Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  “Hebron is at the heart of Jewish heritage,” Ernheit countered. “Jews have a right to worship there.”

  “At what cost?” David asked with real exasperation. “Deploying the IDF to keep a pack of Jewish fanatics free to dump their garbage on Muslim peddlers?

  “You know what amazes me, Zev? It’s that so many Jews and Palestinians don’t give a damn about one another’s stories. Too many Palestinians don’t grasp why three thousand years of death and persecution make Jews want their own homeland, or how suicide bombings alienate Jews and extend the occupation. Too many Jews refuse to acknowledge their role in the misery of Palestinians since 1948, or that the daily toll of occupation helps fuel more hatred and violence. So both become clichés: Jews are victims and oppressors; Palestinians are victims and terrorists. And the cycle of death rolls on. The two things the extremists have in common is how much they hated Amos Ben-Aron, and a gift for keeping old hatreds fresh.” David stopped, then continued more evenly: “In three short weeks I’ve seen all kinds of suffering, from the families in Haifa to the misery of Hana’s parents. But they live in different worlds. Hana has become a bit player in a tragedy that shows no sign of ending. Not for her, or her daughter, or anyone who lives here.”

  Ernheit studied him coolly. “In the end, David, which side would you choose?”

  David’s own gaze did not waiver. “I’m a Jew. I feel more at home here; on the West Bank, I heard enough anti-Semitism to remind me of how often Jews have had no choice but to fight or run. So if I had to choose, I’d have no choice.

  “The problem is that every day more choices are foreclosed for those who live here. Each day that Jews fight to build more settlements or Palestinians stoke the fantasy of return, they guarantee that someone else will die. And the hatred embedded in the DNA of this region continues to metastasize.

  “With Ben-Aron dead, I don’t see peace anytime soon. It may not come at all. If it doesn’t, you have no choice but to end the occupation anyway, withdrawing behind your security wall into a Fortress Israel that incorporates settlements that never should have existed. On the other side, instead of a diverse and resilient people, you’ll see a lot of educated Palestinians fleeing to Los Angeles, leaving a wounded, angry populace on a festering scrap of land, listening to the voices of fundamentalism and the rhetoric of return. You’ll get Hamas for good. You’ve already got Iran.”

  Ernheit gave him a bleak smile. “And then?”

  “This won’t be a place for children.”

  Ernheit clasped his hands in front of him. “There’s too much you still don’t understand. What you want, most Israelis want. Perhaps most Palestinians. But our extremist settlers do not define our future by murdering Palestinians. It’s fanatics like Hamas and Al Aqsa that bring the settlers what power they have, and make the occupation a grim necessity. It was Palestinians who murdered Ben-Aron.”

  “Not by themselves,” David answered quietly.

  Ernheit glanced around them at the other patrons, their faces illuminated by candlelight. “Will we ever know?” he inquired. “Perhaps you regret your

  tactics here.”

  David drew a breath. “I regret the deaths. And their consequences.”

  “To your client?”

  “To whoever would profit from the truth.” Saying this, David felt his own fatigue, compounded by his sense that access to the truth was controlled by others. “There’s a sense to all this, if only we could find the key— and that could make a difference far beyond this trial. Someone killed Lev and Markis to prevent us from getting to the heart of this.”

  “And you learned nothing about those murders during your time on the West Bank.”

  “If I did, I don’t know it yet. But I’m confident Al Aqsa wasn’t responsible. And I don’t believe that Al Aqsa carried out Ben-Aron’s murder in America.” David sipped his wine. “What makes sense is that Jefar was a dupe; that Hassan was Hamas; and that whoever directed this meant for Ben-Aron’s plan for peace to end, for Israel to wipe out Al Aqsa, and for Hamas to come to power.”

  “Why would Lev or Markis want Hamas in power?”

  David paused. “In the logic of extremists,” he answered, “both sides can give each other what they want—perpetual conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. Their only quarrel is about who wins.”

