Free Who Killed Daniel Pearl by Bernard-Henri Lévy

taffeta skirt. Chiffon scarf. A bouquet of flowers in her hand. A perfect silhouette. Her delicate, exposed neck. I can imagine a Chopin prelude or a mazurka as background music. She’s radiant. He’s dressed up. Slightly artificial. Beige suit, a little stiff. Freshly cut short hair. He’s holding her hand. In his eyes, a confident questioning, a tender glow, the youthful pride of happiness achieved. Not the slightest hint that could prompt someone to say later, “There, it was written, the tragedy was lurking beneath the enchanted image.” Not even, in their eyes, that slight hesitation, the distance between me and myself that usually testifies to the possibility of misfortune, or, simply, worry. No. They were absolutly present. Joy and beatitude. I have seen few faces, in my lifetime, so fulfilled. It seems to me that few people know they are happy when they’re happy, and Pearl was one of the few. (And yet, it’s coming back to me, what Ruth confided yesterday as we parted—the day right before or right after his wedding, when he told her that it was too much happiness. Exactly—too much good luck, and he hoped that one day he wouldn’t have to pay for so much luck . . . Did he really say that? Did she really tell me he said that? Or am I dreaming? Or did I misunderstand? I don’t know any more. Too many photos, yes. There are so many I get dizzy and maybe I’m talking nonsense . . . )
    There’s the journalist. I have in front of me the commemorative anthology published by his newspaper, At Home in the World . His whole life, that title . The inner password, the motto of this tireless globetrotter, as interested in the fate of a Stradivarius as he is in the mystery of Iranian Coca-Cola bottles, in the problems inherent in calculating dates for Ramadan and in the quarrel between Yemenites and Ethiopians on the origins of the Queen of Sheba. Unusual columns. Intrepid reporting. The guy who demolishes NATO’s pronouncements on the Kosovo situation in the Eastern establishment’s favorite newspaper. The one who, when the White House orders the bombing of a chemical factory in Sudan because it believes that it isn’t a chemical factory, but rather a clandestine laboratory making weapons for biological warfare, is the first to go look and shout, “No, it really was a chemical factory. America has committed a tragic error.” An assignment in Qom. The rock music trend in Teheran. The battle for generic drugs, particularly for AIDS patients. Al-Qaida’s involvement in diamond trafficking in Tanzania . . . Daniel Pearl, contrary to what has often been said, was not a war correspondent. “You have to be in practice to cover a war,” he’d say. “I’m not in practice. That’s why I didn’t want to go to Afghanistan and preferred to go to Pakistan.” But you can sense the very good, the very great, journalist. You sense the passionate explorer, tirelessly striding through far-away lands, the love of human beings and the world—you sense the news addict who lives his assignments, body and soul.
    Was Danny careless? It’s been said. During my year of investigation, I kept meeting people in Karachi, Madrid, Washington, who told me: “rash risks . . . was warned . . . didn’t want to listen . . . what a pity . . . ” One step away, particularly in Pakistan, from lapsing into the hateful: “got what he deserved . . . sad but true . . . too bad for him . . . that’s the way it is.” It was the opposite, of course. A good assessment of risks. A healthy fear of the country and the lunatics who disfigure it—proved by his e-mails to his parents. He didn’t have protection, granted, but who did, at the time? What journalist prior to “The Daniel Pearl Affair” walked around with one of those armed escorts in orange or blue caps who protect Pakistani bigwigs? Even now there aren’t many. I