The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  He nodded in confirmation and smiled. Then he waved his hand at Mohammed, who in response pushed Emma into the chair next to him, which happened to be right in front of the television. Then the boy turned the volume knob on the television, and soon Emma’s tears fell again.

  What they were watching was indeed news footage of Abe, walking into the King David Hotel. His eyes were red and surrounded by dark circles. His hair hadn’t been combed properly, so that a small thatch of curls stuck out awkwardly from the side of his head. His clothes were rumpled, and his face was drawn. He marched through the entrance without looking at the cameras. Rendi clutched his arm. She wore a sharp blue suit with a starched white cotton button-down shirt underneath. Emma knew this outfit—she herself had bought it for Rendi as a going-away present. They’d laughed together as Rendi scolded that it was Emma who should be getting the going-away gift. Now the entire memory caused Emma’s heart to clench, but part of her wondered if Rendi had worn it on purpose, in the hopes that Emma would see her in it. She wondered if Rendi was giving her a sign that everything would be all right.

  Following slightly behind them was Habash. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month. His face was stricken. His steps were robotic, as if he were walking in a dense fog, propelled forward not by his own volition. Just before disappearing into the hotel, he cast a pleading glance at the cameras.

  “This is your family?” Rashid asked her, bringing her back to this scary reality.

  “Yes,” she choked out. “My family.”

  “Except for Mr. Ein, the great hope of Palestine and Israel,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice, though the comment clearly intended it.

  “He is trying to help,” she said. Her own voice sounded small. She was aware of the dozen men standing around her in a circle. The gunman who’d been guarding her in the library was now in the room, looking a bit sheepish. All the men appeared ready to spring to action should they need to, as if Emma’s proximity to the man in the chair were a dangerous thing.

  Rashid turned toward her. “Your father is a good lawyer.” His tone was steady, betraying none of his motives.

  Emma couldn’t speak. She only nodded.

  “A man like that believes he can defend anybody.” His gaze didn’t waver.

  She felt as if his brown eyes missed nothing. She knew she’d better be brave. “He can. And he has.”

  The man nodded. “You think he can do better than you and your Christian boyfriend, then.”

  Emma swallowed hard.

  The man continued and shifted in his chair so that he faced her. “Emma, your father is to defend my brother. And he’s to get him acquitted.”

  “Faisal has lawyers already,” she said, shaking her head.

  The man spoke evenly. “We want your father to take over.”

  Emma drew a deep breath. With honesty in her voice, she said, “It doesn’t matter who defends him. Faisal won’t let anybody help him.”

  The sitting man seemed worried by Emma’s remark. This was the first moment that any emotion had passed over his face.

  “Your father can defend anybody, yes? Even those who do not want to be found innocent?”

  Emma countered, “Is Faisal innocent?”

  “Of course he is.”

  His calm demeanor gave Emma a false sense of security. “Did you poison him?”

  “Of course not.” He looked at her condescendingly. “He is my brother.”

  “Then who tried to kill him?”

  “We believe it was his own radical Islamic group. They are crazed. They do not value human life, even of their own people. They are tools of the Persian zealots who want to turn the entire Middle East into an Islamic caliphate. They hate us even more than they hate the Jews and the Americans. They want to take credit for the American Colony explosion. They were afraid he would crack under pressure. Dead men don’t crack, and his death would have closed the case, with everyone believing he was guilty on account of his confession. His life remains in danger. That is why your father must free him, so that we can protect him. We will then talk sense into him about the group that tried to make him a martyr.”

  Emma sat back in her chair, her mind working feverishly. It had been obvious to her that she’d been taken because of the case. But she hadn’t truly believed Faisal could be affiliated with these people, mostly because they were so well educated, well spoken and respectful. Faisal was rude and insulting and bigoted. Rashid wasn’t like him at all. How could two brothers be so different from each other?

