David waited, listening as the background noise became the sounds of urban traffic. “So far,” Ernheit said in a softer voice, “I’ve found out nothing about this crime lab. But I do have something on Khalid’s visits to Jordan, though I can’t tell you where I got it. How does a side trip to Iran strike you?”
David stood. “When?”
“About three years ago. A Palestinian can’t fly from Israel to Tehran, but flying there from Amman is no problem.”
“How long was he there?”
“Two days. We don’t know what he did, or who he saw. But when he came back to the West Bank through Israeli border control, all his passport showed was a stamp from the Jordanians for reentry into Jordan. His entry into Iran wasn’t recorded.”
David considered several questions, then asked the obvious one. “Then how did they know Saeb was even there?”
“He told them. Flipping through his passport, one of our people noticed he’d entered Jordan twice, three days apart, with no record that he’d ever left. Khalid readily admitted that he’d been to Iran and said he had no idea why they’d failed to stamp his passport. He hadn’t noticed it, he claimed, but who knows the ways of bureaucrats.”
“Did he explain why he was there?”
“A whim. As a resident of the West Bank, he was prevented by the Israelis from traveling to Iran; as a professor of international relations, he wanted to see Iran for himself. I’m told he was pretty cheeky about it.”
“Did your intelligence people buy that?”
Ernheit laughed briefly. “Not entirely. But they could hardly call the Iranian secret intelligence service. So all they could do was keep an eye on Khalid.
“To what end, I don’t know. Except that there’s no evidence of further trips to Iran. Of course, we don’t have the manpower to constantly watch every person who hates us, or hangs out with people who do.”
“On the later trips, do we know what he did in Amman besides see a doctor?”
“My anonymous friends may,” Ernheit said, “but they’re not saying. Whatever he did, no one arrested him for it. Our government even let him travel to America.”
David pondered this. “I assume the Iranians are active in Amman.”
“Of course,” Ernheit answered. “As they are in many places.”
“Thanks, Zev. Go back and enjoy dinner.”
That afternoon, David and Bryce Martel walked on Baker Beach. It was unseasonably warm, even for October, and families and couples strolled along the sand or waded into the chill, lapping surf in shorts or rolled-up jeans. Ahead, a young couple tossed a Frisbee for a retriever, who snatched it from the waves, shaking the water out of his fur as his owners meandered toward the Golden Gate Bridge, its span bright orange in the distance.
“Would the Iranians assassinate Ben-Aron?” Bryce asked rhetorically. “You know about their operation against Israelis in Argentina. But few people know that, several years ago, we uncovered evidence that the Iranian secret intelligence service was plotting to kill the director of our NSA.”
“That takes a lot of nerve.”
“Our man had hit a nerve by strongly opposing Iran’s nuclear program. For a while the director worked in an underground location with Secret Service protection.” Martel stopped to peel off his windbreaker, stretching his arms as he did. “I’m getting stiffer every day—rigor mortis by degrees. Old age seems to be God’s way of preparing us to die.”
David shoved his hands in his pockets. “If the Iranians wanted to kill our NSA director, why not Ben-Aron?”
In silence, they followed the cavorting dog along the water’s edge. “Iran has a history of playing geopolitics,” Martel responded after a time. “Iran’s main connection has been to Islamic Jihad. But it has links to Hamas. And, like Hamas, Iran despises Faras for talking peace with Ben-Aron.
“Given that, I can see the Iranians recruiting someone like Iyad Hassan even without the blessing of Hamas. And if the stakes involve developing nuclear weapons before anyone can stop them, they might take some pretty tall chances.”
“Suppose Iran lobbed a nuclear weapon on Tel Aviv.”
Martel emitted a harsh laugh. “You’ve seen Israel. It’s a strip of land on the Mediterranean. One or two warheads would kill hundreds of thousands of Israelis in an instant—crushed in buildings, torn to shreds by flying glass, or just incinerated. Others would die in firestorms, or from radiation poisoning. Medical facilities would be overwhelmed, water supplies unusable, housing and shelter unavailable, transportation and communication decimated.
