Kornbluth turned to Vallis, then back to Hana. “Were you,” she asked, “involved in any way in planning or carrying out the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron?”
“No,” Hana said. “Certainly not.”
“Did you ever advocate the murder of Ben-Aron?”
“No. What I felt about him was distrust, not hatred.” Hana’s voice rose slightly. “I do not advocate murder—not of Israelis in their markets or
buses or cafés, or of their prime minister. Many years ago I stopped believing that such violence served any purpose but to continue this endless cycle of death. And it is clear to me, as it must be to any sane person, that no good can come of this.”
“Where were you,” Vallis asked, “during Ben-Aron’s speech?”
Despite her rehearsal with David, Hana hesitated. “Wandering. Alone.”
“Where?”
“Around the area of Union Square.”
“Why didn’t you watch the speech with your husband and daughter?”
Hana gazed at the table. “I just didn’t feel like it. I have heard too many speeches.”
“Did you tell your husband you were going shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No. I found I didn’t feel like shopping, either.”
“Did you go into any stores?”
“No. Not that I recall.”
“What did you do?”
“As I said, I wandered. I have no specific memory of where.”
Even if true, David knew, the answer was regrettable, creating a vacuum during what might be a critical time. “Did you speak with anyone?”
“No. At least not that I remember.”
Kornbluth folded her hands in front of her. “Did you have your cell phone with you?” she asked.
“I think so. Yes.”
“Did you have in your possession any cell phone other than the one you’ve already identified?”
Hana blinked. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you, while ‘wandering,’ receive a cell phone call from anyone?”
Hana’s eyes narrowed in apparent thought. “I believe not, no. I can remember none.”
“Did you place any calls to anyone?”
“No.”
“You’re sure of that,” Vallis cut in.
“Very.”
“Why are you so certain, Ms. Arif?”
“Because I had no wish to talk with anyone.” Her voice was soft. “Do you ever reflect upon your life, Mr. Vallis? That is what I was doing.”
The answer seemed to give the agent pause. “Reflecting about what, in particular?”
“Many things. Most of them personal, and of no concern to you.”
“Did you also reflect on Amos Ben-Aron?”
“Only in the sense that I was tired.”
“Of Prime Minister Ben-Aron?”
Hana gazed at him directly. “I would say more tired of feeling bound to Israel, since I was old enough to know that I was born in a refugee camp, and not a home.” Her voice became quieter. “Why am I here, talking with you? Why does my daughter have nightmares of bombs and soldiers?
“I will answer your questions as long as you like. But we will be that much closer to being dead, and for what?” She turned toward David, her eyes filmed with tears. “I have done nothing. That is all I can tell you. Whether you believe that is not for me to say.”
After that, the FBI took her fingerprints.
Shadowed by foreboding, David drove her to the hotel. Except to respond to his questions or comments, listlessly and briefly, Hana did not speak. By the time David stopped the car, she had been silent for some minutes.
“If you hear from the FBI,” he said, “call me.”
Without responding, Hana opened the car door. When she was halfway out, she paused, turning to him with a long look he could not decipher. “Goodbye, David. Thank you for what you’ve done.”
Before he could answer, Hana Arif was gone.
They lay in the bedroom of David’s Spanish-style flat in the Marina District. It was late Friday afternoon, a day removed from Hana’s interrogation. Though Carole had been gone only since Tuesday, David felt that in those three days he had lived another life, one in which he had lost his footing—afraid for Hana, fearful of who she might have become, reliving a past he had thought sealed off forever but that he now could not stop reexamining—even as he posed as his familiar self. Less than two weeks ago, Carole had embodied the sanity he strove for—grounded, clear-eyed, rational—in which the passion he had once felt for Hana was subordinated to a vision of the future rooted in what, David believed, was a love consistent with his essential nature. What he felt now was an eagerness to reembrace that life of stability, never again to be engulfed by emotions he could not control. So he clung to Carole’s essential goodness—her warmth, her sanity, her practicality—with the fervor of an unfaithful but chastened lover.
