Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  As David had instructed, Hana gazed back at the jurors, hoping to establish some human connection. “Yet this,” David told them abruptly, “is as good as the prosecution’s case will ever get: a snitch who knows nothing about whether the defendant is innocent or guilty, and two pieces of ‘evidence’ that make no sense. Ms. Sharpe’s case is so flimsy not because she hasn’t tried but because it’s all that those who framed Hana Arif could manage to concoct. Yet their plan has one overwhelming virtue: if the woman they framed knows nothing, then we will never know who really planned the murder of Amos Ben-Aron.

  “How perfect,” David said with real sarcasm. “Ms. Sharpe blames Ms. Arif for the silence of the innocent and her lawyer for not being able to identify the guilty. But only the guilty can speak to this crime. And where it matters most, Ms. Sharpe herself is silent—silent about the questions she hopes you will not ask; silent about the answers she cannot give you.

  “It is up to you to demand them. And if she still cannot answer, you must tell her and the world that we do not convict a woman of murder because she’s all the government has.”

  Pausing, David studied the expressions of the jurors—puzzled, doubtful, waiting to be persuaded. But he had done all he could. There were two things he could not do: name an alternative to Hana or change the fact that all Sharpe need do was to address Hana’s supposed role in the assassination. The trial had begun as he had feared it would.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, and sat down beside his client.

  5

  In search of a dramatic opening, Sharpe called as her first witness James Emmons, head of the Secret Service detail assigned to protect Prime Minister Ben-Aron.

  His testimony was as David expected, a recitation of the bombing and its aftermath, delivered with an air of quiet understatement that seemed to emphasize the horror Emmons was describing to the jurors. But Sharpe left nothing to their imagination: over David’s vehement objections, she introduced an amateur video of Ben-Aron’s last minutes.

  In the darkened courtroom, a paralegal from Sharpe’s office began to run the video. It had been filmed on Fourth Street, David knew, a few yards from where he and Carole had stood. Soundless images filled the giant screen: Ben-Aron, waving through the window; the black cars gliding past, guarded by police on motorcycles, presenting an image of impregnability and power. Then a motorcycle veered toward the car, Iyad Hassan’s. Watching this, David tensed, dreading what he had already seen.

  A second motorcycle, Ibrahim Jefar’s, glided nearer Ben-Aron’s window. Jefar glanced toward Hassan, as though looking for a signal. Without looking at Jefar, Hassan angled his motorcycle toward Ben-Aron’s limousine.

  In slow motion Hassan was three feet from it, then two. A spray of Hassan’s blood and brains rose into the air just before the limousine exploded, vanishing in fire and smoke that spewed pieces of metal in all directions.

  Hana gasped softly, grasping David’s arm. Amid the flying debris he saw human limbs; Ibrahim Jefar catapulting sideways; his motorcycle tilting, then falling. Iyad Hassan had vanished.

  The screen went dark. Still transfixed, David remembered Carole, trembling in his arms. “You need to let go,” David whispered to Hana, and her fingers slipped away from his wrist.

  The courtroom deputy switched the lights on. Blinking and disoriented, the jurors gazed at the empty screen. Bob Clair’s slender face was drained of color.

  Sharpe stood where she had before, a few feet from the witness. Emmons regarded her with stoic misery. “Does that film,” she asked him, “accurately reflect the bombing as you saw it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the prime minister’s limousine was totally destroyed?”

  “It was. And everyone in it—the prime minister, Rodney Daves, and Ariel Glick. There were no bodies, only scraps.”

  “How well did you know Rodney Daves?”

  Though Emmons still looked in Sharpe’s direction, his eyes seemed clouded. “I’m godfather to his children, Clay and Amy. I was the one who called his wife.”

  This was where David would have ended, and where Sharpe chose to finish. With a look of dour satisfaction, she told Judge Taylor, “No further questions.”

  Taylor silently regarded the jury. David saw the youngest juror, Rosella Suarez, dabbing at her eyes with a twisted piece of Kleenex. “Let’s recess for ten minutes,” the judge suggested.

  Hana and David sat in a stark witness room, drinking coffee. “Emmons’s testimony would have done the job,” he said. “But Sharpe wanted to horrify the jury.”

  Hana looked pale. “Because it makes a death sentence easier to get? Or just to make the jury hungrier to convict me?”

  David did not answer. “I’ll try to make Sharpe pay the price,” he promised.

  David strolled toward Emmons, hands in his pockets, standing a respectful distance from the witness. In a tone of mild curiosity, David asked, “Do you happen to know, Agent Emmons, how the assassins came to be on Fourth Street?”

  Emmons shook his head. “No.”

  “Then let me see if I understand your procedures. Two days prior to the prime minister’s arrival, a small working group of the Secret Service, the Israelis, and the SFPD—acting under your direction—chose his route to the airport.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the route you chose took Market Street to Tenth Street, not Fourth Street.”

  “That’s also true.”

  David cocked his head. “When did the route change?”

  Emmons shifted in the witness chair. “Twenty minutes before Mr. Ben-Aron departed from the Commonwealth Club. It was just an extra precaution.”