“Normal human society would cease; the balance of nature would unravel. Unburied corpses and untreated sewage would breed typhus, malaria, and encephalitis. Truly, the living would envy the dead. The fact that Israel might also have destroyed Iran would help them not at all.” Martel shook his head. “That’s why the Iranians desire such a weapon. All they need is to have it, and no one will dare fool with them. They can dominate the Middle East, working to eliminate Israel by less dramatic means. Including an Islamic Palestine.”
David stopped walking, struck by how this narrative made Hana seem so small, a bit player in a ruthless game of nuclear politics. “And Saeb?” he asked.
“Might be an Iranian asset. Do you have any proof of that?”
“None. But let’s assume further that Saeb recruited Hassan, and Hassan recruited Jefar. Could the Iranians come up with the explosives, uniforms, motorcycles, passports, et cetera they needed in America?”
“Yes. Aside from the ringers in their mission at the U.N., they’ve got a network of Iranian émigrés. Iran could even work through Hamas sleepers in places like Berkeley. The Iranians would give their individual assets a piece of the project, none grasping what the pieces added up to. Even Hassan may not have known who he was working for. No one would, except a select few people in Tehran.”
“That leaves Israel. What’s Iran’s capacity there?”
“It has agents in place, mostly Arabs. But your thesis requires a connection between Iranian agents and Lev or Markis.” Martel resumed walking. “I have no problem believing that they shared a common objective: the death of Ben-Aron. But it’s like Mozart meeting Genghis Khan for drinks. They both might like scotch, but who brings them together?
“We’ve been talking for an hour, David. No doubt everything I’ve told you is enthralling. But from where you sit, spinning theories is a waste of time. You’re a lawyer, and lawyers face the impediment of proof.”
Three days later, a group of strangers drove home Martel’s last point.
In David’s conference room, twelve people recruited by Ellen Castle— mainly students and retirees—gathered to consider the case for, and against, Hana Arif. They listened to opening statements delivered by David’s associate, Angel Garriques, in the role of Marnie Sharpe, and David on behalf of Hana; parsed the expected testimony, particularly that of Ibrahim Jefar; and then heard Angel’s summation and David’s pointed response, dissecting the evidence against Hana. Two hours later, they returned a guilty verdict.
Afterward, David interviewed the jurors. The young woman selected as the foreman, a graduate student whose sympathies David had expected, crystallized the reasons. “You’re implying that someone framed your client,” she told David. “But you can’t give us a person, or even a reason why. If you don’t know, who does?”
3
Past midnight, nine hours before the last, crucial hearing in the chambers of Judge Caitlin Taylor, David was still awake.
He was as prepared as he could be. But this did not give him peace, or sleep. At length he put on a sweater and windbreaker and, leaving his flat, walked to the marina and then on the path along the bay, wisps of fog dampening his face, the only sound the deep susurrus of the surf. To experience such dark and solitude was strange, but no more so than to absorb how much his life had changed. When he chose a place to sit, it was on the bench where, months ago, Harold Shorr had implored him not to defend the woman who, thirteen years ag
o, he had loved more than anyone, before or since.
The memory of his conversation with Harold tugged at him; even more acutely than before, David realized that he had also loved Carole’s father and, in the deep way that one loves comfort and generosity and the sense of being at home, Carole herself. And now at last he understood why their identity as Jews was so defining. Israel and Palestine had taught him that.
Since his return, he had been immersed in the task before him: preparing for a trial that, if he did not succeed in stopping it, could cost Hana Arif her life. But he could no longer deny the profound effect of his trip to the Middle East, and all that he had perceived. And so for an hour, observing the streaks of moonlight on an obsidian bay, he allowed his soul to catch up with his body.
The stakes were not just Hana’s life or freedom but the future of a girl whose life Hana seemed to value more than her own. The unreasoning love of a parent for a child had revealed itself to David; the young woman he had loved at Harvard had not yet known how this would feel. This emotion, too, David had begun to comprehend—partly because of Saeb, but also because he had come to care about Munira. All this made Hana’s trial different from any other.
