David Wolfe's life is approaching an exhilarating peak: he is a successful San Francisco lawyer, he is soon to be married and he is being groomed as a future Congressman. But when the phone rings and he hears the voice of Hana Arif - a Palestinian woman with wom he had a secret affair at law school - he begins a completely unexpected journey. The next day, while visiting San Francisco, the
prime Minister of Israel is assassinated by a suicide bomber: soon Hana herself is accused of being the murder. Now David faces an agonizing choice: will he, a Jew, represent Hana - who may well be guilty - or will he turn away the one woman he can never forget?
David's quest takes him to Israel and the West Bank, where, in a series of harrowing encounters, he learns that appearances are not at all what they seems.
Prologue
........Two afternoons later, driven by a lea, cold-eyed man they knew only as Pablo, they rode in a van headed toward the border. Crossing would be no problem, Pablo assured them in surprisingly good English-thousands did it every day. Although not, Ibrahim thought, for such a reason.
Pablo left them a mile from the border. Stepping onto the parched earth, they began to walk in the sweltering heat. Turning, Iyad watched Pablo's van disappear, then ordered, "We leave the cell phone here. And out passports. Everything that names us."
These few words, Ibrahim found, sealed his sense of foreboding.
He emptied his pockets. With the care of a man tending a garden, Iyad buried their passports under a makeshift pile of rocks.
An hour later, sweat from their trek coating his face, Ibrahim saw the metallic glint of a silver van driving toward them across the featureless terrain. Ibrahim froze in fear. With preternatural calm, Iyad said, "We're America. The home of the brave, the liberators of Iraq."
The van stopped beside them. Silently, its dark-haired young driver opened the door, motioning them into the back. In English as fluent as Pablo's, he said, "Lie down. I'm not getting paid to lose you." To Ibrahim, he looked more Arabic than Hispanic. But then, he realized, so had Pablo.
When the man told them to sit up, they were in Brownsille, Texas. He dropped them near a bus terminal with nothing but what he had given them, the key to a locker inside.
The terminal was nearly empty. Glancing over his shoulder, Iyad opened the locker. The brown bag they found held a credit card, three thousand dollars in cash, car keys, a binder, two american passport in false names, and California driver's licenses. With mild astonishment, Ibrahim gazed at his photograph, encased in plastic, and discovered that his new name was Yusuf Akel.
"Let's go." Iyad murmured in Arabic.
Expressionless, he led Ibrahim to a nondescript Ford sedan with Califoria locense plates, paked two blocks away. Iyad unlocked the passenger door for Ibrahim.
"We have seven days," Iyad said. "We'll drive utill it's dark."
It was June, late spring, and the day were long. Tasting the last saliva in his dry mouth, Ibrahim got in, knowing he would ot sleep for hours, if at all.
Iyad drove in silence. Ibrahim riffled through the binder. It contained a sheaf of maps, detailing a route from Brownsille to San Francisco. On the final map of San Francisco were two stars scrawled with a Magic Marker: one labeled "bus station," the other beside a place called Fort Point.
Closing his eyes against the harsh sunlight, Ibrahim tried to summon an image San Francisco, the end of his life's journey.
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