Thursday, October 12, 1995
“ Do you hear them?” Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin peered through the window shutters at a group of demonstrators on the opposite sidewalk. “They’re praying for my early death!”
“I didn’t know you believe in the power of prayers.” Elie Weiss sipped from a cup of tea, which the prime minister had fixed for him.
“It depends who does the praying.” Rabin sat down. It was the same sofa Elie remembered from past visits to the official PM residence in Jerusalem. He had reported to each of the previous occupants-Levi Eshkol, Golda Meir, Yitzhak Rabin himself during his earlier tenure, Menachem Begin, Yitzhak Shamir, and Shimon Peres. And now, with Rabin back in office, the place had a stale, museum-like quality, contrasting with the boisterous chants across the street.
“ My wife moved back to our apartment in Tel Aviv. Can you blame her?”
“ Not really.”
Prime Minister Rabin’s eyes had remained blue and steady, but he wore large glasses from a bygone fashion. His reddish hair had turned gray, and his firm jaw had slackened. “We’ve been through a lot, Weiss.”
“But not much has changed.” Elie lowered the cup to the saucer.
“I disagree.” The previous week, Rabin had signed the second phase of the Oslo Accords at the White House, moving forward with the land-for-peace deal with the Palestinians. “Arafat has changed. The PLO has changed. And the balance of hope has changed.”
“The balance of risk, also.” Elie took out a pack of cigarettes, but didn’t light any. The chanting outside stopped, and a single voice yelled, “ Rodef!” It was a Talmudic term, referring to a “Pursuer,” a Jew who was a menace to his fellow Jews.
The prime minister shifted-quickly, as if something had stung him. “Can you believe these Talmudic ayatollahs?”
A chorus outside joined in chanting, “ Rodef! Rodef! Rodef! ”
A burst of coughing tore through Elie’s chest. He struggled to control it. “Sorry,” he managed to say, “tail end of a bad cold.”
“ You should quit smoking.”
“ After you.” Elie wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “My sources tell me there are widespread doubts about the Oslo process, even among moderate Israelis. They don’t share your trust in Arafat.”
“ You think I trust that murderer? No! I’m relying on his opportunism. And his grandiose view of himself. We’re giving him a Palestinian state on a silver tray.”
“ Some say he’s still dedicated to the dream of greater-Palestine, that he accepted Oslo’s partition concept as a temporary phase.”
“ Oslo doesn’t forbid dreaming. But the momentum of peace will take everyone to a better reality.”
“ Most of his new Palestinian policemen are PLO terrorists.”
“ Former PLO terrorists.”
“ You’re gambling with Jewish lives.”
“ Me? The Knesset approved Oslo!”
“ It approved the first Oslo agreement two years ago with sixty-one to fifty-nine votes, and only because of payoffs and bribes to tie-breaking members. Hardly an enthusiastic endorsement.”
“ That’s democracy. I’ll keep going even with a one-vote majority. And these ayatollahs,” Rabin jerked his head at the window, “can have their free speech, blowing air like propellers!”
“There’s some validity to their anger. Palestinian terror hasn’t stopped.”
“ It’s a process! What do they want? Miracles? We’re making progress. The PLO renounced violence and recognized Israel. Arafat is governing Gaza and much of the West Bank. And the Palestinian Authority is starting to work. For the first time in Israel’s history, we have a partner for peace.”
“ Like you said at the Nobel Prize ceremony: Enough of blood and tears! Enough! ”
“ That wasn’t the Nobel speech. I said that when we signed the first Oslo agreement at the White House in 1993.”
“ But the blood and tears haven’t stopped.”
“ It’s the price of peace. Do you have an alternative?” Prime Minister Rabin glared at him.
“ Yes. Let the blood and tears come from the veins and eyes of Arabs, not Jews.”
“ Ah, there you go again.” He rolled his eyes. “We can’t kill all of them.”
“ It’s them or us.”
“ It’s hope or despair!” Rabin’s voice rose in anger. “And the agreement I just signed gives Arafat full control of the main West Bank cities-Jericho, Nablus, Hebron, Bethlehem. Let him rule over a million angry Palestinians! Let him deliver clean water, run health clinics, and haul off the trash! Let him fight Hamas!”
“ And if you lose the next elections?” Elie toyed with the cigarette pack. The conversation was going in the direction he had hoped for. “The peace process has damaged your popularity.”
“Leadership is not a popularity contest.” Rabin tilted his head, smiling in a way that was almost shy. “Look, peacemaking is just like conducting a war. There’s a main thrust. And there are pinpoint attacks on secondary targets. Our main thrust is the Oslo Accords, leading to two states living peacefully side-by-side. Our secondary targets are the all-or-nothing opponents on both sides. For Arafat, they are the Right of Return diehards, his PLO dropouts, who call him a traitor for recognizing Israel. For me, they are the right-wing Eretz Israel politicians, who’d rather forgo peace than concede a few biblical tombs in the West Bank.”
“The West Bank is our backbone. Without it, Israel will be eight miles wide.”
“The Palestinians will not have an army. Arafat knows my red lines.”
“Arafat doesn’t have to worry about an electoral defeat.”
“I’ll win the next elections,” Rabin said. “The opposition offers no hope. Israeli voters want more than doomsday prophesies and personal attacks.”
“You’re having me kill Arafat’s opponents. Do you want me to help with yours?”
“Are you offering this help on behalf of the Special Operations Department or just as Elie Weiss?”
“ SOD and I are one and the same. I can do more for you than pollsters and campaign consultants. I know how to deal with Jewish insurgents.” Until 1967, Elie had run a network of informers in ultra-Orthodox yeshivas in order to monitor seditious elements who posed an existential risk to Israel, just as fundamentalist Jewish groups had destroyed Jewish kingdoms in ancient times. But the dramatic victory of the Six Day War, which many viewed as divine intervention, had ended the siege mentality in Israel and diffused the ultra-Orthodox anti-Zionist fever. Subsequently, Elie shifted his base of operations to Europe. “I still have some local assets,” he said.
“ To do what?”
“ The hothead fringe of the settlers’ movement could be used to tarnish Likud. Guilt by association.”
“ That’s your mistake,” Rabin said. “Arik Sharon and Bibi Netanyahu are not hotheads or insurgents. They’re my political opponents. I’ll beat them at the voting booth.”
“ Current opinion surveys predict you’ll lose.”
“ They can’t predict tomorrow’s weather, how can they predict the election results a year from now? A lot can change.”
“ The tide’s against you. A few more terror attacks could cause your coalition partners to quit, topple your government, and force early elections in ninety days.”
“ Then I’ll win on the issues.”
“ Voters might find it difficult to hear your rational arguments against the backdrop of ambulance sirens and wailing mourners. But my strategy would make your right-wing opponents seem even less appealing than you.”
“ I’m a soldier. I fight fair and square.”
“ Fair to whom? If you lose, the Oslo process will lose. And your supporters will lose.”
“ We won’t lose the elections.” Rabin paused, his silence filled by the chanting voices from outside. “I know how to win a battle.”
“ With words? My strategy entails action, not words. Bundle up Bibi and Arik with the radicals, show the public that all those who oppose the peace process are dangerous fanatics.”
“ Shin Bet is handling the fanatics.”
“ Our domestic security agency is not a political outfit. Shin Bet has no understanding of public opinion and shifting ideologies.”
“ They’re doing a good job protecting me.”
“ That’s the point. Their posture is defensive. You need someone with a proactive approach.”
“ Someone like you?”
“ Someone capable of orchestrating bold actions-from local disturbances to spectacular events that will shock public opinion. The goal should be to cause the majority of Israelis to despise all right wingers, detest them, ostracize them.”
“ How?”
“ By branding the whole political right-including Likud-as a violent fringe.”
“ Easier said than done.”
“ I’m working on it already,” Elie said. “Your victory would require a two-stage plan. First my agents are setting up ugly skirmishes that create an association in voters’ minds between the violent, extreme-right fringe and mainstream Likud. Then a dramatic event will totally demonize the whole right-of-center political spectrum.”
“ Sounds too good to be true. What are the risks?”
“ The risk is this: You’ve lost the premiership once, and it took you years to return to office. Do you want to lose it again? You’re too old for a comeback.”
Yitzhak Rabin’s jaw tightened. “What kind of a dramatic event?”
Elie hesitated. He looked around the room.
“ Don’t worry. The Shin Bet sweeps this house for listening devices daily. What you tell me stays here.”
“ I hope so,” Elie said. “Remember what we tried with Prime Minister Eshkol? A credible assassination attempt can prop up even the most pathetic politician.”
“ I’m not Levi Eshkol!” Rabin looked away, as if embarrassed by his outburst.
“ And this isn’t nineteen sixty-seven. I can deliver the elections to you. I already have most of the pieces in place. Give me the green light, and I’ll do the rest.”
“ What’s the plan?”
“ That’s my business. I’ll secure your victory, and you’ll reward me with an appointment.”
“ There we go again.” Rabin chuckled. “You still want to run the Mossad?”
“ A good politician’s supposed to forget his broken promises.”
“ I remember those more than the ones I fulfilled.”
Almost three decades ago, on the eve of the Six Day War, IDF Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin had promised to appoint Elie Weiss to run Mossad-if Rabin ever became prime minister. But the appointment never came despite Rabin’s ascendance to the pinnacle of political power in 1974 and again in 1992. During those years, Elie had operated in Europe, where he hunted down elderly Nazis and performed unique tasks for successive prime ministers, who occasionally needed to bypass the Mossad for political, legal, or financial reasons.
Elie’s semi-independent Special Operations Department had its own funding sources, known only to him. And with the political winds shifting against the Oslo peace process, he saw his chance again. It was now or never. “My reward will be an appointment as intelligence czar. I’ll be your point man for Mossad and Shin Bet.”
“ Both of them?”
“ Yes.”
The prime minister removed his glasses and examined Elie, as if questioning his sanity. “You want to run Mossad and Shin Bet?”
This was a crucial moment. Should Rabin take the bait, Elie would control the most powerful spy apparatus in the world.
“ They’ll have their own respective chiefs,” Elie said calmly. “They’ll continue to report to you-through me. As part of your Prime Minister Office, I will coordinate all clandestine activities, including intelligence gathering and covert operations-domestic and overseas.”
“ I’m an elected leader, you’re not. I can’t vest so much power in one person. We’re a democracy. There’s a reason Shin Bet may only operate within our borders and Mossad only overseas.”
Elie gestured in dismissal. “It’s a meaningless distinction. An imitation of the American FBI and CIA. We’re a small country under siege, facing chronic existential risks. For Israel the line between domestic and overseas security is irrelevant.”
The demonstrators outside broke into a new chant: “ In blood, and fire, Rabin will expire! ”
The prime minister tilted his head at the window. “Bizarre, isn’t it? One day I’m signing a peace agreement in Washington to the tune of worldwide cheers, and the next day I’m sitting in my Jerusalem home and hear my countrymen call for my death.”
The chant grew louder. “ In blood, and fire, Rabin will expire! ”
*
In Paris, Gideon was soaping himself under a warm shower when he heard the bathroom door open. “Bathsheba?”
“Who else?” She dropped the toilet seat. “What are you using? It smells great!”
He made sure the curtain was closed. “Can I have some privacy?”
“Almost done.”
A moment later he heard her flush, which sent the water temperature spiking in the shower. “Ouch!” He stepped out of the stream. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry.” She laughed behind the curtain. “Need help scrubbing your back?”
“Don’t-”
Bathsheba stepped into the shower. She was naked but for her peace-sign necklace. “Worry not. I’m here for hygienic purposes only.” She snatched the sponge from his hand, made him turn around, and started scrubbing his back.
Gideon lifted his leg to step out of the shower. “This is totally unprofessional!”
“ We’re not professionals.” She blocked his way. “We’re rogue gunmen for an old butcher who suffers from a Holocaust complex.”
“ You underestimate Elie.”
“ And you underestimate me.” She used round motions, pressing the sponge to his skin at just the right force, leaving a fire that was a notch below actual pain, but high enough to make him groan. He leaned with both hands against the tiled wall, surrendering to her capable hands. She worked on his shoulders, treating his muscles to a soapy massage, scrubbed his neck up to his hairline, then traveled down his spine. “Nice ass,” she said.
“ Hey!”
“ Relax,” Bathsheba’s breath tickled his nape. “You’re in good hands.”
“ I’m not interested.”
“ We’ll see.” The sponge dropped by his foot. Her hand descended through the crease between his buttocks, pushed forward between his thighs, and collected his erection in a tight grip. “At least someone here is telling the truth.” She nibbled his arm while her other hand reached around his hip. “Let’s finish cleaning you up.”
*
Prime Minister Rabin shifted on the sofa as if he couldn’t find a comfortable position. “Look, Weiss, it’s not a bad idea to have someone in my office coordinate all Israeli intelligence operations. It’s practical. But you’re too old for such responsibility.”
“I’m a year younger than you and have fifty years of experience in clandestine activities.” Elie knew the prime minister couldn’t refuse a deal that guaranteed he would stay in power. This was mere posturing. “Any other issues?”
“ You’re not a team player.”
“ You mean, I won’t convene committees to ponder every operation long enough to make it obsolete?”
Rabin laughed. “That’s how the government works.”
“ Would you trust a committee to devise a secret plan to ensure your political survival?” Elie used the word survival to drive home the point. “And when you lose, what’s the future of your peace agenda under a Netanyahu government?”
“Oh, please.” Rabin shook his head. “There will never be a Netanyahu government. He barely made it to major in the army. The voters won’t put him in power.”
“The polls tell a different story.”
“ I don’t believe trickery would sway the voters. And I don’t fight dirty.”
“ My plan is fail-safe. And there’s no prize for an honest loser.”
“ Are you calling me a loser?” Rabin’s smile was lopsided, more hurtful than humored. “Tell me about the Paris situation.”
Elie swallowed his disappointment and responded in a measured tone. “With Al-Mazir out of the way, we’ll soon move on Abu Yusef and his Saudi sponsor.”
“Arafat will be delighted.” Rabin looked at Elie for a moment, as if contemplating whether to say something. “Tanya Galinski was here the other day.”
“ Ah.” Elie was immediately concerned. “We go a long way back.”
“ So I’ve heard. She’s doing an excellent job running Mossad’s Europe desk.”
“ Is she?” He wondered whether Rabin mentioned Tanya as a possible opponent to his appointment as intelligence czar.
“She was concerned,” Rabin said. “The spectacle of crashing cars and flying bullets so close to Paris seemed excessive. She said you’re better with a blade.”
“ The Munich Olympics massacre was also a spectacle. Al-Mazir’s death required equivalence.”
“ Tanya is upset with me.” The prime minister smirked, as if this was a personal tiff. “She gave me a little lecture about how only Mossad may operate abroad.”
“ Fine with me.”
“ Technically, that’s the law.”
“Do you want Mossad to take over the Abu Yusef situation?”
Rabin sighed. “Mossad has more lawyers than agents these days. I’ll be waiting for analysts to investigate, bureaucrats to exchange memos, accountants to authorize budgets, lawyers to issue caveats about the Geneva Convention-”
“It will be different under me. How would peace survive if not by fear and intimidation of its opponents?”
“ That’s a twisted approach. Peace will succeed through prosperity, through momentum of positive results. The Arabs wouldn’t fight us if they had a good life.”
“ Illusions. Anti-Semitism is deadly bacteria, which have kept mutating over three thousand years into worse forms of cruelty toward Jews. It’s a brand of hatred that has thrived among rich and poor alike.”
“ That’s why I’m making peace!”
“ Peace won’t extinguish the most resilient germs in the history of human wickedness.”
“ So what? You want to kill a billion Muslims?”
“ Only the carriers who spread the contagious disease of anti-Semitism.” Elie suppressed a cough. “Your Oslo Accords will only work with a serious dose of antibiotics-an army of Jewish assassins, hunting down every opponent of Israel, every plotter of attacks on Jews, every mosque preacher who calls for jihad-”
“How will you pay for this army of assassins?”
“I have enough funds.” Technically he was lying. The Nazi fortune held by the Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich was still out of his reach. But not for long. The mole he had managed to insert into that secretive private bank was getting close to the top. “Money will never be a problem for me,” he added.
“ Money is a problem for Mossad and Shin Bet.” Rabin stood. “Anyway, go back to Paris and take care of Abu Yusef and his Saudi sponsor so that I can seal a final deal with Arafat.”
Elie went to the door. “I’ll get it done.”
“I know.” Yitzhak Rabin returned to the window and squinted through the slats at the nightly vigil across the street. “I have complete trust in you.”
“Unfortunately I cannot reciprocate the sentiment.”
The prime minister laughed. “Sometimes I wonder, Weiss, whether you intend to be funny or scary.”
*
Rabbi Abraham Gerster observed the group of demonstrators from the rear of the sidewalk. They yelled hoarsely, “With blood, and fire, Rabin will expire!” Across the street, the windows in the prime minister’s three-story residence were shuttered. A wall separated the forecourt from the street, which was illuminated by floodlights.
A stout young man with a freckled face and a large knitted skullcap silenced the group with a raised hand and recited from Psalms, “ So shall all your enemies perish, O God, lost and destroyed! ”
Rabbi Gerster pulled down the brim of his black hat. His photo occasionally appeared in news articles about Neturay Karta, the ultra-Orthodox sect that he had led for decades before handing the reins over to his protege, Rabbi Benjamin Mashash.
One of the demonstrators, a skinny youth with dark skin and a colorful skullcap, walked up and down with a cardboard sign: 1936 Berlin = 1995 Oslo.
Rabbi Gerster asked, “What does it mean?”
“ They’re the same.” His face was more mature than his slimness suggested. “Adolf Hitler and Yitzhak Rabin. Pursuers of Jews!”
The intense hate shocked Rabbi Gerster. Unlike the theological objection to Zionism, which ultra-Orthodox Jews held because only God may bring Jewish sovereignty back to the Promised Land, these demonstrators focused on the prime minister personally. The nationalist camp saw the handover of territories to the Palestinians as a handover of Jews to be killed by Gentiles. Until now, their rage had been expressed only with words and threats, but could it evolve into physical violence? Could this be the revival of the old menace of Jewish internecine bloodshed?
“ The sinner shall have no hope,” the demonstrators chanted. “ The traitor’s path shall end in demise! ”
Across the street, a steel gate opened and a guard stepped out of the prime minister’s courtyard. He surveyed the street, glancing left and right, and beckoned a white sedan that was idling nearby. Its headlights came on, and it advanced along the curb until its rear door lined up with the open gate.
As if expecting their voices to reach the prime minister more easily through the open gate, the demonstrators increased the tempo of their chanting, practically shouting each word that King David had written three millennia ago. “ God’s enemies…shall have neither seed…nor issue! ”
A small figure wearing a dark wool cap emerged through the gate, crossed the curb, and got into the sedan. The face was visible for only a second or two, but Rabbi Gerster recognized Elie Weiss by his aquiline nose.
The chubby leader switched from Psalms to a familiar song of Jewish defiance. “ Scheme your evil plot, and it shall be blotted! ”
The rest of them immediately joined him. “ Utter your curse, and it shall not stand, because God stands with us! ”
The white sedan moved off the curb slowly while the rear window rolled halfway down. The interior was illuminated by the floodlights, and Rabbi Gerster locked eyes with Elie Weiss.
“ Scheme your evil plot, and it shall be blotted,” the demonstrators sang again, pushing against the barricades.
Inside the car, Elie’s hand rose in a subtle greeting. Rabbi Gerster nodded, but then he noticed the leader of the demonstrators return Elie’s gesture with a quick thumbs up while chanting, “ Because God stands with us! ”
*
Friday, October 13, 1995
Wilhelm Horch, vice president at the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich, adjusted the contrast knob on his computer screen. It showed a live video feed from the hidden camera in the office of the bank’s president upstairs. Satisfied with the picture quality, he put his feet up on the desk and watched his father-in-law dictate the next letter.
