Exile: a novel (22 page)

“Yes. I suppose that’s no surprise.”

Carole was momentarily silent. “How are your new clients?”

“All right.” David hesitated. “To me, the most remarkable part was talking with Munira, their daughter. By the end, I wanted her to escape.”

“From what? Her parents?”

David pondered this. “From everything,” he answered.

4     
he next morning’s
New York Times
punctuated its coverage of Ben-Aron’s memorial service with the ugly consequences of his assassination: a deadly suicide bombing at a fruit market in the Israeli coastal town of Hadera; the lethal shooting by Israeli soldiers of two alleged Al Aqsa militants outside Ramallah; a declaration by Iran’s new president that Palestinians should now help “wipe the Jews off the map of our lands.” On page 4, David noted, the
Times
reported the silence of the Justice Department regarding its massive investigation into the circumstances of Ben-Aron’s murder, although the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service were tugging at all potential threads of information, in America and the Middle East. As to whether and how Ben-Aron’s security had been breached, the Americans and Israelis were conducting separate inquiries—Israel had withdrawn its personnel from the United States, limiting the Americans to interrogating the police and Secret Service agents involved in Ben-Aron’s protection. Amid all this, with little sense of how any of it might touch on the Khalid family, David and his most ambivalent client had a private meeting with the FBI in an interior conference room of the San Francisco Federal Building.

To David’s surprise and concern, the FBI had asked to interview Saeb first, and then Munira, reserving Hana for last. Across the conference table, David and Saeb faced Victor Vallis, a special agent from Washington, and Ann Kornbluth of the San Francisco office. David knew Kornbluth, a plump, bespectacled, and extremely meticulous investigator renowned for her photographic memory and mastery of detail. Vallis—a bulky red-haired man with a shrewd, seamed face—was, according to a friend of David’s in the Justice Department, the FBI’s leading expert in counterterrorism
and, as such, the agent in charge of this investigation. The fact that Sharpe had assigned the lead agent to these interviews deepened David’s sense of having entered a dark room where unseen pitfalls lurked. He could only hope to divine them from the agents’ questions.

The session started with Vallis’s recitation of the criminal penalty for false statements to a federal officer. Hands folded in front of him, Saeb listened impassively, his contemplation of the ceiling evincing his disdain. When the questioning began, Saeb, as David had urged, listened carefully, pausing to consider his answers. What mattered, David had told him, was not his eagerness to appear helpful but the content of his responses. Choose your words, David had advised—don’t guess, don’t speculate, don’t conjure up an answer for the sake of giving one. All of which suited Saeb’s essential attitude: distaste for this interrogation, and for the agents who conducted it.

No, Saeb told them, he did not know either of the assassins—at most, he might have met the dead one. No, he was not associated with “any group that you call terrorist.” No, he knew nothing about the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron. No, he had no purpose in coming to San Francisco other than refuting the prime minister. His itinerary was an open book— speeches and meetings with the media that he had no problem enumerating. All this he offered in an uninflected tone that suggested boredom and a complete lack of interest in engaging the agents in human terms. Vallis asked most of the questions; Kornbluth took meticulous notes. An hour into the session, David was no wiser as to the agents’ intent.

“In your calls to and from the media,” Vallis asked in a matter-of-fact voice, “did you use a cell phone or the hotel phone?”

“Cell phone.”

“One, or more than one?”

“Only one.”

Vallis glanced at the legal pad in front of him. “Is the number 972 (59) 696-0523?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have international cell phone service?”

“Yes.”

“So any cell phone calls you made in San Francisco would be reflected in the records for that same number.”

“Yes.”

Though David covered his reactions by scribbling notes after every response, this line of questioning—focused on cell phone use—began to trouble him. “Do you own a computer?” Vallis asked Saeb.

“Two.”

“Where are they?”

“One is in my office, at Birzeit. The other is a laptop I carry with me.”

“Do you use them both to word process?”

Saeb studied his hands. “Only the computer in my office.”

“That’s an HP desktop.”

It was not a question. Briefly, Saeb met Vallis’s eyes. What struck David, as it must have struck Saeb, was how much the FBI already knew. “Yes—an HP.”

“Does your wife also have an office?”