Another woman, David knew, might have accepted this as an unexpected gift, her fiancé’s surprise at valuing her more than he knew. But Carole drew her face back from his, appraising him with a look that held the curiosity of a woman deeply attuned to a man and his complexities. “Are you finished with them now?” she asked. “The Palestinians?”
“Yes. I did what little I could for them.”
Something in his tone seemed to catch her ear. “Are they in trouble?”
“I can’t talk about what happened with the FBI. But now I’m on the other side of it.” David touched her face. “Eleven days ago, we set a wedding date. That night we met Amos Ben-Aron; the next day we saw him blown to pieces. Ever since then we’ve been shell-shocked, or separated. My idea of therapy is to get up tomorrow, put on our running shoes, jog along the bay to that coffee shop at Fort Point, eat a bagel, walk back, read the paper, and figure out what movie we want to see. I’ll even cook dinner for you. And on Sunday, after the talk shows, we can start on the guest list for our wedding.” David kissed her, as though to draw Carole into the mood he craved. “Normal,” he finished. “If we just start acting normal, maybe we will be.”
“You’re right.” Abandoning her look of inquiry, Carole nestled the crown of her head against his shoulder. “We’ve both been through a lot.”
Grateful that she could not read his thoughts, David tried not to worry for Hana—caught in the ambiguities of her marriage, stuck in limbo in a country not her own—even as, in David’s mind, she oscillated between innocence and guilt. They had been so young, he thought, heedless of the fact that their lives, like their parents’, would come to bear the fingerprints of time, defined by decisions made, or not made, in ways they could not imagine. And so it was understandable, he supposed, that as he lay with Carole, his thoughts drifted from Hana to Munira. He felt Carole breathing more deeply, the whisper of sleep to come.
The telephone rang. Drowsy, Carole asked, “Do you need to get it?”
The illuminated dial of his alarm clock read 5:45
p.m.
“This is what I get for playing hooky,” David said. Reluctantly, he answered.
He heard a recorded message click on; for an instant, cursing the omnipresence of telemarketers, he was ready to hang up. “Hello,” the voice said. “You are receiving a call from an inmate at a federal prison facility. You may press 1 to accept, or say ‘yes.’ To decline the call, you can press 2, or simply hang up.”
David sat up straight, clearing his head—only a client would be allowed to call collect. “Is something wrong?” Carole murmured.
David pressed 1. “David? I am sorry, but I have no one else to call.” Hana’s voice was tight, fearful. “I’ve been arrested for the murder of Amos Ben-Aron.”
“Jesus.” David struggled to suspend his own emotions. “Okay. Tell me what happened, step by step.”
“The FBI came to arrest me—Vallis, the woman agent, and two others. They searched our hotel room, took our laptops and cell phones, turned everything upside down. Munira was so frightened—”
“Did they arrest Saeb?”
“No—they’re still keeping him here as a material witness. Please believe me, I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know why they’ve arrested me.”
Marnie Sharpe does, David thought. She wouldn’t have done this without being sure of her grounds, and getting clearance from the attorney general—perhaps with the knowledge of the president. This was not simply a criminal prosecution: it was America’s statement to the world that its system of justice worked, and that it would find and punish those responsible for killing Amos Ben-Aron. That Sharpe had not informed him of the particulars or accorded him a chance to bring his client in suggested not only the absence of usual courtesy but her desire for surprise, the better to seize whatever evidence Saeb or Hana might possess.
“Where are you?” David asked.
“At the federal detention center.” Hana paused, then asked anxiously, “Will you come?”
David was very still. “I’ll be there,” he heard himself say. “Just stay calm. Don’t talk to anyone about anything important.”
David put down the phone. “Who was that?” Carole asked.
David touched her bare shoulder, a request for quiet, and reached for his remote. On the screen, Marnie Sharpe stood behind a podium, Victor Vallis at her side. “The five-count indictment,” Sharpe was saying, “spells out the government’s allegations that Hana Arif helped to plan and execute the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron—resulting in the murder of the prime minister, Ariel Glick of his protective detail, and Agent Rodney Daves of the United States Secret Service.”
Carole sat back, as though recoiling. “Oh my God . . .”