  But no matter how different they were, Emma realized she had been kidnapped because Rashid was desperate to help Faisal, whether or not he wanted to be helped and whether or not Rashid’s group had planted the bomb. “Then who is guilty?” she asked, wondering if she’d actually get an answer.

  At this, Rashid smiled, a small, tight smile that made Emma’s skin crawl. “It was not Faisal. That is all that matters for now, because your father is going to defend him and win him his freedom. And if he does not, he’ll lose his daughter.” Though he had barely shifted in his chair, though his posture was completely casual, though his face was smiling, at that moment Rashid seemed to Emma the scariest, deadliest, most calculating man she had ever come across.

  Rashid, without lifting his eyes from her, signaled to Mohammed that the conversation was at an end. Emma was abruptly lifted by the elbow and marched through the room and out the door, the dozen men parting like the Red Sea to let her pass by.

  She was suddenly furious, and she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. She twisted in Mohammed’s grasp and sneered at him. “You killed the president of the United States!”

  They were now in the library. Mohammed yanked a wooden chair away from a table and deposited Emma into it roughly. “What in the world is wrong with you? You eavesdrop on your kidnappers? Of all the arrogant, brazen… Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in? I’m doing everything I can to keep you alive, and then you go and spy on us?”

  Emma was flabbergasted by his anger. He was red-faced and pacing. “Do you know how close some of the men in that room are to killing you? Yassir barely needs an excuse, and then you tumble into Rashid’s study!”

  “I… I’m sorry,” she babbled.

  “Sorry! You’re sorry!” He finally ceased pacing and ran a hand over his face. He exhaled deeply.

  Emma’s shock at his outburst abated, and in its place her anger returned. “How long had you planned this?”

  Mohammed answered immediately, as if he were tired of keeping secrets. “Rashid decided that taking you was a perfect backup plan as soon as we knew you were here.”

  Emma shifted in her seat to more fully face him. “And you knew I was here—”

  “When you showed up at Pal-Watch. We have our sources, too.”

  “When did you decide to frame the Jews by pointing us in the direction of TNT?” she asked boldly.

  Mohammed approached her and leaned his hands on the back of the empty chair next to her. “We’ve been trying to point Mr. Ein in the direction of other suspects.”

  Emma snorted. “You have some work to do. A photo that shows nothing? No wonder Rashid got so desperate.”

  Mohammed looked at her thoughtfully. “That photo showed proof of TNT’s hand in the bombing. It’s too bad that neither you nor Habash Ein was clever enough to see the clue I gave you.” This was the first time Emma heard real contempt in his voice.

  “What clue?”

  From a desk in the corner of the library, Mohammed took out a copy of the photo he’d given Emma and placed it in front of her.

  “Look carefully.”

  She studied the photo and stared at him blankly.

  He shook his head as if in disappointment. “Your father would have seen the clue.”

  She hated the implication that she wasn’t as capable as Abe. “What clue?” she challenged him, turning the picture and holding it close to her eyes. She, Habash, and Shimshon had stared at this picture for hour
s. There was absolutely no clue in the photograph.

  Mohammed exhaled in annoyance. “Look.” He grabbed the photo from her and pointed. “The piles of debris have been neatly arranged by the Israeli authorities who were examining the crime scene.”

  Emma took the photograph from him to see what he was talking about.

  “Now connect the dots,” he commanded.

  “What dots?”

  “The twelve piles,” Mohammed said in frustration, running his index finger over the photo, which had been shot from above.

  Suddenly she saw a pattern that she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh, my God!” Emma exclaimed. “If you drew a line from pile to pile, the lines would form the Star of David!”

  “A TNT signature,” Mohammed insisted. “They always leave a calling card.”

  Emma stared at him. It was just what Habash had said about them. Now she was confused. “But how did they manage to arrange the debris in that configuration?”

  Mohammed shrugged. “Someone in the Israeli investigative squad must be involved with TNT. He arranged the debris so that we would know who caused the explosion, but without enough evidence to tie it to any individual or to prove it in court. I was hoping you would see it and use it to help defend Faisal, but I apparently overestimated your perceptiveness and subtlety.”