“Yes.”

“And her own HP desktop?”

“Yes.”

Without changing expression, Vallis seemed to watch Saeb more closely. “Does she ever use your computer, or you hers?”

Saeb hesitated. “She may have used mine—I can’t recall. I have no memory of using hers.”

Kornbluth looked up from her notes. “What was your wife’s purpose in traveling to the United States?”

“To accompany me. And to show Munira your country.”

“Whose idea was that?”

Saeb paused. “To begin with, Hana’s. But only after the groups I’ve already enumerated suggested that I shadow Ben-Aron. She had nothing to do with that.”

This was Saeb’s most expansive answer—the reason for his elaboration, it seemed to David, was to make clear to the FBI that his wife’s presence in America was accidental, or at least derivative of his. And it suggested that Saeb, like David, had begun to sense that the FBI’s focus might be his wife.

Kornbluth adjusted her glasses. “When did she decide to come?”

“We decided,” Saeb corrected. “Mutually, about three days after Israel announced Ben-Aron would be touring the United States.”

“When did she know that his itinerary would include San Francisco?”

Saeb’s eyes briefly flashed. “It was public information,” he said in a slightly defensive tone. “
I
knew it. So did anyone who cared.”

Vallis briefly glanced at Kornbluth. “During your time in San Francisco,” he asked, “were you aware of your wife’s movements?”

“Generally,” Saeb answered. “We discussed what she might do—we arrived only a day before Ben-Aron. But I had my work.”

“How often were you apart?”

Saeb gave a shrug of irritation. “Much of those two days. I did not keep a time sheet.”

“When you were apart, where was your daughter, Munira?”

“With Hana, I believe. Almost always.”

“What did you understand they were doing?”

“Sightseeing.” Pausing, Saeb added with mild sarcasm, “I am sorry, they did not tell me what they had for lunch.”

Vallis did not change expression. “Or dinner?”

“Dinner we ate together. Both nights.”

“And you and your wife also slept together?”

Saeb’s eyes flashed. “Of course.”

“And Munira?”

“Slept in her room.”

“On either night,” Kornbluth interjected, “between midnight and four A.M., did you make or receive any telephone calls?”

With this question, David knew at once there was a problem—he felt as if Marnie Sharpe had just walked into the room. “No,” Saeb answered flatly.

“You’re certain.”

“Yes. That is too late to call anyone, at least in San Francisco.”

“Did anyone call you?”

“I told you, no.”

Vallis leaned forward. “Did anyone call your wife?”

“No.”

“How can you be certain?”

Saeb sat straighter, as though insulted. “Because we sleep together. A call to Hana would awaken me, as would a call
from
Hana to someone else. I heard no such calls.”

“Could Munira have called someone?”

Saeb folded his arms. “Again, no.”

“If she sleeps in another room, how would you know?”

The question, David saw, seemed to unsettle Saeb Khalid—his eyes froze, and his expression seemed to harden. “She is a child,” he answered curtly. “I am her father. We have strict rules about her use of cell phones.”

“Does your wife also enforce those rules?”

“Yes.” Saeb’s tone was adamant. “About this, we are agreed.”

“Does your wife have her own cell phone?” Kornbluth asked.

“Yes.”

“One, or more than one?”

Saeb hesitated. “I know of only one.”

“In your family, Mr. Khalid, who pays the monthly bills?”

“I do.”

“So you are aware of how many cell phones your family has.”

“Of course.”

“Does Munira have her own cell phone?”

“Yes. That is,” Saeb added brusquely, “she had one. Through carelessness, she lost it.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps in San Francisco.”

“Have you replaced it?”

“No. One does not reward a child’s carelessness.” Saeb looked from Vallis to Kornbluth. “At least I do not.”

“Was Munira’s cell phone number 972 (59) 696-9726?”

“Yes.”

Kornbluth looked up from her notes. “Where does your wife keep her cell phone?”

Saeb considered this. “In her purse, I suppose. I know of no set place.”

“Do
you
ever use her cell phone?”

Saeb stroked his beard. He had begun to look tired, underscoring the frailty of his appearance; whatever strain he was feeling, David thought, he did not seem to have much stamina. “We are husband and wife,” he said with annoyance. “If a battery goes low, or only one of us has a phone, such a thing might happen. I suppose that makes us coconspirators.”

