Wednesday, October 11, 1995
The flight from Damascus touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport at lunch time-an opportune time for long lines and lax immigration scrutiny. The Hawaiian shirt stuck to Al-Mazir’s sweaty back, but he counted on the flowery design to convey the vacationer’s image he aimed to fake. He walked down the drab hallways and joined the queue of mustachioed men in striped suits, elders in checkered kafiyas, and veiled matrons clutching droopy children. Progress was slow, paced by the thumping of stamps on passports. He breathed deeply, calming himself. He had no reason to worry. The French consul general in Damascus had personally handed him this passport, which belonged to a recently deceased Frenchman but carried Al-Mazir’s own photo.
The butterflies in his stomach fluttered urgently as he stepped up to the counter and placed the passport before a uniformed woman. His French was barely conversational, and if she made any inquiries…
“ Bonjour. ” She browsed the passport, hit a few keys on her computer keyboard, and found a vacant spot to land her stamp. Thud!
He let the air out of his lungs in a slow, soundless whistle.
“Bienvenue a Paris, Monsieur.”
“ Merci beaucoup.” Al-Mazir took the passport, shouldered his overnight bag, and walked by the two gendarmes and through the automatic glass doors. He circled the luggage carousel and headed for the exit. The trickiest part was behind him, but he feared it would not take long before busy tongues reached the wrong ears. He must return to the safety of Damascus as soon as a three-way agreement was concluded with Abu Yusef and the Saudi prince for funding the fight against Arafat and his traitorous Oslo Accords with the Jews.
Entering the Arrivals Terminal, Al-Mazir passed through a crowd of expectant relatives and cabbies looking to hook a passenger. He scanned the terminal for Abu Yusef’s men. A group of passengers peered at a large electronic display of flights information. A couple labored to pacify an irate baby. And a punk in black leathers tinkered with his motorcycle helmet. Off to the right, three young men stood near a currency-exchange booth. They returned Al-Mazir’s glance with intense, dark eyes. One of them stepped forward. “ Salaam Aleikum. ”
“ Salaam Aleikum,” Al-Mazir replied.
“Allah’s blessings upon you.” The young man kissed Al-Mazir on both cheeks. “I am Hassan Gaziri.”
“ Abu Yusef’s nephew? By Allah, you were a toddler last time I saw you!” Al-Mazir embraced Hassan, detecting a gun in a shoulder holster. For a moment he hesitated. Was this a trap? Was Abu Yusef’s invitation nothing but a ruse to eliminate a competitor?
Outside, a green Peugeot 605 waited at the curb. Bashir, Abu Yusef’s long-time enforcer, sat behind the wheel. But Hassan steered Al-Mazir to the left and opened the rear door of a second car, a black Renault Safrane. The driver was a young man in a suit, who kept both hands on the steering wheel and gazed forward. Hassan ran around to the other side, and his two companions joined Bashir in the green Peugeot. The doors slammed and the two sedans took off.
Al-Mazir was relieved. If they wanted to kill him, they would make him sit by the driver, vulnerable to a quick knifing from behind. And the use of two cars showed Abu Yusef’s concern for his guest’s safety. Al-Mazir sat back and exhaled in relief. All was going well. Their old partnership had given birth to the Munich Olympics spectacle, which had put Palestinian resistance at the top of world news. Now, after years apart, they would join forces again to deliver an even greater catastrophe unto the Zionist enemy.
*
Gideon had noticed the Hawaiian shirt as soon as the middle-aged passenger emerged from the passport-control area. At first he dismissed the possibility. A terrorist travelling under a false identity would rather emulate a gray sparrow than a peacock. But a reverse strategy could be at play-deflecting suspicion by defying expectations. Gideon glanced at the photograph stuffed inside his helmet. Even though Al-Mazir had gained considerable weight since the snapshot had been taken, his facial features were yet to completely melt into his pudginess. And the reception by the Arabs confirmed his identity, especially the extended embrace he used to pat down his host for weapons.
Gideon slipped on the full-face helmet and said, “The Frogs let him in. He’s in the second car.”
The built-in speakers inside his helmet crackled with Bathsheba’s voice. “I see him.”
“ Go!” He exited through the sliding doors just as her BMW K1 motorbike took off with a hushed exhaust rumble.
In the padded back seat of the Renault, Hassan pulled a silver thermos from a pouch, unscrewed the top, and poured coffee into a porcelain cup. The rich aroma filled the car.