“ To the Association of Swiss Banks, chairman of the board, address, greetings, etcetera.” Armande Hoffgeitz tilted his chair backward and gazed at the ceiling. “We are in receipt of your recent inquiry about wartime accounts opened between nineteen thirty-five and forty-five. We commend your initiative to pacify the concerns of the last remaining victims of Nazi aggression. We are thus pleased to report that our records show no inactive accounts from said years-”
“ Perhaps we should use a different term.” The voice belonged to his assistant, Gunter Schnell, who was sitting with his back to the hidden camera. “Something more…vague.”
Wilhelm listened intently. He knew that at least one dormant account existed-a huge account, opened during the war by SS General Klaus von Koenig-which likely constituted a major part of the bank’s assets. How would they get around it without lying?
“ Let’s see.” Armande Hoffgeitz contemplated for a long moment. “Technically Klaus’s account has been inactive, which would require disclosure.”
“ But there was one instance of activity, when he sent a messenger to attempt a withdrawal-”
“ That little Nazi with the long nose, who didn’t know the account number or the password?”
Gunter looked at his notes. “Untersturmfuhrer Rupert Danzig. He tried to make a withdrawal in May, nineteen sixty-seven.”
“ That’s twenty-eight years ago!”
“ He presented appropriate credentials,” Gunter insisted. “And he had General Klaus von Koenig’s ledger showing all of the deposits made to the account.”
“ He could have found the ledger in a ditch somewhere.”
“ But he showed familiarity with Herr General. He clearly knew him well.”
“ Not well enough to know the account number and password.”
“ He claimed to have forgotten.”
“ But he never came back.”
“ Not yet.”
“ Not ever.” Herr Hoffgeitz knuckled his desk three times. “My old friend Klaus is dead. I’m sure of it. He must have perished in a bombardment or on the voyage to Argentina. By that time, the Allies were sinking most U-boats within three days of sailing.”
“ Banking regulations require us to assume a client is alive, unless a death certificate is presented to us by the executor of the estate.” t="0" wra Fifty years has passed since we last saw Klaus at the border. Half a century! And twenty-eight years since that creepy little imposter showed up with Klaus’s ledger, trying to steal from us.” Armande Hoffgeitz pointed to the dictation pad. “Write this down: We are thus pleased to report that our records show no accounts in which the owners or their representatives have made no contact with the bank, directly or indirectly.”
One floor below, Wilhelm laughed. His father-in-law was a clever man.
“ That’s better,” Gunter said, writing it down.
“ Honesty is the best policy!” Armande grinned. “And finish with: Please let us know if we can further assist you in your worthy endeavor. With best personal regards. Armande Hoffgeitz, President.”
Gunter stood. “I’ll have the letter ready for your signature in a few moments.”
“ We must indulge the association.” The banker pushed up the gold-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down his nose. “My poor colleagues have to pacify the damn Jews with a show of a diligent inquiry.”
“ I’m more concerned,” Gunter said, “with the new computer system. My hard-copy records are locked up safely. But how can we keep our clients’ secrets when the information is stored as electronic signals? Wires everywhere, computer terminals on every desk-I’m very uncomfortable!”
“ With the computers or with Wilhelm?”
Gunter didn’t answer.
“ Look, my son-in-law is forcing us to adjust to the information age.” Herr Hoffgeitz smiled. “It’s uncomfortable, old hands that we are, but-”
“ I meant no disrespect, but he’s not one of us.”
“ Look, you remember that I also had my doubts. A young man without kin, not of Swiss ancestry, wants to marry my Paula? I was very concerned. But our investigation showed nothing but the tragic circumstances of his parents’ death.”
Gunter nodded.
“ And he did graduate from Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas with honors. ” Armande Hoffgeitz tapped his ring, which bore a serpent intertwined with the letters LASN. For two centuries, every man in the bank’s employ had worn the same alumni ring, a prerequisite to hiring.
“ Yes, but-”
“ His professional record was impeccable, and Paula loved him. Still does. How could I deny her this happiness?” The banker didn’t wait for an answer. “And he has proven himself. A hard worker, excellent with clients. And Klaus Junior is growing so nicely.”
“ I don’t-”
“ Wilhelm has been with us for how long?”
“ Thirteen years.”
Herr Hoffgeitz nodded. “Let me speak with him a bout the computer situation. I’m sure the two of you can find common ground.”
The assistant, himself not young anymore, bowed stiffly. As he walked to the door, his bespectacled face grew, filling Wilhelm’s computer screen. The edge of the door appeared for a second at the bottom, just below the camera, and disappeared as Gunter exited.
At the far end of the office, Armande Hoffgeitz got up and maneuvered his heavy girth between the chair and the desk. He turned to the window and looked out. Despite the distance from the miniature video camera above the door, the pleasure on the banker’s pudgy face came through. He loved his Zurich, where the Hoffgeitz Bank had operated for 216 years at the same stout building on the corner of Bahnhofstrasse and Augustinergasse, managed by a long line of Hoffgeitz males. The neighboring buildings housed other private banks with understated facades and long family traditions. A hundred feet under the neatly swept Bahnhofstrasse, thick walls of steel and concrete protected massive vaults that contained the formidable fortunes entrusted to Armande Hoffgeitz and his colleagues. They, and the institutions they ran, had made Zurich a financial mecca.
Like the building in which his bank resided, Armande Hoffgeitz had weathered the years gracefully. At eighty-four, he was one of Zurich’s most respected private bankers, personifying the mystic aura surrounding the bank and its anonymous international clients. The bank’s investments in select private and public corporations were rumored to add up to several billion dollars. Diversifying among major industrial, agriculture, retail, construction, energy, and shipping companies, the Hoffgeitz Bank had refrained from accumulating a controlling position in any single public company, making it impossible to trace its investments.
A minute after his head had disappeared from the computer screen, Gunter Schnell knocked on Wilhelm’s door. With a single keystroke, he made Armande Hoffgeitz vanish from the screen, replaced by columns of numbers, and pressed the button under his desktop, unlocking the door.
“ Herr Horch?” Gunter leaned in through the half-opened door. “Herr Hoffgeitz wishes to see you.”
*
“ Hey! Open the door!” Bathsheba knocked and tried the handle again. “I’m going to wet my pants!”
“I’m almost done.” Gideon dried his face on a towel and turned the key. “All yours.”
“Don’t leave.” Bathsheba held the door as he exited the bathroom. “I like sharing.”
“I don’t.” He realized she was about to slip out of her nightgown and turned away. “What happened yesterday should never happen again.”
“Never? Then you’ll be in a lot of pain. I heard men have to ejaculate at least once a day to maintain-”
“We’re colleagues, not lovers!” He reached back without looking and shut the bathroom door.
“ Fine,” she said behind the closed door, “go ahead, play hard-to-get, I’ll play along if it makes you feel better.”
“ I’m not playing. I mean it.”
“ How about a cold shower then?”
“ If you continue, one of us will have to resign from the service.”
“The service?” Bathsheba started the water in the shower. “What service? We’re working for the Elie Weirdo Freak Show.”
Gideon struggled to control his anger. “The Special Operations Department reports directly to the prime minister’s office, and Elie Weiss is a great mentor-”
“Weirdo!”
“He might be different, but he’s very powerful. We’re not the only team working for him undercover-”
“ Weirdo!”
“ He hired us when Mossad wouldn’t. Where is your gratitude?”
“Weirdo!”
*
“ Lemmy!” Armande Hoffgeitz waved him in. “Did you made it back from Paris okay?”
“Why not?”
“Driving that little toy of yours?” The banker shook his head. “I’ll never understand why you’d rather drive an old Volkswagen all the way there instead of taking a short flight in first class.”
“It’s a Porsche, not a Volkswagen.”
Armande waved in dismissal. “A Beetle is a Beetle even with a low roof and a fancy name.”
“ And a much higher speed.”
“It should, considering all the time and money you have put into it. How was Paris?”
“ Very productive. I took a Saudi client to see Madame Butterfly at the Paris Opera. Maria Teresa Uribe played Cho-Cho-Sun. Incredible performance!”
“ Not my cup of tea. And how are Paula and Klaus Junior?”
“ Your grandson insists on a Saturday-morning sailing. I told him it’s going to be chilly, but he wouldn’t give it up.”
“ He’s a true Hoffgeitz, just the way his uncle was.” Armande glanced at the photo of his late son in a black frame on the desk. Klaus V.K. Hoffgeitz had died in a freak skiing accident in 1973. “Tell Junior that I’ll join him at the bow. We’ll face the wind together!”
“ Bring your coat and hat.”
“ I will.” He patted a pile of computer printouts filled with numbers. “Look, I’m too old to learn new tricks, and so is Gunter. We’ve always kept records with pen and paper-”
“It’s not the computer system. It’s me. I failed to earn Gunter’s trust.”
“ Nonsense. He respects you greatly.” Armande Hoffgeitz pushed up his glasses. d up hi0 But he’s accustomed to the safety of physical records and steel doors, not wires and keyboards.”
“ Let me propose,” Lemmy said, “that Gunter will enter new transactions into the computer database and at the same time continue to update his paper records.”
“ Why can’t we let him keep only paper records for my clients while the rest of the bank transitions to the electronic records?”
“ We need all the numbers in the computer system in order to maintain a correct daily balance of the bank’s total assets, reflecting deposits and withdrawals in all the accounts without exception. Every bank in Zurich will soon be automated the same way. The Banking Commission set the new accounting regulations, and compliance would be impossible without a computerized system.”
Armande Hoffgeitz raised his hand. “I’m familiar with the regulations.”
“ But it won’t change the fact that only Gunter has the account numbers and passwords for your clients. Only he can look at individual records-paper files and computer files. We bought the best equipment, with top security features and redundancy. It’s better than the systems used by Credit Suisse, UBS, and all the other banks.”
“Still, it feels too…intangible…unprotected, you understand?”
“That’s a common misperception. Imagine the computer as a large filing cabinet with a separate drawer for each account, made of steel that’s thicker than our underground vaults. Each drawer is equipped with two keys-account number and password. No one except Gunter will be able to look up specific records of your clients’ accounts. The only accessible data is the total financial positions at the end of each day, including net assets after deposits and withdrawals. I covered all this in my presentation last year, but if you want me to suspend the project-”
“No. No. Keep going, but make sure Gunter is comfortable, yes?”
*
Gideon and Bathsheba left the Paris apartment and drove to Ermenonville. From the parking area beside a gas station they had clear views of the intersection connecting the local road with the highway. Other than single-lane roads hampered by slow farming machinery, this was the only way for Abu Yusef’s men to reach Paris.
Bathsheba opened yesterday’s evening paper, Le Parisien. Al-Mazir’s bloody corpse was splashed across an inside page, his faced blurred, under a headline: Three Palestinians Shot in Turf War over Underage Prostitution
“Phew,” Bathsheba said. “Profiteering from kiddie sex. These Arabs would do anything for a buck.”
“You’re really twisted,” Gideon said.
“Do you want to straighten me out?” She fluttered her eyelids. “Will you spank me?”
“Just watch the road.” He had bought an audio edition of Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal. With the first tape playing on the cassette player, he settled to scan passing cars for the
green Peugeot 605.
*
Back in his office, Lemmy’s eyes rested on the wooden model of The Paula, her mainsail and jib full with wind. Klaus Junior had carved it out of a pine log as a school project recently. At the stern of the boat stood tiny people-Paula, flanked by Lemmy and her father. Klaus Junior stood at the helm, adorned in a miniature blue-and-white sailor suit resembling the one Lemmy had brought from Monaco for his birthday last year.
“ Herr Horch?” It was his lanky assistant, Christopher, bowing his head to avoid the top of the doorframe. “Any news from upstairs?”
“I think Gunter’s ulcer is bleeding again.”
Christopher laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse.” He had hired Christopher Ditmahr two years earlier. The young man had an ideal resume-a graduate of Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas and Zurich University, followed by internship at Chase Manhattan bank in New York. His application had come in just as Lemmy was ready to hire. Christopher was smart, diligent, and devoted to his boss in the unspoken camaraderie shared by non-Swiss living among Zurich’s uppity purebreds.
“I think Gunter is paranoid,” Christopher said. “I showed him how to sign in with his personal pass code, activate the program, key in each account number and password, and enter the amounts of deposits and withdrawals. He insisted that we practice with fictitious accounts. I couldn’t believe it! What did he think? That I’d memorize his secrets?”
“That could be useful.”
“Sir?”
“Just kidding.” Lemmy sat back, placing his feet on the desk. “I sympathize with the poor fellow. Gunter has been with Herr Hoffgeitz since-”
“Nineteen forty-one.”
“Correct. Imagine working for the same boss for fifty-four years.”
“ He thinks Herr Hoffgeitz is God.”
“ And bank secrecy is the Ten Commandments.” Lemmy chuckled. “By the way, has there been any activity in Prince az-Zubayr’s account?”
“All quiet on the Saudi front,” Christopher said. “Nothing since the transfer to the private account of the French Consul General in Damascus.”
*
Like every Friday night during the bitter Jerusalem winter, only the male sect members attended prayers in Neturay Karta. Their wives prepared the Sabbath meals and watched the young children at home. At the conclusion of the prayers, Rabbi Abraham Gerster recited the mourners’ Kaddish. He paused, took the required three backward steps, bowed toward the Torah ark, and chanted the last line: “ He, who brings peace to Heaven, shall bring peace upon us and upon all His people of Israel, and we say, Amen. ”
Everyone answered, “Amen.”
Rabbi Gerster put on his black coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He watched as Rabbi Benjamin Mashash, who had succeeded him as leader of Neturay Karta, walked down the aisle to the door and stood there to shake each man’s hand and wish them a good Sabbath.
When the synagogue was empty, Rabbi Gerster joined Benjamin and his three teenage sons, who had their father’s dark eyes and their mother’s light complexion. The oldest, Jerusalem, was named after Rabbi Gerster’s son and Benjamin’s best friend, who had died during the Six Day War, almost three decades ago. Jerusalem Mashash already showed the start of a beard, and his dangling side locks swung back and forth as he reached to open the door.
“ So, Jerusalem,” Rabbi Gerster said, exiting the sanctuary to the chilly air outside, “what do you know tonight that you didn’t know this morning?”
Benjamin’s sons were accustomed to Rabbi Gerster’s daily query. They spent every day studying Talmud and were eager to share their knowledge with the elderly rabbi.
Jerusalem said, “Today we studied a Talmudic rule: Where there are no men, be a man! One interpretation is that the rule applies to prayers. In other words, even in a place that has no minyan of ten Jewish men to pray together, one must pray alone.”
“ That’s a convenient interpretation,” Rabbi Gerster said.
“ Convenient?” The boy wasn’t afraid to argue, just like his dead namesake. “To pray is a duty. A task. The rule creates a chore where there wasn’t one. What’s convenient about that?”
“ To pray is a chore?”
“ Easier to be free from the duty to pray, right?”
“ Praying is a ritual,” Rabbi Gerster said, “which gives men comfort, peace of mind, and a sense of fulfillment. It’s a privilege, isn’t it?”
“ Couldn’t a privilege be also a chore?”
“ Telling a Jew to be a man where there are no men sounds more serious than a mere technicality about prayer quorum, don’t you think?”
“ One commentator suggests that the rule imposes a duty to be a Jew where there are no Jews.”
Rabbi Gerster rested his arm on the youth’s shoulders. “But isn’t a Jew still a Jew, whether he’s with other Jews or alone?”
“ The rule isn’t about technical hereditary Jewishness. It’s about being a good Jew when no one else behaves like a Jew.”
“ Behaves like a Jew? What’s that?”
“ To observe God’s laws, like keeping the Sabbath, eating only kosher food, and so on.”
“ Then the rule should have said: Where everyone else is a sinner, be righteous! But Talmud said to be a man even where there are no other men. What does it mean to be a man?”
“ To do the right thing?”
“ Do we need a special rule for that?” Benjamin spoke for the first time since they had left the synagogue. “Shouldn’t we always do the right thing, whether we’re alone or not?”
Jerusalem tugged on his payos. “If everyone else says that wrong is right, a man must still follow his conscience and do what’s right without fear of others.”
“ Very good!” Rabbi Gerster winked at Benjamin, who smiled with fatherly pride.
They climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment and entered the small foyer, taking off their coats and hats.
Benjamin’s wife, Sorkeh, appeared from the kitchen, her round face glistening with sweat. “Here you are!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come, let’s start. The little ones are starving.”
In the dining room, Benjamin’s younger children-another boy and three girls under ten years old, sat at the table, chattering with careless innocence. Rabbi Gerster lingered alone in the foyer in front of a small frame on the wall. A military photographer had snapped the photo twenty-eight years ago. It showed the youthful chief of staff, General Yitzhak Rabin, shaking hands with a fresh paratrooper who had graduated with the highest honors from basic training. Clean-shaven and bright-eyed, his red beret was tilted to the right with a sharp crease. A strip of brass was glued to the bottom part of the frame: Private Jerusalem (“Lemmy”) Gerster 1949-1967
Rabbi Gerster touched the face in the photo and kissed his fingertips. “Good Sabbath, my son.”
*
Lemmy punched in a series of numbers on a pad, and the steel door clicked open. The data center, set up in a converted underground vault, held the massive computer system the bank had purchased last year.
“ Gentlemen!” He approached Christopher and Gunter, who sat together at a terminal. “This has been a productive week, hasn’t it?” He watched Gunter expectantly.
“ Of course, Herr Horch.” The elderly man grimaced, as if his words tasted bitter.
“ I’m glad the two of you are working together so well.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Christopher said, playing along. “We’re making great progress with these fictitious accounts.”
“Very good. Be sure to cover all the security features.”
“Of course,” Christopher said. “We’ll stay here as long as it takes.”
“ At least you won’t get cold,” Lemmy said. Unlike the other subterranean vaults, this one was warmed up by the computer servers, electrical boards, and thick bundles of colorful wires. He glanced at his watch. “I should be going. Herr Hoffgeitz is joining us for dinner. Paula’s cooking his favorite-crock-pot Swiss beef with mashed potatoes and cheese fondue.”
“ Yum.” Christopher smacked his lips, and Gunter turned to him with raised eyebrows.
Lemmy chuckled. “Have a good weekend.”
*
Gideon replaced each audio tape with the next while the Jackal cleverly evaded his pursuers and got closer to his target. A few Peugeot sedans passed by during the afternoon, one of them green, which caused a brief excitement until they saw the driver, an old Frenchwoman who could not possibly belong to Abu Yusef’s group.
Traffic on the local road grew sparse as the sky darkened. They consumed tuna sandwiches and Coke for dinner. An hour later, Bathsheba relocated to the back seat, curled up, and fell asleep. Gideon donned night-vision goggles and watched the road while the audio novel played on.
It was near midnight when the Jackal’s bullet missed De Gaulle by a hair, and the indefatigable Inspector Lebel kicked in the door and killed the assassin. Gideon pressed the eject button on the cassette player, turned on the ignition, and headed back to Paris. On the radio, the news included an update on the shooting near Ermenonville. One of the bodies was identified as that of Al-Mazir, a Palestinian rumored to have taken part in the PLO’s 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. In Gaza, Yasser Arafat announced a day of mourning for “our fallen comrade” while anonymous sources expressed embarrassment at the former guerilla’s involvement in juvenile sex trade. In Jerusalem, the prime minister’s office denied Israel’s involvement in the assassination, stating, “Our energies are totally dedicated to peacemaking with our willing partners.”
*
Saturday, October 14, 1995
The Paula left the dock early on Saturday, its sails taut in the steady breeze. Lemmy steered the boat-a Beneteau Oceanis 510-away from shore, cutting a path in the fuzzy layer of white caps. The sky was clear, and the biting air forewarned of a cold winter.