  “Who was supposed to know about the change?”

  “Just the members of our joint protective detail.”

  Briefly scanning the jury, David saw that they were attentive, seemingly less stricken than before. “Did you personally communicate the change in route?”

  “Yes. By secure cell phone to the Secret Service agent driving the lead car; the head of the Israeli detail, Shlomo Avner; and John Russo, head of Dignitary Protection for the SFPD. They were charged with informing their respective people.”

  “And did they?”

  Emmons crossed his arms. “Obviously so. The motorcade turned down Fourth Street.”

  “Where Hassan and Jefar were waiting.”

  “Yes.”

  David summoned a puzzled look. “So who called them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They weren’t on the list of people to call, I take it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Nonetheless, someone in the detail—a Secret Service agent, an Israeli agent, or one of the police—must have called them.”

  Sharpe stood at once. “Objection,” she called out. “The question asks for speculation.”

  As Taylor turned to David, he countered, “There are only so many possibilities, Your Honor. I think we can trust this witness to sort them out.”

  “Agreed. You may answer the question, Agent Emmons.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Emmons told David. “The other is that somehow Hassan and Jefar intercepted our communications—”

  “In which case,” David interrupted, “they wouldn’t have needed a handler—allegedly Ms. Arif—to tell them of the change in route.”

  Emmons looked momentarily startled. “I suppose not.”

  David smiled faintly. “In that case, we can all go home.”

  “Objection,” Sharpe called out with real heat. “We allege that Ms. Arif recruited Iyad Hassan. And who, I might ask, directed these two men to the explosives?”

  “Who indeed?” David asked the judge. “But let me withdraw the question, and ask the witness whether he has any information connecting Ms. Arif to any of the paraphernalia used by the assassins.”

  Seemingly distracted by the swift exchange, Emmons took a moment to answer. “I do not.”

  “All right. In addition to the possibility of a c
ommunications intercept, did the FBI and the Secret Service—specifically including you—investigate the possibility that someone on the Secret Service detail or the SFPD tipped the assassins to the change of route?”

  “We did,” Emmons answered. “We interrogated each of our people and the police involved, administered polygraphs, and reviewed their phone and financial records for any peculiarities. We even replicated the background investigations for every one of them. We found nothing that would raise suspicion.”

  “What about the Israelis?”

  Emmons hesitated, clearly torn between his human desire to deflect the blame and his professional obligation to assist the prosecution within the bounds of truth. “We made no inquiries of the members of Israel’s protective detail. My understanding is that the Israeli government is carrying out its own investigation.”

  “Do you know anything about what they’ve found?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Except, of course, that nothing they’ve found implicates Ms. Arif.”

  “Objection,” Sharpe said swiftly. “The question has no foundation. If Agent Emmons knows nothing, by definition he can’t know that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” David asked the judge with an air of bemusement. “Wouldn’t Ms. Sharpe? It defies belief that the Israeli government would conceal information connecting Ms. Arif to the murder of its own prime minister.”

  A glint of amusement surfaced in the judge’s eyes. “Your argument has a certain logic,” she told David. “But Ms. Sharpe can only give us what she has. If her case includes no witness from Israel, that speaks for itself. Please ask another question.”

  Satisfied, David glanced past the jury at Avi Hertz, so inscrutable he seemed waxen. Casually, David asked the witness, “Have you heard of a man named Barak Lev?”

  Emmons’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. He is—or was—a settler on the West Bank, the leader of an extremist group called the Masada movement. Their goal is to drive the Palestinians from the West Bank, which they believe was granted to Israel by God.”

  “Didn’t like Amos Ben-Aron much, did he? In fact, didn’t Lev prophesy that God would strike Ben-Aron dead?”

  Folding his hands in front of him, Emmons considered his answer. “From their statements, Lev and others in the Masada movement believed Ben-Aron would abandon them to the Palestinians. And so they believed that God must kill him.”

  Hands on hips, David looked at Emmons askance. “Prior to Ben-Aron’s arrival, did the Secret Service compile what it calls a ‘watch list’ of people in America who might pose a serious threat to Ben-Aron?”

  Suddenly aware of where David was headed, Sharpe stood reflexively, as though to object, then seemed to think better of it. “Yes,” Emmons answered tersely.

  “And did the list include American Jews sympathetic to the Masada movement?”

  “It did,” Emmons responded pointedly. “But primarily in Brooklyn.”

  David decided to let this go. “Are you familiar with a man named Hillel Markis?”

  “Yes.” Once more, Emmons hesitated. “He was a member of the Israeli security detail protecting Ben-Aron in San Francisco.”

  “Are you also aware that Markis and Lev not only served in the army together but were, in fact, close friends?”

  Emmons shook his head. “I have no firsthand knowledge of that.”

  David paused a moment. “I notice that you spoke of Markis in the past tense.”

  “I did,” Emmons answered. “Because he’s dead.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Plainly aware of David’s role in Markis’s death, Emmons shot him a look of veiled hostility. “He died in a suicide bombing. In Tel Aviv.”

