How was lunch?” Janet asked in a conspiratorial tone when Hana returned to the office.
“He found it spicy,” Hana answered.
“Really?” Janet raised her eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like you, but I’m willing to listen.”
“Oh, it wasn’t me. He selected chilli paneer, one of the hottest things on the buffet at the Indian restaurant where we ate. I lost track of the number of glasses of water he drank. It must have been at least five.”
“Indian food?”
“Yes, it influenced Middle Eastern cooking. Arabs and Jews like similar dishes.”
“So, he’s a foodie?”
“What?” Hana asked.
“A person who’s interested in different types and kinds of food.”
“I don’t know. We mostly talked about the Neumann case.”
“Scintillating,” Janet replied. “But I know lawyers enjoy acting smart when they get together. It’s like sharing a secret handshake. What’s next?”
“I’ll try to bill a few more hours before picking up Leon,” Hana replied.
“You know what I mean. What’s the next step with Jakob Brodsky? Is he going to Israel? You never told me if he’s recovered enough to make the trip.”
“Not this time,” Hana replied. “His doctor hasn’t released him to drive. But when Jakob does go to Israel with me, it will be a working relationship, nothing more. There is no romantic attraction between us. My parents fell in love and knew they were going to marry a week after they met. I want the same thing for myself.”
“We call that love at first sight.”
“I like that,” Hana replied, repeating the phrase.
“But I’m not sure you’re the spontaneous type,” Janet said doubtfully as she reinserted her dictation buds in her ears.
Janet was getting ready to leave for the day when Hana emerged from her office. “I sent Donnie a text about the Indian restaurant, and he made arrangements for a babysitter so we can go there tonight. He claims to love Indian food. How can I be married to a man for seventeen years and not know that he has a passion for Indian food? He wants to try the chili thing you mentioned. I have no idea what I’ll order.”
“The dinner menu has pictures. And tell Donnie to order goat’s milk. It cuts the heat from the chilli paneer.”
Janet gave Hana a skeptical look. “Goat’s milk?”
“Yes.”
Janet checked her watch. “What time do you have to be at the airport?”
“Around six. I’ll arrive in Jerusalem late in the afternoon.”
“Will you be emailing me twenty times a day like you did when you went to Germany last year?”
“At least,” Hana answered. “Actually, though, you might not hear much from me since I’ll only be gone for three days.”
“Okay, but tell me you’re going to be very careful and not go to places that aren’t safe. This has a different feel to it than the times when you’ve gone to see your family or to Tel Aviv for a business meeting.”
“I’m not going to take any risks out of line with my role as a lawyer. And I know my way around the country. Remember, it’s my home.”
“Tell your father about my idea that you bring all potential husbands to him and line them up so he can pick one for you, just in case your love-at-first-sight strategy doesn’t work out. That can be your backup plan.”
“He will think that is a good idea.” Hana laughed.
Janet touched her heart. “I can’t deny what’s in here. You’re too beautiful in every way to live a solitary life.”
Hana leaned over and gave Janet a hug.
“Please send pictures,” the assistant said when Hana stood up. “And you know who I want to see more than anyone else.”
Hana flew from Atlanta to Reagan Airport in Washington, DC, and after a layover was on a plane to Israel. She had an aisle seat, and the woman to her right was an Arab from East Jerusalem returning to Israel after visiting a son and grandchildren who lived in Baltimore. They spoke in Arabic. The woman’s son was enrolled in a PhD program in computer science at Johns Hopkins University and hoped to find a permanent job in the United States upon graduation. The woman asked Hana a lot of questions about life in the US. One of her chief concerns for her family was the loss of ethnic identity and assimilation into American culture. They were nominal Muslims. When Hana explained that she was a Christian, the woman nodded.
“It’s easier for you because America is a Christian nation.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Hana answered. “It depends on who you’re with.”
Hana was no Alexis de Tocqueville, but she did her best to summarize contemporary American life. As she talked, she realized how much she’d come to love her temporary home. It reminded her of the command in Jeremiah 29:7 to pray for the peace and prosperity of the place where you live.
Halfway through the flight, the older woman yawned and soon took a long nap. Hana closed her eyes but didn’t sleep. She wanted to sync her biological clock to Israeli time as soon as possible. They landed at Ben Gurion Airport. The woman kissed Hana on both cheeks before they parted ways.