Armande Hoffgeitz stood with his grandson at the bow, rising and sinking against the tree-covered hills on the opposite bank of Lake Zurich. Klaus Junior held a monocular, tracing the sights that his grandfather pointed out. The boy shifted his aim to a flock of geese heading south across the bow. One of the birds dropped a glob, barely missing them, and they burst out laughing.
“They’re like two peas in a pod,” Paula said. “I haven’t seen Father this happy since my brother died.”
He kissed her honey-colored hair. “We’re blessed. And the wind is good too.”
“ Aye, aye, Skipper.” Paula sipped from a glass of merlot. “I should have let it sit another year.”
He took a swig from his nearly frozen Heineken bottle. “This one’s properly aged.”
“ Like me?” She banged her hip against his.
Her cheerful nature had put him at ease since the first time he approached Paula in the fall of 1967, on his first day at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas. The plan required him to carefully implement each phase in their relationship-an initial approach as a new student seeking advice, follow up with seemingly coincidental run-ins, develop a circle of mutual friends to maximize time together at school and on vacations, and only a year later, clinch their relationship as lovers. He had also nurtured a friendship with her young brother, Klaus V.K. Hoffgeitz, ensuring a loyal ally close to her heart.
After graduation, Paula had studied art at the University of Zurich, living at Hoffgeitz Manor on the hills overlooking Lake Zurich. Lemmy worked evenings and weekends at the accounting department of Credit Niehoch Bank while studying at the Zurich School of Economics. She had insisted on keeping their relationship secret for fear of upsetting her father, who had planned for her to marry the scion of another Swiss banking dynasty. The tragic death of Klaus V.K. made her even more reluctant to upset her father. Finally, in 1979, when Lemmy was already a rising star at Credit Niehoch, he asked Herr Hoffgeitz for Paula’s hand in marriage. The aging banker reluctantly gave his blessing and walked her down the aisle at the Fraumunster church. Over the subsequent year, the two men got to know each other, discussing economics, finance, and the emerging deregulation of the banking industry. The father’s prejudicial displeasure with Paula’s choice gave way to grudging respect for Lemmy’s intelligence and knowledge. In 1982, Armande invited him to join the Hoffgeitz Bank.
He had started as an account manager, one of twelve men who constituted the core of the private banking operation, each handling a group of clients. After several years, on the day following Klaus Junior’s baptism, Lemmy became chief accounts manager. And last year, Armande had promoted him to vice president. These promotions had been earned with hard work and successful client development, especially with Mideast oil sheiks. In addition, the presumed succession to a young and capable son-in-law projected long-term stability and continuity to the clients of the Hoffgeitz Bank. And lately Lemmy’s control over the bank’s technological metamorphosis placed a great deal of power in his hands, bringing him ever closer to the ultimate goal of the mission that had brought him into this family in the first place.
Paula kissed his neck. She avoided his cheeks as he had not shaved this morning. Between weekdays at the bank and Sunday’s church attendance, Saturday was the only day he could dress casually and skip shaving. He had joked with Paula that the skin of his face needed a break, though in truth this habit was his private tradition-a link to a distant, secret past of observing the Jewish Sabbath.
“Coming about!” He turned the wheel, and the boat changed course into the wind. The waves slapped against the hull. Paula helped him lower the mainsail and drop anchor.
They sat in the back of the boat around a table that was bolted to the deck, and Paula served sandwiches of brie and smoked ham. She and her father shared the rest of the merlot.
Lemmy sliced his son’s sandwich in half. “Did you tell Grandpa about the new technology lab at school?”
Klaus Junior shook his head while drinking orange juice.
“What new lab?” Armande cut a corner from his own sandwich and forked it.
“We got a whole room full of computers. We’re going to sand the Internet.”
“ Surf the Internet,” Paula corrected him.
Lemmy laughed. “You don’t want any sand in those computers.”
“Computers everywhere.” Armande sighed. “No escape. What about books, writing-”
“But Grandpa, you gave them to us!”
“Don’t talk, Junior,” Paula said. “Finish eating first.”
He chewed faster.
Armande stroked his grandson’s hair. “Patience. Patience.”
When he finally swallowed, Paula handed him a napkin. “Now you can talk.”
“My teacher said that the computers were a gift from you. He made everyone sing a song about generosity.”
“I arranged it with our Dutch suppliers,” Lemmy said. “A donation to the school. It cost us very little, especially with the tax credit the bank will take on it. I made it in your honor, Father. I hope you don’t mind.”
Seeing his grandson’s pride, Armande Hoffgeitz glowed. “Why should I mind? Our family has supported education for many generations. It’s our tradition!”
*
After a few hours of sleep, Gideon and Bathsheba left the Paris apartment and drove to the gas station near Ermenonville. He brought an audio edition of Ken Follett’s Eye of the Needle. They settled down to wait, the narrator’s voice filling the car.
Shortly after noon, while biting into a tuna sandwich, Bathsheba spotted a green Peugeot 605, identical to the one they had been looking for, the darkened windows rolled up. “Go!” She tossed the sandwich out the window and pulled a handgun from the glove compartment. “It’s them!”
“ Put away the gun.” Gideon turned on the engine.
He stalked the Peugeot for ten miles in dense highway traffic until the driver rolled down his window. “Take a look,” Gideon said, accelerating. “ Only a look!”
Bathsheba tilted the visor so that the makeup mirror reflected the view from her window. As they passed by the Peugeot, she said, “Bummer.”
Glancing sideways, Gideon saw the occupants of the car-a couple in their eighties and a large schnauzer.
She dropped the handgun back in the glove compartment. “Cost me that lousy sandwich. I’m starving!”
He took the next exit and drove back to the gas station.
*
Elie Weiss walked to a nearby cafe and settled to read the Financial Times, sip coffee, and nibble at a croissant. On his way back to the apartment, he paused to watch people go around the barriers into the synagogue. It was Saturday morning, he realized, the time for Sabbath services. On a whim, he entered the synagogue.
The sanctuary was cavernous, with beautiful wooden seats, painted-glass windows, and stone arches carved with biblical scenes. A cantor stood at the podium in a bejeweled prayer shawl and top hat, his deep baritone reaching every corner as he sang Adon Olam, Master of the Universe. The congregants, in formal suits and skullcaps, repeated each line in a chorus of singing voices, the ancient Hebrew words pronounced with a French accent. The women behind the see-through lace partition sang as well.
This was very different from the little synagogue of his childhood in rural Germany, near the Russian border, where Rabbi Jacob Gerster, Abraham’s father, had led the service in a pleading voice, his head covered in a black-and-white prayer shawl. In the shtetl, the windows had been small and opaque, the benches roughly hewn, and the congregants bearded and hunched as they begged the Master of the Universe to protect them and their families from the cruelty of the anti-Semitic gentiles. There had been no colors at his childhood synagogue, only black and white. Mostly black. And not much singing either.
He opened a prayer book, but his eyes were misted, blurring the square letters and tiny vowels. And despite decades of loathing God, who had allowed the Nazis to kill his family, Elie’s lips pronounced the words, “ Be’yado afkid ruchi – In His hand I entrust my soul, asleep or awake, God is with me, I have no fear.”
*
The black 1942 Rolls Royce waited at the dock. Gunter held the door for his boss. Armande Hoffgeitz kissed Paula on both cheeks, hugged Klaus Junior, and shook Lemmy’s hand. “See you tomorrow at church,” he said before Gunter shut the door.
Paula’s Volvo rattled over the cobblestones as it crossed the Limmat River over the General Guisan Quai. Lemmy glanced at his son through the rearview mirror. “Nice sailing, Junior.”
Klaus Junior saluted.
Paula said, “That was a nice initiative, donating those computers.”
In the back seat, the boy asked, “Can I also tell Grandpa about the baby?”
They looked at each other, and Paula said, “What baby?”
“I heard you talking yesterday.”
“There’s no baby,” Lemmy said.
“Not yet.” Paula blushed.
Their home sat on a grassy knoll in the Eierbrecht suburb of Zurich. Armande had bought it for them when Klaus Junior turned two. It had five bedrooms, a swimming pool in the back, and a six-car garage.
As soon as the Volvo stopped, the boy ran to the Porsche. “Papa! Come!”
“I promised him,” Lemmy said. It was a classic 1963 Porsche 356 Speedster in dark blue. The insurance company had recently appraised it at a price equivalent to a modest home in a good neighborhood. Lemmy had bought it two years earlier from the widow of a deceased client. The original engine enjoyed a new life with a set of dual Solex carburetors. It had a new soft top and a powerful Burmester sound system. The elaborate anti-theft alarm had been installed by a Dutch specialist from Amsterdam, an old friend who was also responsible for the security measures surrounding the new computer systems at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as well as the secret video surveillance cameras, which Lemmy alone could access.
He was about to get into the Porsche when Paula gripped his arm, pulled him closer, and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t be long. You have important work to do.”
“On the old lady?”
“ Hey! ”
“ I meant her!” He gestured to the back of the garage at his next restoration project. It was an odd looking Citroen, whose Maserati engine was exposed under the missing hood, and whose existence was all but a rumor among a niche of classic cars collectors who referred to her as the Missing Third. Only two known examples existed of the SM Presidential-an extended body version of the Citroen SM, with four-doors and a folding soft top, which Henri Chapron had built for the 1972 official visit of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II-and both were parked safely at the Palais de l’Elysee in Paris. But when Lemmy had visited an African dictator to personally collect a substantial deposit in diamonds, he discovered that the rumor had been true. The Missing Third, a working prototype stolen from Chapron’s workshop and sold to the Francophile predecessor of Lemmy’s client, had been wrecked a decade earlier during the coup d'etat that had elevated him to power. Having noticed Lemmy’s interest in the rusting Citroen, the grateful dictator shipped it to Zurich in a wooden crate marked Used Books.”
“ You better be in my bedroom in thirty-minutes,” Paula said, “or I’ll find someone else to do the job.”
He got behind the wheel. “I’ll be back!”
The Porsche engine started with a deep gurgling sound, settling into an even rumble. Klaus Junior released a lever above the windshield and pushed the top down.
“Buckle up, little man.” Lemmy pumped the gas pedal, making the engine growl. “We’re taking off.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were driving along the east bank of Lake Zurich. The water to their right was blue, dotted with a few brave sailboats. A cool breeze came in through the open roof.
Klaus Junior tinkered with the radio. “Did your papa like to drive fast?”
“My father?”
“Did he also drive a Porsche?”
Lemmy slowed down. “No.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t into fast cars.”
“Were you good friends?”
He had shunned those memories long ago, lest they reignite the blinding rage, which would interfere with his mission. But his own son deserved answers. “When I was a young boy, my father was very affectionate. But later on, we grew apart. He was very strict.”
“And then he and your mama died?”
Lemmy hesitated. His father, Rabbi Abraham Gerster, might still be alive-that is, if you considered an insular, ultra-Orthodox sect to be a form of life. “As it happened,” he said, “a terrible autumn afternoon was the last time I saw them.”
“ It’s okay, Papa.” The boy leaned over as close as his seat belt would allow and put a small arm around Lemmy’s neck. “Now you have us.”
*
That night in Jerusalem, when the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Abraham Gerster left the neighborhood unnoticed. The city was coming back to life after the day of rest, with renewed bus service and pedestrian traffic. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the King David Hotel. An armed guard stood at the entrance-a new phenomenon after a recent spate of Palestinian suicide bombings. Rabbi Gerster greeted the guard and entered the hotel.
He settled in a corner of the main lobby, where a TV set was showing a program about a new medical device invented by scientists at the Weitzman Institute. He ignored the furtive glances of hotel guests, who probably wondered why an elderly ultra-Orthodox rabbi with a white beard and long, dangling side locks would sit alone in a hotel to watch TV. And they would be correct. Not a single member of Neturay Karta owned a TV-an appliance that imported sin and promiscuity into one’s home and caused men to neglect the study of Talmud. But he had a good reason to come here, having noticed an item in Friday’s edition of the religious daily Hamodiah about a TV report to be aired after the Sabbath. He had to watch it.
The nightly news show started with a story about the preparations to transfer control of Ramallah to Arafat’s Palestinian Authority. Answering a reporter’s question at the entrance to the Knesset, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin said, “If Israel is to survive as a Jewish state, we must defuse the demographic bomb. Let the Palestinians establish their own state in the West Bank and Gaza and live in peace alongside Israel.”
The story Rabbi Gerster had come to watch appeared next. According to the reporter, Itah Orr, she had agreed to be blindfolded and driven to an unknown location in the West Bank for the swearing-in ceremony of new members of the Jewish underground ILOT-a Hebrew acronym for Organization of Torah Warriors.
The film was taken at night with poor lighting. A handful of young men, faces masked with bandanas, held pistols and copies of the Bible. They recited an oath: “I hereby join the ranks of the Organization of Torah Warriors. I swear, by all that’s dear to me, and by the honor of the Jewish People, that I will fight against the evil government until my last breath.”
The leader, a stocky figure who wore a large knitted skullcap, declared behind his mask, “The only law is the law of God and His Torah! No more Oslo Accords! No more sinful land-concessions! No more treason!”
Rabbi Gerster recognized the voice. It was the freckled, twenty-something stout man who had led the demonstration in front of Rabin’s residence and had furtively returned Elie Weiss’s greeting.
The camera zoomed in on one of them. Short, with a thin, boyish voice, his eyes peeked out through crude holes in the black fabric, blinking nervously.
The group sang Hatikvah in voices so off the mark that it bore little resemblance to the national anthem.
At the end, the leader raised a fist and declared, “We are the warriors of Torah! We will enforce the law of Rodef! Death to the pursuers of Jews! Death to the traitors!”
*
Monday, October 16, 1995
The first business day of the week was always busy at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as clients sent in transaction instructions after a weekend of deal making. This Monday was no exception. Lemmy lingered in the trading room, which the account managers shared. Phones rang, telex printers buzzed, and fax machines hummed. He stopped to greet each man. They ranged in age from forty to seventy, and he inquired about their children, wives, or an ailing parent. He had worked for years to earn their respect and loyalty, making sure none of them begrudged his early seniority. They knew it had not been only marital patronage that had propelled him upward in the bank. He had a gift for cultivating foreign clients whose cultures were vastly different from the Swiss. Oil-rich Arabs and African strongmen needed a safe place for their money, away from the political instability of their region, and they expected a level of personal service that few bankers in Zurich were capable of providing. Herr Wilhelm Horch often visited Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Gulf states to spend leisure time with his clients. He marveled at their oasis compounds, rode their camels, and raced their Ferraris. And they trusted him with their money and secrets.
Christopher was at his desk outside Lemmy’s office. “Good morning, Herr Horch!”
“ And to you. Any news?”
“ Prince Abusalim’s account just received a deposit of two-and-a-half million dollars from the Wall Street branch of Citibank.”
“Nice. Total account balance?”
“Almost seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.” Christopher followed him into his office. “All from undisclosed depositors.”
“ He needs money, but receives none from his father.” During a visit to their desert oasis, Lemmy had met Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr, a cousin of King Fahd. The sheik was a powerful tribal leader, who earned fat commissions on food and equipment purchases for the kingdom. His son, Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, at thirty-eight was continuously travelling around the world to close huge deals, but his only personal asset was the secret account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
“ What about the prince’s own family?”
“ His two wives and nine children live with the rest of the extended family back in Saudi Arabia. When I first met Prince Abusalim last year, I told him that a man without money is a man without power, and hidden money is hidden power, which is tenfold mightier.” Lemmy pointed downward in the direction of the bank’s subterranean vaults. “And I told him that, when it comes to secret money, Zurich is the Haram El-Sharif.”
“ The what? ”
Lemmy pulled a book from a shelf above his desk. He opened it to a page flagged with a blue sticker and showed Christopher a full-page photograph of a walled city crowned by two domes-one silver, one gold.
“ That’s Jerusalem.” Christopher pointed to the golden dome. “I was a volunteer at a kibbutz once, and they took us to all the tourist attractions.”
“Really?” Lemmy was alarmed. His assistant had never mentioned it before. “What made you go to Israel, of all places?”
“You know,” Christopher blushed, “I was a bit rebellious, wanted to piss off my parents. They were old-fashioned Germans, hated Jews, so that’s why I went there.”
Lemmy examined his assistant’s face, but saw no signs of deceit.
“ Didn’t Mohammed ascend to heaven from this location?”
“ For us Christians, it’s the biblical holy temple of the ancient Israelites, where Elijah’s carriage took off in an explosion of fire and smoke.” Lemmy returned the book to the shelf. “A smart banker can benefit from studying clients’ faiths, notwithstanding your personal religion, because there’s always a business opportunity when a rich man’s mind is possessed by spiritual beliefs that cloud his logic and reason.”
Christopher laughed.
“ According to my research, the az-Zubayr tribe has a historic aspiration to rule Haram El-Sharif. Just like the Saudi clan is the Kharass al-Hameini, Guardians of Mecca, the tribe of az-Zubayr claims to be the Kharass El-Sharif, Guardians of the Dome of the Rock.”
“ Isn’t Jerusalem the capital of Israel?”
“The Israelis unified Jerusalem during the Six Day War, but they gave control of Temple Mount to the Muslim Wakf, which is an independent religious council of mullahs. Later, King Hussein of Jordan was pressured by the PLO to give up his rights in the West Bank and Jerusalem. Now Arafat is getting ready to negotiate the final phase of the Oslo Accords, hoping to obtain East Jerusalem as capital of Palestine. But other powers are at play.”
“The prince?”
“Correct. Even though his father has pledged loyalty to the Saudis, Prince Abusalim harbors ambitions to recover the status of Kharass El-Sharif. He must choose who to support-Arafat and the Oslo peace process or the militants committed to destroying Israel.”
“ How would he choose?”
“ Arafat is already getting billions from the Europeans and Americans. His opponents, on the other hand, need money for their anti-Oslo jihad. Prince Abusalim can make a deal with them. When Israel is gone, they’ll anoint him Kharass El-Sharif, Guardian of the Dome of the Rock, restoring the hereditary birthright for the tribe of az-Zubayr.”
“Sounds like a dangerous fantasy.”
“ Clients’ fantasies are a major force in the banking business. What is wealth but a fantasy?” Lemmy sat back in his chair. “He has gotten several deposits through Citibank in New York, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does he maintain an account there?”
“No. It’s a conduit.”
“But Citibank knows where each deposit came from, correct?”
Christopher nodded.
“Will they tell us?”
“Not directly, but when I worked in New York, I noticed a weakness in the system.” Christopher took a piece of paper and scribbled a diagram. “Citibank sent us electronic funds for Prince Abusalim’s account. If we reject the transfer, it would bounce back to Citibank, which in turn would bounce it back to the original bank, which would issue an electronic receipt for the returned funds. Usually the acknowledgment bears the account’s information.”
“ So if we ask on behalf of the client that Citibank provides a copy of the acknowledgment, we’ll see the source of the money?” Lemmy thought for a moment. “Let’s do a partial rejection, a hundred dollars from each deposit, and see what comes back.”
Christopher hesitated. “Without client authorization?”
“It’s in the prince’s interest that we know his affairs, even if he doesn’t realize it.”
“Still early in New York City. We could get a confirmation today, unless they smell a rotten fish and call the prince directly.”
“ It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Lemmy watched Christopher reach the door. “By the way, which kibbutz?”
“ Excuse me?”
“ That summer you spent in Israel, which kibbutz was it?”
“ Oh, it was in the north, near the Lebanese border.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure about the name.”
Lemmy wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “Was it Haifa?”
“ No, Haifa is a city.” Christopher’s forehead creased in a show of mental effort. “I think…it was called…Gesher.”