  He was irritating her. Emma threw the photo down on the table. “How do you know someone else didn’t arrange the debris so as to frame TNT? Maybe you did it.”

  Mohammed shook his head. “We have no access to the crime scene.”

  There was a moment where neither of them spoke. Emma’s head was spinning. “So you really believe TNT killed all those people?”

  “We don’t really care who did it,” Mohammed said dismissively, reaching for the photograph and dusting it off. “Certainly TNT has done things in the past that they should be punished for anyway. We just wanted you to get Faisal off.”

  Emma slowly began to understand. “And then he was poisoned by his own group.”

  Mohammed nodded. “We don’t have time for Pal-Watch to flounder around. We needed to use our backup plan. That’s when Rashid ordered us to take you.”

  Emma desperately wished she could get some of this information to her father and Habash. After a moment, sensing that Mohammed’s mood was returning to something approaching calm, she mused, “So everyone here is a communist?” Habash had told her that Faisal’s brother was a member of the Popular Front, that he’d turned to communism.

  Mohammed nodded.

  “For communists, you sure live like capitalists,” Emma said, quickly regretting that she had not censored the thought.

  “We make no apologies for this house,” Mohammed replied evenly. “It was left to me by a wealthy uncle whose family made their money off the sweat of Palestinian workers. Now we are using it in the interests of these workers.”

  “So you… you’re one of George Habash’s followers, too?”

  George Habash had been the founder of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, a group that was Marxist-Leninist in its leanings and aimed to unite the Arab world. He also wanted a one-state solution in Israel and conducted terrorist attacks in the 1960s in an effort to wipe the Jewish state off the map.

  “In philosophy, maybe,” Mohammed responded to her question. “When George died, Rashid formed his own group. Welcome to the headquarters of the Palestinian Marxist Liberation Front.” And he bowed his head slightly. “Although my name is Mohammed, I’m a heretic, a disbeliever in all religions.”

  “But you’re a Palestinian, not a Jew, as you duped Habash into believing.”

  Again he nodded, this time smiling proudly at his ability to fool even his most perceptive enemies.

  Emma looked around the room. Her curious side was eagerly digesting this information. But her rational side was panicking. The more Mohammed told her, the less likely it was that she would ever walk out of here alive.

  Once again Mohammed seemed to read her mind. “We don’t believe in killing innocent civilians, even American ones.” His tone meant his words to come across as lighthearted, but Emma’s wariness grew stronger. “If your father gets Faisal off, you’ll be free to go, no harm done.”

  Emma decided quickly that she had to improve her chances by making a promise of her own. “I promise you that if you let me go, I will never disclose your whereabouts or testify against you or Rashid. You have my word.”

  “We don’t need your word. Our plan does not require your death if your father succeeds. We believed you would recognize the city we are in, and we have made plans to move us all to a different safe house in a different part of the country, if there is an acquittal. We love this house, but Faisal’s life is worth more than a house, even one as beautiful as this one. We will have to keep our word if your father fails. Your life is entirely in his capable hands.”

  “Then why did you blindfold me?”

  “To keep you from foolishly trying to escape. They would have shot you in an instant. It was for your own protection.”

  “George Habash, the founder of your movement, was infamous. He killed many people.”

  “Rashid is a bit more pragmatic than George. He doesn’t believe in losing Palestinian lives. And this attack, this was far beyond anything we could have accomplished. We wouldn’t even have been able to get into the room.”

  Emma doubted that her captor’s humility was genuine here. “I have a feeling you could do whatever Rashid set your mind to. You took me, after all.”

  “You weren’t that hard to take. A young American girl, wide-eyed and idealistic, eager to trust people and meet with spies and run around town.”

  Emma’s face went hot. She didn’t like hearing herself described that way.