Hana rented a car and drove to Jerusalem. She’d considered staying with friends, but she wanted to focus on business and so selected a hotel that catered to business travelers in the modern western part of the city. Both investigators knew where she was staying. As soon as she was in her room, she checked her office email for messages. At the top of the list were ones from Sahir Benali and Daud Hasan. Hana read the one from Benali first, stopped, and read it again. The experienced investigator was withdrawing his name from consideration for the job. The only reason he gave was “new circumstances that have come to my attention.”
Hana opened the email from Daud Hasan. His reply in English was shorter and puzzling in a different way: “I will pick you up at your hotel at seven and take you to dinner.” He left a different phone number than the one on his office website. It would be efficient to interview Daud over a meal as soon as possible. If she hired him, he could begin working immediately. If not, she could move on to other firms in the morning. However, one thing was certain: Daud Hasan wasn’t going to pick her up at her hotel. Hana typed a quick reply: “Tell me the name of the restaurant and I will meet you there at seven thirty.”
It was early in the morning when Jakob woke up and brewed a pot of coffee. Dr. Bedford had recommended limited intake of caffeine, so Jakob nursed a cup of weak coffee as he began investigating Andre Sarkasian. All the initial hits on the internet were related to Sarkasian’s activities in the United States, including references to petty offenses committed when he was a teenager in Dearborn. Jakob suspected that the rap sheet in Detective Freeman’s file was more comprehensive. There were two photographs of Sarkasian taken within the past five years. In the pictures an unsmiling young man in his mid- to late twenties stared coldly into the camera.
As Jakob went deeper, more and more Russian-language references began to surface. Lifted from the ethos of the search engine algorithms, most of them had no obvious connection to Sarkasian, and Jakob spent two hours without uncovering anything relevant. While taking a break, he tuned in to a classical music station featuring Beethoven as the composer of the week. He resumed his search to the strident opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The notes sounded like hammer blows that could crack rock.
Ten minutes later, Jakob opened a link to a blog originating from Dagestan that advocated Islamic purity. Included on the page was a photograph of ten Islamic fundamentalists swearing allegiance to jihad. Almost all of the faces in the photo were Caucasian. Standing slightly off to the side of the group was a face that appeared familiar. Jakob looked closer. It wasn’t Sarkasian. Checking his saved files, Jakob pulled up the recruitment video filmed by the tall, slender white man with the American accent. It was the same individual.
Returning to the blog from Dagestan, Jakob carefully searched everything on the website. There were a total of ten blogs, and he read them all. Much of the language was repetitive. There were only so many ways to say the same thing. The message of militant Islam was clear—Dar al-Salam and Dar al-Harb—house of peace and house of war. The former were the areas of the world under Islamic control; the latter were parts yet to be conquered either through conversion or by force.
Tired, Jakob lay down for a nap. Before he did, he sent a text to Emily Johnson asking if she was available to take him to the office at noon.
Hana put on the nicest dress she’d brought on the trip. The restaurant was located in the swankiest new area of the city. The prices on the à la carte menu would put a big dent in the food budget she’d set for the entire trip. She inspected herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door and adjusted her sleek black dress. Going downstairs, she asked the concierge to order a cab. When the concierge asked where she was going, he rubbed his fingers together to signal that the restaurant was expensive. The driver of the cab was an Israeli, and Hana gave him her destination in Hebrew. She arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, and the maître d’ escorted her into the bar to wait. It was a Jewish crowd, and Hana didn’t see any other Arabs besides the bartender.
Five minutes after she sat down, an Arab man hurriedly entered the bar. Hana instantly knew it had to be Daud Hasan. The investigator was about six feet tall with broad shoulders, black hair, and a square chin. He saw Hana and came over to her. He lowered his head slightly and greeted her formally in Arabic.
“And nice to meet you,” Hana answered in the same language.
“Do you have a brother named Mikael?” Daud asked. “I played club football with a man named Mikael Abboud about six or seven years ago.”
Hana nodded. “That’s my older brother. He lived in Jerusalem back then and worked for a food wholesaler.”
“That makes sense. He always brought snacks to the matches. Where is he now?”
