Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  An hour later, Kornbluth set a tape recorder on the table in front of her, then switched it on. Vallis’s legal admonitions, though rote, now sounded ominous: that they were agents of the FBI; that Hana’s statements could be used against her in a court of law; that falsehoods could be the basis for a criminal charge of perjury. Did Hana understand this?

  “Yes,” she said without emotion. “I am a graduate of Harvard Law School.”

  Vallis watched her face. “Do you advocate violence against the State of Israel?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever done so?”

  Hana placed a finger to her lips. “I suppose I may have said such things, when I was younger. Sometimes I may have felt them. But I truly cannot recall.”

  The agent took a second tape recorder from beneath the table. “What’s this?” David asked.

  Vallis pushed a button. From the tape recorder emerged a thin but angry voice: “If we are terrorists, it is because we must be. Perhaps killing is all the Jews have left us.”

  David felt a coldness on his skin. The voice was Saeb’s; the words, he recalled, were spoken at Harvard, on the night David first met Hana Arif.

  “Do you recognize those words, Ms. Khalid?”

  “Yes. They are my husband’s, many years ago.”

  She seemed calm enough, David thought. But he was not—the tape had resurrected the past, underscoring the tenuousness of David’s position now. “Do you agree with that statement?” Vallis asked her.

  “Then, or now?”

  “At any time.”

  Hana’s voice was uninflected. “Then, perhaps. Not now. I am tired of killing.”

  Vallis placed a picture in front of her: a bearded man, clearly Arab, whose dark, intense eyes stared from a face so thin it could have belonged to an ascetic or a vagrant. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  A hint of sour amusement played on Hana’s lips. “The first page of the New York Times. I believe that is Iyad Hassan, who no longer resembles his picture.”

  She was angry, David realized—perhaps at having been the subject of surveillance, perhaps at David himself. “Have you ever met Iyad Hassan?”

  “As a professor, I meet many people. I have no specific memory of meeting this one.”

  David turned to watch her. You’re being too chilly, he tried to convey without words; remember your reasons for being here. As though hearing his admonition, Hana’s expression softened a bit.

  “You are certain you’ve never met Mr. Hassan?” Kornbluth prodded.

  “Not certain, no. All that I can tell you is that I have no memory of meeting him.”

  “At any time?”

  “At any time.”

  “What about cell phone conversations. Did you ever speak to Mr. Hassan by cell phone?”

  “Not that I recall. I don’t know why I would have.”

  “Specifically, while in San Francisco, this month, did you ever speak to Hassan?”

  Hana raised her eyebrows, glancing at David. “In San Francisco?” she asked in an incredulous tone. “No, definitely not. That I would remember.” Hana’s voice became cool. “I do not know this man. All that I’m saying, in an effort to be precise, is that I can’t swear that I’ve never met him.”

  “What is your personal cell phone number?”

  “972 (59) 696-0896.”

  “Did you ever give that number to Mr. Hassan?”

  David tensed; despite her denials, the questions suggested that the FBI had reason to believe she knew Hassan, and their precision was meant to establish grounds for perjury. “No,” Hana answered firmly.

  “Again,” Vallis asked, “you’re very certain of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever write down this cell phone number for anyone?”

  Hana looked both cornered and bemused. “I believe not, no.”

  “Not even for your husband or your daughter?”

  “This is a new cell phone, bought perhaps a month ago. Saeb and Munira programmed the number on their phones. I had no need to write it out for them.”

  David watched the tape spinning, recording Hana’s answers. Choosing his words with care, Vallis asked, “Did you ever, at any time, print the number 972 (59) 696-0896 on your HP desktop at Birzeit?”

  Hana stared at him as though trying to comprehend the question, its specificity apparently troubling her as much as it did David. “Do you mean did I print this number on a piece of paper, using the computer and printer in my office?”

  “Yes.”

  Hana turned her palms upward, a gesture of bewilderment. “Why would I do such a thing? My handwriting is clear enough.”