And what of Hana herself? Were she with him now, he might have said much more to her. That he wondered whether she felt for him because the sadness in her life created a space for memories. That were it not for the trial, he might give her the affection she seemed to need, and find out how that felt to both of them. That when he looked at her, he still felt the deep sense, however irrational, that there were feelings between them that transcended where they came from. But now he had seen where she had come from, and he could say none of those things. And as her lawyer, he could not so much as touch her. He could not yet be certain that she was innocent of killing Amos Ben-Aron.
David felt a surge of anger. He hated the choices he had forced himself to make: to be so entwined with Carole and her father and then have their relations so brutally severed was far more painful, he understood, than the loss of his career in politics. Since law school, he had been determined to protect himself from hurt. But he had hurt himself nonetheless; he had made himself into a more reflective, more deliberate version of his father. Hana had not done this to him—he had done it to himself.
But whom could he say this to?
No one. Right now, it was enough for him to know it. And he realized that just as losing Hana all those years ago had made him an emotional somnambulist, her return had reawakened him, forcing him to define himself by instinct, not calculation. He was not yet certain he was grateful—it was unsettling to be so aware of his flaws, his confusion, the raw edges of his emotions, even the simple truth that life cannot be managed. He had not felt so frightened yet so alive since the night Hana had walked out of his life.
Now she was back, to whatever end. And what that end might be was partly in his hands, and partly in the hands of unknown people who did not blink at murder.
At this thought, he looked about him, abruptly wary. But there was no sound except the bay and the rustling of the pine boughs above the bench. He could not fear for himself; the next few weeks would require all the resources he had.
Standing, he walked back to his apartment, his gaze focused on the path before him, his thoughts refocused on the hearing. In the last hours before dawn, he slept.
For this hearing, as before, David and Sharpe had filed their motions under seal, keeping them from anyone outside Judge Taylor’s chambers. David’s papers included a narrative of events in Israel and on the West Bank: the connection between Lev and Markis; their deaths and that of Muhammad Nasir; his meetings with Nasir and the mother of Iyad Hassan. They also contained hearsay, potential leads, evocative but inconclusive facts, and theories and suspicions that David could not prove—Hassan’s possible connections to Hamas and Saeb Khalid; Saeb’s mysterious trip to Iran; Saeb’s access to Hana’s cell phone, computer, and printer. As glue, he emphasized the Israeli government’s continuing refusal to reveal the fruits of its own inquiry. All of which seemed to perplex Judge Taylor without persuading her of what she should do.
When she said as much, David answered simply, “Dismiss the case.”
Her eyes reduced to slits, Marnie Sharpe controlled her tension by scribbling notes. From the end of the conference table, Taylor spoke with uncharacteristic heat, a sign of her own nerves. “Based on what facts, Mr. Wolfe? I can’t dismiss this prosecution on your web of surmise, however disturbing or even shocking some of it may be.”
David was prepared for this. “That’s the precise basis for my motion to dismiss,” he replied. “Ms. Arif should not be punished for my inability to go beyond ‘surmise.’ Ms. Sharpe now concedes the likelihood that Ben-Aron was murdered as the result of a breach in his own security. But how that breach occurred may only be known to the Israelis themselves. And someone—we don’t yet know who—killed the men who most likely were involved—”
“One by a suicide bomber,” Taylor interrupted, “the other by a sniper. How can I make the prosecution be responsible for that?”
“It’s not. But the prosecution is responsible for securing from the Israelis information relevant to Ms. Arif ’s defense, or face dismissal of the case.”
“In other words,” Taylor shot back, “Israel must tell you what it knows about this breach in security—or else. Even if your inquiry provoked the murders you now cite as a reason for dismissal.”
“This court dispatched me to Israel,” David answered firmly, “with instructions to go beyond waiting for its government to help me. I had no choice but to do that. I didn’t kill these men, Your Honor. Someone else did. Their identity and motives are material to the case against Ms. Arif.”