*
Shortly after two p.m., Bathsheba noticed another green Peugeot 605. It came from the direction of Ermenonville and made a left turn onto the highway ramp.
Gideon followed. “Get the camera. Elie wants photos. He thinks they might be using decoys to check for tails.”
Bathsheba kept her head straight, looking forward through the front windshield, but positioned the vanity mirror on the sun visor diagonally to give her a clear view through the side window. The green Peugeot passed a group of slower cars and returned to the middle lane. Gideon pressed the gas pedal, changed lanes, and passed it. Bathsheba held the Polaroid camera just below the window sill on the passenger side, raised it briefly, and snapped a photo.
Gideon returned to the middle lane ahead of the Peugeot. He glanced at the rearview mirror. “Driver looks Arab, about forty. Didn’t look at us. I think he’s the same guy who drove this car at the airport. There’s a second man in the back, wearing a fur hat.”
“Abu Yusef!”
“ We don’t know.”
“The same car, the same driver, and Abu Yusef is getting the same treatment as Al-Mazir!”
“We follow and watch. Elie said to do nothing more.”
“Screw Elie.” Bathsheba opened the glove compartment and took out the handgun.
*
“ It worked!” Christopher waved a sheet of paper like a flag. “I got acknowledgements with the names of the sources. Here, I listed each one with the amount transferred.”
Lemmy examined the list. An $11 million deposit had come from J.C. Jameson amp; Co., an international wheat dealer in Kansas. An additional $7.5 million from Seattle Air and Jet Inc., a manufacturer of replacement parts for fighter jets. And $13 million from F. Lucas and Sons, a canned foods processer in Virginia. It went on-a list of leading corporations in the various industries. “This is incredible,” he said. “Great job!”
His assistant was grinning with pride.
“ I’ll keep this.” He patted the list of companies that had bribed Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr. “Needless to say, don’t mention this to any of our colleagues.”
*
Gideon snatched the handgun from Bathsheba. “Abu Yusef isn’t stupid. He won’t use this car himself after it’s been seen.”
“Maybe he’s out of money. He can’t walk to Paris.”
The sign showed an exit for the Peripherique, the beltway that circled Paris. Gideon slowed down and let the green Peugeot pass him two lanes away. It took the exit, merged onto the Peripherique, and headed west. They followed. A couple of minutes later, the Peugeot took the exit for Avenue de Saint Ouen.
Bathsheba said, “Where the hell is he going?”
“Have you regained your sanity?”
“Don’t patronize me. This man killed my father.”
“Abu Yusef killed your father. This man might be a retired CEO or a gynecologist. We need a positive ID before we take a life.”
“Give it back.”
Gideon threw the gun in her lap. “You may shoot only in self-defense, understood?”
She pushed the gun under her leather waistcoat. “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’m not waiting for him to shoot first.”
He followed the green Peugeot, letting two or three cars separate them at all times. Mossad procedure required taking side streets in coordination with two other vehicles in order to avoid detection by the target. But they were not Mossad, and there were no other vehicles to assist them. Gideon tried to minimize the risk of detection by dropping farther behind.
At La Fourche, the green Peugeot bore left onto Avenue de Clichy, circled the square, and continued on Rue d’Amsterdam. Evening traffic was dense, moving with the typical Parisian briskness. At Place de Havre the green Peugeot suddenly sped forward, taking advantage of a gap in the traffic. When Gideon tried to follow it, a stream of cars emerged from Boulevard Haussmann on the right. He accelerated, but a small Fiat cut into his lane. He slammed the brakes, skidded on the cobblestones, and barely missed the Fiat. For a moment he thought he had lost the Peugeot, but Bathsheba spotted it farther down, turning into a side street. Gideon closed the distance quickly and made the same turn.
There was no trace of the green Peugeot. He drove slowly along Rue de Provence, a narrow, one-way street.
Nothing.
They looked down the first side street.
Clear.
The second.
Clear again.
At Rue de Mogador, a one-way street going south, the green Peugeot was parked at the curb. Gideon made the turn and pulled over.
Bathsheba brought the binoculars to her eyes. “He’s dropping off the passenger. Fur hat and a long coat. I can’t see his damn face!”
“Even the coat is green,” Gideon said.
“I’m going after him.” Bathsheba took out her gun and screwed on a silencer.
“ Don’t shoot!”
“If it’s Abu Yusef, I’ll give him my father’s regards.”
Gideon knew he couldn’t stop her. He shoved the camera into her hand. “If it’s not him, take a picture. Maybe it’s one of his men. Elie would know.”
*
Cafe Atarah on Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem was almost empty. “I am Rabbi Abraham Gerster,” he said, joining the lone woman at a corner table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“How could I decline?” Itah Orr, a veteran reporter for Channel One TV, held the note he had left for her at the office that morning. “I tried to do a story about you years ago, on the tenth anniversary of the Six Day War. It would have been a good story.”
Rabbi Gerster smiled. “There are many stories that are far more interesting than mine.”
“More interesting than the leader of the anti-Zionist Neturay Karta sect, who sacrificed his only son for Israel’s greatest victory?”
“The former leader. Rabbi Benjamin Mashash took over my duties a long time ago.”
“ You were still Neturay Karta’s leader when you sacrificed your son.”
“ I didn’t sacrifice him. Jerusalem rejected our faith and joined the army without my blessing.”
A waitress brought two cups and poured black coffee. The reporter added cream and sugar, mixing it in. “Lemmy, wasn’t it?”
“ His nickname, yes.”
“ He graduated paratroopers training first in his class and went on to serve courageously on the Golan Heights.”
“While ignoring his mother’s desperate letters until she killed herself!” Rabbi Gerster immediately regretted his outburst. Temimah’s despair had been caused by his own behavior no less than by Lemmy’s silence. “Please. These are old wounds. My son and wife deserve to rest in peace.”
“So why did you contact me?”
Rabbi Gerster glanced over his shoulder. The few patrons in the cafe did not appear to pay attention to him. “I watched your report on Saturday night.”
“I thought you people don’t watch TV.”
“Those boys, taking the oath, were they for real? Or was it some kind of a show, a make-believe piece of propaganda?”
“Wait a minute.” Itah Orr jerked her head, clearing away shoulder-length gray hair. “What do you care about those kids? Or about Israel? You people live in your ghetto in Meah Shearim, don’t pay taxes, don’t serve in the army, don’t even recognize the State of Israel-except for its social security checks, of course.”
“ We object to Zionism, but we study Talmud every waking moment to make up for all the Jews who neglect their sacred duty.”
“ And how exactly would your Talmudists feed their hordes of children without Zionist tax money?”
“ Questions, questions.” Rabbi Gerster sighed. “You’re like a vacuum cleaner for information. I need a peek inside your dustbin, that’s all.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“About that swearing-in of ILOT, tell me what you think. Please.”
“ Tit for tat. First tell me why you-a lifelong anti-Zionist rabbi-are suddenly concerned with a tiny nationalist militia? What’s going on?”
Rabbi Gerster stood up and buttoned his black coat. “I was mistaken in approaching you. May God bless your day.”
“Wait!” Itah Orr stood. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry about my story getting killed.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“I had enough material for a great piece. Your son was very popular with his boot camp buddies, an excellent soldier and loyal teammate. And there was a mysterious woman he was carrying on a relationship with, much older than him and very attractive. Petite, black hair, pale face. She came to the base once, caused quite a stir.”
He kept his face straight, hiding the storm that Tanya’s description whipped up inside him. “Are you fishing for information?”
Itah smiled, looking much younger. “Just curious. I can’t do anything with it now. It’s too old a story.”
“ Why didn’t you publish it back then?”
“ Because a little creep from some secret service came to the studio and threatened me and my editor with immediate arrest on trumped up charges. He took all my drafts and notes and all the roughs we had filmed. It was as if I had touched a live wire.”
“ Perhaps you had.” He chuckled. “But that’s ancient history. I didn’t contact you to speak about my Jerusalem, may he rest in peace. Now will you grant me the respect of answering my questions?”
“ Will you answer mine?”
“ When a time comes for me to tell my story, I promise to speak only to you.”
“ Give me something now.”
“ Okay. How about this: I don’t believe in God.”
The reporter’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.
“ It’s true.” He placed a hand against his heart. “I swear.”
“ Okay, Rabbi Gerster. You don’t believe in God, and we are in business.” She offered her hand.
He glanced around furtively, making sure no one was watching, and shook it. “Tell me about the ILOT ceremony.”
“ They were young,” she said, “late teens or early twenties. Almost like boy scouts, except that the pistols were real and the vows were sincere.”
“Why did they allow you to attend?”
“In my profession, you don’t argue with a good source. Their leader is a true Jewish fascist.”
“ The chubby guy?”
“ Yes. Freckles. That’s his moniker. He’s very clever in using the media, has given me great stories-the type of stories any journalist would grab and run with.”
“ Do you believe these boys are for real?”
“ Absolutely. Classic right-wing extremists. A few months ago they incited a riot and beat up Arabs in Hebron, turned over market stalls, and destroyed produce. They set up fake military checkpoints in the West Bank and body-searched Arabs. They went into Old Jerusalem with clubs and broke windows and a few bones, forced Arab merchants to shut down their stores.”
“ All this was done by Freckles’ group?”
“ Oh, ILOT isn’t the only one. There are several other militias just like it-Kahane Chai, EYAL, Geva’ot. Each group numbers a handful of youths. They engage in violent attacks on Palestinians in order to scare the Arabs out of the West Bank and ensure Jewish control over biblical Israel. They’re not deadly like the Palestinian attacks on Jews. I mean, these kids don’t shoot and bomb innocent civilians, but they engage in harassment, and they’re aggressive enough to draw attention.”
Rabbi Gerster picked up a teaspoon and turned it around in his hand, using the curved back as a mirror to scan the view behind his back. “But their anti-Arab activities, distasteful as they are, could be a prelude to something worse.” He put down the spoon. “Violence against fellow Jews.”
“ It’s a natural progression. Take a look at this.” She handed him a stapled stack of papers. The cover said: ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret
He browsed the pages. “Can I keep it?”
She nodded.
“ Anything else about that ceremony? Any leads?”
She hesitated. “I noticed their backpacks. It was really dark out there, but I could see the university logo-”
“ Which one?”
“ Bar Ilan Law School.”
*
Gideon saw a gendarme signaling the green Peugeot to move forward, which it did. A taxicab picked up a heavy matron with hefty Galeries Lafayette shopping bags. The department store spanned both sides of the street, each wing taking up a whole block. A glass-walled overpass connected the two buildings, and Gideon saw the man in the green coat and fur hat walking from left to right. Seconds later Bathsheba glanced down at him, swung a finger under her chin, and disappeared to the right. A sense of doom began acidulating in Gideon’s stomach.
The minutes passed slowly. Too slowly.
He turned off the engine and got out of the car.
As he began to cross the street, Bathsheba showed up, trotting toward him. “Shot him in the nuts,” she said. “He’s a screaming soprano in menswear upstairs.”
“ Shit!” Gideon jumped back into the car.
“ It’s quite a scene.” She slammed the door. “You should go look.”
“ Damn!” He started the engine. “I told you not to-”
“ Relax,” Bathsheba laughed. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“It wasn’t him.”
“You’re sick.” He motioned at the green Peugeot, still waiting for its passenger down the street. “Did you take a photo?”
“He’s just a boy. Fourteen or fifteen. And he’s from Jordan.”
“How do you know?”
“I got close enough to hear his conversation with the salesman. And to smell his Cacharel. He must’ve bathed in it-a typical teenage faggot.”
“Here he is.”
The passenger with the green coat, fur hat in hand, approach the Peugeot. Bathsheba snapped a photo.
“We’ll follow them,” Gideon said.
“Waste of time. He’s just a rich boy.”
“How do you know?”
“He bought two Pierre Cardin suits for a small fortune, plus alteration charges. You were right-not every Arab in a green Peugeot is Abu Yusef.” Bathsheba leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “See? I can admit a mistake when I make one.”
“You’re an angel.” He glanced at his watch. It was too late to drive all the way back to Ermenonville.
*
In the apartment on Rue Buffault, Elie was taking a nap on the cot when he heard the front door being unlocked. He sat up and reached for the sheathed blade, but Bathsheba’s voice sounded in the hallway. They were back early.
He listened to Gideon’s report and looked at the photos. The driver was in profile, shown through the open window. “That’s Bashir Hamami, Abu Yusef’s deputy.”
“Can’t be!” Bathsheba’s face turned red. “Who would take such a risk for shopping?”
Elie picked up the other photo. “Abu Yusef’s boy toy.”
“Expensive toy,” Gideon said. “I thought he’s short on cash?”
“ Not just a toy,” Elie said. “Remember the bomb at the Jewish school in Marseilles? Nineteen kids dead, almost thirty injured. The investigators found video footage of an unidentified youth entering the school ten minutes before the explosion. His face was turned away from the security cameras, but he had dark skin and short hair, just like this kid. And he wore a skullcap, even carried a Hebrew prayer book, but police later verified he wasn’t a student.” Elie fingered the photo. “This must be the guy who planted the bomb in Marseilles.”
“He’ll be back on Wednesday,” Bathsheba said, “to pick up the suits. I heard him give his name to the salesman. Latif.”
“Good,” Gideon said. “We’ll follow them back to Ermenonville.”
Elie considered it. “Bashir is a fox. He’ll notice you, if he hasn’t already. Maybe you should just kill the boy at the store.”
“Just like that?” She clicked her fingers. “What if he’s not the bomber from Marseilles? Maybe he’s just a skinny teenager who bends over for Abu Yusef?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Elie said. “Clearly the boy is Abu Yusef’s soft spot. Why else would he allow a shopping spree at a time like this? This boy’s death would shake up Abu Yusef, cause him to make mistakes.”
She glared at him. “What kind of a monster are you?”
Gideon got up. “Bathsheba!”
“Have you considered the possibility of pushing Abu Yusef over the edge? What if he throws caution into the wind and runs out to kill a bunch of Jews?”
“Unlikely,” Elie said. “But I sympathize with your sensibilities. You don’t want to kill the boy? No problem. Wait on Wednesday at Galeries Lafayette, follow the green Peugeot to Ermenonville, and find out where they’re hiding.” He collected the photos and put them in his pocket. “Let’s get something to eat.”
*
Tuesday, October 17, 1995
Across Paris, at his clinic near Gare du Nord, Dr. Rene Geloux moved his stethoscope on Elie’s bony back. He listened to the crackling sounds that accompanied the movement of air while his eyes glanced at the x-ray prints on the illuminated board.
“So,” Elie said, “am I still alive?”
“You may put on your shirt, Monsieur Weiss.” Dr. Geloux was even older than his patient, but long summer weekends at his estate south of Paris had kept him slim and tanned. “Your emphysema is getting worse, and there might be something worse going on. You need to carry oxygen, that’s for sure. I’ll prescribe it.”
“ I can’t walk around with a tank.” Elie pulled on his shirt. “And other than my father, whose life was cut short by the Nazis, the men in my family always lived to a hundred.”
“ Did they smoke for fifty years?”
Elie shrugged.
“ You need a breathing test and a specialist to take a look inside your airways with a bronchoscope. How’s tomorrow?”
“I’m busy.” Elie buttoned his shirt. “Give me something for the pain.”
“ That’s not a solution. Low oxygenation, combined with excessive exertion, could be fatal.”
“We’re old pals, the grim reaper and I.” Elie’s laughter was dry, scratchy. He grabbed the physician’s hand. “Come on, I have a job to do.”
“Don’t tell me about your jobs. I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. And you should be in a hospital!”
“Not yet.” Elie coughed into a tissue. “This is a crucial time. Important things are happening, long-term efforts finally coming together. But in a few weeks I expect to relocate back to Jerusalem. The doctors at Hadassah will fix me.”
“They might need to give you new lungs.” The old physician took a small bottle from the glass cabinet. “One tablet every three hours. It’ll take the edge off the pain.”
They walked through the empty waiting room and down the hallway, which was lined with books on glass-fronted shelves. Dr. Geloux handed Elie his coat and unlocked the door.
Two-thirds of the way up the doorjamb, nailed to the wood, was a silver tube shaped as a thick cigar. Rolled inside was a parchment bearing Hebrew letters that a righteous scribe had inked with a quill. Dr. Geloux took Elie’s hand and made him touch the mezuzah. “You need all the help you can get, my friend.”
Indulging his old doctor, Elie kissed his fingers. He crossed the sidewalk and got into a waiting taxi. “To the airport,” he told the driver. “Departures terminal. Swissair.”
*
“ Christopher?” Lemmy held down the intercom button. On the computer screen, the video feed from a hidden camera showed his assistant swivel in his chair toward his desk.
“Yes, Herr Horch?”
“I just filled out a withdrawal order for one of my clients-Rupert Danzig. You’ll see it on your screen in a moment. Kindly draw up a cashier check for seventy-five thousand U.S. dollars for him.”
On the screen, Christopher’s face seemed tense as he leaned over the phone, speaking directly into the microphone. “Will Herr Danzig come here in person?”
“ No. I’ll deliver the check personally over lunch.”
“ Should I draw it to the order of Herr Danzig or To Bearer without a name?”
“Make it To Bearer. He can endorse it to himself if he so chooses.”
*
Gideon sat on the wide windowsill and marked an orange with a knife. Halfway through peeling it, he noticed a woman cross the street three floors below and approach the building. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, dark against her pale face. She wore a heavy coat over plain winter boots and seemed like any other petite Parisian woman returning home from work, elegant in a subdued, graceful style. But Gideon saw the slight twist of her head, left and right, as her eyes quickly scanned Rue Buffault up and down before she pulled open the heavy door at number 34. Her escorts were even less obvious-a delivery guy on a scooter, pretending to tinker with the motor, and a woman in a pay phone booth at the corner.
He went to the hallway, unlocked the front door, and opened it. He could hear her coming up the steps.
“ Good morning, Gidi’leh.”
“ Shalom, Tanya.” He shut the door behind her. “Elie didn’t say you were coming.”
“How would he know? I’m a spy, remember?” She pinched his cheek. “Your mother sends her love. We met for coffee last week.”
The half-peeled orange slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. Gideon picked it up and brushed off the specks of dirt. “How is she?”
“ How should she be, with her only son throwing away his life?” Tanya Galinski, whom he had known since childhood as his mom’s elusive friend, now ran the Europe desk at Mossad. She controlled a network of agents and informants, spoke several languages with a variety of regional accents, and had developed a thorough understanding of the EU’s economic and political life. But she still treated him as a kid. “Hasn’t your mother suffered enough?”
A guilt trip, all over again. “Please, I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
“ Hearing isn’t the same as listening.” Tanya passed by the window and gestured subtly with her hand, signaling her escorts. “Your mother is a widow without a grave to visit, only a medal in the drawer. If you die like your father, she won’t survive it.”
“ Is this the reason you blocked my application to Mossad?”
In the cluttered room, Tanya looked for a place to sit, changed her mind, and remained standing. “The rules exclude children of bereaved families from serving. No exceptions.”
“ Punishing me because my father got himself caught?”
“ Shush!” Her porcelain-like face reddened. “Your father took the worst personal risk in order to defend Israel from its greatest national threat.”
Gideon knew the basic facts: Over two decades ago, the KGB had caught his father taking photographs inside a nuclear installation near Leningrad. That night he banged his head on the floor repeatedly until he fell unconscious. He died of a brain hemorrhage before the Soviets managed to interrogate him. Israel couldn’t even ask for his body-the KGB was convinced he was a West German agent. His corpse was buried behind the Lubyanka prison.
Tanya sighed. “Why don’t you go back home, Gidi’leh? Working for Elie Weiss is a dead end. The Special Operations Department is a one-man show. Once he’s gone, it’s the end.”
“ What do you know about SOD?”
“ Who’s going to take over?”
“ I’m sure Elie has designated a successor.”
