Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  “I didn’t know your sensibilities were quite that tender,” David answered sardonically. “I’ll leave it to you and Sharpe to come up with something that allows the U.S. to save face and my client to go free. But at an absolute minimum, the Israeli government will have to tell the world that it can’t comply with Judge Taylor’s order.”

  Hertz considered this. “When you say ‘go free’—”

  “I mean go anywhere she wants. Here, I hope—I want the U.S. to agree to that up front. But wherever she chooses to live, I’d want you to guarantee that you’ll never lay a glove on her.”

  “And if she wants to return to the West Bank?”

  The question aroused in David a deep feeling of dismay. “We both may hope she doesn’t,” he answered. “But ‘free’ means just that.”

  Hertz focused his gaze on Alcatraz. “And if I manage to accomplish all these wonders?”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll want very little from me,” David said with quiet sarcasm. “Merely to abandon those in Israel who want peace, and let the Palestinians serve as scapegoats for Iran’s little game of geopolitics. At whatever cost to all of them.”

  “Sadly,” Hertz corrected, “I want even more than that, however distasteful it may be to both of us as people. You will tell Hana Arif nothing of this conversation—I don’t want to arouse her patriotic fervor, so that she decides to exculpate her fellow Palestinians by blaming Iran prematurely. And all three of you—Arif, you, and your daughter—will be silent, as if your lives depended on it. Which they may.

  “So yes, this means that you will have to betray the people who helped you in Israel, as well as many Palestinians more innocent, perhaps, than your client. Otherwise, we will try her in Israel, and the girl will learn the truth. So if we give Arif her freedom without the exoneration you seek, too bad. She’ll have to suffer her damaged reputation without complaint or comment, no matter how many people still consider her a murderer. Better that than death or a life sentence.”

  David was silent. He despised turning his back on those Israelis with whom he sympathized—Moshe Howard, Avi Masur, and Anat Ben-Aron—while consigning Palestinians to the role of scapegoat. But he was, in the end, Hana’s lawyer. “We’ll have a deal,” he said with deep reluctance, “the moment Hana goes free. But not before, and not if you so much as lay a hand on her anytime later.”

  For a long time, Hertz merely watched David’s face, his own expression neutral. “I think we understand each other,” he said. “Perhaps, in time, the truth can emerge without us.”

  Calling out to his driver, Hertz pointed toward the shore. The minutes it took to get there passed in silence. When they reached the St. Francis Yacht Club, David and the Israeli parted without a word.

  David stood alone on the pier, gazing at the commonplace sight of two sailboats tacking with the wind in front of the barren rock of Alcatraz. He could scarcely believe what had just transpired, or the role that fate was forcing him to play. Nor was he certain that Hertz could achieve what David had asked. All he could do was wait.

  For a moment, oddly, David’s thoughts turned to Ibrahim Jefar, condemned to die in a federal prison. Whatever the truth, Jefar was a plaything of history. But all of them—Hana, David, Munira, Saeb, even Amos Ben-Aron—had become the playthings of history. All that remained was to see what history offered those who remained alive.

  21

  David spent the next three days willing himself to prepare for the trial as though he had no hope of freeing Hana. But hope kept breaking his concentration, most insistently when he outlined his questions for Munira. His other distraction—the thought that he might be in considerable danger—surfaced most often in public places, and at night. He was not quite as dismissive of this fear as logic told him he should be; the act of killing someone was so foreign to him that he could not quite believe that it was governed by the rules of reason.

  But on the surface, little happened. His three days were hermetic, as though he were waiting for some fuller, more human life to resume. He could not stop wondering how Marnie Sharpe was spending the weekend, what discussions were taking place between Israel and the United States. David took no press calls; though the media was filled with speculation, no one came close to the story David and Avi Hertz had crafted in the middle of San Francisco Bay. That story would become “real,” David knew, only if Sharpe made it so on Monday. Until then, he tried not to imagine the life Hana and Munira would lead thereafter.

