The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

“So who did it?”

  “Whoever wanted him dead.”

  “Habash, this is beginning to sound like the Abbott and Costello routine my dad thinks is so funny.”

  “Who’s on First?” He stopped her dead with a dazzling smile.

  Emma smiled back at him. He was proving to be full of surprises. “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “You played it for me at Yale. Don’t you remember? That night we were exchanging jokes.”

  Again a surprise—surprise that he remembered so much about their time together at Yale. He was always so serious back then; Emma thought he had only tolerated her attempts to distract him from work with “real life.” Or that he was hoping that spending time with her would lead to meeting Abe. Though he had eventually met Abe and still would occasionally spend time with her.

  However, now was not the time to work on solving the riddle of Habash Ein, so she quickly returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. “But this is no joke. Who wanted Husseini dead?”

  “There is one clue, but it could be a false clue,” Habash said cautiously.

  “What is it?”

  “The use of hallucinogens. It’s a CIA specialty.”

  Emma was shocked at the suggestion he was offering. “You’ve got to be kidding, Habash. There’s no way the CIA killed our president.”

  “Two possibilities,” Habash replied in a somewhat didactic manner. “One,” he said, holding up his index finger, “some rogue CIA operative or former operative with a weird agenda.”

  “Are you watching American television when you’re supposed to be working? That’s something that would only happen on TV,” Emma teased. “What’s two?”

  “Two,” he replied, sticking up a second finger, “someone wants us to think that the CIA was involved.”

  “I’ve got three,” Emma chimed in, holding up three fingers.

  “What’s your three?”

  “If the CIA had really done it, they would have used a hallucinogen that isn’t detectable. I learned that from Daddy, who won a case involving a sophisticated drug that left no traces.”

  Habash thought for a moment. “Good, but that’s really not three. It’s two A, because it helps to prove that the CIA wasn’t involved.”

  “Okay, okay. Then I have four, or at least three A, but I don’t believe it.”

  Habash smiled at how elaborate their counting system was becoming. “What do you have?”

  “In theory at least, the CIA could have done it deliberately using a detectable hallucinogen, so that smart people like us would think that they weren’t involved.”

  “Now you’re beginning to use Mideast logic.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, crazy. We know the CIA didn’t do it and yet Mideast logic makes us keep them on the list.”

  “At this point everyone’s on the list, with the exception of you and me—and I’m not so sure about you,” Habash said with a smile.

  “I have an alibi. I was seven thousand miles away. Where were you, Mr. Wise Guy?”

  He pointed out the window, to where there was a glimpse of the hotel. “Just a few hundred yards away. I guess that makes me a suspect,” he said, smiling some more.

  “I have five,” Emma said, looking up from the computer she had been accessing. “It turns out that Iranian intelligence also uses primitive hallucinogens to interrogate dissidents—and theirs are detectable. Isn’t Google wonderful!”

  Habash’s mood was now deadly serious. “We have to find out who had access to his cell or his food. He’s still our client, even if he’s unconscious. We have to find out what happened and investigate whoever set him up.”

  “You think they’ll hand over that information?”

  “Of course not. Not only will they want to protect themselves, but I have a feeling the Shin Bet and the CIA and Mossad and who knows what other agencies are already there, creating their own version of what happened.”

  Emma was more confused than ever. “So what’s our version?”

  “Look, we’re the only team with no agenda but to find out the truth. That’s what the court said when they appointed me.”

  “So our client is the truth.”

  “It’s a rare luxury for a lawyer to be retained to learn the truth, wherever it may be buried.”

  “As long as we don’t end up being buried ourselves,” Emma replied absently, thinking of Adam and the photo he had given her of the piles of rubble.

  “We’re not important enough.”

  “Unless we learn the truth,” she said ominously.

  XII

  The Van

  Jerusalem

  EVEN AT SIX-THIRTY on a Sunday morning, the hot Israeli air was oppressive. Emma and Habash had spent a sleepless night in the offices of Pal-Watch, manning the phones in a vain effort to try to get themselves cleared to see Faisal in the prison hospital. She’d fallen asleep at her desk at three in the morning, left for Shimshon’s and a change of clothes at five, and now found herself on her way back to work to meet with her stepmother’s friend and contact, Dennis Savage.

  Rendi had called him about TNT and given him Emma’s cellphone number, on which he left a message. Emma also wanted to ask him about hallucinogens and which intel agencies used them. He confirmed that the CIA used sophisticated and undetectable drugs that had a hallucinogenic effect and that Iranian interrogators also were known to employ hallucinogens. Feeling uncomfortably warm, Emma slipped off her light jacket and headed out in the direction of Jaffa Road to an all-night coffee shop where Savage would be waiting.

  It was shaping up to be a long day. After her meeting with Savage, she and Habash were going to the prison hospital and weren’t leaving until they were allowed in. They knew by now that their client was conscious and able to talk, and Emma hoped that his brush with assassination would influence him to trust his lawyers.

  Faisal was likely to have some suspicions about who had attacked him. And she hoped that this would give them some clue as to who might have been involved in the bombing. Habash warned her that there were no tidy endings to cases like these, that it was just as probable that two separate groups were responsible for the two separate attacks, both with different motives.