“ Ah!” Al-Mazir sniffed at the edge of the cup. “The real thing!”
“ Abu Yusef brewed it especially for you,” Hassan said. “Black, twice-boiled, no sugar.”
He sipped and smacked his lips. “Perfect!”
“ My uncle told me it was your only luxury back in Beirut, when the PLO fought a holy jihad for Palestine.”
“ I’m still fighting.” Al-Mazir glanced at the young man. “I’ve kept alive the spirit of Beirut, continued to spill the Jews’ blood.”
“ You have been wise. We all see it now, after the Oslo treachery of Arafat-”
“Don’t mention that name!” Al-Mazir took another sip and held the thick brew in his mouth before swallowing. “So how is my dear comrade?”
“Abu Yusef is eager to see you. He prays that you join us soon.”
“With my courageous followers, yes?”
Hassan blushed. He straightened the lapels of his tailored suit. “ Insha’Allah.”
Al-Mazir noted the young man’s embarrassment with satisfaction. In the eleven years between 1972 and 1983, starting with the Munich Olympics attack, the string of extravagant airline-highjack operations, and the buildup of PLO forces in southern Lebanon for an invasion of Israel, Al-Mazir and Abu Yusef had worked ceaselessly under Arafat to achieve the dream of a free Palestine. But rather than leading an invasion, Arafat needled the Galilee with a constant barrage of Katyusha missiles until Israel sent troops into Lebanon. PLO forces quickly collapsed, and a 1983 ceasefire agreement sent Arafat and his men on a safe passage to Tunisia. But not Al-Mazir. He broke away from the PLO and went to Syria, where he had formed the Nablus Liberation Force, whose defiance resonated with disillusioned young Palestinians.
Abu Yusef, on the other hand, had spent ten years with Arafat in Tunisia, only to splinter from the PLO in protest of the 1993 Oslo Accord with Israel. And now, after two years and a second Oslo agreement, Abu Yusef’s underfunded group could take credit for only a single attack on a Jewish school in Marseilles, while Al-Mazir claimed eighteen attacks on Jewish and Israeli targets, including a magnificent bus explosion in Tel Aviv that had almost derailed the recent Oslo II signing ceremony in Washington. It was no wonder, therefore, that his old partner had reached out to renew their alliance and had arranged for this clandestine trip to Paris. Tonight they would dine with a Saudi donor, whom Abu Yusef had cultivated to sponsor a militant Palestinian opposition to Arafat.
Hassan poured more coffee into Al-Mazir’s cup.
“ Thank you.” Al-Mazir took a sip and looked out the window. This was his first trip out of Syria since 1983. He had missed Europe’s colors, sounds, and smells. But while his mind was still occupied by the pleasing sights, he noticed Hassan’s right hand slip under his jacket toward the hidden gun.
Betrayal!
His shoulders tensed up for action as he prepared to lob the steaming coffee into Hassan’s eyes, shove a heavy elbow into his ribcage, and take possession of the gun.
Gideon mounted his own K1, started the engine, and released the clutch. The heavy motorbike leaped forward. A startled porter swerved a luggage cart, and a pile of suitcases cascaded onto the curb. Gideon leaned sharply, avoiding the luggage and the angry porter, and raced off.
He caught up with Bathsheba and slowed down to match the pace of airport traffic. An Avis shuttle bus separated them from the two cars ahead. The green Peugeot took the ramp onto the highway, followed by the black Renault.
“ They are heading north,” he said into his helmet, “away from Paris.”
In his side mirror he saw her black helmet tilting as if saying: So what? But Gideon was alarmed by this development. Their operational assumption had been that Al-Mazir, if he actually showed up, would be driven to a safe apartment in Paris, where Abu Yusef would be waiting. After the meeting, he would become an easy target. Inner-city assassinations were quick and uncomplicated-a red stoplight, spraying the target with bullets, disappearing into traffic. End of story. But the highway was tricky, even on powerful motorbikes. Shooting at high speed could lead to cars flipping over, a multi-vehicle pileup, and innocent casualties, followed by police barricades at the highway exits. On the other hand, trailing the two cars to their destination carried its own risks. A suburban setting would make the two K1 motorbikes stand out like black flies on a slice of cheesecake.
Their orders for this scenario had been clear: Once they’re off the highway, eliminate Al-Mazir at the first opportunity. Tracking down Abu Yusuf’s hideout would have to wait.
“ As soon as they exit,” Gideon said. “I’ll go first. You finish off.”
Her black helmet nodded once.