  Monday morning dawned bright and crisp. David tried to see that as an omen.

  At nine a.m., instead of reconvening in a courtroom filled with avid reporters, Judge Taylor summoned David and Sharpe to her chambers. “You wanted to meet in private,” she said to Sharpe. “What is it?”

  Sitting in a chair beside David, Sharpe seemed composed but quietly miserable, an advocate about to relinquish an obsession—the hope of winning a high-profile trial in which she had invested countless hours and every last particle of her abilities, a trial that would be remembered when every other case she tried was long forgotten. Without looking at David, she spoke in a monotone, as though reciting a statement written by someone else.

  “The government,” she told Judge Taylor, “wishes to dismiss the case against Ms. Arif, without prejudice to our ability to refile it should new evidence come to light.

  “We’re far from convinced that she’s innocent. But Mr. Khalid’s testimony raises questions that his death makes difficult to answer.”

  Taylor looked at her keenly. “That might be grounds for a mistrial,” the judge cut in. “What about the Israeli government? I ordered it to send a representative.”

  “That’s the second factor in our decision,” Sharpe said in the same grudging tone. “The government of Israel has authorized us to say that it is aware of information regarding the broader conspiracy—none of which in itself exculpates Ms. Arif, but which is implicated by Mr. Wolfe’s defense and this court’s order of last Thursday. For reasons of national security, and so as not to jeopardize Israel’s ongoing inquiry into the conspiracy to assassinate Prime Minister Ben-Aron, Israel does not wish to provide these materials to the defense.”

  Could this be over? David thought in wonder.

  “I’m also authorized to say,” Sharpe continued, “that based on the record and other facts that are not yet public, the Israeli government believes that Saeb Khalid was complicit in the assassination. All our government need say is that Israel’s position and the events of the trial create sufficient ambiguity to justify dismissal. There’s no statute of limitations for murder, and this crime is plainly too serious for us to stop investigating. But that’s our position until further notice.”

  “So Hana is stuck in limbo,” David said to Sharpe. “What makes you think the case against her will ever get any better—”

  “Don’t press your luck,” the judge interrupted with a tight smile. “And just so you don’t tantalize yourself with the specter of total victory, Mr. Wolfe, the best I’d have done for you is a mistrial.” Turning to Sharpe, she added, “But I must tell you, Ms. Sharpe, that I doubt a reasonable jury would convict Ms. Arif unless you come up with more than I think you ever will. So don’t stay up nights brooding about how Mr. Wolfe has gamed the system.

  “At the risk of sounding cynical, Mr. Wolfe may not be the only one whose sense of the rules is, shall we say, elastic. It occurs to me that Israel may want you to dismiss the case so it can extradite Arif for trial in Israel. I hope they understand that I won’t provide a sympathetic venue for an extradition motion.”

  “The State of Israel,” Sharpe responded, “has authorized me to say that it will not seek extradition.”

  The judge raised her eyebrows. “Someone,” she said, “seems to have thought of nearly everything. Are there any other outstanding issues, Mr. Wolfe?”

  David nodded. “There are some practical considerations, Your Honor. I believe that Ms. Arif and her daughter may be in danger if they return to the West Bank. I
’d like them to be able to remain in the United States indefinitely.”

  Sharpe’s repressed annoyance surfaced in her eyes. “Hoping for joint custody?” she asked in mildly caustic tones. “Or just weekend visitation?”

  “Now that you’ve made this personal,” David answered coolly, “I’m hoping for a living daughter. I’m also hoping that the government is competent enough to keep the Iranians from killing anyone else in San Francisco—”

  “Enough,” the judge interrupted tartly. “Do you have a more helpful response, Ms. Sharpe?”

  Sharpe paused, her expression glum. “The United States will extend Ms. Arif ’s visa, and that of Munira Khalid, for one year’s time, pending further action by Immigration and the Department of State. During that time, they can petition for permanent residence on whatever grounds they choose.”