“ Has he ever spoken with you about his other agents? His finances? Any operations beside what you’re involved in?”
“ No, but that doesn’t mean-”
“ Elie Weiss is finished. Mossad will no longer allow him to operate. We’ve made it clear to the top authority in Jerusalem.”
Gideon was shocked. “Mossad is challenging SOD? What’s next? You’ll challenge Shin Bet?”
“ That’s ridiculous. Shin Bet and Mossad are the two spy agencies set up by Israeli law-for domestic and overseas operations respectively. Elie Weiss created SOD without legal authority.”
“ And you guys do everything according to the law?”
Tanya shrugged.
“ Elie doesn’t need your permission to operate. He has direct authority from Rabin and independent financial resources!”
“ Those funds belong to the State of Israel, and by law only Mossad may conduct clandestine operations abroad. We’re determined to enforce this principle.”
“ Don’t you think Elie has prepared for such confrontation? You, of all people, know how dangerous he is.”
Tanya took off her coat. “I’ve told you too much already. For your mother’s sake, leave now. Go back to the university, find a lovely Israeli girl, get married-”
“ You never married.”
“ How can you compare? I’m a member of the Holocaust generation. We survived to do a job, not to pursue personal happiness. It’s a totally different situation with us.”
“ Why? You were young when the Germans lost the war. Couldn’t you fall in love?”
Tanya looked away, grimacing.
“ I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude.”
“ I’ll tell you.” She took a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh. “His name was Abraham. Near the end of the war, I was seventeen, and he was eighteen. For a short time, a few months, despite the cold and hunger and violence, our passion was endless. It was like a glorious dream in the middle of the worst nightmare. But then we lost each other.”
“ How?”
“ We each thought the other one had died. We were deceived.”
“ By whom?”
“ By Elie Weiss.”
“ What? ”
“ It doesn’t matter anymore. Fifty years have passed. Hard to believe.” She patted his cheek. “I’m sharing this so you understand how devious Elie can be. You’re still young. Go back to Israel, live a normal life, raise kids. Your poor mother deserves a bit of happiness. I can tell you that for me, as busy as I am with my work, the little time I spend with my daughter and her family is the only time I feel happy.”
Was she lying to make him distrust Elie? He wanted to question Tanya about her old love and Elie’s involvement, but he could see on her face that she would not answer.
“ With all my achievements at Mossad,” Tanya said, “Bira is my greatest pride.”
“ Is she still digging out old bones and broken clay with her students?”
“What else?” Tanya laughed. “She’s working on a Jewish cemetery at Gamla, on the Golan Heights. It dates back to the Great Revolt. Every other day a bunch of black hats come by to chant curses at her team for the desecration of those stupid old bones.”
“Those stupid bones are archeological evidence of the Jewish past on our land.”
“You see?” Tanya’s face lit up. “You’re still passionate about that! Bira said you should return to archeology.”
“ Tell her I’m more interested in fresh corpses.”
“That’s morbid. And where’s Elie?”
“We expect him back later today.” Gideon glanced at the desk, making sure nothing revealing was left on it. Tanya was the only outsider Elie allowed in the apartment, but her comments about shutting down SOD would change that.
“ I’m just off a red eye from Washington,” she said, “and we didn’t stop working, takeoff to landing. The second Oslo agreement requires careful implementation. We’re working with other countries to drum up support for the Palestinians’ effort to build government institutions.”
“ Including secret services?”
“ It’s a necessary evil.” Tanya rubbed her eyes. “I could use a good nap.”
“ There’s a bed in the other room. What about your escorts?”
“ What escorts?” She removed a plain clasp and her hair fell around her face, well below her shoulders. Threads of silver lightened up the black. She brushed it with her fingers and rolled it around itself, tying it together. Under the heavy coat she wore a wool dress that revealed a slim, youthful body. She had long passed sixty, but the skin of her face bore no hint of aging. He wondered whether she found time for lovers.
*
The voice on the speakerphone said, “How is my favorite banker this morning?” Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr spoke with an impeccable British accent, which he had acquired at Oxford.
“I’m delighted to hear you, Excellency!” Lemmy’s mind brought up the tall, dark man, the intelligent eyes under a groomed mane of hair. “Are you well?”
“ Insha’Allah, my friend.” The prince’s voice was even, lucid, showing no hint of impatience as he moved on to business. “How is my six-one-nine El-Sharif?”
By providing the password and account number-chosen for the 619 AD mythological journey of the Prophet Muhammad to Jerusalem-Prince Abusalim gained access to his account with the Hoffgeitz Bank, including discussion of confidential financial information on the telephone.
Lemmy pulled up the account on his computer screen. “Current balance is near seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.”
“That sounds correct.” The prince’s voice remained calm despite the size of his fast-growing fortune. “I’d like to make a transfer.”
“Of course. Will you be investing or acquiring a pleasure motorcar?”
“Making a donation.”
“Your generosity will be rewarded by Allah.” Lemmy pulled up a blank form on the screen and typed in the prince’s name in the space for the account’s owner. “The amount?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Recipient?”
“ Monsieur Perez Sachs. He’ll pick it up in cash at the local branch of Banque Nationale de France in Senlis, France.”
Lemmy’s fingers danced on the keyboard. “We’ll execute the transfer today.”
“ My warm gratitude, Herr Horch. Please visit Paris again soon. I’ve discovered another cabaret-beautiful girls, every one of them!”
*
Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr put down the receiver. The rays of the sun illuminated the deep colors of the rug at the foot of the canopy bed. The pile of leather belts, pointy hoods, and studded collars brought a grin to his face, reminding him of the three teenage girls from last night. Unlike the submissive Arab females, the French gave as much as they took, wielding their alluring physique in the battle over peaks of volcanic pleasures.
Out on the balcony, he tightened the waistband around his silk bathrobe and leaned against the railing to watch the French capital’s own phallic symbol, the elevators ascending and descending through the Eiffel Tower’s enormous web of iron beams.
Back inside, he poured a cup and browsed the front page of the Financial Times. The British pound was falling again. Muammar al-Qaddafi announced the expulsion of thirty thousand Palestinians from Libya in protest of Arafat’s signing of the second Oslo agreement. Iraqis went to the polls to obediently reelect Saddam Hussein. And Israel prepared to hand over control of West Bank cities to the PLO.
Pierre arrived on time. “ Bonjour, Monsieur Abusalim,” he said in his clipped, hurried French.
The bathroom was equipped with a barber chair that could turn and recline toward the sink. The prince sat down, surrendering to Pierre’s experienced hands. It was Tuesday, which meant only shampoo and a shave, but no trimming, which was just as well. He needed a nap after such a night.
*
At noon, Lemmy walked out the front door of the Hoffgeitz Bank for his daily lunch. He strolled down Bahnhofstrasse, enjoying the crisp air and beautiful shops. A pretty woman smiled at him, and he smiled back. He passed Credit Niehoch Bank, where he had worked years ago, and the massive building shared by Grieder and Bank Leu. Turning left, past the armory, he paused in front of St. Peter Kirche-the church of Old Zurich. Paula had once explained that the copper bells atop the tower were the largest in Europe, built to warn the neighboring citadels of Germanic or Mongol invaders.
The Limmat River was just around the corner, and despite the cashmere coat, he felt the cold draft from the lake. He walked faster.
The Orsini Restaurant kept an open account for the overpriced lunch he regularly shared with Zurich’s most successful bankers. But today he passed by the iron gate and continued down the narrow alley.
At the corner was the clock store, where he had bought Paula the five-foot-tall grandfather clock that rang hourly in their living room in perfect synchrony with the chimes of St. Peter Kirche. The alley curved to the left, and he slipped into the service door in the rear of the Bierhalle Kropf.
The dining hall smelled of cigarette smoke, fried sausages, and potatoes baked in butter. Lemmy unbuttoned his coat, loosened his tie, and stepped into the clutter of voices and laughter. The long wooden tables and hard benches were occupied with the usual mix of bank clerks, blue-collar workers, and off-season tourists. He negotiated his way down the center aisle until he reached the far end. The last table was partly occupied by four elderly men, chewing on fried sausages and sauerkraut. He squeezed through and sat all the way in the corner, his back to the wall.
A voluptuous waitress waved cheerfully from the aisle. He pointed at his neighbors’ beers and plates, then held up two fingers and gestured at the empty seat across the table.
The lead article in The Economist, which he had brought with him, questioned the viability of the Swiss private banking industry should Switzerland join the European Community.
Two overflowing glasses of beer were passed down from the aisle, followed by two plates loaded with sausages and Apfelkochli -sugary apple slices, fried in cinnamon and butter. Lemmy winked at the waitress, nodded at his neighbors, and returned to The Economist.
Halfway through the meal, he heard coughing from across the table.
Elie Weiss blew his nose into a paper napkin, which he squeezed into a ball and put in his coat pocket. He kept his wool cap on.
Lemmy leaned forward and spoke German with minimal movement of his lips. “You look awful.”
“You, on the other hand, look prosperous,” Elie said. “How’s your father-in-law?”
“ Fine for eighty-four, but the next heart attack could be fatal.”
“ It’s about time. By the way, good tip about Damascus.” Elie held the beer glass with two hands and sipped.
“I saw the salacious photos in the papers. Quite a scene.”
“A public execution scares other Oslo opponents. Rabin hopes the benefits of peace will calm the Palestinian street.” Elie smirked. “And swords shall be forged into scythes.”
“ Ploughshares.”
“ Yes, those also.”
Lemmy glanced at their table mates, who were engaged in argument over a soccer game lost to a Spanish team the previous weekend.
“ What about the Koenig account?”
“ Gunter needed goading, but he’s cooperating now. In two or three weeks, all of the accounts will be on the system.”
“Finally. It’s been a long road.”
“ I’ll still need a password to take any action within the account itself.”
Elie nodded. “Letters and numbers. Something related to Tanya Galinski. That Nazi truly loved her. You can relate, yes?”
The comment needled Lemmy, even after all these years. “I’m not my father.”
“There’s no shame. She was irresistible.”
“ Is my father still alive?”
“ For you, he’s dead.” Elie’s lips twitched as if he tried to smile, but couldn’t. “Rabbi Abraham Gerster disavowed you, sat shivah after you, even though you were still alive, just because you decided to leave his holy sect. A real father wouldn’t do that. What do you care if he’s dead or alive?”
“ I cannot understand him, especially now that I have a son of my own. Nothing could make me stop loving Klaus Junior. It’s against nature-”
“ What’s not to understand? He’s a religious fanatic. And you denounced his God. For him, you died the day you chopped off your side locks and threw away your black hat. And your mother became a sinner when she killed herself. That man is nothing to you.”
“ Still, I can’t imagine anything that could cause me to disown my son.”
“ Don’t forget who you really are.” Elie was whispering, but the hoarseness in his voice gave it a tone of hushed rage. “That family of yours? Just part of the job!” He slipped a brown envelope across the table. “Your wife and son are Gentiles. Goyim! ”
“ That’s irrelevant-”
“ They’re your cover, nothing more!”
It was no longer the case, but neither was it something he could actually discuss with Elie-not at this time and place, anyway.
“ Our destiny,” Elie said, barely audible, “is about to arrive. Money and power to launch Counter Final Solution. ”
Lemmy nodded.
“ I’m banking on you!”
“ Of course.” Lemmy understood. It had been Elie’s lifelong project-to take possession of the enormous fortune SS Oberstgruppenfuhrer Klaus von Koenig had deposited with Armande Hoffgeitz fifty years ago and use it to finance a worldwide network of Jewish assassins who would eliminate every enemy of the Jewish people. “I’ll gain control over the account very soon. It’s a lot of money. Will you transfer it to Paris?”
Elie shook his head. “Up to you. You’ll be in charge.”
“ What do you mean?”
“ As my successor.”
“ Me?” Lemmy pushed aside the half-full plate and leaned forward over the table. “I’m a Swiss banker. I’ve never communicated with anyone but you. I don’t know anything!”
“ The information will be available to you when it’s time for a transition.”
“ Not interested. It’s too dangerous!”
Elie clacked his tongue.
“ My life is complicated as it is. You don’t know-”
“ I know more than you think.” A hint of a smile passed over Elie’s thin lips. “All in good time. Have a pleasant day, Herr Horch.”
Lemmy folded his coat over his arm and made his way to the aisle. Their table mates lifted their beers in greeting. Glancing back, he saw Elie examine the cover of The Economist, his thin body rocking back and forth as if in prayer.
*
In his alcove off the foyer of the synagogue, Rabbi Abraham Gerster took out the stapled booklet Itah Orr had given him and placed it on the small desk. ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret. The second page carried typed text that resembled the oath recited at the swearing-in ceremony he had seen on TV. The third page had the Table of Contents:
1. Tight lips – how to keep your true identity secret from friend
2. False identity – how to select, maintain, and change your alias;
3. Passwords – how to create, obtain, and use them;
4. Comrades’ personal info – what you don’t know you can’t reveal;
5. Field security – how to detect and shake off a tail;
6. Surveillance – how to conduct basic tracking, scouting, and watching;
7. Sabotage – how to maximize damage while using everyday materials;
8. Street warfare – how to start a riot, trip law enforcement, and slip away;
9. First aid – how to treat for tear gas, baton strikes, horse kicks, and bullet wounds;
10. Light weapons – how to obtain a license, purchase, and maintain guns;
11. Target practice – basic rules, secret locations, standards of proficiency;
12. Surviving capture – how to resist physical/psychological pressure by the authorities;
13. Readiness to sacrifice – giving up your life for Torah, Land, and People of Israel!
Rabbi Gerster proceeded to read each page of the ILOT manual with growing concern. The loud, constant hum of hundreds of Neturay Karta men studying Talmud in the synagogue filtered through his door, providing none of the calming effect he usually found in the familiar noise. Some of the pages provided detailed instructions, which appeared to have been copied from military manuals more suitable for urban warfare than an illegal militia. The pages dealing with passwords, aliases, and surveillance tactics contained details and procedures that had clearly originated in professional secret service training manuals, not in the mind of an amateur right-wing activist.
A knock came from the door. Rabbi Gerster folded the ILOT manual and stuck it in his coat pocket. “Yes?”
Benjamin’s eldest son, Jerusalem, poked his head in the door. “My father asked if you would like to hear today’s lecture.”
“ Ah, yes.” Rabbi Gerster rose slowly from the chair. “I can’t wait to hear how Benjamin explains the sage Elazar’s comment about the lawyers.”
“ You mean, how not to be like the lawyers?” Jerusalem held the door. “I told my father that maybe the sage Elazar was joking.”
Rabbi Gerster laughed. “You’re a clever boy.”
The synagogue greeted them with cigarette smoke and the intensity of voices arguing over Talmudic quandaries.
“ Most of our friends here,” Rabbi Gerster waved at the rows of scholars, “would never assign humor to our ancient sages. Why is it, Jerusalem?”
“ Perhaps they forgot,” Benjamin’s son intoned in the traditional singsong of Talmudic studying, “that the sages were flesh and blood, like us.”
“ Precisely!”
*
At the Hoffgeitz Bank, Lemmy entered his office and made sure the door was locked. On the way from the Bierhalle Kropf he had reflected on the conversation with Elie. You’ll be in charge…as my successor. It must have been a joke. Running SOD required skills and knowledge he did not possess. He had been an undercover agent for twenty-eight years, slowly growing roots as a reputable banker in Zurich. His Mideast clients had been a fountain of useful intelligence for Israel, and every year Elie had sent him on jobs that sharpened his deadly skills. But he had never worked directly with other SOD agents, had not been privy to the organization’s structure or composition, and had never interacted with any Israeli official. To the best of Lemmy’s knowledge, only Elie Weiss knew who Wilhelm Horch really was and that Jerusalem Gerster had not died in battle on the Golan Heights in 1967. This total anonymity enabled him to do his job in relative safety while protecting his family. There was no way he could take over command of SOD from Elie Weiss. It would put everything he possessed and everyone he loved at an unacceptable risk.
But then he remembered another thing Elie had said. I know more than you think. Another joke? Another mind game? How could Elie watch him?
He pulled the envelope from his coat pocket and tore it open. It contained a photo of a youth in a long green coat, holding a fur hat. He was in profile, too far to show exact facial features. On the back of the photo, in Elie’s familiar handwriting, was a short note:
Wednesday, 3:00 p.m., Paris, Rue Mogador, Galeries Lafayette, west building. Watch for a green Peugeot. Target is the bomber of the Marseilles school. He’ll go to menswear dressing room. Second team will watch the driver on Rue Mogador.
Lemmy looked at the small photo for a long moment and memorized what little details it gave. He reviewed the operational instructions one more time and slipped the photo into the paper shredder.
*
Elie Weiss left the Bierhalle Kropf through the front entrance and waved down a taxi. Zurich’s train station was only a few blocks away, and the elderly Swiss cabbie wasn’t happy as he collected the minimum fare and no tip. “I’m not a bus driver,” he said in German.
“ Arbeit macht frei,” Elie said as he got out.
He took the escalators down into the underground station. As the train left for the airport, he opened The Economist and found an envelope glued onto page 67, which carried an article titled: Mideast Leaders Talk Business – Can Rabin and Arafat Quell Their Militant Oppositions with Economic Prosperity? Elie read it quickly. Typical European wishful thinking held that terrorism will disappear if western nations subsidize a nice middle-class lifestyle for the Palestinians. It was like expecting hyenas to forgo their natural malice in exchange for free meals. Elie had no doubt that the editors at The Economist knowingly twisted the truth because, just like the Palestinians, their hostility to Israel was not rooted in political causes or economic circumstances, but in anti-Semitism, manifested temporarily as anti-Israelism.
Inside the envelope he found a cashier’s check for $75,000, made To Bearer. The funds in his account at the Hoffgeitz Bank had come from dozens of former Nazis he had tracked down over the years, many with the help of Lemmy’s banking skills. Invariably, they were easy to terrify, like a bully facing someone worse. They paid handsomely for their sins, and the cash supported on-going SOD operations while he pursued the real prize-Koenig’s fortune, which awaited its destiny in a dormant account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
Also inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. The first provided a list of the bribes paid to Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, which totaled $76,750,000. The second sheet was a copy of an electronic transfer of $200,000 from the prince’s account at the Hoffgeitz Bank to a bank in Senlis, France, dated today.
As soon as the train reached the airport, Elie walked to a pay phone. It was two thirty p.m. He inserted a phone card and punched in the number.
The phone at Rue Buffault rang three times, and Gideon answered, “Yes?”
“ Get a roadmap,” Elie said, “and find Senlis. It’s a small town, maybe a village.”
After a moment of paper shuffling, Gideon said, “Senlis is about twenty miles north of Paris.”
“ Near Ermenonville?”
“ Correct.”
Elie coughed and held his other hand to his chest until the pain eased. “Our man will pick up a large sum today at Banque Nationale De France at thirty-eight Rue Philippe. He won’t trust anyone else, but he’ll bring guards. Watch from a distance, take photos, but nothing else.”
“Your old friend is here. She’s napping.”
Elie considered the situation for a moment. Tanya must not learn of these developments. “Get lovebird and leave quietly. If our guest wakes up, tell her you’re going to buy food. Go to Senlis and watch the bank.”
“ Follow him?”
“ No. There will be more transfers. I want to confirm it’s really him, but our main target is his sponsor. We have to hold off until we can get both of them together.” Elie hung up and walked to Gate 24A, where the next Swissair flight to Paris was already boarding.
*
Gideon parked the Citroen halfway up the street from the two-story, glass-fronted building. Bathsheba propped a black-and-white photo of Abu Yusef on the dashboard, and they settled for the wait with an audio version of Frederick Forsyth’s The Fourth Protocol. An hour into the story, John Preston brought the stolen documents to the Yard, and a technician dusted them for prints. Gideon remembered Preston, played by Michael Cain, wearing his nonchalant expression that communicated so much to truly discerning Michael Cain fans.