  Cradling his face in his hand, Ernheit regarded David across the table. “Aside from a lasting peace, what do you want from our government?”

  “I’d like to know what Saeb Khalid was doing in Amman. Most of his time wasn’t spent with doctors. Perhaps the Mossad knows.”

  “Perhaps. Whether they’ll tell you is something different altogether.” Briefly, Ernheit looked perplexed. “But there’s also this lab in Tel Aviv where Saeb Khalid sent these unspecified samples you told me about.”

  “Yes. Maybe it’s nothing; maybe it’s just about his heart. But the notes in his doctor’s files were intriguingly obscure.”

  Ernheit nodded. “To me, as well. The lab in question is not a medical facility. It’s forensic, staffed by criminologists and often used in murder cases.”

  David’s hand froze, his wineglass an inch beneath his lips. “For what?”

  “What you’d expect—fingerprints, crime scene evaluations, DNA, studies of gunshot wounds. Certainly not cardiology.”

  David considered this. “Perhaps your government would be willing to get the records of whatever Khalid had this lab evaluate.”

  “On what pretext? Just how would you relate this to Arif ’s defense?”

  “I don’t know yet. But like Saeb’s leisurely stays in Amman, it’s odd—if only because there’s no obvious explanation.”

  Ernheit smiled faintly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he answered. “At least we won’t be killing anyone.”

  Which was the spirit in which, two hours later, they ended their last meal together. After shaking his hand, Ernheit touched David’s shoulder. “In spite of everything,” he told David, “I wish you luck. At least you’re leaving Israel alive.”

  Back at the King David, David sat at the bar, sipping a Calvados as he sifted through his thoughts, a television droning in the background. The trip had changed him, he was certain, but he had not had time to understand how. He wished that he could talk with Carole, Harold, and, most of all, with Hana. In his heart and mind, the trip had changed her, as well.

  What would it be like, he wondered, the next time he sat across from her? Within the next two days he would know...

  A familiar name broke through David’s thoughts: Muhammad Nasir.

  As David glanced up, startled, a police photograph of Nasir appeared on CNN. “The IDF,” a newscaster said, “announced that it had killed Nasir, a prominent leader of Al Aqsa, in a rocket attack on a home in the refugee camp of Jenin. Through the Internet, Al Aqsa claimed that two innocent civilians, a man and his eight-year-old son, also died in the attack, and vowed reprisals for what they called ‘Israeli barbarism.’ ”

  If peace comes, David had asked Nasir, what will you do? A foolish question.

  It never ends, David thought now. A deep sadness filled him. Finishing his brandy, he drifted to the patio of the King David, gazing for a final time at the outline of the Old City of Jerusalem. Then he went to his room and packed.

  P A R T

  The Secret

  1

  The same white room, bare walls, laminated table. The same guard peering at a lawyer and his client through the bulletproof window webbed with wire. But to David, this meeting felt very different. What he had learned about Hana since he had last seen her made him want to reach out for her, even as he told himself that he had to fight this impulse.

  For a moment, Hana gazed at him, as though to verify his reality. “I missed you, David.”

  Suspended between tenderness and suspicion, David understood that his only refuge was to be professional, as dispassionate and cool as he could manage. “I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he answered, “The trip was
a bit more complex than I’d imagined.”

  Hana tilted her head in inquiry. “What did you learn?”

  “Many things, from many people. Including Nisreen.”

  Briefly, Hana glanced down, then looked at him with renewed directness. “Yes?”

  “Tell me about your marriage, Hana.” Though David’s voice was quiet, it was not a request. “This time, leave nothing out. That includes Munira.”

  Hana watched his eyes. “Where should I start?”

  “With where it stood between you and Saeb when the three of you came here.”

  Hana’s shrug resembled a twitch. “It wasn’t good.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There was a distance. It had grown over time.”

  “My own parents could have said as much. Define ‘distance.’ ”

  “We no longer made love.” Hana’s voice became raw. “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s a start. When did that part end?”

