“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.”
Startled, David asked, “What’s your basis for that request?”
Vallis produced a document from a manila folder and slid it across the table. “A subpoena from the federal grand jury.”
The subpoena, David saw at once, called for fingerprints from Hana as well as Saeb. “I want to see the United States attorney,” he demanded. “Right now.”
Marnie Sharpe sat behind her desk, arms folded. “You know that sub-poena’s valid.”
“What I don’t know,” David snapped, “is something you’re obligated to tell me under the rules of the Department of Justice: whether one of my clients, or both, was a target of your investigation at the time you invited them here.”
“I told you,” Sharpe said imperturbably, “both are ‘persons of interest.’ Whether one or both is a ‘target’ has yet to be determined.”
“Bullshit. I just sat through two hours of interrogation. Any first-year lawyer would know you’re sitting on something very specific, and using it to try and nail one or both of them. Which makes at least one of them a target.” David made no effort to conceal his outrage. “You’re walking close to the line, Marnie—in fact, I think you’ve crossed it. If you’d been straight with me, I might have thought a lot harder before I agreed to bring Khalid in. And now I’m not at all sure I’ll allow you to interview his wife.”
“You’re not a virgin, David—far from it. The line between people we’re looking at and the ones we think we may indict is often imprecise, and changes from moment to moment.” Sharpe steepled her fingertips. “I’m not prepared to say that Hana Arif is a target in the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron. But there are questions we want her to answer. It’s her choice, and yours, as to whether she cooperates.”
In silence, David considered her. Beneath Sharpe’s apparent coolness, he felt sure, was a prosecutor even more desperate for an indictment than he had imagined: she had chosen to dissemble, short-circuiting her obligation of candor to a witness in jeopardy in the hopes of a swift break-through. “I’ll discuss it with Ms. Arif,” he said at last, “in light of your assurances. And my assessment of their value.”
“And Munira Khalid?”
“Is their daughter, not mine. I only know what I’d do.”
Sharpe stood, signaling the end of their meeting. “Then let me know about Hana Arif—soon. This won’t keep.”
Saeb and Hana were waiting at David’s office. Saeb’s stare at David was an accusation without words; Hana’s eyes were filled with doubt and worry. Saeb’s fingertips bore the stains of an FBI inkpad.
David looked from Saeb to Hana, still absorbing that the truth might be far worse than he knew. “Sharpe misled me,” he said. “I don’t like the feel of this—all the questions about cell phones and computer use, the finger-prints. They couldn’t get that warrant without showing at least some basis for it. They’ve got something specific, maybe from Ibrahim Jefar, maybe elsewhere. But we’ve got a lot of thinking to do, and little time to do it.”
Saeb held up his hand. “First, Munira. I won’t have her abused by your gestapo.”
David glanced at Hana. “I understand,” he said to Saeb, “and I don’t want to risk putting Munira in the middle of something where she’s terrified, or feels responsible if this goes badly for one or both of you. All I can say on the other side is that the more they ask Munira, the more we learn about what they might ask Hana.”
“No,” Saeb snapped. “That’s like the parable of the four blind men groping at different parts of an elephant. You can tell us this elephant is a wall, if you wish, or a rope. But not at Munira’s expense.”
David ignored the not-so-veiled insult. “Hana?” he asked.
Hana looked down. “I am worried. I would like to know what they are thinking. But Munira must come first.”
“So I tell Sharpe no?”
“Not just no,” Saeb said. “Tell her to go fuck herself.”
David raised his eyebrows at Hana. Slowly, she nodded. “You may quote my husband, and say it comes from me.”
David tried to read her face—in a few brief hours, the specter of her possible complicity had become real, casting a new and unflattering light on his decision to represent her. The fear that had crept into her eyes could be fear of the unknown, or an awareness of guilt. “Do you wish to meet with them, Hana? Sharpe intimates that you’re not a target. I think you may be.”
Hana looked at him steadily. “If you think that, then refusing them can only make this worse.”
David shrugged. “Only if you’re innocent.”
A
trace of hurt surfaced in her eyes. “I am innocent, David.”
Perhaps only David heard the vibrato in her tone, a plea deeper and more intimate than that of a client. At the corner of his vision, David saw her husband glance quickly from his wife to him.
“Then you and I have work to do,” David said to Hana. “Alone.”
5
Relentless, David grilled her—cell phone calls; credit card slips; taxi receipts—reconstructing, hour by hour, her two days in San Francisco. Her only extended time alone, roughly an hour, coincided with Ben-Aron’s speech.
“Why didn’t you watch it?” David asked.
Hana clasped her hands in front of her, drawing her shoulders in; to David, she looked smaller, more disheartened. “Many reasons. Perhaps the greatest was that I did not want to be with Saeb.”
“Why not?”
“Because I knew what I would hear from him—the hopelessness, the hatred.” She looked into David’s eyes. “I do not blame him. But such words have been the subtext of my life. That day I could not bear it.”
David studied her, unsmiling. “That day, of all days. So why not take Munira with you?”
“To avoid a quarrel. Saeb would have insisted that she stay. Not to hear Ben-Aron but Saeb himself, to serve as audience for his loathing of the Jews.”
David did not comment. For another twenty minutes, he tried to pick apart this hour of her life, movement by movement. At the end, he said, “Everything I’ve asked you, the FBI will ask. If what you’ve told me includes a single lie, they will know it.”
The skin over Hana’s cheekbones flushed. “When you knew me, David, did you think I was a liar?”
“I knew you were. If nothing else, you lied to Saeb.”
Hana did not respond. After a moment, she sat straighter, her voice brittle and resolved. “All right. I am ready for these people.” She did not ask again for David’s belief, or even for his sympathy.
Exile: a novel Page 17
