Exile: a novel (37 page)

Sharpe’s eyes were as opaque as shuttered windows. “It seems we’re at an impasse. ‘Based on the evidence as it stands,’ it’ll take more than polygraphs and rhetoric to keep me up at night. Tell your client to think a little harder.”

That afternoon, in an airless inner room provided by the FBI, David began reviewing boxes of documents produced by the prosecution.

The boxes were jammed with useless paper reflecting the government’s desire to be inclusive, or merely to waste hours of his time while honoring Taylor’s order to a fault. But any clues to a broader conspiracy were missing; the multitude of witness statements, though capturing the horror of the assassination, added little to what David already knew, and the report of the medical examiner was sickening but not enlightening. When David pointed this out to Sharpe, she answered, “This is a ‘rolling production.’ You asked for a lot, and we can’t give you everything all at once. Especially given the breadth of your proposed defense: Palestinians and Israelis, all mixed in together.”

For days on end, David remained a prisoner, eating takeout, culling dross until late at night, always getting up to run before daylight, shower, and return for another day of captivity. On occasion, when he caught a meal with Angel or one of the few friends he retained despite his defense of Hana and his breakup with Carole, he felt like a gopher emerging from its hole, blinking in the light after a very long winter.

After one such lunch, Sharpe called him on his cell phone. “We just got something you’ll want to look at,” she said. “I don’t see that it helps your client. But given your imagination, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

The document, David found, was a preliminary report by the FBI regarding its inquiry into the circumstances surrounding Ben-Aron’s death. Its literary style was familiar: a mix of bureaucratic jargon, awkward sentence structure, and an overuse of the passive voice. Unknotting his tie, David scanned it for several minutes before a passage stopped him:

Regarding Saeb Khalid, no evidence has been found that links him to the events under investigation, although statements have been discovered suggesting his advocacy of violent acts concerning Israel.

Two pages further, David found an account of the FBI investigation into the background of the assassination. As a catalog of frustration, the summary had a certain eloquence:

The operation appears highly professional. The explosives used were stolen, perhaps from a military base. The provenance of the police uniforms is not yet known, although such can be acquired on the Internet. The motorcycles were purchased by unknown men, apparently of Middle Eastern origin, whom agents have not been able to trace. The storage container bore no suspect fingerprints except for those of Hassan and Jefar, nor did the remaining motorcycle. Hassan’s and Jefar’s driver’s licenses were forgeries of high quality, their credit cards obtained under false names and mailed to post office boxes. No other suspicious persons known to have entered the United States before the assassination seem implicated at this time.

The absence of leads may be interpreted to indicate a well-planned conspiracy “rolled up” by highly skilled operatives of a number and origin currently undetermined.

David paused to reflect on Bryce Martel’s conjecture, then read on:

At this time, no further evidence has been found to link Hana Arif to the events under investigation. Telephone calls on the cell phone used by Hassan were made to cell phones purchased for cash, also by a man appearing to be of Middle Eastern origin. These cell phones have not been found or traced to any individual. Also, although Ms. Arif has associated with persons known or believed to be members of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, Hamas, and, in one instance, Islamic Jihad, it is unknown whether she is affiliated with any such groups.

What about Al Aqsa itself? David wondered. Reading on, he found a partial answer:

Since the assassination, Al Aqsa has sustained heavy losses due to Israeli military operations, including attacks on cars and the destruction of safe houses used by purported members. While elements of Al Aqsa have denied involvement in the assassination, this may be attributed to fear of more such reprisals as have already occurred. However, our intelligence agencies are doubtful concerning a substantial presence by Al Aqsa in the United States.

David found no speculation on who the conspirators might be. But the next-to-final page caused him to sit up.

At 1:10, the detail leader ordered that the route to the airport take Fourth Street instead of Tenth Street. The detail leader states that this was a routine precaution. He conveyed this order by secure telephone to the members of his detail, and also to the leader of the Israeli security contingent and the head of Dignitary Protection for the SFPD, who then transmitted the same instruction to the people under their direction.