  “Do you know whether anyone else was killed or wounded?”

  “Just the bomber. Markis was alone.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “Has anyone claimed responsibility for the bombing?”

  “No.”

  Abruptly, Marnie Sharpe stood up. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

  Following Sharpe, David joined her in huddling before Judge Taylor. “Your Honor,” Sharpe said with considerable vehemence, “the last four questions should disqualify Mr. Wolfe from continuing as counsel for Ms. Arif. With an air of innocence, he asks this witness for his secondhand knowledge of two murders witnessed, or nearly so, by Mr. Wolfe himself. He can’t be both witness and counsel.”

  “I don’t propose to be,” David responded evenly. “We’ve been over this already. There’s no dispute that Lev and Markis are as dead as the prime minister. I wish I’d had no connection whatsoever to these deaths. But there are other witnesses to all three of them, and Ms. Arif wants me as her counsel.”

  Taylor turned to Sharpe. “I won’t prejudge your motion to disqualify Mr. Wolfe, if that’s what you’re suggesting. We can recess the trial and have this out. But the outcome isn’t obvious, and Ms. Arif ’s desire to have Mr. Wolfe as her lawyer weighs heavily with me. So let me pose a practical question: if I decide to disqualify Mr. Wolfe, are you willing to have a new trial, with new counsel, perhaps months or years away? Or are you content to try the case against Mr. Wolfe?”

  Both he and Sharpe, David understood, were staring into a dark hole of uncertainty: though Sharpe wished to be rid of David, the resulting delay might help Hana’s case more than the prosecution’s. For an instant, David even hoped that this might happen. Frowning, Sharpe asked, “Can I take this under advisement?”

  “Only until nine a.m. tomorrow,” the judge said curtly. “In the meanwhile, I’m allowing Mr. Wolfe to continue his cross-examination.”

  As David walked away, he saw a curious double image: Hana’s look of gratitude and worry; Saeb, sitting behind her, watching David’s face. Turning back to the witness, David said, “We were discussing the murder of Hillel Markis. Was Barak Lev also murdered?”

  “Yes. By a sniper, one day after Markis.”

  “Then let’s summarize: a member of Ben-Aron’s security detail, Hillel Markis, was close to the head of the Masada movement, Barak Lev, who wished aloud for God to strike down Ben-Aron. Ben-Aron is killed; then Markis; then Lev. Is all that correct?”

  “As I understand it, yes.”

  “Do you know who killed Markis and Lev?”

  “I do not. All I know is that both were murdered in Israel.”

  Walking to the defendant’s table, David stood beside Hana. “Are you aware of any connection between Ms. Arif and Markis or Lev?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then let’s return to your watch list of people who might pose a threat to Prime Minister Ben-Aron. To your knowledge, did it include anyone affiliated with the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade?”

  Emmons shot the quickest of glances at Marnie Sharpe. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And yet Ibrahim Jefar claims to have been acting for Al Aqsa.”

  “So I understand.”

  David moved closer. “In your estimate, Agent Emmons, was the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron the work of professionals?”

  “It was highly professional, yes.”

  “Do you believe Al Aqsa capable of such an operation in the United States?”

  “No. Al Aqsa lacks sufficient infrastructure.”

  Glancing at the jury, David caught Bob Clair’s look of perplexity. “Are you aware of any connection between Al Aqsa and Hana Arif?” David asked.

  “I am not,” Emmons said emphatically.

  The tone of this answer suggested a partial breakthrough: though an official of the government, Emmons seemed troubled by the holes in its case. “As a member of the Secret Service,” David asked, “are you aware that other Middle Eastern countries are hostile to the State of Israel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which of these countries has the capacity in the United States to support a complex operation like this assassination?”

  Emmons seemed to stir. “Iran,” he said flatly. “Specifically,
Iranian intelligence.”

  “And are you aware of any connection between Ms. Arif and Iranian intelligence?”

  For longer than the question merited, Emmons contemplated his answer. Again, David felt a curious duality pervade the courtroom: the jury and the media, unaware of what lay behind David’s questions; the witness and the prosecutor, both on edge, fully alert to where David might be heading. Saeb, though expressionless, seemed preternaturally still.

  “No,” the witness answered. “Not between the Iranians and the defendant.”

  “Thank you,” David said. “I have no further questions.”

  6

  In David’s dream, a solitary woman shrouded in a black cloak and hood entered a dark alley in a surreal replica of a refugee camp, her movements tentative and fearful, her head turning from side to side. She was separated from David by a barbed-wire fence: all that he could discern was that the woman was of Hana’s size, and that her movements seemed familiar. Though he wished to help her, the shadowy figure, coming closer, filled him with apprehension.

  As she passed through the alley, tombstones appeared behind her. David leaned against the wire, its barbs pricking his forehead.

  A foot away, the woman reached out with one slender arm, her delicate fingers touching his. “Help me,” she said in perfect English.

  “Who are you?”

  The woman did not answer. As David strained to see her features in the half-light, she slowly drew back her hood, freeing her long black hair.

  The woman was a girl: Munira.