The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  For another quarter hour, Adam made no effort to communicate with her. Then he placed his jumbo popcorn container on the seat between them and quickly left, as if the bathroom beckoned. But he never returned, and Emma waited what seemed like an eternity before casually reaching for the container. She put her hand in the remaining popcorn and retrieved a small, flat envelope. It reminded her of the toy on the bottom of the Cracker Jack box that her father used to buy her when they visited Franklin Park Zoo. She put the tiny treasure in her pocket, finished the popcorn, and sat through the remainder of the terrible movie, so as not to generate suspicion. When she got outside the theater, she walked directly home to Shimshon’s. She did not notice the man who was discreetly following her from a distance.

  Back at the apartment, she locked herself in the attic room that was hers while she was in Jerusalem. Hanna had furnished it comfortably, with a soft-mattressed bed, a solid pine desk and chair, and a window seat that looked out onto the busy street below. Emma stood in the middle of the room, opened the envelope, and inspected the contents, anxious to see if the Martyrs of Jihad had the money to pull off the American Colony bombing.

  Inside the envelope was a small negative, the size of a dental X-ray, and a many-times-folded paper that had writing on both sides. The negative she set aside, but the paper she read with anticipation. There was nothing on it about Faisal or his group. Instead Emma found herself reading a short dossier about an American Jew named Dov Kahane who divided his time between New York and the West Bank Jewish settlement of Kiryat Arba. The dossier strongly implied that Kahane was implicated in the bombing of the American Colony Hotel. She stared blankly into the mirror Hanna had hung above her desk. The name Dov Kahane seemed familiar. Suddenly she remembered.

  He’d been one of her father’s clients.

  VIII

  TNT

  Boston, Massachusetts

  EMMA! You haven’t called enough!”

  Abe was sitting in his kitchen in Cambridge, the New York Times spread before him. Its front page had three stories related to the bombing. The first was about the growing risk of civil war between Hamas and the Palestinian Authority. The second was about the ongoing investigation of Faisal Husseini. The third was about the political turmoil in Israel, as politicians jockeyed to fill the power vacuum. Emma’s voice was such a welcome surprise that he tipped his cup of coffee over onto the paper. Since Emma had left, his nerves had been on edge. He followed the events in the Mideast with more than professional interest. Only Rendi had kept him from pestering Emma with phone calls. “You have to let her live her life!” Still he called Shimshon frequently to keep up with Emma’s comings and goings.

  The spreading coffee forgotten, he leaped to his feet and began to pace while peppering his daughter with questions. “How’s the case? What’s Husseini like? And Habash? How’s he? Have you gotten the family history from Shimshon like you promised?”

  Emma’s giggle stopped Abe’s questioning. “Daddy, slow down.” She quickly caught him up to speed on the basic facts of the case and then surprised him with the following: “Tell me everything you know about Dov Kahane.”

  If Abe hadn’t already spilled his coffee, he would’ve then. Never in a million years did he expect to hear that name from his daughter’s mouth. Abe had once represented Dov Kahane, the American founder of an offshoot of the Jewish Defense League in Brooklyn, provocatively named TNT. It was an acronym for the Hebrew “Terror Neged Terror,” which meant “Terror Against Terror,” but the initials also described the group’s modus operandi: It responded to Palestinian suicide bombings by detonating explosives in Palestinian offices.

  Abe had been careful to keep Emma from the details of the case. Kahane was suspected of involvement in a car bomb that had blown off the legs of a radical West Bank mayor. Abe had persuaded the United States Attorney that there was insufficient evidence to proceed, but Abe, too, was suspicious of Kahane’s role in the bombing. All Emma had known at the time was that Dov was allegedly connected to a shadowy organization that operated in Israel. She had been applying to colleges during that period and hadn’t paid as much attention as she usually did. And Abe had been glad. He didn’t want her poking her nose around where Dov was concerned. Dov was charismatic—especially to Jewish adolescents—and extremely dangerous. Apparently he was even more dangerous now.