“He’s not coming.” Bathsheba hit the stop button on the cassette player. “Or it’s not him at all.”
“ The bank closes in nine minutes,” Gideon said.
“ Let’s go for a drink.” Her left arm rested on the back of his seat, then slipped down to his shoulder.
He pretended not to notice.
Bathsheba’s mouth was close to his ear. “You smell so clean.” Her fingers slid under the curls at the back of his head. “I was thinking-”
“Don’t start.” Gideon pushed her hand away.
Bathsheba sat straight up in her seat and saluted.
He laughed despite his best efforts. The absurd contradiction between her girlish clowning and her womanly beauty was too funny to resist. She was a performer, both in her irreverence and on the job. Men never refused Bathsheba. He had seen her lure men who recklessly surrendered to the powerful lust she ignited. He sensed that she despised their submission. Did she despise all men because her father had died, leaving her orphaned when she was so young?
“Look!” Bathsheba pointed.
A green Peugeot stopped in front of the bank and a man sprang out of the passenger side. He looked up and down the street and tapped on the roof of the car. Both rear doors opened and two other men came out. They all wore dark suits and had thin mustaches, and the driver, Bashir, awkwardly hid a machine gun under his jacket.
She aimed the Polaroid. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Abu Yusef emerged. He was older than the others, his hair gray and thinning on top. He crossed the pavement carrying a briefcase to the door of the bank.
The camera clicked. “I’d rather shoot bullets,” she said, “than photos.”
“ He’s too well protected.”
A few minutes later Abu Yusef reappeared and hefted the briefcase into the back seat. The Peugeot drove off. Gideon waited a few minutes before heading back to Paris.
*
Elie Weiss sat on the edge of the bed. Tanya’s face was peaceful, almost happy. Finding her asleep was an unexpected pleasure-it had been three hours since he had called from Zurich. She must have been very tired. He enjoyed this rare opportunity to gaze at her without being regarded with cold hostility. For decades they had coexisted in the clandestine trenches of the war against Israel’s enemies, but neither her beauty nor her loathing of him had abated.
He pulled off his gloves and carefully rested his hand on her cheek. Tingling warmth reached up through his arm to his chest. His eyes misted up and he leaned closer, taking in her unique aroma.
Her eyes opened. She pushed his hand away and sat up.
“ Shalom, Tanya.”
“ Shalom.”
“ You look well.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Elie rubbed his bald head. “I saw Abraham last week. A chance encounter. I barely recognized him. His beard is totally white.”
“He’s not seventy yet.” Tanya stood, her hair came loose, and the past fifty years fell off. She was again the girl sitting in the snow on the first day of 1945, wrapped in a fur coat, her Nazi lover’s warm corpse beside her. Elie had fallen in love with her right there, a passion that would forever go unrequited. Instead she fell for Abraham, but her love had fared no better-Elie had made sure of that.
“We haven’t spoken in years,” Elie said. “He shirked his duty when he passed the leadership to that fatherless disciple of his, Benjamin Mashash.”
“A leader without an heir is a failed leader. What’s your succession plan?”
“ People like us never retire. We must work to prevent the next Holocaust, use whatever skills and resources we possess. Abraham grew up as the rabbi’s son, so he should use the skills he acquired preparing for the pulpit. And I was the shoykhet ’s son, so I use the skills which I was groomed to practice.”
“ Slaughtering animals?”
“ Precisely, whether they walk on two legs or four. And you, Tanya? Are you still using your female skills?”
“ What’s left of them.”
“ You’re too modest.” Elie smirked. “What you had achieved by your seventeenth birthday was enough for a whole career-an irony, really, that thanks to you the stolen riches, which your dearly beloved Klaus had stashed away until he could rebuild the next Reich, will instead finance the defense of a Jewish state to last a thousand years.”
*
“ I’m home!” Lemmy entered the house from the garage, and Klaus Junior leaped into his arms. “How was school?”
“Great!”
“You’re early.” Paula appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing an apron. “What happened? The bank burned down?”
He kissed her on the lips. “I missed you guys, so I came home.”
“ There’s no dinner yet. I just started-”
“ Turn off the oven. Let’s go out for pizza.”
“ Wait a minute!” Paula stuck a finger in his chest. “What’s the catch?”
“ You know me too well.” He laughed. “I need to go to Paris in the morning.”
“ I knew it!” She pulled off her apron and tossed it at him. “Paris again-without me?”
“ A quick business meeting, back tomorrow night.” He raised his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“ Papa!” Klaus Junior was already putting on his shoes. “When you were little, were you a scout leader?”
“ Not exactly.” Lemmy pulled off his tie. “We didn’t have scouts in the neighborhood where I grew up.”
*
Abu Yusef dropped the briefcase on the bed and opened it. “Look!” He picked up a bundle of bills and threw it to Latif. “You were right! Allah still loves me!”
“ And I love you too!” Latif rushed into his arms.
They collapsed on the bed together, and Abu Yusef yelled, “I’ll show the damn Jews whose God is bigger!”
Latif’s white teeth glistened. “You will show the whole world.”
Abu Yusef felt the heaviness, which had weighed on him since Al-Mazir’s death, lift up. Not only could he now afford the supplies needed for an extravagant revenge, but this money signaled the Saudi prince’s commitment to the cause.
“ All of Al-Mazir’s men will flock to you.” Latif unbuttoned his shirt. “You will unseat Arafat and become the leader of Palestine!”
*
Elie lit a cigarette. “You didn’t come here to rummage through old memories, did you?” He watched Tanya’s face carefully.
“ We’re concerned. The little war you’ve started here could spread.”
“ What war? The one over underage prostitution?”
“ Those photos didn’t fool Abu Yusef. He must respond. What will it be? The El Al terminal? Another Jewish school?”
“The Arabs don’t kill Jews in response to what we do. They’ve been killing us long before we did anything to them.”
“Here we go again.” Tanya sighed. “Times are changing, politically and diplomatically. Our Jewish state is almost fifty. It’s time we think and act not only as Jews, but as a state. Mossad is the government agency for overseas espionage. Let us take over the Abu Yusef situation.”
“ This isn’t a job for bureaucrats.”
“ Neither is it a job for an old man and two cute amateurs.”
Elie ignored her sarcasm. It was useful to be underestimated. “The prime minister asked me to handle this. He didn’t ask Mossad, did he?”
“ Rabin wants deniability, because it’s illegal to assassinate targets without compliance with the appropriate procedures.”
“ Are you questioning Yitzhak Rabin’s authority?”
“ He’s a soldier on a campaign,” Tanya said. “He has staked his reputation, his political future, and his legacy on the Oslo process. He thinks that eliminating Arafat’s opposition will pave the way for the final status agreement.”
“ Pipe dreams,” Elie said. “Unlike you and me, Rabin didn’t experience the Holocaust. Otherwise he would know that Arafat, like all Gentiles, cannot stop hating Jews. They’ll never live in peace with us. We must continue to fight-or die.”
“ Then why has Arafat signed two Oslo agreements? Why is he implementing those agreements?”
“ It’s the ‘salami method.’ Arafat is negotiating in phases to get more and more slices of land without any real concessions on the ‘final status’ issues-the Palestinian refugees’ right of return, final borders, and the sovereignty over Jerusalem.”
“ Rabin believes the Palestinians will ultimately keep the peace, even if their current intentions are cynical.”
“ Illusions. Once we stop giving him pieces of land, Arafat will use the land and weapons he’s gotten under Oslo to resume fighting-this time from a position of ruler of the West Bank and Gaza, a short distance from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.”
“ Is that what you told Rabin?”
Elie shrugged. “He thinks the fruits of peace would be too sweet for the Palestinians to spit out. He calls it momentum.”
“ And you’re removing obstacles from his path.”
“ Look, I do what the prime minister asks even when I disagree with his strategy. With time, he will come around to seeing things my way.”
“ Nekamah? Revenge? That’s a better strategy? Endless, useless bloodshed?”
“ Revenge is useless?” Elie paced back and forth across the small room. “That’s the thinking that caused King Saul to spare the Amalekites and lose his kingdom!”
“Enough with this biblical demagoguery.”
“The past is instructive.” He could barely speak now, his scarce resources of energy almost depleted. It was time to gain her sympathy. The last thing he needed at this crucial time was open war with Mossad. He sat on the bed and dropped the cigarette on the floor, putting it out with the sole of his shoe. “Let me finish this last job. I’m very tired. This is it for me."3"›
“I’ll give you a week. But if Abu Yusef spills Jewish blood, all bets are off. We’ll come after you, shut you down.”
Elie understood. This was the message she had come to deliver. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”
“Yes!” Tanya’s serious expression suddenly broke into a smile. “I will!”
He watched, reluctant to even blink, afraid to miss the transformation of her features, the arch of her lips, the faint creases in her cheeks, the way she moved with efficient, quick agility, full of grace. Even as she mocked him, Elie wanted this moment to last so he could take in every detail, memorize her every gesture, savor every bit of emotion he had managed to rouse in her.
“ Haven’t you had enough of this?” Tanya came closer. “For fifty years you’ve begrudged me for loving Abraham instead of loving you. But how could I-or anyone else-love you? You’re consumed by hate, by death, by killing our enemies, real or imagined. Even Yitzhak Rabin knows that yesterday’s worst enemy could be today’s best partner.”
Was she speaking of Rabin and Arafat or of the two of them, facing each other in this Paris apartment after a lifetime of rivalry? For a moment, Elie’s mind was consumed by hopes. Was there a chance for the two of them, after all these years? Would she take him in her arms, kiss him, caress him, tell him that she loved him? Because if she did that, he would give her everything-the job, the Nazi fortune, the life he had lived in secrecy, even his single-minded dedication to the cause. One hug, one kiss, one demonstration of true feelings, and he would give up everything that his life had stood for until this moment.
“ We’re not going to let you go on killing,” she said. “Don’t force me to shut you down. Quit voluntarily, and you can go home to live in peace for the rest of your days.”
Her words burst the bubble of his pathetic dream. Elie coughed a few times, intentionally causing the pain in his chest to spike, knowing his face would become ashen. He had to make her believe his deceit. “You’re right. I’m worn out. After Abu Yusef is done, I’ll go to Jerusalem.”
“And you’ll hand over all SOD operations to Mossad.”
“ Not much to hand over,” he lied.
“ Including Klaus’s money? I want his bank ledger back.”
Elie gave her his hand, and she shook it. He held on, gazing at their joined hands, savoring the moment. Clearly she was fishing for information about her lover’s fortune, trying to find out whether Elie had ever been able to put his hands on it. “On one condition,” he said.
“ What?”
“ Will you take care of Gideon and Bathsheba?” The question implied that the two were his only agents. To give credence to his deception, he met her eyes. “I’ll give back Koenig’s deposits ledger. To you, personally, so you can use it for a worthy purpose.”
“ It’s a deal.” Tanya hesitated. “You’re not playing games again, are you?”
“With you? How could I?” His hand let go of hers and rose to her face. Barely touching, his fingers caressed her hair. “My beautiful Tanya.”
*
Wednesday, October 18, 1995
Abu Yusef woke up early. Through the window he watched the bare tree branches sway in the wind. He heard Latif shift under the covers and turned to look at him. Settled back into sleep, hugging a body pillow, Latif’s smooth face was peaceful. Abu Yusef smiled. The boy was an angel, a heavenly gift sent to ease the loneliness of the long struggle for Palestine.
There was a knock on the door. Bashir entered with a pitcher of orange juice and a thermos of black coffee.
“ Assemble the men in the dining room,” Abu Yusef said. “We have work to do-and the money to do it with.”
“Of course.” Bashir glanced at the sleeping Latif and left the room.
*
Lemmy’s favorite border crossing handled traffic between Paris and Dijon to the west, Strasbourg and Stuttgart to the north, Basel and Zurich to the east, and Bern and Lucerne to the south-thousands of cars and trucks bearing license plates from France, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Italy, in addition to many EU, NATO, and UN vehicles. The inconvenience of using a stick shift in slow traffic was a small price to pay for reliably lax border inspections. He had estimated the delay at no more than one hour, which would enable him to reach Paris by early afternoon at the latest. He could also push the Porsche harder, which was even more fun.
At the French side of the border, a customs officer beckoned him to stop. Lemmy lowered the window, turned down Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, and handed his passport to the officer. “ Bonjour! ”
The officer glanced at the Swiss passport and handed it back. “Anything to declare?”
Lemmy smiled. “Nothing at all.”
The officer gave the car an admiring look. “ Bon voyage. ”
*
Abu Yusef walked into the large dining room with Bashir. The twenty or so men stood at attention. “I lost my beloved friend,” he said. “May Allah accept Al-Mazir’s soul with open arms.”
Some of the men touched their foreheads in devoutness.
“ Like me, he was a boy from Nablus, who dedicated his life to fight for our land.” Abu Yusef lowered his head and placed his right hand on his chest. “Al-Mazir was a hero of the Palestinian revolution. We must avenge his blood.”
They grunted in agreement.
“We are few, but we will grow. Our Palestinian brothers will soon realize that the PLO is selling out, that Arafat is whoring away our land to the Zionist enemy. He calls it peace, but we know it’s capitulation and shame. They will join us from Syria’s refugee camps, from Tunisia and Lebanon, and even from the slums of Paris.” Abu Yusef shook his finger in the air. “We will lead the Palestinian jihad. Off with Arafat and his gang of pork-eaters and vodka-drinkers! Off with the Jews!”
Abu Yusef embraced each of his men. Back at the head of the table, he opened his arms to Bashir. “May Allah’s blessing accompany us on the path to victory.”
“ Insha’Allah! ” Bashir embraced Abu Yusef.
They exited the dining room together.
“You spoke well,” Bashir said. “The men’s morale is renewed-”
“The hell with their morale. You think I don’t know my men?” Abu Yusef snorted. “They would rather drink vodka and lay with prostitutes than risk their lives to liberate Palestine from the Zionists.”
“A strong leader can inspire the meekest of soldiers. They want to believe in you, but they see this.” Bashir gestured down the corridor, toward the bedroom.
Abu Yusef felt his face turning hot. “Latif is a good soldier.”
“ I can send him into the synagogue with explosives and use a remote detonator.”
“ No!”
“ He won’t even know what happened to him. It’s the best way to get rid-”
The door to Abu Yusef’s bedroom opened. Latif appeared wearing only his white briefs. The olive skin of his chest was hairless, his shoulders straight and bony, his arms long and slim. His boyish face flushed under Bashir’s hard glare. “Sorry,” he said and closed the door.
Bashir said, “Allow me to take care of him.”
“Not yet.” Abu Yusef placed his hand on Bashir’s shoulder, which felt as hard as a rock. “When we win Jerusalem, I’ll marry a good woman and give Palestine ten brave sons.”
Bashir’s expression was neither blank nor hostile, but all-knowing. “As you wish.”
*
Shortly before one p.m., Lemmy drove into the underground parking garage at the Societe Generale building, across from the Paris Opera, and parked the Porsche in a corner spot far from the stairway. He sat in the car and waited to see if anyone was following. The garage was quiet.
Using the point of a pocket knife, he popped out the cover of a storage compartment built into the steel dashboard. A wooden box filled the space. He opened it and removed the Mauser handgun that rested in a perfectly matched depression.
Etched along one side of the barrel, it read: K. v. K. 1943 Deutschland Uber Alles
On the other side was the Hebrew word for revenge: Nekamah
He wiped off the excess oil and cocked it. The clanking of steel sounded louder in the tight confines of the car.
*
At one thirty p.m., Abu Yusef gave Latif a thick bundle of cash. “After you pay for the suits, give the rest of the money to Bashir.”
“ I can’t wait for you to see them!”
Abu Yusef patted his behind. “Go, quick, before Bashir loses his patience.”
Latif put his arms around Abu Yusef’s neck. “You’re so good to me.”
“That’s right.” He breathed in the scent of shampoo from the boy’s hair. “Go, go. We’ll have plenty of time when you come back.”
*
With well-practiced motions, Lemmy screwed on the silencer. He put an extra magazine in the breast pocket of his jacket and replaced the cover over the dashboard storage compartment. Standing by the car, he quickly put on the trench coat and brown fedora. The Mauser fit in a special pocket sewn into the coat at the right hip, easily accessible through a zippered slit. He buttoned the coat and locked the Porsche. The red alarm light next to the steering wheel started blinking. He bent to look in the side mirror and pressed on a fake salt-and-pepper goatee.
Once outside the parking garage, he took the corner around the opera, crossed the street, and headed down Avenue Haussmann, away from the Galeries Lafayette department store. He paused at shop fronts and pretended to examine the displays. Some had already put up their Christmas decorations, hoping to elevate shoppers’ spirits more than two months before the holiday. He took more than an hour to make sure no one was following him before he headed back to the Galeries Lafayette. It was time to get acquainted with the operational landscape.
*
Before Gideon and Bathsheba left the apartment, Elie repeated his instructions. They were to watch Abu Yusef’s boy toy go in, wait until he came out, and follow the green Peugeot back to the Arabs’ hideaway. But under no circumstances were they to raise any suspicions. If there was any disturbance, they must return to the apartment immediately.
“ If you think he noticed you,” Elie said, “drop the tail and return here. We’ll get him on his next visit to the bank in Senlis.”
Gideon was curious to know what made Elie so certain about future money transfers, but kept the question to himself. He had learned from experience that Elie Weiss divulged only the information he absolutely had to share.
*
Lemmy kept on the coat, fedora, and gloves. He scouted the enormous store, up and down the escalators, across each wing, in and out through different entrances. Avenue Haussmann, a six-lane road with heavy traffic and no legal parking, offered four pedestrian entries into Galeries Lafayette, with hundreds of shoppers coming and going continuously. Rue de Mogador was a side street that passed between the two blocks of the store. It was lined with cars in which husbands and chauffeurs waited. He spent a few moments examining a wall map of the store to memorize several alternative escape routes through various fire exits and loading docks.
Standing inside the store behind the glass doors, Lemmy watched customers being dropped off and picked up on Rue de Mogador.
At 2:43 p.m., a white Citroen arrived. Lemmy recognized Elie’s young agents-the man with a head of curls and the woman with sharp, beautiful features and close-cropped hair. They remained in the parked car.
The minutes passed quickly. By 3:12 p.m., Lemmy was concerned. He would not wait for the green Peugeot more than thirty minutes beyond schedule.
Inside the white Citroen, the driver kept watching the street in his side mirror.
Another ten minutes went by. Lemmy felt the Mauser through the side of his coat. Was Elie’s information wrong? Could this be a trap?
The couple in the Citroen began arguing. The man shook his head repeatedly. The woman suddenly bolted out of the car and ran down the street to the corner of Avenue Haussmann. Lemmy stepped closer to the glass doors to watch her. She glanced left and right over the railing that separated the sidewalk from the traffic. As she turned, her expression changed, her pace slowed to a casual stroll, and she stopped at a window display. Lemmy looked the other way and saw a green Peugeot coming down Rue de Mogador. It stopped at the curb near the entrance.
The driver was a Middle Eastern man, about fifty. He unfolded a newspaper and began to read. There was no passenger in the car, and Lemmy realized the target had been dropped off at the main entrance on Avenue Haussmann. He was already inside!
A flight of stairs led to the main level. Lemmy passed the counters displaying Chanel, Estee Lauder, OrLane, Shiseido, and Monteil. He circled the line of women at the cashier and took the escalators up, two steps at a time.
Crossing the ladies’ shoes area, he noticed Paula’s favorite-Lundi Bleu.
Another set of stairs to the right.
Menswear.
He passed Yves Saint Laurent, and turned left.
Red-and-white sign: Pierre Cardin.
The salesman at the counter smiled.