  Hana sat back, arms folded. “This is perverse.”

  “Humor me,” David said softly. “I have my reasons for asking.”

  Arms still folded, Hana looked down. “Six months or so before we came here.”

  “Was there a reason?”

  “So ‘distance’ is not enough? He stopped wanting me. I didn’t complain.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d stopped wanting him long before.” Her eyes flashed. “Is this your revenge on me, David? Does extracting these answers make you feel better?”

  David waited until the anger in her face melted into confusion. “No,” he answered. “It makes me sad that this is what we’re left with. But I can’t get swept up in my own feelings. Or yours, whatever they may be.

  “Saeb had access to your office, your cell phone, your computer, and the paper you used. Your husband could have framed you; the man I knew at Harvard never would have. So if he did, something must have happened between you, so visceral that it converted love to hate.” His voice became softer. “I need to understand that, Hana. However hard this is for both of us.”

  Her eyes closed. “The truth is simple, and undramatic. I no longer loved him.”

  “Why?”

  “Many reasons. Some of them we might have surmounted. But more and more Saeb became a man I never wanted to be with—a man who scorned women.” Hana looked at him again, and her tone became more level, as though she were trying to recalibrate their conversation. “Over time, our relationship became a battle over Munira. Almost as though she were a surrogate for me.”

  “When you say surrogate . . .”

  Hana gazed at the table, as though striving to put her instincts into words. “When Saeb’s family was murdered, I became the one person he looked to, for all the things that most of us seem to need. So it was when we were married. For Saeb, to believe that he was not who I wanted—or wanted to make love with—would cause a death inside him.”

  And did Saeb believe that? David wondered. Instead, he asked, “What does that have to do with Munira?”

  “It was never put into words. Perhaps Saeb blamed my idea of what a woman should be for how I was with him. Perhaps insisting that Munira grow up to be different from me was a form of reprisal. Certainly the more radical he became, the more extreme he became in his religion, the more he tried controlling every aspect of her life.

  “Within the last year, after Munira turned twelve, it grew worse.” Hana’s voice filled with muted anger. “Suddenly there were the musts I’ve told you about—she must cover, she must study the Koran, she must pray five times a day. And must nots—no makeup, no blue jeans, no mixing with boys. Over all this we had bitter fights. But the worst was over how Munira would marry.”

  “In what way?”

  “Saeb wanted to arrange it.” As she spoke, her fingers became tightly interlaced. “It’s enough that I honored our traditions. Let it end with me. But even now, when Munira visits me, I feel her fading away.” Her voice trembled. “For my own sake, I do not much care what happens to me. For Munira, I must get out of here. Whether I’m dead or a prisoner for life, Saeb will control her future. I could not bear for that to happen to her.”

  She was close to tears now, and the depth of her feelings jarred David’s self-control.Quietly, he asked, “Is that why you told Nisreen that a man you knew in law school would have been a better father for Munira?”

  With this, Hana could not look at him. “Such a foolish thing to say. But I wanted a different life for Munira.” Her voice caught, becoming lower, softer. “Saeb and I never spoke of you. Perhaps I didn’t have to.”

  There were many things he could have said. Instead, David asked, “What do you know about Saeb sending something to a forensics lab in Tel Aviv?”

  Hana looked bewildered. “When did this happen?”

  “About nine months ago. I’ve been wondering if he sent them paper from your printer, to ensure that at least one sheet had your fingerprints, but not his.”

  Hana bent her head. “These are terrible things to think about, David.”

  “We have to. Do you know why his visits to Jordan lasted several days?”

  “Medical tests, I thought.”

  “Not true.”

  Hana looked up again. “You know this?”

  “Yes. He also had access to your cell phone, right?”

  “Of course. But at midnight?” Hana shook her head. “Whoever the handler was, he or she used another cell phone.”

  “Which suggests that you were framed.” David leaned forward, his face a few feet from her. “This is complicated, Hana. I think at least two Israelis were involved. But both of them were killed before I could find out more.”