Hassan’s hand emerged with a mobile phone, not a gun. Al-Mazir slouched back in the seat. He accepted the proffered phone, pressed it to his ear, and heard Abu Yusef’s unmistakable voice. “ Ya habibi! ”
“ Ah-Salaam! Allah’s blessings upon you!”
“ Hearing your voice is like hearing the prophet Mohammed himself!”
Al-Mazir laughed. “Your slick tongue is still anointed with the olive oil of Palestine.”
Abu Yusef’s laughter was hoarse with static. “In my dreams I still chase you among the ancient groves of Nablus.”
“ Me too, my friend. Me too.” Al-Mazir chuckled with pleasure. The intervening years of estrangement had failed to diminish their childhood bond. He had been foolish to harbor suspicion.
“ The excitement has kept me awake all night. You’ll be awed by my plan. It is grand! More impressive than Munich, more spectacular than Entebbe, more stunning than a hundred Achille Lauros. And we’ll soon have the money to do it!”
“ And where will we meet your generous friend?”
“I have arranged a dinner right here, at our villa. A tender lamb is roasting over red embers-just like home. The scent alone will get you inebriated.”
“Ah! You know me too well!”
Gideon leaned right and rolled the throttle, accelerating after the cars, which cut through three highway lanes toward an exit ramp. The motorbike responded with explosive power, rapidly closing the gap between him and the cars. “Here we go!” He glanced at the mirror by his right hand and registered her headlight close behind.
The green Peugeot approached the turnoff to the local road. It stopped at a red light, its right taillight blinking. The Renault stopped behind it.
His right hand let go of the throttle and reached into his coat for the mini-Uzi. He kept a grip on the handlebar with his left hand, two fingers extended over the clutch lever. His left foot downshifted while his right foot tapped the brake to decelerate, coming to a full stop behind the Renault. He saw Al-Mazir in the back seat, pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The younger man was sitting behind the driver.
Bathsheba’s motorbike stopped a few feet behind, slightly to the left.
Boots planted on both sides of the K1 to balance it, Gideon drew the mini-Uzi and cocked it. With both arms extended over the small windshield, he aimed the weapon, but suddenly his left boot slipped, likely on an oil stain, and the motorbike began to tip sideways. He grabbed the handlebar and fought to keep from falling over.
The traffic light turned green, and the Peugeot moved instantly, making a sharp right turn onto the local road. The Renault driver glanced in his rearview mirror, noticed the weapon, and slammed the gas pedal. The engine uttered an angry roar, followed by the high pitch of spinning wheels.
His left boot found a dry foothold, and Gideon pulled the motorbike straight up. He aimed the mini-Uzi to the right, where he expected to find the Renault following the green Peugeot, but it turned left, skirted the stationary cars lined at the red traffic light, and raced away on the local road. Gideon cursed and corrected his aim, but by then the Renault was sheltered by the line of waiting cars.
He stashed the weapon back under his coat. His left foot hit the gear shift into first, his hand twisted the throttle, and the motorbike took off. He leaned all the way to the left, executing the sharpest turn possible, his head as low as the headlights of a station wagon waiting at the light. He prayed there was no more oil on the road.
Al-Mazir gripped the door handle and yelled into the phone, “Assassins! Help!” Abu Yusef’s reply was drowned in the screeching tires and roaring engine.
The large Renault weaved from lane to lane through traffic. It passed a delivery van and cut back in to avoid a collision, causing the van to run off the road.
Looking back over his shoulder, Al-Mazir saw the headlight of a motorcycle. “Allah’s mercy! Shoot him down!”
“Get down!” Hassan drew his gun, released his seat belt, and lowered the window. He extended his arm out, but the driver swerved sharply, and Hassan fell back. He cursed and got back to the window. His shots popped in a rapid succession.
*
Gideon bent forward, ducking behind the tiny windshield. A moment later, the shooting stopped. He twisted hard on the throttle and aimed the motorbike at the solid white line, passing a bunch of cars. The Arab driver was very good, and the top-of-the-line Renault had ample power, but no sedan could outrun a BMW K1.
He switched hands, his left reaching across to hold the right-side handlebar grip, keeping the throttle at a steady pace behind the Renault. With his right hand he drew the mini-Uzi, aimed it at the rear window, and pulled the trigger. The glass disintegrated into a thousand shards, which pelted him like hail. The Renault spun around, slid across the opposite lane and into a ditch.