  David felt his body relax, even as he could hardly believe Hana’s change in fortune. “Are there any other variations you wish to work on this dream deal?” the judge asked him dryly. “Short of an executive pardon, that is.”

  “Yes. Protection of Hana and Munira should they choose to stay. At least for the year’s period Ms. Sharpe mentioned.”

  “I think that’s reasonable,” Taylor told Sharpe. “Saeb Khalid could have used it—which is one reason why we’re here.”

  Sharpe nodded. “We’ll work out the details with Mr. Wolfe.” Turning to David, she said, “For your part, we expect that you and your client will agree to make no statement about the case, including about who may have authored this conspiracy. No press conferences, no anonymous whispers. Nothing.”

  So this, David thought, was how Hertz meant to enforce silence: a lifetime gag order in exchange for Hana’s freedom. “That’s acceptable,” he answered, “just as long as Hana isn’t charged again. Also that no one on your end talks about Munira’s paternity or what she might have learned about Khalid. If not, all bets are off.”

  The judge looked from Sharpe to David. “Silence isn’t enforceable,” she said, “but it certainly seems advisable for all of us.” Pausing, the judge gave David a slight smile. “Someone really has thought of everything, haven’t they?”

  David gave no answer; the judge expected none. “Let’s go to court,” she said after a moment. “Then we can kick your client, and your daughter, loose.”

  Leaving the judge’s chambers, Sharpe and David paused in the hallway.

  Sharpe summoned a wintry smile. “You’ve done it,” she said. “Just what you intended from the beginning. You played Israel off against the United States and made the cost of prosecuting too high for Israel to pay.”

  David did not return her smile; on this point, he could feel no elation. “The cost,” he answered, “was even higher than I thought.”

  “Too many deaths, you mean?”

  “Too many deaths, too much knowledge.” He paused, then added wearily, “Some days, Marnie, I feel like the guy who bit the apple.”

  She looked at him askance. “So what else do you know? Was Munira really with Khalid for the entire time in which the handler called Iyad Hassan?”

  “I don’t know about that,” David answered. “Unless I choose to press Munira, I may never know. But Hana passed a polygraph. And nothing she ever said about this case—to the FBI, to me, or to you—ever turned out to be a lie. Except, perhaps, when it came to protecting Munira.”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Sharpe retorted. “Whether Arif helped her husband in order to protect Munira—Khalid’s blackmail as opposed to your graymail.”

  David shook his head. “Once Hana was charged, she would have implicated Saeb before she’d let him raise Munira.”

  “That’s just speculation,” Sharpe said dismissively. “Which is pretty much all we’re left with.” Her tone became more fatalistic than angry. “I hate losing like this—you know that. But now that we’re here, I’m not sure how much I’d have liked winning either. I felt too much like a pawn, and I wasn’t sure whose. There’s no ending that quite satisfies, is there?”

  So Sharpe felt it too. “No,” David answered. “But this is the only ending I could live with.”

  Sharpe gave him a last, dubious smile. “Then I hope you get some good out of it,” she said and, abruptly turning, marched ahead of David to the courtroom.

  Four hours later, David awaited Hana outside the federal detention center.

  Flanked by two marshals, she emerged, dressed in the clothes she had worn on the night of her arrest. She stopped for a moment, blinking in the sunlight. Then, leaving the marshals, she walked toward David. A foot in front of him, she stopped again, aware of the media on the other side of the fence. Then she took his hands and looked up into his face.

  “Thank you,” she said, eyes glistening. “But that is hardly enough. You’ve given me back my life, and my daughter.”

  David tried to smile. “That’s what you hired me for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And the only one who paid for that was you.” Briefly, Hana lowered her gaze. “Whatever happens, David, I have to see you. Not like this, and not in a courtroom or an office.”

  He could not tell what this meant. Still conscious of the cameras, she stepped away from him and turned to the marshals. Briefly, she looked back. Then the marshals escorted her to the van that would begin her journey to wherever she and Munira chose.