“Working with my father and uncles in the family irrigation pipe company. Mikael handles sales to Africa and India where they are trying to expand the business. He’s out of the country a lot.”
“He was a good football player and scored at least half our goals. I stayed on the defensive end of the field.”
Mikael was the best athlete in the Abboud family.
“I thought your name sounded familiar when Anat mentioned you to me,” Hana said. “Mikael must have mentioned you back then.”
The investigator had an engaging smile and came across as less serious than Hana had anticipated.
“Are you ready to eat?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve never been here before.”
“It’s new and has the best steaks in Jerusalem.”
The maître d’ took them to a table for two in a back corner of the restaurant. Hana was aware of the attention they received as they passed through the restaurant.
“If we want to be inconspicuous and talk about business, this isn’t the place to do it,” she said after they sat down.
“I disagree,” Daud replied. “Would it be better to discuss investigating a terrorist attack while eating at a restaurant in East Jerusalem or surrounded by Jews?”
“Good point,” Hana admitted.
A waiter took their drink orders. Daud spoke knowledgeably with him about the wine list.
“Will it offend you if I order a glass of wine?” Daud asked.
“No, go ahead.” Hana avoided alcohol and ordered tonic water with a twist of lime.
The waiter left, and Daud faced Hana. “I’m also friends with Ibrahim Ghanem,” he said. “We’ve known each other since we were teenagers.”
The mention of Hana’s former fiancé caused a light to come on in her mind. That was how she’d heard Daud’s name. Several times Ibrahim had mentioned a longtime friend who served in a secret branch of the Israel Defense Forces.
“How is Ibrahim?” Hana asked somewhat awkwardly.
“He and his wife just had their fourth child, a boy after three girls. He works in the radiology department at St. Louis French Hospital.”
“Tell him congratulations on the birth of his son,” Hana said, then immediately added, “without revealing why we talked.”
“I’ll save your congratulations for an appropriate time.”
Hana wondered what Ibrahim had said to Daud Hasan about her. The waiter returned with a glass of wine for Daud and tonic water for Hana. Daud waited until the waiter had stepped away from their table before continuing.
“I know you’re here to interview me,” Daud said. “But I’d like to volunteer some information to save time. The first has to do with my fees if you decide to hire me. Given the circumstances of the case, I’m willing to charge fifty percent less than my usual rate.”
Stunned, Hana didn’t immediately respond. “What circumstances?” she managed.
“Two factors,” Daud said as he leaned forward slightly. “Working on a matter involving a terrorist attack is a rare opportunity.”
“And that’s good?” Hana asked. “You already mentioned how risky and dangerous it will be.”
“Risk isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Why did you agree to become involved?”
Hana thought about Sadie, but she wasn’t comfortable revealing her feelings for the little girl to a man she’d just met. “Could we leave that to the side for now?”
“No problem, you’re here to find out about me,” Daud replied. “This is my chance to work on an important case, not just for the client, but for the country. Terrorism is everyone’s enemy. Second, I don’t often get to work with an Arab attorney who is a Christian.”
The investigator’s second statement was even more surprising than his first.
“Really?” Hana managed.
Daud leaned forward and smiled again. “To be completely honest, I’ve been curious to meet you ever since you ended your engagement to Ibrahim. I even asked your brother about you when we played on the football team. He told me you were totally dedicated to your career.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Hana responded. “But I guess it could look that way to members of my family.”
The server arrived with salads. In typical Middle Eastern fashion, it wasn’t a bed of lettuce but rather a variety of olives, cheeses, and fresh fruit.
“Do you mind if I pray?” Daud asked.
“That would be great.”
Hana watched as the investigator unashamedly bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Father, I thank you for this meal and the opportunity to meet Hana. I pray that you will comfort Ben and Sadie Neumann in the loss of a wife and mother and bring healing to their lives in the ways that only you can do. May you direct the steps of everyone who helps them. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Hearing the words of the prayer in Arabic for Ben and Sadie deeply touched Hana. She looked up into Daud’s face. There was an intensity and tenderness in his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Now, in between bites, I’ll tell you about me,” he said.
Daud was the third of four children, and his mother lived in the fast-growing Negev city of Beersheba. Most of the Arabs in Beersheba were Bedouins, but Daud’s great-grandfather had come to Israel from Egypt after the end of World War I.