  “Please answer the question. Did you ever print your cell phone number for anyone on a piece of paper, using the computer and printer in your office?”

  “I did answer. I have no memory of doing that, and can’t imagine why I would.”

  Someone had done so, David was now sure. Were it Hana, her only motive would be to avoid writing it in her own hand, the one way she could deny having passed the paper on herself—assuming she had left no finger-prints. Now Kornbluth pursued this line of questioning. “Who else, besides your family, has that number?”

  “Only a few friends and colleagues. Most of whose names and cell phone numbers, I believe, are programmed in my cell phone.”

  “And you still have that cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use that phone in San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “To call Saeb or Munira, if we were in different places.”

  These questions, at least, were ones that David had prepared her for. As David had earlier, Vallis asked, “While in San Francisco, did you call anyone else?”

  “Mr. Wolfe,” Hana said casually, “our friend from law school. Also restaurants and tour providers. I think I called a taxi company, to take Munira and me to the ferryboat. Those calls will show up on my cell phone records.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Also, I called my parents.”

  “Where do they live?”

  Briefly Hana compressed her lip. “At a refugee camp in Lebanon, Shatila.”

  “What is your parents’ number?”

  Hana recited it. Kornbluth glanced at Vallis, then asked, “During your time in San Francisco, did you make or receive any telephone calls between midnight and four a.m.?”

  “I did not, no.”

  “Did your husband or Munira?”

  “Were it to or from Saeb, such a call would have awakened me. As for Munira, she no longer has her own cell phone. She lost it, and we have yet to replace it.”

  “Does Munira borrow your phone?”

  “No. Munira lost hers here in San Francisco, where or how I do not know. I need one, and do not want for her to lose mine, as well.”

  This time it was Vallis who glanced at Kornbluth, indicating his desire to intervene. “Are you familiar with the cell phone number (415) 669-3666?”

  It was the identical question that Vallis had asked Saeb. “No,” Hana answered, just as she had answered David. “I am not familiar with that number. If it is one I called, or the number of someone who called me, I cannot place it.”

  Vallis leaned forward. In a new tone, cold and clipped, he asked, “Did you ever discuss with anyone the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron?”

  Hana sat straighter. “Before it happened, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you mean that he might be killed, yes, I believe I’ve discussed that possibility.”

  “With whom?”

  “With friends, or colleagues at Birzeit. His murder has long been a matter of speculation.”

  “Did you ever discuss with anyone the means by which Ben-Aron might be assassinated?”

  “Means? Yes, in the sense that I thought he might be killed by his own people—the fanatic Orthodox, perhaps, or settlers who feared he’d ‘sell them
out,’ in their twisted way of thinking.” Hana sat back, looking at both agents with an air of weariness. “Why don’t you just ask me if I know anything about the murder of Ben-Aron beyond what the public knows?”

  Kornbluth turned to Vallis, then back to Hana. “Were you,” she asked, “involved in any way in planning or carrying out the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron?”

  “No,” Hana said. “Certainly not.”

  “Did you ever advocate the murder of Ben-Aron?”

  “No. What I felt about him was distrust, not hatred.” Hana’s voice rose slightly. “I do not advocate murder—not of Israelis in their markets or buses or cafés, or of their prime minister. Many years ago I stopped believing that such violence served any purpose but to continue this endless cycle of death. And it is clear to me, as it must be to any sane person, that no good can come of this.”

  “Where were you,” Vallis asked, “during Ben-Aron’s speech?”

  Despite her rehearsal with David, Hana hesitated. “Wandering. Alone.”

  “Where?”

  “Around the area of Union Square.”

  “Why didn’t you watch the speech with your husband and daughter?”

  Hana gazed at the table. “I just didn’t feel like it. I have heard too many speeches.”

  “Did you tell your husband you were going shopping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I found I didn’t feel like shopping, either.”

  “Did you go into any stores?”