  22

  The afternoon passed in a blur, David warding off the media with a carefully crafted mantra: Hana was innocent; the dismissal her vindication; her release the beginning of a life she wished to share only with a daughter shaken by the death of Saeb Khalid. Hana had never wanted to be a public figure, David emphasized, and she did not want mistaken charges or unanswered questions about her husband to keep her in the public eye. What she needed was to heal, and this required that she say nothing more—now or ever—than she already had said in court. This chapter of her life was done.

  For the most part, the media was disbelieving or offended—reporters were used to functioning as a hall of mirrors through which persons thrust into the spotlight, however accidentally, paraded with a quickly acquired narcissism. That was their expectation of Hana, and of David. They did not know, of course, that his silence was the price of Hana’s freedom. Nor would they ever learn, if David could help it, the deeper reasons, buried in the past, that the reticence of both lawyer and client was not merely their desire but their need.

  And so when David returned to his flat in the Marina, a man with no clear vision of his future, he ignored the cadre of reporters gathered by his driveway and the ringing of his telephone and doorbell. Four hours later, when he glanced out the living room window, the reporters were gone.

  At a little past nine o’clock that night, David heard a soft knock on his door. Rising from the chair where he sat in the semidarkness, he peered through the peephole.

  Surprised, David opened the door.

  Hana wore jeans and a sweater. She stood on his doorstep, unsure of herself, awaiting his invitation to enter. “I tried to call,” she said at last.

  David mustered a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you quite this soon.”

  He backed away from the door. Glancing over her shoulder, Hana slipped inside.

  They stood in the alcove, looking at each other. “This feels so strange,” she said finally. “Sometimes I imagined being alone with you again, a girl’s fantasy. But I never believed it would happen.”

  David tilted his head. “Who’s with Munira?”

  “Nisreen.” Hana hesitated. “Munira is asleep.”

  David could feel the beating of his pulse. “And if she were awake?”

  “There are things I cannot yet say to her. I can hardly say them to you.” Her voice was thick with sadness and remorse. “I don’t know your feelings, David, and there could be so many. I was selfish when we were young, selfish when I asked you to defend me. I will try to be less selfish now. If it is better that I go, I would understand.”

  David shook his head
. Then, instinctively, he put his arms around her. He could sense Hana closing her eyes as she let her body relax against him. Silent, they held each other, rocking gently. “And what is it you want?” he murmured.

  She leaned back, looking up into his eyes again. “To stay,” she answered simply. “To have this time with you, however we choose to spend it.”

  David gazed into her face, so lovely that, this close, it almost hurt to look at her. Then his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, and he bent his face toward hers.

  Her mouth was soft and warm, at once strange and familiar. David felt the two of them suspended in time, unconscious of anything else, uncertain whether this was past or present. And then the hunger for her returned, the sense of passion deferred, of years falling away. What this meant no longer mattered.

  His lips found the hollow of her neck. Hana shivered, pressing hard against him. Taking her hand, David led her to the bedroom.

  As they undressed, their eyes never left each other’s. He could feel the beating of his own pulse, see Hana’s desire so intensely that it was almost painful. She was even more beautiful than the woman he had remembered against his will.

  Transfixed, they slid between cool sheets, her breasts grazing his chest. At once, they were frenzied, less tender than demanding, ripping away the past with equal ruthlessness until both of them cried out.

  Afterward, he touched her cheek with curled fingers, looking into the eyes of a woman he could not be sure he knew. “Was this just gratitude?” he asked.

  Her eyes filmed with tears. “If you could see inside me, you wouldn’t ask. I’ve had thirteen years to think of you. But I didn’t know you anymore. So I’ve loved how I remembered you, or my imaginings of who you had become.” Briefly, she looked away. “I told myself that my memory of desiring you was a trick of the mind—that I could not have lost myself like this. Now I know that I did, and could so easily again.

  “But so much has happened to us. You’re so much more self-protective than I remembered, perhaps because of me. And all I can do now is feel sorry for all you’ve lost.”