  Mohammed smiled and sat on a corner of a table. “There are some in Palestine who envision a holy state, a country ruled by Islam. We do not agree. We want a secular, socialist, Arab state, a place where Christian Arabs and even heretics like me can live peacefully among their Muslim brothers.”

  Emma understood what he was saying to her. “So none of your followers choose martyrdom?”

  Mohammed nodded. “Precisely. Our goals are achieved through military actions. Sometimes guerrilla, but never through suicide. Rashid believes—as do I—that suicide is a waste of precious Palestinian lives.”

  Emma had a realization. “So if you believe that Faisal is innocent, Rashid must be livid that he’s willing to die for his cause.”

  “It is simply a matter of an older brother trying to protect the younger brother he loves, despite their differences.”

  “My father can get him acquitted, I am sure of it. But won’t the people he works for try to kill him again?”

  Mohammed stood. “We will protect him once the Israelis free him. Your father’s job is to get him acquitted. We will do the rest.”

  XVII

  The Photo

  ABE’S SUITE IN THE KING DAVID HOTEL was opulent. There were sofas and two chaises covered in lush, jewel-toned materials, there were high ceilings and cushioned carpeting, the bathroom contained a Jacuzzi-style tub, and the service in the hotel was world-renowned. But Abe could concentrate on only one detail of the room: a small black box that sat on the desk. The box had a single button, and the Israeli counterterrorism police had instructed Abe to press it if either his daughter or the kidnappers called. The box would instantly trace their location.

  Abe was familiar with this kind of technology. A similar black box, also developed by the Israelis, had been used by the Colombian authorities to help rescue American and French hostages who’d been held by rebels for more than five years.

  As it happened, Abe and Rendi already knew where Emma was and who had taken her, but they kept the information from the Israeli authorities. On their first full day in Jerusalem, Dennis Savage had visited. He was cleared by the Israeli guard stationed outside Abe’s door, though had they suspected what Dennis smuggled into the room, they would’ve detained him.
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  Dennis brought a grainy photograph of a young woman standing at a window in a large home. Despite his retirement, it was obvious that Savage still had connections with the Company. The CIA wouldn’t confirm for Dennis who was in the photo or where it had been taken. But as soon as Abe saw the picture, he knew it was Emma. Dennis told Abe and Rendi that the photo was probably taken from a spy plane that morning; it seemed that Rashid Husseini was on the CIA’s terrorist watch list and they’d been routinely photographing several of his safe houses. Dennis also told them about the group—that they were secular communists who would likely act more rationally than Islamic zealots. Unfortunately, the American authorities could do little with this knowledge. They were not about to try a rescue operation in the West Bank, and they didn’t want to share this particular bit of intelligence with the Israelis, lest they try to rescue the American hostage. Dennis brought the picture to them at considerable risk; Rendi was thrilled, Abe pessimistic.

  “Look at her, Abe! She’s doing just fine!” Rendi insisted, trying to bolster his spirits.

  “Yesterday. Yesterday she was just fine,” Abe said morosely.

  Now, two days later, they still hadn’t heard from the kidnappers, and Abe hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time. Rendi, when she wasn’t pacing the floor talking on her cell phone with every contact she could think of, kept pleading with him to get some sleep. He refused. He was afraid he would miss a crucial phone call or breaking news. And yet there was no news, no ransom note, no claim of responsibility. Dennis visited each day but was able to obtain only the one picture, and precious little information was trickling down through the American intelligence agencies. The Israeli news organizations were reporting that Emma had been kidnapped, with no allusion to who the kidnappers might be or what their motive was. Of course, everyone working the case had a theory, but not knowing why was beginning to drive Abe a little crazy.

  He had checked into the King David Hotel because he believed that if the kidnappers were trying to reach him, they might try Jerusalem’s most famous tourist hotel, smack in the middle of the city. He purposely allowed himself to be televised entering the hotel for the same reason. Now he was waiting for the phone to ring, but he dreaded it as well. It could be proof of life—or of death.