  Hopefully, Dennis could help with this problem, too. He had access to information that the American government wasn’t likely to share with the Israeli authorities—or with Habash. But Dennis was an old family friend. Emma still suspected that he harbored a bit of a crush on Rendi, despite Rendi’s dismissive denials of any such notion. Emma smiled as she thought of how Abe became a little louder, a little taller, and a little more apt to brag when Dennis was around. Of course, everyone knew that Rendi only had eyes for Abe, but it was amusing to see his feathers get ruffled. Dennis had told Rendi about the CIA and the Iranian use of hallucinogens. Emma hoped he would provide her with other useful information.

  As she passed by a park and crossed the street, Emma thought that this was precisely the moment in a case when some sort of miracle clue would land in Abe’s lap. She hoped she had some of her father’s luck. She knew she had his determination.

  And that’s when she saw him: Adam, Habash’s contact. He was walking toward her.

  “What are you doing? I didn’t think you were allowed out in the light of day,” Emma said jokingly as he pointed to a park bench a few feet in front of them.

  “I’ve been following you,” Adam said without a hint of apology. “We need to talk—privately.”

  Emma hid her annoyance at being followed. He must have a good reason, she thought.

  Adam ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight. “Faisal Husseini was poisoned,” he said, clearly upset.

  Emma was taken aback. “How did you know that?”

  Adam seemed agitated, and he looked over his shoulder.

  His behavior made Emma worry a bit about being alone with him. “Why don’t we walk to my apartment? We can have coffee,” she said, beginning to stand up.

  Adam shook his head, his
jaw set in an angry line. “It’s too late for that,” he said, grabbing her arm, stopping her from getting up.

  Emma opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t know how to respond. All she felt was confused by the difference in his demeanor. He had been so dashing and helpful the night of the popcorn exchange. But maybe that was merely her fantasy. After all, he hadn’t spoken a word to her that night.

  That was Emma’s last thought before a white van came screeching to a halt in front of their park bench.

  Three men jumped out of the back of the van. Their heads and faces were covered in black scarves. They were holding machine guns.

  Emma leaped up from the bench, but the men were coming right for them. Adam once again grabbed her arm.

  “Run!” she shouted to Adam, trying to push him away. Emma was convinced that she had blown his cover and that the Arab groups he had infiltrated were coming to get him. She was worried more about his safety than her own. “Get out of here, run!” she urged him. But Adam didn’t move. His grip on her tightened, and that was when one of the gunmen clamped down on her other arm and started speaking quickly in a stream of mostly incomprehensible language. Emma had taken two semesters of Arabic in college, thinking that her Hebrew-school knowledge would give her a leg up on another Semitic language. She got B+’s but was far from fluent, especially in the street jargon these guys were mumbling and shouting.

  Adam didn’t loosen his hold on her arm. He responded to the men in kind. In Arabic. Quickly it hit her. They were not after Adam. They were after her. And Adam was one of them! Emma turned to him and studied his face. It was olive-skinned, and he had curly black hair. Before she could process what she suddenly understood, the two of them lifted Emma and began moving.

  “No! No! No!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

  Adam didn’t answer. Her feet were off the ground, and while the two extra men stood guard, she was carried to the back of the van.

  By this time there were people crowded around the scene: dog walkers, mothers taking their children to school, men rushing to work. They were Emma’s only hope. “I’m being kidnapped!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as Adam tried to place his hand over her mouth. She still managed to yell, “Please help me! My name is Emma Ringel! I work for Pal-Watch!”

  But nobody dared move, for fear of being shot.

  And then she was thrown into the black depths of the van. She tried to scramble toward the open door, but Adam caught her and pushed her roughly toward the far wall of the vehicle. The three gunmen jumped into the van, and the door was shut, and she was suddenly plunged into darkness.

  The van windows had been tinted. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the lack of light quickly enough, and the only sound she could hear was her own breathing coming faster and faster. She felt around her new environment with her hands. The floor of the van was covered in rough carpet. The walls were also covered; the scratchy material scraped the back of her neck. Everything was covered. Nobody would hear her if she screamed.

  The first thing she was able to see was a man handing Adam a small handgun. None of the men spoke.

  Finally Adam moved so that he was closer to her. “Just sit back, and don’t cry.” The contradiction between his looks and voice and his current actions made her stomach lurch.

  “You’re a double agent!” she spit at him.

  “Stay calm. Be good.” He leaned in toward her, ignoring her accusation. “Or we will have to restrain you.”

  She didn’t know if he was trying to get her to cooperate or to warn her. Then the driver spoke. His voice, higher-pitched, mean-sounding, called from the front in a rapid stream of lilting language she didn’t understand.

  Adam responded to the driver, and the sound reverberated through her. He’d been able to pass for an Arab or a Jew, Habash had said, but he was secular. The truth, though, was that Adam had been playing Habash. She studied his face. He looked Jewish. He spoke English with very little accent. She had never suspected that he was anything other than what Habash said he was.

  She locked eyes with him. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  Adam reached into his pocket. He withdrew something and reached for her.