  Hana’s lips parted. “Please, you must tell me everything that happened.”

  He explained as much as he could. “Muhammad Nasir,” he concluded, “swore that Al Aqsa didn’t plan the assassination, and that you were never a member. Now he’s dead, too.”

  Hana absorbed this, her eyes filling with mute despair. At length, she asked, “Did you go to see my parents?”

  “Yes. They’re very worried—no doubt they saw me as some sort of martian, and it’s hard for them to grasp what’s happening except as the work of Zionists. But otherwise, they’re well. At least as well as they can be in a place like that.”

  Slowly, Hana nodded. “At Harvard, there were things in my life that I found hard to convey to you. Shatila was one; my family another. Now you understand much more than I ever thought you would.” She paused, then asked, “You also saw Sausan?”

  “Yes. I liked her. Very much, in fact.”

  “I thought you might. And she showed you our village?”

  “What was left of it,” David amended gently. “Ruins amid the olive trees. All that’s left of your grandfather’s house is its foundation and fragments of ceramic dishes. The village as you imagine it exists only in your parents’ memory.”

  Hana’s face turned somber. “Did you tell them this?”

  “I couldn’t. Not after your father showed me his grandfather’s deed.”

  “Then you did a kindness.” Suddenly, tears welled in Hana’s eyes. “I wish you could hold me, David. Just for a moment.”

  But he could not. Nor, as much as he wished it, could he yet be sure she was innocent. Faced with a trial, he could not lose himself.

  “I’m sorry, Hana. It’s become my job to free you, not love you.”

  He clung to that as he left, Hana watching him through the glass.

  2

  David’s next step was to hire a jury consultant, a sleek former marketing executive named Ellen Castle, whose blond mane, chic style, and surgical enhancements belied her keen grasp of trial dynamics.

  They sat in his office a half hour after sunrise, drinking coffee while David outlined his tactical dilemma. “I’ve got two potential defenses,” he summarized. “The one I’d like to put on is a conspiracy involving Israelis, Hamas, and maybe Hana’s husband. But the judge won’t let me go
there unless I come up with proof.

  “The defense Marnie Sharpe hopes to stick me with is confined to arguing reasonable doubt: that Jefar may be lying or deluded; that the evidence against Hana was planted by someone else. The problem is that I can’t offer an alternative explanation that points to Hana’s innocence—or at least suggests a conspiracy so complicated that a juror inclined to skepticism might feel sufficient doubt.”

  Castle flicked back her hair. “If you have to try the case Sharpe’s way, can you get the judge to bar Jefar’s testimony on hearsay grounds? It seems like his whole story depends on what Hassan told him.”

  “If Judge Taylor keeps him off the stand,” David responded, “then Sharpe’s case collapses. I’ve got a shot at that. But it would take real guts on Taylor’s part to kick Hana loose without a trial.”

  Castle pondered this. “If Jefar testifies,” she said at length, “and all Taylor lets you do is harp on reasonable doubt, your client’s in deep trouble.”

  Though David had always known this, to hear it from an expert was depressing. “So far,” he told her, “the Israeli government won’t tell me what they know. My potential witnesses to a conspiracy are dead. Except in the case of Muhammad Nasir, I can’t even claim to know who killed them. All I’ve got is questions without answers.”

  Castle frowned at the quandary this presented, then asked, “I assume you want me to pull together a mock jury for you to present your case to, then focus-group their reactions. The question is, Which case?”

  David finished his coffee, examining the grounds at the bottom of his cup. “The lousy one,” he answered. “Reasonable doubt. That’s the only defense I’m sure I’ve got.”

  When David listened to his voice mail, there was a message from Zev Ernheit.

  It was evening in Israel; David reached Zev in a noisy café in Tel Aviv, sharing dinner with his wife and several friends. “God knows who else is listening to this conversation,” Zev said over the chatter. “But let me find a quiet place on the sidewalk, so at least it won’t include the people in this room.”