These new instructions were completed by 1:16. At 1:22, according to a tape from a security camera at a store on Market near Tenth Street, Hassan is shown receiving a call on his cell phone, and then hurriedly leaving his location.

It is possible to conclude that the telephone call alerted Hassan to the change in route ordered by the detail leader. Moreover, the telephone number of the caller shown on Hassan’s cell phone is the same unknown cell phone number of the person who called Hassan in the last two days before the assassination. Jefar states that a map left for them in the storage container, but destroyed in the explosion, delineated in ink the original route on Tenth Street that was chosen three days before, as well as two alternative routes.

Taken together, these facts suggest that the original route, as well as the change, was conveyed to Hassan in a deliberate breach of security involving one or more persons informed of the plan. Our inquiry indicates that this information was confined to members of the Secret Service responsible for protecting Prime Minister Ben-Aron, as well as those police and Israeli security personnel with similar responsibilities.

A preliminary inquiry addressed the possible complicity of members of the Secret Service or San Francisco police. This inquiry has included extensive questioning of every such person involved, polygraph examinations, a review of financial, telephone, and cell phone records, credit card charges, and other investigative steps, including wiretaps and electronic surveillance. However, no facts have been discovered suggesting possible involvement by any such person or persons.

The final page, surprisingly terse, told David what he wished to know:

Two days after the assassination the Israeli government ordered all security personnel involved to return to Israel. A liaison officer was provided by Israel to facilitate communications regarding these events. At this time, however, we are unable to pursue the possibility that a
member of the prime minister’s security detail breached the arrangements designed for his protection by the Secret Service.

David sat with Bryce Martel on a wooden bench near the carousel at the San Francisco Zoo, watching children riding the painted hand-carved animals that glided up and down to blaring calliope music. With the summer sunlight on his face, Martel watched the children with a smile that mingled pleasure with regret. “Some of those wooden animals,” Martel remarked, “are almost as old as I am. On the rare occasions when my grandchildren come to visit, they seem to like this. Certainly, I do.”

Aware that Martel’s relationship with his only daughter had been stunted by divorce and secrecy, David let his father’s friend reflect for a time. Then Martel turned to him and said, “You wish to know more about the Israelis. Specifically, their security people. I assume that you’ve got something more that suggests they’ve sprung a leak.”

“Yes.”

“All right. The group assigned to Ben-Aron is the Special Protective Unit. They’re the elite, almost all of them exmilitary. In Israel, unlike here, military service is almost universal, a matter of national survival. So the pool of applicants is of a very high quality. The vetting is intense, and once you get the job, you lose all expectation of privacy—you’re subject to routine polygraphs and surveillance.

“The Israelis leave nothing to chance: they fly their leaders in goverment planes so the security people can carry guns, and the planes themselves have antimissile systems.” Removing his glasses, Martel cleaned them with a crisp white handkerchief. “For this to have involved a member of Ben-Aron’s security detail would be almost unthinkable. Worse, even, than when Rabin was murdered by an extremist Jew.”

“But is it impossible?”

“It’s hard to imagine the Special Protective Unit taking in a traitor.” Martel put on his glasses again, briefly fiddling with their stems. “What seems somewhat more plausible is a current member going off the tracks—whether because of money or, perhaps, a religious or political conversion that revealed to him that he was protecting an enemy of the Jewish people. Even then, I don’t know how long such a person would be able to go undetected.”

“Could this group be infiltrated by an extremist?”

“Would members of the unit
know
extremists? Sure. As I say, they’re all exmilitary—the Israeli army has its share of ideologues. But recruiting
one?” Martel resumed watching the merry-go-round. “Still, you clearly don’t think it’s the Americans.”

“No.”