Lemmy slowed down, looked away, pretended to browse through a rack of shirts, and approached the far end. A few customers pecked at the long racks of suits in shades of gray.
Around the corner was a line of dressing rooms. One curtain was shut.
His right hand slipped through the slit and gripped the ivory handle. He aimed the Mauser under the coat, barrel forward, pressed to the hip, the silencer parting the coat lapels. His finger slipped into the trigger slot.
Shifting the curtain with his left hand, Lemmy saw a fur hat on a hook, a green coat, and a thin man in white briefs, his back to the curtain, his leg raised, poised to slip into the pants.
Lemmy’s finger started pressing the trigger.
The target must have sensed the movement behind him. He straightened and turned. “ Pardon,” he said in a voice surprisingly soft. “I’m almost done.” His body completed the turn, and he looked at Lemmy, no more than a foot separating them, smiling with shiny teeth against olive skin. It was a familiar smile, but there was no stopping now. The Mauser coughed twice.
The target’s smile crumbled into a mask of terrible fear, which soon slackened into the familiar paralysis of approaching death. Two bullets, aimed to pass through the heart and lodge in the spine, instantly disabled the capacity for physical reactions, including the ability to expel a final scream. His body lost its firmness. He collapsed on the small bench and dropped to the side, resting against the wall, his eyes open wide.
Lemmy shut the curtain, collected the two casings from the floor, and walked along the racks to the back stairway. Down one floor, he turned left at the sign Sortie – Reserve Au Personnel and pushed through a fire door. Down a set of gray-painted service stairs, left again, he jogged through a long, dim corridor. A pair of steel doors let him out onto a loading dock on Rue de Provence, a few steps from the bustle of Avenue Haussmann.
The target’s smile flashed in Lemmy’s mind. A ghost from the past.
No past! You’re Wilhelm Horch! A banker!
He paused at the corner. No sirens. No screams. No fools trying to give chase.
A moment later he was across the street and inside the door to the parking garage. He took the stairs down.
The Porsche waited where he’d left it.
His body began to shake. He doubled over. His knees grew weak. He took a few deep breaths, waiting for the sick feeling to pass. The image of the teenager’s face stayed with him, switching between smiles and death masks. The dark eyes glistened, then went blank.
Back in the car, he unscrewed the silencer, repacked the Mauser in the storage compartment, and tapped the cover back into place. He took off the trench coat and fedora, removed the fake goatee, and stuffed everything behind the seats.
As he drove out of the parking garage, two police vans raced toward the Galeries Lafayette, sirens whining. He merged with traffic in the opposite direction, slipped Stravinsky into the CD player, and with the first tunes of The Rite of Spring, his breathing slowed down.
He lowered the window and cold air filled the car. It had been a fluke of nature-the target’s eerie resemblance to Benjamin Mashash, whose face Lemmy had not seen in decades, whose face by now must have matured greatly from the face of the eighteen-year-old Talmudic scholar, Lemmy’s study-companion and best friend, back in the Neturay Karta sect in Jerusalem, a divided city on the eve of a great Mideast war.
He stopped at a traffic light and shut his eyes, recalling Benjamin, whose eyes squinted in laughter, teeth white against the olive skin, ringlet side locks dangling on both sides of his earnest face.
Oh, Benjamin!
*
“ You’re early.” Elie Weiss pointed to his watch. “What happened?”
Gideon slumped in a chair. “A bunch of police cars appeared, a whole swarm of them, and Bashir split.”
“ You followed him?”
“ He drove too fast. We couldn’t keep up without being noticed.”
Bathsheba paced back and forth. “We should have waited right there. Bashir has to return to pick up the boy. He has to!”
“With all that police activity,” Gideon said, “we couldn’t stick around.”
“Was there a fire in the store? Or an accident?” Elie lit a cigarette, keeping a straight face even though he knew what the arrival of police cars had meant. The job had been executed-successfully, no doubt, because Jerusalem Gerster never failed.
“ Whatever it was,” Bathsheba said, “we’re back to square one.”
“ We’ll catch them soon enough.” Smoke petered out of Elie’s lips with each word. “The next transfer to Senlis is our hook.”
*
Abu Yusef wasn’t happy when Bashir returned without Latif, reporting that the Galeries Lafayette was surrounded by police. With several guns and a few hand grenades in the Peugeot, Bashir had to get away in a hurry, but he was confident that, as the huge department store was filled with thousands of shoppers, Latif would easily melt into the crowds. “He knows the drill,” Bashir said. “He’ll walk around and check out some stores until the emergency is over. He’ll call, and I’ll drive back to Paris to get him. Don’t worry.”
But a few hours passed, the phone didn’t ring, and Bashir fell asleep on the sofa in the living room, snoring lightly. The rest of the men, other than the sentries on duty, were in the pool house, watching an action movie with Jean-Paul Belmondo.
By ten p.m. Abu Yusef was pacing in the patio outside, wrapped in an oversize wool coat, a small radio glued to his ear, tuned to an all-news French channel. With time his mind wandered, and the anchor’s chattering became mere background noise. But suddenly the words Galeries Lafayette popped out. He paused and listened, his mind translating each French word into Arabic: Victim. Dressing room. Algerian or Moroccan. Age fifteen to twenty. Cash. No papers. Shot twice. Police investigating.
Amidst the shock and pain, Abu Yusef saw Bashir through the window, slouched on the sofa, his legs crossed, his mouth slightly open. A terrible realization came to Abu Yusef. He ran to the pool house to alert the men, but stopped halfway around the water. What would he tell the men? Bashir killed my pretty boyfriend! They would laugh-or worse. They looked up to Bashir, trusted him, and obeyed his orders. In a conflict between them, who would the men choose?
He changed direction and crossed a patch of grass to a storage shed. Inside, leaning against the wall, was the long skewer they had used to roast the lamb. The cook had cleaned the skewer, and it shone in the dark, its sharp point near the pitched ceiling. Abu Yusef grabbed it and returned to the patio. Through the window he saw Bashir in the same position, fast asleep.
It took all of Abu Yusef’s self-control not to stab him through. He gripped the metal rod and aimed it at Bashir’s thick throat, just under the chin, and pricked the skin.
The snoring ceased, and Bashir’s eyes opened. He didn’t move. Even his calm expression remained unchanged despite the sight of the long skewer, which had easily pierced a whole lamb from rectum to jaw.
“Say your prayers,” Abu Yusef said.
Very slowly, Bashir raised his hand. “I swear. I didn’t kill Latif.”
“Then how do you know he’s dead?” Abu Yusef laughed bitterly. “How?”
Avoiding sudden moves, Bashir’s forefinger pointed at the steel rod. “What else…could come between us?”
“ You killed him!”
“ Must be…the Israelis.”
“Impossible!” Abu Yusef pressed a little harder, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of Bashir’s throat. “You did it! Murderer!”
With blinding quickness, Bashir’s hand flew at the skewer and flipped it sideways, its point trailing blood. At the same time, Bashir’s leg bent sideways, his knee pounding Abu Yusef’s thigh. The pain was sharp and debilitating, his leg muscles drained of sustenance. And while Abu Yusef collapsed, Bashir jumped to his feet, the skewer in motion, spinning like a parade stick.
Abu Yusef found himself flat on the carpet, the red point of the skewer in his ear.
“How dare you,” Bashir groaned, panting hard, “doubt my loyalty?”
Abu Yusef felt a drop of Bashir’s blood leave the point of the skewer and fill his ear. He tried to move and realized that Bashir’s foot was pinning him down. But the fact that he was still alive proved Bashir’s innocence. “Okay. I believe you.”
Bashir dumped the rod on the carpet. “I serve under you to fight the Zionists, not to chauffer your bottom boy on shopping trips. But I didn’t kill him.”
“How did the Israelis find Latif? How did they know where, when?”
“They must have followed us. It’s the only possibility.” Bashir pressed his hand to the bleeding wound under his chin. “I failed to notice them, but they are clever.”
“I will avenge him!” Abu Yusef stood, choked with hate. “And Al-Mazir!”
*
Thursday, October 19, 1995
According to the TV newscast, police had been unable to identify the murder victim at the Galeries Lafayette. The large amount of cash found on the youth suggested he was involved in narcotics or prostitution activities, both controlled by Arab immigrants. The camera showed a gurney roll out of the store with a zipped-up body bag, followed by footage from recent police crackdowns on criminal gangs in Paris.
“ If you wait long enough,” Elie said, “these Arabs end up killing each other.”
“ A convenient assumption.” Bathsheba stared at him. “It wasn’t one of your hit men, was it?”
“ Don’t be ridiculous,” Gideon said. “Abu Yusef got bored with the boy and had him killed.”
Elie opened a drawer in the desk and took out a large folder. He searched through a pile of newspaper clippings and dug out a one-page article from the New York Times. It was less than a year old.
Bathsheba came behind Gideon and rested her chin on his shoulder.
He finished reading and looked at Elie. “So?
“Summarize it, will you?”
“It’s about Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, son of Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr. Their company, Transport International al-Saud Inc., holds a virtual monopoly on food and machinery purchases for the kingdom. That’s billions of dollars.” Gideon’s eyes went quickly through the lines. “The prince is an Oxford graduate, lives in a suite at the Hilton Hotel in Paris, many sisters, one half-brother, Salman.”
“How exotic,” Bathsheba said. “And why do we care about this prince?”
“Go on,” Elie said.
“Their oasis north of Riyadh is home to the extended family, including Prince Abusalim’s wives and children. The old sheik owns everything.” Gideon’s scanned the rest of the article. “The interviewer asked the prince what he thought about the Mideast peace process. Answer: Oslo is a sham, because Palestine is part of the land of Islam, and the Jews are usurpers. Question: What about Arafat? Answer: A leader must be a true believer, someone willing to fight a jihad for Jerusalem.”
“That’s odd,” Bathsheba said. “I thought the Saudis support the Oslo peace process.”
“They do,” Elie said, “but Prince Abusalim dreams of becoming Kharass El-Sharif, keeper of Haram el-Sharif.” He lit another cigarette, holding it between a thumb and yellow forefinger. “That’s why we targeted him. Now he’s collecting bribes from vendors to finance the Palestinian jihad. Remember the tip about the French consulate in Damascus arranging a passport for Al-Mazir?”
“ You have someone watching the prince’s bank account?” Bathsheba suddenly seemed interested. “Talk about holding someone by the balls!”
“ Follow the money,” Elie said, “and you’ll find your enemy.”
“ This prince,” Gideon said, “is a bigger threat to Israel than Abu Yusef. He can bankroll a hundred more terrorist groups.”
“ Correct.” Elie pulled a sheet of paper from the file. “This is a list of bribes the prince has collected. Use the fax machine at the central post office to send it to this number.”
Gideon looked at the number scribbled on the sheet. “What country has prefix 966?”
“Saudi Arabia,” Elie said. “A country where thieves get their right hand chopped off without anesthetics.”
*
Lemmy wiped the mist off the bathroom mirror and leaned closer. He kept his sideburns to a minimum, always in a straight line with the upper part of his ear. He had once let his sideburns grow longer, but it reminded him of the payos he had worn so many years ago. Elie had trained him well. Think of yourself as Wilhelm Horch. Forget Jerusalem Gerster. His memories died with him. Gone.
But despite his complete dedication to the mission, his mind was not immune to the past. Over the years, a familiar tune would trigger a memory of dancing with the righteous men of Neturay Karta, a passing scent from a restaurant would whet his appetite for one of his mother’s dishes, or a familiar face on the street would make his heart skip a beat-like the target in Paris yesterday, reminiscent of Benjamin’s smile.
During the long drive in the Porsche, and through the short night beside Paula, the face from the Galeries Lafayette had pestered him like a nagging fly.
Enough!
He placed the blade carefully and slid it down. He did the same on the other side, compared both sides in the mirror, and continued shaving, clearing wide swaths in the foam on his cheeks and chin.
As he got out of the bathroom, Paula opened her eyes. The bright rays of the morning sun came through the blinds, illuminating her golden hair, spread on the pillow like a halo. “Wilhelm Horch.” She opened her arms. “No middle initial.”
He leaned over and kissed her.
She pulled off his towel.
“It’s late,” he said.
She lifted the blanket. “Into my cave! Procreate!”
“Junior will be late for school.”
Her hands clasped his shoulders, pulling him down. “Then we must hurry.”
Lemmy’s chest felt cool against her warmth. She scrunched up the nightgown, and her legs parted, rising to encircle his hips. They kissed, tasting each other, their eyes open.
She led him in with her hand and sighed as he penetrated. Her fingernails sank into the flesh of his back, urging his movements. He buried his face in her hair, taking in her loveable scent.
His breath grew faster, her body responding in sync, her whispering sweet, growing urgent, until she whimpered and he froze, paralyzed by the impending burst of pleasure, and pushed into her one more time, as deep as he could, letting go, inseminating his wife.
Paula caressed his back while their panting slowed down. “This one felt like a girl.”
“You think so?”
“No question. A passionate, athletic, bright girl.”
He leaned on his elbow, his face an inch from hers. “I’m sorry we waited so long.”
“You’ve come around. That’s what counts.”
He saw no blame in her happy face and felt guilty. He had objected to a second child since Klaus Junior had been born, citing a variety of reasons, none of them sincere. Elie Weiss had allowed him one child-to cement the marriage and the position in the bank. You hold the key to the future security of the Jews. Your success will ensure the safety of our people for generations. Counter Final Solution!
Paula had respected his objection despite her craving for a baby. She had assumed his reluctance was rooted in a hurtful family history at which he hinted. He had avoided speaking about his childhood, only providing her with the scant details of the false identity Elie had arranged. He had arrived at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas in late 1967 as a recent orphan from a fire that had killed his parents near Munich. The burn scars on his back had turned to mild scars between his shoulders and buttocks.
“ I should have come around long ago.” He was referring to that Tuesday, the previous month, when he had accompanied her to her annual checkup. Paula’s long-time gynecologist, Dr. Linser, joked that soon she would no longer need to take the pill, and for a brief second Paula’s usual cheerfulness gave way to something approaching grief. Without allowing logic to intrude, Lemmy had said, “Let’s try for a girl while there’s still time.”
He kissed her again-not with lust, but with tenderness of gratitude, for she truly loved him, even with his secrets, which she must have sensed. She was forty-three, still capable of a pregnancy and the rigors of child rearing. The experience at the doctor’s office had triggered something powerful inside Lemmy, as if his life as Wilhelm Horch had finally edged out the dark past, the secret assassinations, and the great mission itself, allowing him to truly be a partner to Paula.
She touched his cheek. “Are you okay?”
“ I’d love to have a daughter,” he said, surprising himself at how complete he felt with the statement. “Or a boy. It’ll be a joy either way.”
*
Rabbi Abraham Gerster took the bus from Jerusalem to Ramat Gan, then a taxi to Bar Ilan University. The campus surprised him with its greenery and modern architecture. He had assumed that the only religious university in Israel would be more like a yeshiva, a large building crowded with male scholars and aging, bearded professors. But Bar Ilan University was nothing like a yeshiva. The lawns were filled with young men and women, who sat together and chomped on lunch sandwiches, chatting animatedly. Most of the women wore their hair loose, only a minority wearing scarves or hats over their natural hair. The majority of the male students revealed their religious observance with only a small knitted skullcap, while some heads were bare altogether in the manner of secular Israelis. Only a few wore the black garb of Talmudic scholars.
He was the subject of curious glances, with his white beard and payos, the black coat and hat. He still felt as young as any of these students, but in truth he was old enough to be their grandfather.
He followed the signs for the law school. The building was named after the late Prime Minister Menachem Begin. He browsed the directory.
Professor Gabriel Lemelson – Jewish Law – Room 305
On the third floor, the office door was open. A man sat at a small, round table with three female students. They were discussing recent legislation that gave civil courts jurisdiction over the financial aspects of divorce, while rabbinical courts maintained exclusive jurisdiction over the dissolution of the marriage itself.
The professor noticed him through the open door, removed his reading glasses, and stood up. “Oh, goodness!” He beckoned. “Please, it’s an honor.”
The students took their bags and left.
Professor Lemelson shut the door. “How can I help you, Rabbi Gerster?”
“ You know who I am?”
“ Of course! I wrote my dissertation on the abortion law.” He pulled a soft-bound book from a shelf. “Some scholars, myself included, believe that nineteen sixty-seven could have become famous for a different war-a Jewish civil war-if not for your Talmudic ruling against violence and rioting.”
“ That’s an exaggeration.”
“ I respectfully disagree. It was truly a paradigm change in ultra-Orthodox ideology. Your ruling marginalized the literal traditionalists’ advocacy of biblical stoning and burning. In essence you sanctified study and worship as preferable to violent enforcement of God’s law.”
“ I only spoke to my community.”
“ But your ruling, even though it was issued to the relatively small Neturay Karta sect, radiated calming rays to every black-hat yeshiva in the country. You launched singlehandedly the inward-looking, insular culture as the righteous way of life. Your vision has since become the modus operandi for all ultra-Orthodox communities in Israel. As a result, we have avoided large-scale religious violence over secular-religious conflicts, such as abortions, Sabbath violations, pork selling and consumption, restaurants serving bread during Passover, and the continuous trimming of rabbinical courts’ jurisdiction-not to mention the controversies over archeological digs.”
“ You give me too much credit.”
“ On the contrary. The mostly amicable coexistence with the ultra-Orthodox, which secular Israelis today take for granted, has been a direct result of how you diffused the abortion protests.” Professor Lemelson patted the book. “Perhaps you’d like a copy?”
“ I already have one.”
“ You’ve read my book?”
“ When it was first published. Your conclusions were all wrong.”
“Wrong? Why?”
“You assumed that the ultra-Orthodox culture is homogeneous. It’s not. And violent fundamentalism could grow from modern orthodoxy, as the settler movement is proving.”
“ Against the Arabs, yes, but they’re not engaged in internecine violence. Since your sixty-seven ruling, there has not been a single case of Talmudic advocacy for Jews to attack Jews. Not one!”
“ That’s precisely why I’m here. What do you know about ILOT?”
The professor’s face registered no interest. “Just what I saw on TV. It seemed like a bunch of kids playing pretend-”
“They carried Bar Ilan Law School backpacks.”
“So do thousands of students, alumni, and their family members. These ILOT kids are a fringe minority.”
“I thought you’d be interested, considering your work on the abortion conflict.”
“Oh, I’ve moved on.” Professor Lemelson laughed. “Religious violence is dead, academically speaking. Completely passe. Jews fight each other with words, not weapons. My research focus has shifted to legislative conflicts. Grant money is plentiful, and students are interested in politics.”
“ What about our history?”
“ That’s the reason studies of intra-Jewish violence are conducted in the archeology department. And I’m allergic to dust.” Professor Lemelson chuckled. “I now study overlapping Jewish laws and modern Israeli legislation. It presents a more acute intellectual conflict.”
“ And what if you learned that your students are among the Torah warriors of ILOT? Wouldn’t that present an acute intellectual conflict?”
Professor Lemelson got up and paced back and forth across his small office. “Are you speculating or are you in possession of factual indicia requiring further study?”
“ Have your students raised the question of Rodef or the legitimacy of attacking other Jews for their political positions? Or for any reason?”
The professor seemed shocked. “We discuss many topics in the classroom. in the ae
“ And this particular topic-killing a Jew who’s endangering another Jew?”
“ Yes, in fact we recently discussed it. The issue was raised theoretically as a proposition for debate. But that’s the whole point of free, intellectual exchange in an academic setting, isn’t it?”
“Who raised it?”
“I can’t give you names! My students shouldn’t be persecuted for discussing ideas!”
“Who’s talking of persecution?” Rabbi Gerster smiled at the much-younger professor. “Do you take me for a member of the Zionist police?”
The comment caused Professor Lemelson to laugh. “I’m sorry. I should have realized your interest is merely Talmudic.”