Gideon kept his motorbike on a straight line, down-shifted, and stopped on the right shoulder. In his rearview mirror he saw Bathsheba slow down and cut across the opposite lane in front of an oncoming car. She couldn’t stop in time, and her K1 slipped and fell over.
He cursed, pulled on the throttle, and made a U-turn, heading back.
She was already on her feet, running to the Renault.
There was a lull in traffic, and no sign of the green Peugeot.
She aimed at the car. A long burst of bullets exploded into the side windows, crushing bones and flesh, splashing red blood. The empty magazine fell to the ground, and she shoved in a new one. Aiming forward, she pulled open the back door.
“ Hurry up,” Gideon said, but the speakers in his helmet brought back only the sound of her breathing.
Inside the Renault, crouched forward, Al-Mazir recited verses from the Koran. On top of him, Hassan’s body spewed blood in slowing spasms. A phone on the floor let out a distant voice.
Bathsheba cracked open her eye-shield and met Al-Mazir’s eyes. “Greetings from Jerusalem,” she said and pulled the trigger.
He was dead before the last bullet made its short way into his torn chest.
Gideon pulled a brown envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it to Bathsheba. She tore it open and flung a bunch of photos into the car, covering the bodies with images of naked youths utilizing sex paraphernalia.
A couple of cars came down the road, slowing to a crawl, windows rolling down, voices shouting in French. Behind them, a little blue Porsche arrived at high speed, honking to hurry them along. But Gideon could only think of the green Peugeot, racing over with three armed Arabs ready for battle amidst all of these French civilians. “Let’s go,” he said. “Now!”
*
In a country villa surrounded by tall hedges and old pecan trees, Abu Yusef slammed the receiver and looked at a room full of men. “Battle stations! Go!”
They grabbed their weapons and ran out to their assigned positions-twelve around the perimeter of the property, four on the roof, and three pairs patrolling the road through the village.
A few moments later, Bashir appeared. He was a muscular native of Hebron, who had been with Abu Yusef for many years. “Two motorcycles,” he said. “Hassan went in the other direction to escape the assassins-”
“ He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
Bashir’s face darkened. “I should have turned back to help them.”
“You should have noticed the tail from the airport!” Abu Yusef struggled to control his rage. “You should have driven behind the Renault, not rush ahead like a mindless dog!”
“I didn’t expect Arafat’s people to find out-”
“It was the Israelis. I heard a woman’s voice. Greetings from Jerusalem. ”
“The Israelis? How?”
“They must have a snitch in Damascus, or in the French foreign service. Are you sure they didn’t follow you here?”
“Impossible.”
“Go, check our defenses. And keep the men in position until tomorrow, just in case you made another error!”
Bashir left.
Abu Yusef stepped outside to a wide patio decorated with fresh roses and sprinkled with mint leaves. A long table had been set, the plates patterned with the Palestinian tri-colors, the silverware shining to perfection. A giant outdoor grill stood at the edge of a sparkling swimming pool. A steel skewer impaled a lamb over the red embers. A handle attached to the skewer dangled unattended. The man assigned to turn it must have run to his assigned battle post.
The belly of the limp animal dripped fat, producing a hissing sound and a flare-up below. The aroma of roasting gave way to the stench of burning fat. Abu Yusef stepped forward and kicked the grill. It tipped over and fell into the swimming pool with a huge splash of water and steam.
*
Bathsheba closed the distance in long steps. Gideon moved forward on the saddle, making room. Her almond-shaped eyes glistened through the helmet eye-shield. “Did you see his-”
“Climb on! Quick!”
She mounted the motorbike behind him, breathing hard. “ Wow! Wow! Wow! ”
The earphones rang in his ears. “Don’t shout.”
“The terror! You should’ve seen his eyes!”
Distant sirens sounded.
Gideon made another U-turn and headed in their original direction, away from Ermenonville. The surge of power propelled the motorbike forward. In four seconds, they were moving at sixty miles per hour.
“ He knew!” She slipped forward on the short saddle, her hands around Gideon, her panting loud in the tiny speakers inside his helmet. He felt her thighs pressing against him on both sides. She groaned. “He watched me! Terrified! Knew he was about to die!”
“Every dog has his day.”
“He got it alright! Pow! ”
The thin hand of the RPM gauge rolled clockwise and crossed the red line. The engine’s buzz flowed through the saddle, and Gideon heard Bathsheba utter a grunt as her thighs closed on him again, her body molded against him like a spoon. As he passed the blue Porsche and the other two cars, his foot kicked into second gear. The engine pace dropped, its shuddering subsided. He felt the tension in her body loosen, her thighs parting.