  “Why do you want to know about him?” Abe demanded. “What are you involved in?” As he was speaking, Rendi walked into the kitchen. She’d been at the gym and was wearing a pair of black spandex pants and an old Harvard T-shirt. Dark-skinned and dark-haired, with prominent features, Rendi spoke with an ever-so-slight accent of indeterminate origin. She’d been born in Algeria of Jewish parents, had moved to Israel as a child and then to America to attend school. She looked European to Americans, North African to Israelis, and American to Europeans. She was universally regarded as beautiful, sultry, and mysterious. Though she was now in her forties or fifties—no one knew for sure—she still turned heads. Her boss at the Mossad had once told her, “The only characteristic of a good spy you lack is not being noticed.” Rendi was always noticed. Rendi immediately heard the alarm in Abe’s voice and went stock-still, not budging until he motioned for her to sit down at the table. She moved silently, stealthily, her years as a spy manifesting themselves as she focused all her energy on listening to Abe’s side of the conversation.

  “I’m not involved in anything,” Emma said to Abe. “I’m investigating. My role here is to come up with alternative suspects.”

  Abe knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth. Call it a father’s intuition or the gut feeling of a defense attorney used to evasive clients, but he could hear it in her tone. “And you think TNT is an alternative suspect?” At the mention of the group, Rendi’s brows shot up. Instinctively she fetched her cell phone from the backpack she held on her lap.

  “Maybe,” Emma replied coyly, casually. “Just tell me what you know about them.”

  Abe took a deep breath, unable to quell a feeling of concern. “They were founded by Meir Kahane, before he was murdered by an Arab terrorist. They are technically an Israeli group, but Dov Kahane, Meir’s nephew, who now is the leader, spends a lot of his time here in the States, fund-raising and recruiting.”

  “Do they have any kind of political clout?”

  “Not among mainstream Jews, but they appeal to disaffected Jewish kids—and to some extreme-right-wing adults,” he replied, loosely gripping the back of a kitchen chair and meeting Rendi’s eyes. Without tearing her gaze from his, she punched a number into her phone. Abe continued, “They have small cells all over the world—America, South Africa, France. They have a few wealthy contributors. And they have a lobbying wing in Washington, too, but it doesn’t do much. They’re vehemently opposed to any two-state solution that would end the settlements in the West Bank, where most of them live.”

  “So they have some political connections. And they have money.”

  Abe understood that Emma was thinking out loud, and the conclusions she was drawing worried him. “Some. They’re considered a noble enterprise by a small number of extremist Jewish right-wingers, but they’re despised by the mainstream. Emma, they have a dark underbelly. They are allegedly responsible for some gruesome retaliatory attacks against Arabs. When I worked with Dov, my students investigated and turned up connections to some attempted murders, maimings, you name it. What they lack in size and widespread support, they make up for in zeal and ruthlessness.” His voice was getting loud.

  But instead of understanding the risk, Emma only seemed excited. “This is great, Daddy.”

  “Great? It’s dangerous!” Abe thundered. He could hear Rendi whispering a message into her phone, “Dennis? It’s me. I need to know what the Secret Service has turned up on TNT. In relation to the American Colony bombing.”

  Abe returned his attention to his own phone call. Emma was now laughing. “See, Daddy? This is why I haven’t called. Why should I, if you’re only goin
g to get more worried about me?”

  “Here I am hoping you’re keeping your head down, and you call and ask about TNT! Promise me your investigations are done in the office only.”

  “I promise, Daddy.” She spoke calmly and sweetly. Abe knew she was lying.

  After they’d exchanged I-love-yous, he hung up and looked helplessly at his wife. “You called Dennis?” he asked her, and she nodded.