Quickly, David placed a hand on Saeb’s arm. “Mr. Khalid is tired,” David said to the agents. “He’s here voluntarily, to answer your questions. But it might help us both if you explained the purpose of all this minutiae about cell phones.”

“We’re almost done,” Vallis responded in a clipped tone. Turning to Saeb, he asked, “Do you know your wife’s cell phone number, Mr. Khalid?”

Saeb glanced at David, who shrugged. “Of course,” Saeb answered.

“And what is that number?”

With sibilant precision, Saeb recited, “972 (59) 696-0896.”

Kornbluth, David noticed, did not need to write down the number. “Are you familiar,” Vallis asked, “with the cell phone number (415) 669-3666?”

Saeb’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Whose number is that?”

Vallis did not answer. “Did you ever call that number, sir?”

Saeb stared at him. “415,” he answered, “is a San Francisco area code. I called reporters, they called me. I did not memorize their numbers. If I called that number,
sir,
even if it is not recorded on my cell phone itself, in due course there will be a record. Do not ask me to perform feats of memory.”

“Do you have your cell phone in your possession?”

“Yes. At the hotel.”

“On the day Ben-Aron was killed,” Kornbluth demanded, “do you remember your movements?”

Saeb gave her a measured look. “There were none.”

“Please explain.”

Saeb’s voice became a drone of weariness. “I got up, ordered from room service, read the newspaper, placed several calls to colleagues in the West Bank or to the media, awaited the prime minister’s speech, watched the speech, began drafting my responses, and heard the announcement that he was dead. All in our hotel room.”

“Where was your wife?”

“At breakfast, with me. Then she took Munira on a ferryboat, I believe.”

“How long were they gone?”

“I took no notice. They were back before noon.”

“Did you expect them back?”

“I had no specific expectations.”

“Did they watch the speech with you?”

Saeb hesitated. “Only Munira.”

“Not your wife?”

“No.”

“And where was she?”

Absently, Saeb rested the fingertips of his left hand against his temple. “Shopping.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Not specifically.”

“When did she go out?”

“I’m not sure. If Ben-Aron’s speech was at noon, a little before.”

“Before she went out,” Vallis asked, “did she make or receive any phone calls?”

Saeb spread his hands. “I don’t know. I had other things to do than constantly observe her.”

“When she left, Mr. Khalid, did she have a cell phone with her?”

“Mr. Vallis, I did not search her purse. So I truly cannot tell you.”

The last two questions put David’s nerves on edge; they focused, as had David himself, on the time period within which the assassins may have learned that the motorcade had changed its route. But, despite Saeb’s disdain for the agents, he was proving a skilled witness—he listened to the questions, did not guess, and his answers were precise and careful. That the interrogation contained some unseen risk to Hana seemed as clear to him as to David.

“Did you discuss,” Kornbluth inquired, “why she didn’t stay for Ben-Aron’s speech?”

“Yes. She didn’t care to hear him.”

“Did she say why?”

“She didn’t have to.” Saeb’s voice was cool. “We are Palestinian. For all our lives we have heard such speeches—new plans, fresh promises, peace about to bloom like roses in the desert. The pretty words of statesmen drenched in the blood of our people no longer give us hope.”

“Should there be a trial,” Vallis asked abruptly, “will you waive the marital privilege with respect to Hana Arif?”

David stifled his surprise. “In what context?” he asked.

“To keep his wife from testifying. The privilege belongs to him.”

“That’s true with respect to Hana giving evidence against Mr. Khalid,” David countered. “But in the reverse situation, the privilege would belong to Ms. Arif. In either case, I would advise them not to waive any privilege in a vacuum.”

Vallis turned to Saeb. “Is that your position, Mr. Khalid?”

“I will follow the advice of my counsel,” Saeb answered with a touch of defiance. “But as far as I’m concerned, neither my wife nor I need any privilege. Our only crime was to come to America.”

Vallis glanced at Kornbluth, who shook her head. “That’s all we have for today,” Vallis said blandly. “But before you go, we’ll want to get your fingerprints.”