Judge Taylor sat back, gazing at David while she searched for a response. Sharpe’s glance moved from one to the other. “Where does that leave your surmise about Hassan?” Taylor inquired more evenly. “Or Dr. Khalid? Am I supposed to require Ms. Sharpe to secure the cooperation of Hamas, Al Aqsa, and the Iranians? And if they fail to confess to whatever they’re supposed to know, do I just send Ms. Arif on her merry way? Just how far does your argument go?”
“As far as the Israelis, at the least—”
“And if they do cooperate?” Taylor interjected. “Let’s suppose the Israelis can confirm that Lev and Markis helped engineer the assassination. In and of itself, their complicity does not absolve Ms. Arif.”
David felt his confidence evaporating. “Suppose further,” he parried, “that Hillel Markis called the handler for Hassan and Jefar to leak the change of route. The handler either was or wasn’t Hana Arif. Which means that Markis knew whether she was innocent.”
“Not necessarily—at best, all Markis might know is that someone else was also involved.” Taylor’s tone became insistent. “To repeat, Markis is dead. No one thinks the Israelis killed him. And his murder doesn’t disturb the evidence against Hana Arif.”
“Such as it is. There are far too many loose ends here.”
“Yes. Not least in Tehran.”
“For all I know,” David said in desperation, “the Israelis know about that, as well. Markis aside, how can the United States put Hana Arif on trial without knowing more about what is clearly a very complex conspiracy?”
“How many months would that take, Mr. Wolfe? And how can you say with confidence that anything we discovered would help Ms. Arif?” Taylor leaned toward David. “John F. Kennedy has been dead for over forty years. The one thing that seems clear is that Lee Harvey Oswald shot him. Should we now exonerate Oswald because, in some people’s minds, the facts surrounding that core truth remain murky?
“You ask a lot, Counsel. But I should allow Ms. Sharpe to have her say.”
Sharpe, David thought, was so plainly dressed—black suit, white blouse—that her clothes seemed more like armor; her demeanor was so emotionless that this surely took extraordinary effort. “The court has made my points,” she responded. “Ms. Arif ’s motion to dismiss takes pl
ace in a shadowland of conspiracy theories and speculation. This prosecution, by contrast, is grounded in fact.
“Fact: According to Jefar, Hassan told him that Arif is the handler.
“Fact: Hassan had a piece of paper bearing Arif ’s fingerprints and cell phone number.
“Fact: Hassan’s cell phone shows a call to Ms. Arif’s cell phone.
“Fact: Ms. Arif can’t account for her movements in the critical hour before and during the assassination—”
“What about Dr. Khalid?” Taylor interrupted. “He seems to be Mr. Wolfe’s best alternative.”
“Based on what?” Though stiff, Sharpe had the composure of an advocate who had scrutinized this problem from every angle. “No one disputes where Khalid was during the assassination—with his and Arif ’s daughter. Despite this, we’ve questioned Jefar incessantly about Khalid; combed Khalid’s phone record and credit cards; mapped out his movements to the hour; inquired through the Israelis into his relationship with Hassan; and looked into why he traveled to America.”
“Then what about Arif ?” Taylor asked. “According to Mr. Wolfe, the apparent initiative for coming to America wasn’t hers.”
“Apparent initiative,” Sharpe emphasized. “Who knows what really happened? Perhaps the suggestion of Ben-Aron’s critics that Khalid shadow his appearances in the United States was cover for Ms. Arif, part of Mr. Wolfe’s elusive conspiracy—”
“Perhaps,” Taylor interjected with the glimmer of a smile, “it was financed by the Iranians...”
Sharpe spread her arms in a show of helplessness. “Or murderous right-wing settlers. But why would Khalid frame his own wife? That strikes me as a very dangerous thing to do.”
This was true, David thought, and it was the obstacle he returned to over and over. “But let’s revisit,” Sharpe continued, “the core of Mr. Wolfe’s motion: that Ms. Arif should go free unless the government of Israel tells him whatever it knows, despite the fact that the murder of two Israelis demonstrated that to do so might threaten its own investigation, and even Israel’s national security.
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