“We were Coptic Christians for many, many generations,” he said. “But my father met Jesus in a deeper way before his death ten years ago. That changed everything in our family. His encounter with God sent me on a journey of my own.”
Hana felt tears well up in her eyes as Daud described his realization that Jesus wasn’t merely a historical figure but a personal Savior and Lord. It had been a watershed moment that impacted his life from that point forward. He read the Bible, prayed, and looked for chances to share his faith with others.
The investigator lived in a modern apartment building in the Arab area of East Jerusalem. He attended a church Hana had heard about but never visited. She shared the story of her grandfather and Uncle Anwar.
“Why did your family leave Egypt for the Negev?” she asked.
“My great-grandfather worked with horses and mules, and in those days people still used a lot of draft animals in the desert because the roads were so poor. My father was a civil engineer. Did your family come from Syria or Lebanon? I never asked Mikael or Ibrahim.”
“Lebanon. Four hundred years ago to Nazareth and sixty years ago to Reineh.”
They continued to share family history. When Hana checked her phone, she saw they’d been at the restaurant for over two hours. The time had flown by. Hana remembered one of the negative questions she had for Daud.
“I have to ask: Why did you tell me you’d turned down a job offer from the US Attorney’s Office in New York to work on the Neumann case and then call your contact there as soon as we talked?”
Daud shook his head. “I didn’t tell anyone about our conversation except Anat Naphtali. Who claims that I did?”
“An assistant US attorney in New York City phoned my boss and said her office was looking into the Gloria Neumann murder. How would a prosecutor in New York know to call my law firm if you didn’t tell someone about our interest?”
“Did the lawyer claim I provided the information?”
“No.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sylvia Armstrong.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Okay, my boss and I jumped to a wrong conclusion, not that we believed there would be a problem with you working for the US government along with us. Our interests are parallel.”
“It’s clear that the United States government either hired somebody to keep very close tabs on this situation or has access to conversations originating from your phone or mine.”
Hana stared at her phone for a second. It had always seemed a benign part of her life.
Daud continued, “I always assume that my phone calls are recorded. And that my computer is subject to being hacked.”
Hana knew for certain she wasn’t equipped to move forward into such alien, potentially hostile territory. And after meeting Daud, she couldn’t imagine hiring anyone other than the man sitting across the table to be her guide.
“I want your help,” she said. “I need your help.”
“Good.” Daud beamed. “May I start by buying your dinner and giving you a ride to your hotel?”
“No to dinner because you’re already agreeing to cut your fees, but yes to a ride.”
They stepped outside into the cooler air of nighttime in Jerusalem. The Holy City is over two thousand feet above sea level and enjoys a more temperate climate than lower-lying areas like Galilee and the Dead Sea. The valet brought up a dark green Land Rover. It wasn’t a common vehicle in Israel. Daud held Hana’s hand as she climbed into the passenger seat. His light touch couldn’t hide his strength.
“I travel off-road a lot in the Negev, for both business and recreation,” he said when they were seated.
Hana enjoyed sitting high above the roadway as Daud smoothly navigated his way through the winding streets. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so instantly comfortable with a man.
“I’d like to see you tomorrow,” Daud said when they reached the hotel.
“Yes,” Hana said more eagerly than she intended.
“I have information about the Neumann murder to pass along,” Daud continued. “I started working on the case even though I told you I wouldn’t. We could meet in one of the conference rooms at your hotel.”
“Okay. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
“No, I’m meeting someone in Tel Aviv. Why don’t we get together around two o’clock?”
They confirmed that they had each other’s correct cell phone numbers. As she entered the hotel, Hana glanced over her shoulder at the receding taillights of Daud’s vehicle. That night, she tossed and turned, replaying everything Daud had said over their dinner. She tried to calm her heart, but it was no use.
Early the next morning, Hana was up and on her computer. She canceled the appointments with the other investigative firms and composed a memo to Mr. Lowenstein notifying him that she was retaining Daud Hasan as their investigator. She also let him know about Daud’s denial of any involvement with the US government. After sending the memo to the senior partner, she forwarded it to Jakob Brodsky and Ben Neumann. Circling back, she sent Janet a few sentences about Daud Hasan. She concluded with
No photos—yet.