“First,” Sharpe read, “the indictment alleges that Hana Arif is affiliated with the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, a Palestinian terrorist group opposed to the State of Israel.” Though Sharpe spoke clearly, her face was pale, an intermittent stammer betraying her nervousness in the glare of worldwide scrutiny. “Second,” she continued, “that Ms. Arif recruited the assassin Iyad Hassan, a student at Birzeit Univeristy and member of Al Aqsa, who in turn recruited the assassin Ibrahim Jefar.
“Third, that Ms. Arif provided directions to the assassins by cell phone calls to Mr. Hassan, beginning with their route from Birzeit to San Francisco, their movements on the day of the assassination, and the means— uniforms, motorcycles, explosives, and the route of the prime minister’s motorcade—necessary to carry it out.”
“All that by herself?” David asked aloud.
“Fourth,” Sharpe went on, “that in furtherance of the assassination,
Ms. Arif conspired with other individuals, currently unknown, inside and outside the United States.” Sharpe looked up from her notes, continuing with greater confidence. “In securing the indictment of Hana Arif, the Department of Justice relied on information provided by Ibrahim Jefar, as well as physical evidence that corroborates his account. No promise was made in exchange, other than that the Justice Department will consider Jefar’s cooperation,
after
the trial of Ms. Arif, in determining what penalties to seek in exchange for his plea of guilty.”
“No death penalty,” David said. “That’s the deal.”
“The investigation,” Sharpe concluded, “is ongoing. Much work remains before we can know the full dimensions of the conspiracy or the means by which the conspirators acquired the information necessary to effect it. But with this indictment we are taking the first step toward complete accountability. The world community should be assured that our government will commit its full resources to the apprehension and prosecution of every individual—no matter where they may be found or seek to hide— responsible for this crime against three people, the State of Israel, and the security of the United States.”
“She killed him,” Carole said in a thick voice.
When David turned, Carole’s eyes were filled with horror and disbelief. “I don’t know that,” he answered.
It was all that he could find to say. Like an automaton, he began to dress. “Where are you going?” Carole asked.
“To the federal detention center.”
“That call was from
her
?” Carole leapt out of bed, heedless of her nakedness. “Don’t you understand what she’s done?”
Fumbling, David buttoned his shirt. “I don’t understand anything about this.”
“Then how can you go out there?” Her voice trembled. “You’re Jewish, David. You
knew
Amos Ben-Aron.”
“I also know Hana Arif.” David struggled for words. “I didn’t know what this was turning into, Carole. But I’m still her lawyer. Before I get out, I have to find her another one.”
“You could have told her that on the telephone.”
“She’s
frightened.
” He caught himself, trying to frame a plea for reason. “Her daughter’s frightened, and they’ve got no one. I can’t just pull a blanket over my head before there’s someone else ready to take over.”
Lips parted, Carole stared at him, wounded and uncomprehending.
“I was stupid,” he said. “Now I just need to get out of this with an ounce of self-respect.”
He quickly kissed her forehead and, though she remained still as a statue, left.
David drove across the Bay Bridge, its lights flickering in the blue-gray of dusk, heading toward Danville. He knew the route by heart; he drove by reflex, his mind trying to process the drone of commentary over NPR—that the physical evidence included phone calls and fingerprints; that the indictment did not explain how Hana Arif could have known Ben-Aron’s route in advance. Then he pulled out his cell phone and, driving one-handed, called Marnie Sharpe’s office.
Victor Vallis answered. “Victor,” David said brusquely, “this is David Wolfe. Give me Marnie.”
There was a moment’s delay. He heard Vallis speaking in an undertone, then Sharpe came on. “Yes, David.”
“I’m on the way to Danville. I won’t bother complaining that you didn’t call. Just tell me what’s in the indictment, and make sure I get in to see her.”
Sharpe’s tone was somewhere between chill and disbelieving. “You’re still representing her?”
“Only until I hand it off. But I’m asking now, not then.” David slowed the car, gliding onto the right-hand lane as a stream of headlights sped past him. “As I heard your statement, you don’t allege that Jefar ever talked to her himself.”