  “No. Not that I recall.”

  “What did you do?”

  “As I said, I wandered. I have no specific memory of where.”

  Even if true, David knew, the answer was regrettable, creating a vacuum during what might be a critical time. “Did you speak with anyone?”

  “No. At least not that I remember.”

  Kornbluth folded her hands in front of her. “Did you have your cell phone with you?” she asked.

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Did you have in your possession any cell phone other than the one you’ve already identified?”

  Hana blinked. “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you, while ‘wandering,’ receive a cell phone call from anyone?”

  Hana’s eyes narrowed in apparent thought. “I believe not, no. I can remember none.”

  “Did you place any calls to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure of that,” Vallis cut in.

  “Very.”

  “Why are you so certain, Ms. Arif?”

  “Because I had no wish to talk with anyone.” Her voice was soft. “Do you ever reflect upon your life, Mr. Vallis? That is what I was doing.”

  The answer seemed to give the agent pause. “Reflecting about what, in particular?”

  “Many things. Most of them personal, and of no concern to you.”

  “Did you also reflect on Amos Ben-Aron?”

  “Only in the sense that I was tired.”

  “Of Prime Minister Ben-Aron?”

  Hana gazed at him directly. “I would say more tired of feeling bound to Israel, since I was old enough to know that I was born in a refugee camp, and not a home.” Her voice became quieter. “Why am I here, talking with you? Why does my daughter have nightmares of bombs and soldiers?

  “I will answer your questions as long as you like. But we will be that much closer to being dead, and for what?” She turned toward David, her eyes filmed with tears. “I have done nothing. That is all I can tell you. Whether you believe that is not for me to say.”

  After that, the FBI took her fingerprints.

  Shadowed by foreboding, David drove her to the hotel. Except to respond to his questions or comments, listlessly and briefly, Hana did not speak. By the time David stopped the car, she had been silent for some minutes.

  “If you hear from the FBI,” he said, “call me.”

  Without responding, Hana opened the car door. When she was halfway out, she paused, turning to him with a long look he could not decipher. “Goodbye, David. Thank you for what you’ve done.”

  Before he could answer, Hana Arif was gone.

  6

  Long after their lovemaking was finished, David still held Carole close to him, as though to grasp anew a reality he had felt slipping away from him.

  They lay in the bedroom of David’s Spanish-style flat in the Marina District. It was late Friday afternoon, a day removed from Hana’s interrogation. Though Carole had been gone only since Tuesday, David felt that in those three days he had lived another life, one in which he had lost his footing—afraid for Hana, fearful of who she might have become, reliving a past he had thought sealed off forever but that he now could not stop reexamining—even as he posed as his familiar self. Less than two weeks ago, Carole had embodied the sanity he strove for—grounded, clear-eyed, rational—in which the passion he had once felt for Hana was subordinated to a vision of the future rooted in what, David believed, was a love consistent with his essential nature. What he felt now was an eagerness to reembrace that life of stability, never again to be engulfed by emotions he could not control. So he clung to Carole’s essential goodness—her warmth, her sanity, her practicality—with the fervor of an unfaithful but chastened lover.

  Another woman, David knew, might have accepted this as an unexpected gift, her fiancé’s surprise at valuing her more than he knew. But Carole drew her face back from his, appraising him with a look that held the curiosity of a woman deeply attuned to a man and his complexities. “Are you finished with them now?” she asked. “The Palestinians?”

  “Yes. I did what little I could for them.”

  Something in his tone seemed to catch her ear. “Are they in trouble?”

  “I can’t talk about what happened with the FBI. But now I’m on the other side of it.” David touched her face. “Eleven days ago, we set a wedding date. That night we met Amos Ben-Aron; the next day we saw him blown to pieces. Ever since then we’ve been shell-shocked, or separated. My idea of therapy is to get up tomorrow, put on our running shoes, jog along the bay to that coffee shop at Fort Point, eat a bagel, walk back, read the paper, and figure out what movie we want to see. I’ll even cook dinner for you. And on Sunday, after the talk shows, we can start on the guest list for our wedding.” David kissed her, as though to draw Carole into the mood he craved. “Normal,” he finished. “If we just start acting normal, maybe we will be.”