Martel pondered this. “Even within this very select group,” he said at last, “one can make distinctions. Ben-Aron would have had three layers of protection—the inner perimeter, those literally closest to him, and therefore the most senior; the next most senior, the middle perimeter; then the outer perimeter. The inner perimeter would include only those in whom the Israelis had placed unshakable faith. As seniority declines, your thesis moves from the unimaginable to the merely difficult to conceive.”

“Then what’s your advice?”

“If
you’re
considering this, the Israelis certainly are—that’s why they pulled their agents out of the U.S. Obviously, you have to take a run at them.” Martel smiled wryly. “My own sense, I regret to say, is that your chances of meeting any of these people are dimmer than your prospects of entering Congress. But if the Israelis put all of them in a lineup and told you to pick one, I’d choose someone young.”

“The outer perimeter, in other words.”

“Precisely.” Turning to David, Martel concluded, “To kill Ben-Aron, you’d have had to be close to him. But to betray him, you only needed to know about his change of route. From there, all that’s required is a cell phone, and complete indifference to your future. And, of course, a reason.”

21     
T
he Israeli consulate occupied a reconfigured mansion a few blocks from Carole’s penthouse, its high ceilings and decorative moldings a remnant of affluent San Francisco from the days before the federal income tax. But the office given Avi Hertz seemed barely wider than it was tall, furnished only with a desk, two chairs, and a telephone. He waved David to a chair with no effort to ingratiate, bringing to mind Martel’s admonition: “Avi Hertz has dedicated his life to one thing: the survival of the State of Israel. How he deals with you will be determined by that, and nothing else.” Though his elfin face had a trace of humor, his laconic speech, economy of movement, and impenetrable gaze suggested the self-discipline through which Hertz had become the human equivalent of a one-way mirror, absorbing much while betraying nothing.

With a slight gesture of his left hand, Hertz indicated the letter on his desk. “I have read your letter, Mr. Wolfe. Reduced to its essence, you seem to want any information our government has about Hana Arif, Saeb Khalid, and the assassins of our prime minister. Including any supposed lapses in his protection, and culminating in sworn depositions of anyone in his security detail who was present when it happened. Or was there something more?”

Hertz’s uninflected tone made this catalog sound preposterous, even to David. Determined to be as opaque as Hertz, he answered, “Nothing more.”

“You understand the difficulties, of course.”

David shrugged. “I understand my client’s difficulties. Consistent with my obligations to her, I’ll try to accommodate yours.”

Hertz tented his fingers. “The principal difficulty,” he said finally, “is that you see your interests as primary, and the interests of Israel as subordinate. In
your conception of reality, we become an arm of your investigation—the Attorney General’s Office, the Shin Bet, even the Mossad all working on your behalf.”

“I only want whatever helps my client,” David answered, “subject to the same conditions the judge imposed to protect my own government. There’s a place where our interests intersect: your government is interested in much more about the assassination than the case against Hana Arif, and in order to defend her I need to learn much more.”

“Was that haiku?” Hertz inquired. “Or merely a paradox? In either case, our inquiry into our prime minister’s death involves the most sensitive matters. It must be built slowly and with great care. What is at stake for us is much larger, and more concrete, than your speculations on behalf of a single client—”

“Tell me this,” David interrupted bluntly. “Does the government of Israel believe, or at least suspect, that someone in the prime minister’s security detail was complicit in his murder?”

Hertz’s expression did not change. “I am authorized to tell you,” he said, “that we have found no information that would tend to exonerate Ms. Arif.”

“Or implicate her?”

For the first time, Hertz’s tone betrayed impatience. “If we had such evidence, we would immediately inform your government. Which, as I understand your system, would be required to provide it to you.

“That is not our situation. We have no evidence that Arif did not do exactly what she’s charged with—conspire to assassinate Amos Ben-Aron. And no evidence that she
did,
beyond what is already known to you.”

“Nothing more?” David kept his tone polite. “She didn’t, for example, buy motorcycles or steal explosives?”