Free Who Killed Daniel Pearl by Bernard-Henri Lévy Page A

was offered one, during one of my trips. But what I immediately realized is that first, it’s the kind of precaution that mostly serves to attract the attention of those who wish you harm; and second, that a retired cop getting ten dollars an hour isn’t very motivated, in case of trouble, to take a bullet for you. I repeat, Pearl was not a war correspondent. He had not a trace of fascination for this garbage, the violence of men against men. Caution, he would say, is a dimension of courage.
    And another thing. Did you know that it was he, Daniel Pearl, who in 1998, three years before “The Pearl Affair,” volunteered to compile for the Wall Street Journal a sort of journalistic handbook on security issues? He had thought of everything. The Journal used it to brief its reporters. Except for one subject, only one, which he left out: kidnapping! What to do if you were kidnapped! The specialists are categorical. They all say there’s one absolute rule, which is don’t try to escape. Never. But there you have it. It was the only rule he didn’t know. It was the only situation he hadn’t considered. He had anticipated everything, except what you’re supposed to do if you get kidnapped. What irony! What a coincidence! As is the dream that Ruth had on 23 January, at the same time as the kidnapping. Danny, haggard, disheveled, appearing to her at the bottom of a dead-end street. “What’s wrong, darling? What’s going on?” “Nothing. They just made me drink water. Lots of water. It’s nothing.” But he looks so awful. So pale and so awful. Ruth wakes up in a sweat, and goes directly to her e-mail: “Danny, are you all right? Please answer immediately!”
    More about carelessness. The theory that he was being manipulated by American intelligence. Who told me that? It doesn’t matter. The reasoning is as follows: A Wall Street Journal colleague buys a used computer at the Kabul market, right after the American war and the flight of the Taliban. He boots it up. He discovers to his amazement that the hard drive contains a quantity of strange information that smells of al-Qaida. He gives it to the Journal . Who pass it on to the American intelligence services. And they, once they’ve processed the information, come back to the newspaper in the hope—it’s classic—that one or several journalists can help them confirm or disprove their preliminary conclusions. It’s possible, of course. Everything, absolutely everything, is possible in such a strange story. As for the theory that Danny was in touch with the intelligence agencies, why not? What would be wrong with that? Shouldn’t a good journalist, in the search for the truth, look for information anywhere he might find it? Shouldn’t he follow up on every lead, make use of anything he can? Turn over every stone? Will I be accused of being a secret agent when I go to New Delhi to ask Indian intelligence what they know about his death? A CIA agent when I go to Washington, check on the investigation, glean there, too, a few clues, scraps of truth, maybe some evidence? The one thing I know is that Danny was a seasoned journalist. Street-smart. He never let himself be taken in by authorities, small-time crooks or spies. The one thing I could never imagine is that he would cross that yellow line between those who love truth and the agents or even militants of any given cause.
    There is the Jew who had always thought if he had a son he would have him circumcised and who in 1998 wrote to his mother: “I will pass on to my children all the Jewish tradition I know, and with your help, maybe a little bit more.” How Jewish? I asked Ruth and Judea. Jewish. Faithful to that part of his memory. Because to him being Jewish was a way of having a memory. Yom Kippur. The High Holidays. Friday night dinner when he was home in Los Angeles. This other conversation with his mother, or maybe it was the