  Dennis Savage was one of Rendi’s oldest friends from her time as a spy for the Mossad, and he was currently somewhere in the Mideast, learning what he could about the American Colony bombing for various agencies. He was a true American hero—a Boston-born, Irish kid from humble beginnings who’d worked his way up through the ranks of the Secret Service. He’d taken a bullet once for the vice president and had landed squarely on tabloid covers and in American hearts as the United States’ most eligible bachelor. He was a blond, blue-eyed, honest-to-God patriot, and he was also a little bit in love with Rendi. Or so Abe and Emma teased her after he came to one of the Ringels’ Shabbat dinners and seemed to have eyes only for her. The truth was that Abe and Emma didn’t understand the nature of their friendship. When they’d first met, Dennis was accustomed to women falling into his arms and his bed. Despite some initial sexual attraction toward him, it had soon become clear to Rendi that they weren’t meant to be more than friends. They were extremely close in every other way, though; when Rendi examined their relationship, she thought they were like old war buddies. They’d gotten each other through a few tight spots and tough scrapes, and in the course of those escapades they’d discovered things about each other that nobody else would ever know. He was the first person Rendi would call in a situation like this, and she trusted him implicitly.

  Dennis was now officially “retired” from the government and working freelance as a “consultant,” but Rendi knew that he still had connections to the American intelligence community. He always turned up where the action was, and there was no doubt where the action was now.

  “If TNT’s involved and the American government knows about it, Dennis will tell me,” Rendi soothed. “And if he’s over there, I’ll have him keep an eye on Emma.” She stood and placed a hand on Abe’s back. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t have a good feeling about this” was all he said before he left Rendi standing in the kitchen alone.

  IX

  The Dossier

  At the Home of Shimshon Regel, Israel

  SHIMSHON REGEL WAS A PROSECUTOR now, but in his younger days he’d worked for army intelligence and then briefly the Shin Bet. Shimshon had been particularly skilled at cat burglaries. Most of his missions involved breaking in to a secure location and taking pictures with a tiny camera that was sometimes fitted into a special pen. Then he’d develop the pictures in a darkroom he’d installed in the basement of his and Hanna’s home. With the advent of digital photography, Shimshon rarely used his darkroom. His children had pleaded with him to turn it into a game room, but Shimshon loved the old-fashioned Hollywood spy stuff and insisted on keeping his anachronistic developing lab as a reminder of what he used to do back in the day. Now, with the dental-size negative that Emma had gotten from Adam, the darkroom would come in handy. Hanna had cautioned Emma not to mention anything in front of their children. So she waited until they’d gone to bed before handing him Adam’s envelope.

  While Shimshon worked with the negative in his darkroom, Emma waited for Habash, who’d given her the okay to hand the evidence over to Shimshon. Habash didn’t want to wait until morning to learn what Adam had given them, so Emma invited him to come over and wait with her. When he entered the Regels’ modest kitchen, Hanna’s eyes went wide, and she made a face of approval in Emma’s direction. Emma stifled a giggle. Habash, though not tall, was an imposing, handsome man, and Hanna’s reaction to him amused her.

  Hanna made tea while Emma recounted her evening to Habash and showed him the dossier Adam had handed over to her.

  It contained excerpts from Israeli and American intelligence and police reports about a group of men and some women so ruthless that they would stop at nothing to kill their way to their goals, which centered on retaining “all of Israel,” especially the biblical parts of the West Bank. They also sought political power, and some of them seemed interested in financial self-enrichment. Habash told Emma that Adam had been hanging around TNT for several months, passing as a fanatically religious Jew who would do anything to prevent Israel from giving up the West Bank. He played the part well, even though he was secular. Because he could pass for an Arab, he also attended several radical mosques, surreptitiously recording sermons. Habash had nicknamed him “Chameleon” because of his remarkable ability to take on radical Arab characteristics when he went to mosques and radical Jewish characteristics when he went to TNT meetings. Adam had reported several planned activities to Habash over the span of that time, including planting a bomb in a Palestinian official’s home—a scheme that never got off the ground—and the Islamic suicide bombing of a Jewish market—that plot was thwarted by the Shin Bet. Where he had gotten these confidential intel documents was anyone’s guess, but Adam had his sources and Habash had learned not to ask too many questions.