“ He saw the bullets hit his chest. Splash! ”
The engine revs peaked again, high-pitched buzzing, transferred through the saddle. Gideon felt her arms tighten around him, her body cling to his back. Her thighs squeezed inward rhythmically. The motorbike moved fast on the local road, leaning deep into each turn.
He released the throttle. “Stop it!”
“No!” Her voice came deep through the earphones. “Keep going!” Her breathing grew more rapid. “His face! His eyes! His fear! ”
“Stop it!”
Her right hand dug under his leather jacket, forcing its way under his shirt. Her glove was gone, her fingers cold against his skin. “Go faster!” Her body moved back and forth.
He leaned forward, trying to separate from her.
“ The bullets tore him up! He felt them!” Her body pressed against Gideon’s back, her fingernails plowing his stomach.
“Enough!” He Gideon used his right hand to try to pull her hand out from under his jacket while holding on to the handlebar with his left, keeping the motorbike balanced. He cried in pain as her fingers hooked into him.
“Go! Go! Go!” Her voice was filled with urgency, her body not ceasing from its constant jerking. “Give it gas, damn it!”
Gideon’s hand closed around the throttle, pulling it violently. Her crotch hit him repeatedly from behind as she rubbed herself back and forth on the quivering saddle. The engine screamed, rising to the highest pitch. Her body moved faster and faster. Her thighs closed on him like a vise, opened and closed, again and again. Her breathing turned into moans while he kept the throttle open all the way, the engine revs well into the red. The shuddering intensified, buzzing through the saddle into their bodies. She slid back and forth, her moans becoming short, rapid whimpers. Gideon twisted his face in pain as her thighs clamped on him. He kept the motorbike zooming in a straight line, thankful for a gap in traffic, and gasped as she clung to him in a final, violent spasm-thighs and arms tight around him, fingernails digging into his chest. She cried out, and a moment later her body slackened.
He shifted to a higher gear. The engine revs declined. He felt Bathsheba begin to tremble. His hand found the small switch on the right side of his helmet and turned off the communications system. He wished he could wipe the sweat from his face.
*
At his bedroom in the rear of the villa, Abu Yusef shut the door and locked it. He called the Hilton Hotel in Paris and left word for Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr that dinner was cancelled.
Latif put his slim arms around Abu Yusef. “I’m so sorry.”
“ I can’t believe Al-Mazir is dead.” He sat on the bed, and tears emerged from his eyes. “Why did I bring him here? To see him? To hug him? To celebrate with my beloved friend? It’s my fault. I should have gone to see him in Damascus. His blood is on my hands!”
“ Allah took him for a reason.” Latif caressed Abu Yusef’s thinning gray hair and kissed his forehead. “So that you can take over. His men will now follow you.”
“ And Hassan? What will I tell my sister?” Abu Yusef wept. “Allah has deserted me!”
“ Allah loves you.” Latif’s embrace tightened. “He will help you take revenge, kill a hundred Jews for each of our martyrs.”
*
They crossed the Seine River at Pont de la Concorde, circled the Obelisque, and sped up the Champs Elysees. Gideon kept the motorbike in the left lane, glancing at the side mirrors, his ears pricked for sirens that would break the constant hum of the widest avenue in the world.
Halfway to the Arc de Triomphe, he pulled to the left and parked between two cars along the center divider. They dismounted and ran between moving cars to the opposite sidewalk, still wearing their black helmets, scanning the flow of people and automobiles for any irregularity, any change of pace, any indication that someone had spotted them.
Nothing.
They slowed down and removed their helmets. Bathsheba’s tall figure, cropped hair, and sculpted face never failed to draw men’s eyes, which right now was a disadvantage.
At the Cafe Renault, where tourists sipped coffee in booths resembling cars, they turned left onto Rue Pierre Charron and passed by the window displays of Iran Air. Bathsheba motioned at the Iranian flag. “Do you have any bullets left?”
He walked faster.
On Rue Francois they turned right.
Near the end of the block, a short, thin man wearing a dark wool cap leaned against a white Citroen BX. He drew once more from his cigarette, dropped it, and put it out with the sole of his shoe.
Bathsheba got in the back, Gideon behind the wheel, and Elie Weiss in the passenger seat. The car smelled of cigarette smoke. They drove off.
Elie looked forward, not turning his head.