  She recoiled in fear until she saw that it was only a veil.

  XIII

  Kidnapped

  WHEN DENNIS SAVAGE APPEARED at Pal-Watch looking for Emma because she hadn’t shown up to their meeting at a local coffee shop, Habash knew that something was wrong.

  “Maybe she got a more important lead.” Dennis sat in Habash’s office while Habash paced back and forth. Habash had seen pictures of Dennis online, after he took the bullet for the American vice president and became a national hero, and he’d heard him mentioned at Abe and Rendi’s house but hadn’t met him until now. He was an impressive-looking man—tall, broad-shouldered, blond, and blue-eyed. His demeanor was deceptively casual. Habash noticed that he wore loafers without socks. He lounged in a chair, yet Habash could tell that he was acutely aware of everything and everyone around them.

  “No. She would have let me know,” Habash said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He called her cell phone but got her voice mail. Then, reluctantly, he dialed Shimshon’s, and Hanna answered.

  “Emma? No, she’s not here,” she said, alarm in her voice. “She left an hour and a half ago!”

  “She did?” He immediately regretted calling and worrying Hanna.

  “Yes, she ran in and then ran right back out. Something about an important meeting.”

  After promising to call the minute that Emma walked through the door, Habash hung up. He felt helpless. He stood in the middle of his office, not moving and not knowing what to do next.

  Dennis Savage sat in the chair that Emma usually occupied, fingers steepled, a frown on his face. “If you want an old Secret Service man’s advice, I think you should trace her steps.”

  Habash nodded his head as the man stood. Dennis’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the panel while being careful to keep it from Habash’s view. For some reason this spylike maneuver made Habash’s heart sink. “I’d go now,” Dennis commanded. “And you need to be the one to call Abe,” he said, pointing his finger at him.

  With that, Dennis walked hurriedly from the room and out the front door of the Pal-Watch offices. Habash stood stunned for a moment, knowing that something very bad had happened yet still unsure of what. But it was clear that the American agencies were already contacting their people.

  Trace her steps, Habash repeated silently. He shook himself from his inertia, grabbed a jacket, and ran as fast as he could toward Shimshon’s house. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, both professional and personal.

  From the first time that they met, Habash had had complicated feelings for Emma. He’d invited her to join Faisal’s legal team because he thought she’d be a good fit, but he also wanted to see her again. Now, as Habash crossed the main road where the office was and veered to the left to get to the side street that Emma often took to work, he was reminded why he never indulged in romantic encounters. Because of the anxiety and concern that came with them. And because anyone close to him could become a target.

  He quickly decided that blaming himself for Emma’s disappearance was far-fetched and a bit self-referential. She was, after all, an American Jew, with a prominent and controversial father, who was snooping around the most dangerous investigation in Israeli history. There were plenty of reasons Emma could get into trouble—if she even was in trouble, rather than simply out of touch following another dead-end lead.

  He walked on, scanning the people on the streets for a glimpse of her. The sun pounded down on the pavement, and he began to sweat. There was no sign of her. His cell phone rang. It was Hanna. He couldn’t bring himself to answer it. When the alarm announcing a new voice mail sounded, he opened the phone and then called Emma’s cell again. This time it didn’t ring; her voice came immediately over the line and then went to voice mail.

  “Emma, I’m getting w
orried. Please call me and let me know where you are.”

  He stared at the phone for a moment before continuing his journey. He ran across the path of oncoming traffic, ignoring blasting horns, and turned the corner. The minute he did, he saw a large gathering of people milling around the entrance to a park. There were three parked police cars. Detectives and policemen were interviewing bystanders. He ran to the scene, and when he was close enough to the crowd, he grabbed a woman by her arm. “What’s happened here?”

  “A kidnapping,” the woman whispered. “Of an American girl. The kidnappers were Arabs.”

  Habash’s worst fears were confirmed. As he strode forward to find the detective in charge, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Hanna.

  Habash sat on a bench outside the entrance to the park. He’d approached a plainclothes policeman and had told him who he was. The policeman had looked at him with the usual suspicious eyes and told him to sit and wait for the lead detective.

  The detective stood above him now, and the other plainclothesman took out a little notebook and dabbed the tip of his pen on his tongue.

  “You are…?” the detective asked.

  “I am Habash Ein,” he said, rising and extending his hand to shake. The detective wrote down his name without extending his own hand, and Habash was too shell-shocked to remove it quickly. He stood there foolishly with his hand raised, waiting to be told what had happened. “I am Emma’s boss,” he said, knowing that the word “boss” didn’t scratch the surface of what he was to her. “I came looking for her when she didn’t get to work right away.”

  “Her boss.” The policeman scribbled something on his pad.

  The detective merely looked at him. Habash knew that the detective was remaining silent so that he’d spill his guts, and it worked. He was too upset and worried to keep his head.

  “I run Pal-Watch. She is here assisting me on a case.”

  “You’re the people trying to tell everyone that Faisal Husseini is innocent,” the policeman said with an accusatory tone. The lead detective was clearly not pleased with the officer spouting his personal opinions. He took the notebook and pen from him and ordered him to go question other witnesses.