  After Hanna had produced freshly baked cookies and refilled their teacups, Shimshon emerged from the basement holding a shiny new photograph. His smile froze when he saw that there was company.

  “Shimshon, this is my boss, Habash Ein,” Emma said, confused by the expression on her cousin’s face.

  Shimshon quickly recovered and stepped forward. “Welcome, Mr. Ein. I see that my wife has already begun to feed you.”

  Hanna shushed Shimshon from her station at the stove, and Habash stood to shake his hand.

  “Thank you, sir. Emma has told me about your darkroom. What have you got for us?”

  Shimshon sat at the table and placed the photograph in front of them. “I’ve blown it up to eight times the size of the small negative.”

  Emma peered at it. The photograph was an aerial shot of the American Colony Hotel in the aftermath of the explosion. Smoke still filled the air, and rubble was still smoldering. Emma looked to Habash to see what he made of it, because to her it looked like a crime-scene photo and nothing more. Clearly Habash thought the same thing, since after he’d reached for the photo and held it close to his face, he put it down and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Did Adam say anything to you? Anything at all about how this connects to TNT?” he asked her.

  Emma shook her head. “He didn’t utter a word.”

  Shimshon, who watched Habash carefully, asked, “If he has evidence about the bombing, why doesn’t your friend go to the authorities?”

  Habash sat back and crossed his arms contemplatively. “He’s embedded deeply in many groups. He doesn’t want to lose his position. He distrusts the police. He’s often given me information like this.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Cryptic things that don’t immediately appear to mean anything.”

  “Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Shimshon continued. “He could have left this envelope at the Pal-Watch offices and nobody would have been the wiser.”

  “He is under orders from me never to come near Pal-Watch. We don’t want anyone to suspect a connection,” Habash said curtly as Shimshon held the picture up to the kitchen chandelier.

  Emma hoped that Shimshon, with his prior experience, could decipher the meaning of the photo. “Can you make heads or tails of this, cousin? What do you think we’re supposed to take from this photograph?”

  Shimshon shrugged and put the photo down, while Habash began to think out loud. “TNT has been around for a long time,” he mused. “And when they pull off something—an attack, an assassination, anything—they tend to leave a calling card.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma asked. Abe hadn’t mentioned anything about a calling card.

  “I mean, Dov Kahane is very clever. He’s never gotten caught doing anything illeg
al, but it’s common knowledge among Arabs that he’s masterminded all kinds of attacks on radical Muslims here and abroad.”

  Shimshon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Knowledge or prejudice?” he asked, a bit defensively. Emma was surprised at the tone in his voice.

  Habash didn’t seem to react to any hostility, though. He said politely, “Every bombing that TNT’s been responsible for, he’s let us know.”

  “Us?” Shimshon prodded.

  “Yes, us. Arabs.” Habash answered him directly. “They want us to fear them. They want us to be deterred by the fear of retaliation. TNT—Terror Neged Terror! Terror Against Terror! Tit for tat! That’s their style. Their name itself is a double entendre. They leave a calling card, something so that we know they did it but that’s subtle enough so it wouldn’t stand up in court.” Habash raised his teacup in the air. “Once it was two tea bags.”

  “How was that a clue?” Emma asked, confused.

  “Tea and tea—TNT.” Shimshon snorted, and Habash nodded in his direction. “Exactly. Nothing certain, but enough for us to get the message. They even have a sense of humor, macabre as it is.”

  Emma shrugged. “Now the tea bags, that’s a stretch. And I’m the one who believes too easily!” She playfully nudged Habash in the shoulder. He granted her one of his devastating smiles, and she quickly looked at the photo to hide the blush she felt creeping across her face. When she raised her head, she found Shimshon’s stern face gazing at her.

  She swallowed, puzzled at the unspoken emotions filling the room. “A calling card, huh?” she asked, to keep the conversation going. She took the photo from Shimshon and looked at it again—this time for any telltale hint of a calling card. “All I see is a smoke-filled crime scene with debris neatly placed in piles, I’m guessing for forensic analysis.”