“ Your source told the truth,” Gideon said. “Al-Mazir was on the Damascus flight. Abu Yusef’s men picked him up, but drove north to the suburbs, not to the city. They split up. We chased the car he was in and shot him.”
“ Any problems?”
“Not with the Arabs.” Gideon glanced at Bathsheba through the rearview mirror.
“ We had fun.” She leaned forward and ruffled his hair. “We’re a good team.”
Elie coughed in a slow, deep rumble that sounded as if it should emerge from a much larger man. He pulled the tight-fitting wool cap down over his ears. It gave his head a conical shape. His face had a sickly hue.
Gideon drove fast, passing other cars whenever possible, taking turns with sudden jerks of the wheel. In Paris, slow driving drew attention.
Heading east on Rue La Fayette, he slammed on the brakes and made a tight U-turn. A quarter-block back, he turned into Rue Lamartine, a narrow one-way street with little traffic, and took a swift left turn into Rue Buffault, where he stopped at the curb.
They waited a few minutes.
Elie opened the door. The air was cold and moist. He led the way across the street and down the opposite pavement, past the municipal office building. Next was number 32, a public elementary school, where a marble plaque commemorated twenty thousand Parisian Jewish children deported to Auschwitz between 1942 and 1944. A bouquet of dry flowers rested in a metal ring under the plaque, wrapped in the French red, white, and blue flag.
The next building, number 30, was a synagogue. Its three mahogany doors were embraced by ornate marble pillars resembling palm fronds, and a Biblical quote on top: Blessed are you in coming, and blessed are you in leaving. A temporary wall of plywood, supported by police barriers, separated the sidewalk from the street, shielding the forecourt and doors from passing cars. The synagogue had been the target of a terrorist attack a decade earlier.
Gideon pushed open the heavy door at number 28 and held it for Elie and Bathsheba. The old apartment building had an elevator, but they took the stairs.
On the third floor landing, Elie was out of breath. He coughed hard and spat into a handkerchief. Gideon entered the apartment with his weapon drawn. He checked the bedroom, which had one bed and two thin mattresses on the floor, and the workroom, where a large metal desk carried a telephone, a computer, and a small TV. Electrical wires crisscrossed the floor.
Elie sat at the desk and pulled off the wool cap. He opened a file, took out a small photograph, and showed it to them.
“That’s the one who shot back at us,” Gideon said.
“Hassan Gaziri.” Elie tapped the photo with his finger. “A nephew. Abu Yusef must be very upset. And nervous. He’s hunkered down in a secluded house, difficult to access, lots of hiding spots for his men to wait in ambush for foolhardy attackers.”
“ So what?” Bathsheba kicked the leg of the table. “We give up?”
“ We plan ahead,” Elie said. “Let him stew in grief and anger and dread. Let him experience what he has caused so many others to experience.”
“ That’s never going to happen,” Bathsheba said. Her father, a judo champion, had represented Israel in the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich. At his funeral near Tel Aviv, three-year-old Bathsheba had held a red rose. The next day, her picture was picked up by news outlets worldwide. “He’s a murderer,” she said. “He doesn’t experience the feelings we experience. Right now, all he’s thinking about is how to kill more Jews.”
“ That too,” Elie said.
“ Then we should go now, drive around Ermenonville, ask people. Someone might have noticed a bunch of Arabs living in a house.”
“My father,” Elie said, “may he rest in peace, was a shoykhet, the only kosher butcher within a week’s mule-ride from our shtetl. He taught me that a successful act of slaughter requires meticulous preparations-for both the shoykhet and the animal.”
Bathsheba laughed, but Gideon didn’t. He had once seen Elie work with a long blade on a former SS prison guard, an elderly man who had spent decades evading the consequences of his crimes. Since then, despite Elie’s small stature and worsening health, Gideon had felt apprehension in his presence.
“ Driving around could draw attention to you,” Elie said. “We need an observation point. Show me the layout.”
With a roadmap flat on the desk, Gideon’s finger traced Charles de Gaulle Airport, the highway north, and the exit ramp. “That’s where the green Peugeot turned right. We can wait at this gas station.” He pointed at the intersection off the highway. “The Peugeot 605 is a pricey car. They’ll use it again.”
“ Start on Friday,” Elie said. “Give them a day to calm down.”
“ Calm down my ass,” Bathsheba said. “They’re going to strike back.”
Elie glanced at his watch. “I have a flight to catch.” He raised his hand to stop Gideon, who started to rise. “Stay here. I’ll take the train to the airport.”