  “You’re right.” Abandoning her look of inquiry, Carole nestled the crown of her head against his shoulder. “We’ve both been through a lot.”

  Grateful that she could not read his thoughts, David tried not to worry for Hana—caught in the ambiguities of her marriage, stuck in limbo in a country not her own—even as, in David’s mind, she oscillated between innocence and guilt. They had been so young, he thought, heedless of the fact that their lives, like their parents’, would come to bear the fingerprints of time, defined by decisions made, or not made, in ways they could not imagine. And so it was understandable, he supposed, that as he lay with Carole, his thoughts drifted from Hana to Munira. He felt Carole breathing more deeply, the whisper of sleep to come.

  The telephone rang. Drowsy, Carole asked, “Do you need to get it?”

  The illuminated dial of his alarm clock read 5:45 p.m. “This is what I get for playing hooky,” David said. Reluctantly, he answered.

  He heard a recorded message click on; for an instant, cursing the omnipresence of telemarketers, he was ready to hang up. “Hello,” the voice said. “You are receiving a call from an inmate at a federal prison facility. You may press 1 to accept, or say ‘yes.’ To decline the call, you can press 2, or simply hang up.”

  David sat up straight, clearing his head—only a client would be allowed to call collect. “Is something wrong?” Carole murmured.

  David pressed 1. “David? I am sorry, but I have no one else to call.” Hana’s voice was tight,
fearful. “I’ve been arrested for the murder of Amos Ben-Aron.”

  “Jesus.” David struggled to suspend his own emotions. “Okay. Tell me what happened, step by step.”

  “The FBI came to arrest me—Vallis, the woman agent, and two others. They searched our hotel room, took our laptops and cell phones, turned everything upside down. Munira was so frightened—”

  “Did they arrest Saeb?”

  “No—they’re still keeping him here as a material witness. Please believe me, I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know why they’ve arrested me.”

  Marnie Sharpe does, David thought. She wouldn’t have done this without being sure of her grounds, and getting clearance from the attorney general—perhaps with the knowledge of the president. This was not simply a criminal prosecution: it was America’s statement to the world that its system of justice worked, and that it would find and punish those responsible for killing Amos Ben-Aron. That Sharpe had not informed him of the particulars or accorded him a chance to bring his client in suggested not only the absence of usual courtesy but her desire for surprise, the better to seize whatever evidence Saeb or Hana might possess.

  “Where are you?” David asked.

  “At the federal detention center.” Hana paused, then asked anxiously, “Will you come?”

  David was very still. “I’ll be there,” he heard himself say. “Just stay calm. Don’t talk to anyone about anything important.”

  David put down the phone. “Who was that?” Carole asked.

  David touched her bare shoulder, a request for quiet, and reached for his remote. On the screen, Marnie Sharpe stood behind a podium, Victor Vallis at her side. “The five-count indictment,” Sharpe was saying, “spells out the government’s allegations that Hana Arif helped to plan and execute the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron—resulting in the murder of the prime minister, Ariel Glick of his protective detail, and Agent Rodney Daves of the United States Secret Service.”

  Carole sat back, as though recoiling. “Oh my God . . .”

  “First,” Sharpe read, “the indictment alleges that Hana Arif is affiliated with the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, a Palestinian terrorist group opposed to the State of Israel.” Though Sharpe spoke clearly, her face was pale, an intermittent stammer betraying her nervousness in the glare of worldwide scrutiny. “Second,” she continued, “that Ms. Arif recruited the assassin Iyad Hassan, a student at Birzeit Univeristy and member of Al Aqsa, who in turn recruited the assassin Ibrahim Jefar.