-old girl I’ve yet to meet, but whom Hana plainly loves. Right now I’m clinging to that.”

Saeb regarded him inscrutably. “All right,” he said at length. “This much I owe you. I don’t know these men. I don’t know who helped them. I know nothing.”

“Who proposed your trip here?”

“I did, although it was Hana’s desire to come with me, and to bring Munira. The purpose of my sponsors was simple: to expose Ben-Aron’s peace plan as a fraud, shrouded in noble rhetoric and his generous grant of geriatric return.” Saeb gave an elegant shrug that conveyed both helplessness and disdain. “Perhaps in America, exposing Zionist hypocrisy is a crime all by itself. Other than that, I am completely without guilt. And so is Hana.”

David cocked his head. “And you know about Hana because...”