“Exactly. It’s an intellectual interest. I’m sure your student wouldn’t mind chatting with a harmless old rabbi.”
Sitting at his computer, Professor Lemelson searched his students’ list. “I can give you a name, but no contact information.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “Leave a message with your phone number in the office downstairs. One never knows with these students. You might get a call back.”
*
Friday, October 20, 1995
Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr reclined in the wide chair with the Wall Street Journal. The Lear jet crossed the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, and the Red Sea filled the round window with deep-blue water. Tiny oil tankers left white wakes, pointing to the Suez Canal.
At the sight of the approaching Saudi coastline, he finished his scotch. Holding the glass up against the sun, he examined his fingernails. Pierre had brought a manicurist with him that morning, a cute little Korean with perfect little hands. He would have kept her for the rest of the morning if not for the unexpected phone call that summoned him for a meeting with his father. Perhaps the king had granted them additional contracts for imports? It could mean millions more for his secret account!
The Lear entered Saudi airspace and banked its wings to the right, veering south. An attendant came into the cabin with a silver tray. He placed a cup of black coffee next to Prince Abusalim and reached for the half-full scotch bottle.
“Wait!” Prince Abusalim filled the glass and emptied it in a few gulps. As the servant was leaving with the forbidden alcohol, the white-stucco sprawl of the holy city of Medina appeared in the distance. The prince lowered the back of his seat and closed his eyes. He had an hour to kill while the Lear flew over Hejaz into the Najd region.
Touchdown was barely felt. The long runway bordered the north side of the family oasis, ending in a giant hangar. The doors slid open to welcome the Lear. It was dwarfed by the sheik’s personal Boeing 747.
A Mercedes limousine took him down the paved road, shaded by rows of palm trees. Tribesmen in white robes and kafiyas opened the gates, and a moment later the main house appeared.
Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah, the sheik’s loyal deputy, descended the marble steps in his traditional white galabiya, which touched his sandals. A checkered kafiya was secured to his head by the two black bands that symbolized his religious status.
They embraced and kissed.
Hajj Ibn Saroah had been with the sheik all his life. He had commanded the sheik’s nomads through fierce fighting for the establishment of a position of power in the king’s court and had continued to command the sheik’s personal security guards, to communicate the sheik’s orders, and to mete out punishment to sinners. Under his belt the hajj kept a shabriya-a crooked blade that could slice a man’s hair lengthwise.
“How is my beloved father?”
“His Highness is in good health. As you are, I hope.” Hajj Ibn Saroah walked quickly, his head slightly bowed.
“Indeed. Allah has been good to me.” He wanted to ask for the purpose of this urgent summoning but was reluctant to show a weakness to this man who, despite his pretences, was only a notch above a slave.
A marble-tiled hallway led them to a pair of gold-plated doors.
“Abusalim!” The sheik put aside the worn volume of the Koran, which he had been reading, and rose slowly. “I am so happy to see you!”
“Father.” Prince Abusalim bowed and kissed the lapel of his father’s long galabiya, its white cotton embroidered with gold.
The sheik embraced his son, planting a kiss on each cheek. “It’s been almost three months since your last visit.”
“I’ve been working very hard.”
“And you did well. Our revenues have doubled this year.” The sheik smiled. “I’m very proud of you, Abusalim.”
“May Allah preserve your health for many years. I am nothing without your guidance.”
Sheik az-Zubayr had just celebrated his seventieth birthday and, as his three wives could testify, had maintained his youthful virility. “But what good is my guidance if you live in Paris, among all the infidels?”
“I would come more often, Father. But I have many responsibilities.”
“Indeed you do.” The sheik caressed his goatee. “Have you lost interest in your wives? Maybe you should take a new one?”
“Not yet. Maybe next year.”
“You only need to ask, yes?”
“Thank you, Father.” Prince Abusalim wondered if that was the reason for calling him home. Had one of his wives complained about his long absence? The younger one was pregnant, so it must be his first wife. He would visit her tonight, satisfy himself, and rough her up as a lesson in the virtue of silence.
Hajj Ibn Saroah cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes.” The sheik’s hand pointed vaguely. “I’m sure it’s nonsense, but do you remember the deal we made about a year ago with Jamson, the American wheat dealer?”
“Yes. Thirty million, I think.”
“Exactly! You always had a good memory for numbers. Anyway, Vahabh was told that you asked them for a reward.”
Abusalim stood up. “ What? ”
“A bribe,” the hajj said.
“Who told you this lie?”
Sheik Da’ood put a hand on Prince Abusalim’s shoulder. “We know it’s a lie. But Vahabh recommended that I ask, that we hear it from you, that’s all.”
The hajj picked up the sheik’s Koran. “Swear that the accusation is false.”
Prince Abusalim turned to his father. “This is outrageous!”
“Swear!” The hajj held the Koran forward.
Sheik Da’ood looked at his son expectantly.
“Fine!” Prince Abusalim rested his hand on the holy book. “I swear in Allah’s name that-” He tried to continue, but his throat became parched like the desert outside. He coughed, but his voice was gone.
The hajj put the Koran aside.
The prince knew he had to come up with an explanation. But how much did they know? “Abusalim?” Sheik az-Zubayr sounded bewildered. “Why don’t you swear it?”
“ Because he took the bribe,” the hajj said. “And whatever he demanded, they added to the price we paid.”
Prince Abusalim considered arguing, but remained silent.
“My son is a common thief.” The sheik’s voice shook. “In Allah’s name, why?”
The hajj asked, “What did you do with the money?”
Prince Abusalim was relieved. It appeared that they didn’t know about the Swiss account or the other vendors. “I gave it away. For you, Father.”
“To whom?”
“The Palestinians.”
“ Which Palestinians?”
“Abu Yusef, leader of the opposition to Arafat.”
“You stole money from me to sponsor a terrorist?”
“He’s not a terrorist. He’s the leader-”
“ They already have a leader!”
“ Arafat sold out. Abu Yusef will soon emerge as the new Palestinian leader. He’ll inspire a new intifada that will drive the Jews away. And when he takes Jerusalem, he’ll restore us to our throne.”
“ What throne?”
“ Abu Yusef promised to make you mufti of Jerusalem. The Kharass El-Harem.” That was inaccurate. Abu Yusef had promised to appoint Prince Abusalim, not his father. “We will be the equals of the House of Saud-”
“You are a fool!” The sheik spoke with rage his son had rarely witnessed before. “A filthy murderer promised to make me mufti of Jerusalem? Me? The father of a thief?” He paced across the room and leaned against the wall as if he were going to faint.
“ It’s our destiny,” Prince Abusalim insisted. “We must help the Palestinians in their war against the Jews.”
“ Don’t preach to me! I’ve given millions to ease their suffering! In Gaza, the West Bank, the refugee camps-a worthy charity for a man righteous enough to be Kharass El-Harem. I give them food and fresh water, I build schools and underground sewers. But I don’t fill the pockets of murderers who fornicate with other men!”
Hajj Ibn Saroah took the sheik’s arm. “Calm down, Your Highness.”
“I know what I’m doing, Father.”
“You’re an imbecile! Abu Yusef is on the Munich list. The Israelis will kill him sooner or later, and maybe they’ll kill you too.”
“The Israelis don’t assassinate Palestinians anymore. The Oslo Accords granted complete amnesty to all PLO veterans.”
“Enough!” The sheik pointed a trembling finger at Prince Abusalim. “You will remain here with your wives and children, pray and study the Koran until I decide your punishment.”
“But I cannot stay.” He bowed to his father. “Please, forgive me. The company’s business requires my presence in Paris.”
“The company is my business.” Sheik Da’ood az-Zubayr picked up his Koran and left the room.
*
In the morning, after Gideon and Bathsheba left for Ermenonville, Elie swallowed one of Dr. Geloux’s pills. It took the edge off his pain but also interfered with the clarity of this mind, which he found frustrating. He stayed in bed, hoping for a few hours of sleep, but soon the phone rang. It was Tanya. Mossad had received information that a Palestinian group was buying weapons from a dealer in Paris.
“ Thanks for the tip,” Elie said. Was it a lie? Another Mossad manipulation? Or was Abu Yusef using the money he got from Zurich? No. He wouldn’t spend the first cash infusion on buying weapons in the overpriced French black market. Rather, he would spend it on food and booze to keep his men happy and use the next transfer to send Bashir to Algiers to buy cheap guns and explosives, which he would smuggle back into France. “It’s not Abu Yusef, but at any event we’re going to take care of him in the next few days.”
“Let us assist you.”
“I’ll contact you if I need help.”
“ For your sake, I hope you do that.”
He hung up and thought about Tanya’s offer. The stakeout at the intersection near Ermenonville was useless if Abu Yusef had already acquired a different car. The best chance to catch him was at the next bank pick-up in Senlis. The fax to Saudi Arabia should have caused a crisis in the prince’s relationship with his father, which should provoke the ambitious young man to speed up his scheme by increasing his sponsorship of Abu Yusef. But what if the old sheik locked up his wayward son in the family oasis, away from phones and jet planes? Without another transfer to Senlis, Abu Yusef might not be stopped until it was too late. Elie wondered for a moment: Should he accept Tanya’s offer? Should he trust Mossad?
No!
If he let them in, they would try to take over SOD at the very moment of its maturity and success. Many years had passed since Tanya had surrendered to him the ledger detailing the fortune that General Klaus von Koenig had deposited with the Hoffgeitz Bank. But she had never told her superiors about it, probably afraid that Elie would kill her if she did. Not that he would ever hurt Tanya, but she didn’t know that. And now Lemmy, the Israeli youth Elie had transformed into a Swiss banker and the Hoffgeitz heir-apparent, was about to fulfill his ultimate mission within one of the most secretive financial institutions in the world.
Obtaining access to the Nazi fortune was the key to Elie’s plan-the money to finance his grand vision. And soon Prime Minister Rabin would make the only rational decision and accept Elie’s offer of help. Rabin would regain his popularity and win the next election, and Elie would become Israel’s intelligence czar, gaining control of both Mossad and Shin Bet-a combined clandestine force with a worldwide infrastructure and highly trained personnel. He would have the money, the power, and the means to launch a potent network of assassins, ready to strike down the next Hitler, the next Arafat, Khomeini, or Gaddafi, the next Eichmann, Nasser, or Stalin. Multiple teams would burrow under the social fabric of every country, ceaselessly working to identify, pinpoint, and eliminate every agitator who spewed hatred of Jews. For the first time in their painful three thousand-year history, the Jewish people would wield a global weapon capable not only of eliminating contemporary enemies, but also of eradicating altogether the sturdy germs of a chronic, murderous mental disease called anti-Semitism. And considering what was at stake, the risk of another Abu Yusef terror attack seemed irrelevant.
*
When Lemmy went downstairs, Klaus Junior was already in the kitchen, eating cereal with milk. “We’re late, Papa!” He snatched the keys to the Porsche and sprinted out.
Lemmy rinsed the cereal bowl in the sink, collected a bottle of water from the fridge, and went to the garage. He found the boy in the passenger seat, the engine already working. “How did you manage to turn off the alarm?”
“ It’s easy!”
“ Is that so? Then why don’t you just drive yourself to school, smarty?”
“ Can I?”
The Porsche sped down the winding road, tires screeching with each curve. On the right, Lake Zurich was covered by a thin layer of morning mist. Klaus Junior, buckled up in the passenger seat, fiddled with the radio, changing stations. “We’re going to be late. I hate to be late.”
Lemmy glanced at his son. “Nothing wrong with a little tardiness.”
“I’ll tell my teacher it’s your fault.”
“Now I’m really scared.”
The boy laughed and banged on the dashboard with his hand, causing the rectangular storage cover to pop out. Lemmy reached across and tapped it back in. He had not yet returned the Mauser to the safe deposit box at the bank, where it would stay until the next job.
The car phone rang. Lemmy pulled the receiver from its cradle. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Herr Horch.” It was Christopher. “I have Prince az-Zubayr on the line.”
“Put him through.”
The familiar voice came on the line. “Wilhelm?”
“Excellency! How are you?”
“Been better, my friend.” The British accent was not as smooth, the vowels abrupt. “I had to fly home. My private dealings have been compromised.”
Lemmy steered the Porsche onto the shoulder and stopped. Klaus Junior pointed to his watch.
“ My father’s slave has been snooping around.”
“Where?”
“ A wheat vendor. Those Americans have big mouths. No business ethics whatsoever.”
“They’re unscrupulous cowboys. How can I help?”
“My father ordered me to stay here. I expect his anger to subside soon, but if not, I might need your assistance.”
“Not a problem. We have a standing charter arrangement with Swissair. I’ll come for you personally.”
“Your loyalty is exemplary,” the prince said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lemmy put down the phone. The call had not surprised him. It was typical Elie Weiss methodology-jarring the target, who made hasty moves, precipitated exposure and defeat.
“Papa, was that a real prince?”
“Yes,” Lemmy said. “He’s the first-born son of an important Saudi sheik. They consider themselves royalty.”
“Why did he call you?”
“I’m his banker, probably the only person he can trust.” Lemmy turned on the engine, glanced over his shoulder to find a gap in traffic, and drove on.
“ Does he need money?”
“ He needs his father’s forgiveness.”
“What did he do?”
“ He lied.”
“ That’s bad.” Klaus Junior brought his knees to his chest, resting his feet on the seat and hugging his legs. “Do you ever lie?”
“Well, I must keep secrets. For the bank, I mean. Our clients expect it, you understand?”
*
Abu Yusef stood outside, letting the sun soothe his face, and watched Bashir back up a dark-blue BMW 740iL sedan. The men unloaded wooden boxes of Kalashnikov machine guns, pistols, ammunition, and hand grenades. In all, the car and weapons cost almost everything the prince had given them. But soon their group would headline every news report in the world, and there would be more money, men, and power. He was sure of it.
Abu Yusef pulled Bashir aside and asked him to remove Latif’s clothes from the bedroom. He wanted them in the car when they drove to Paris to punish the Jews.
*
The bus to Efrat, a West Bank settlement that had grown into a town, dropped its passengers at a shaded strip mall, where many women and a few men were shopping for the Sabbath. Rabbi Gerster asked for directions to the address he had written on a piece of paper. The reporter, Itah Orr, had run the name of Professor Lemelson’s student through her sources and obtained the address. He hoped it was correct.
The apartment building had an elevator, but he took the steps to the fourth floor, finding the family name scribbled above a doorbell button. He pressed it.
The woman who opened the door looked at his black garb, reached into the pocket of her apron, and handed him a few coins. “Here. Shabbat shalom.”
“No, thank you.” Rabbi Gerster bowed slightly, declining the charity with a quick gesture. “I’m looking for Ayala. Is she home?”
“My daughter hasn’t arrived yet. What do you want with her?”
“Professor Lemelson from Bar Ilan suggested that I speak with her. It’s nothing serious.”
Two little boys peeked at him from behind their mother. She tightened her head covering. “Well, I don’t-”
“Hello there.” Rabbi Gerster extended his hand to the older boy, who looked about ten. “My name is Abraham. What’s yours?”
The boy shook his hand. “I’m Amos.” He pointed at his brother. “This is Chaim.”
“Hi, Chaim.” Rabbi Gerster shook the little one’s hand. “And do you boys know this week’s Torah chapter?”
“I do,” Amos said. “ Zachor. Remember what Amalek did when we escaped from Egypt.”
“Correct!” Rabbi Gerster smiled at the mother, whose face softened. “And who were the Amalekite people, Chaim?”
“They were really bad goyim,” the boy said. He was not older than seven. “And they hurt the Jews and even killed some. Even that!”
“ Correct. And you, Amos, do you know why God gave Amalek, an evil Gentile nation, the honor of dedicating a whole Torah chapter to them?”
“ Please.” The mother moved aside. “Come in.”
The room had a sitting area on the left and a dining table on the right, with little space left to move around. The smell of cooking was heavy, even with the windows open.
Rabbi Gerster sat on the sofa.
The boys shared an armchair, squeezing together.
“ A whole Torah chapter is a big deal, right?”
They nodded.
“ So there must be a reason for this honor, yes?”
“ Maybe they weren’t all bad,” Amos said, glancing up at his mother, who shrugged and went to the kitchen.
“ But they killed Jews,” Chaim protested. “That’s a big sin!”
“ True,” Rabbi Gerster said. “But maybe the story is such an important lesson that-”
“ I know!” Chaim raised his hand, as if he were in class. “To make peace!”
“ That’s stupid!” Amos elbowed him. “They didn’t make peace! God told them to kill all of Amalek, even goats and cows!”
“ Boys?” The mother reappeared, a towel in her hand. “Are you behaving?”
“ You’re both right,” Rabbi Gerster said. “God named the chapter for Amalek because they taught us an important lesson-the difference between a real enemy and a temporary rival. An enemy we must fight to the end. But a temporary disagreement we must resolve peacefully. Do you understand?”
“ To make shalom?”
“ Correct.” He looked at Amos. “Now, is your brother an enemy?”
Amos looked at his shoes and shook his head.
“ So even when you boys fight, you still must make peace, yes?”
Both of them nodded, and Amos said, “Sorry.”
“ But if you see a snake about to bite your brother, do you try to make peace with it?”
They yelled in unison, “No!”
“ That’s the lesson of Amalek. We fight if there’s no chance for peace. But with everyone else, we must give a chance to shalom. Especially between brothers, right?”
The boys looked at each other and giggled.
“ Hey, guys!” A young woman carrying a backpack and a guitar came in.
“ Ayala!” The boys ran to their sister and hugged her.
The mother took the bag and the guitar. “You have a visitor.”
Rabbi Gerster stood.
Ayala had a kind smile and large, brown eyes that radiated intelligence. “I’m sorry but…have we met?”
“ Please.” He gestured at the armchair. “Only a moment of your time.”
They sat opposite each other, while the mother took the boys to the kitchen. Ayala tugged at her denim skirt, making sure it covered her knees.
“ I’m Rabbi Abraham Gerster.”
“ From Neturay Karta?” Her face expressed surprise but not hostility. As a modern-Orthodox, educated young woman, she would know about the ultra-Orthodox sect that viewed Zionism as a form of blasphemy. “What are you doing here, among us Zionist usurpers?”
He laughed. “Spoken like a future lawyer. And speaking of law, I understand you have questions about the concept of Rodef, yes?”
Her face paled.
“ Don’t worry. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ve dedicated my life to keeping shalom among Jews. That’s why the subject of Rodef interests me.”
“ I’m no longer interested in this subject.”
“ Was there a boy?”
Her cheeks flushed. “We went out a few times. He’s very smart, but after a while, I got a little-”
“ Scared?”
She thought for a moment. “Uncomfortable.”
“ Yes?”
“ He’s a good person, really. And very smart.” Ayala looked toward the kitchen door, as if nervous that her mother would hear. “He’s Sephardic. His parents came from Iraq. We’re from very different backgrounds, you understand?”
Sephardic, as the inexact term was used inclusively, referred to the almost two million Jews who had been forced to escape from Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Yemen, Egypt, Tunisia, and Morocco after the 1948 war. The Arab regimes, bitter over their failure to annihilate the new Jewish state, fanned the flames of anti-Semitism against the ancient Jewish communities that had lived among the Muslim populations for many centuries. They arrested Jews, confiscated businesses, and burned Jewish homes. The Ashkenazi Jews, who originated in Europe and were first to embrace Zionism and settle in Palestine, had taken in the huge numbers of Sephardic refugees and absorbed them into the young state of Israel. But the perception of inferiority had been slow to fade away. Ayala’s parents, like many other Ashkenazi Jews, would not delight in their daughter marrying a Sephardic man.
“ They would respect my choice.” Ayala shrugged. “For a while, I really liked him. His ideas were intriguing. But in the end I decided to break up. It’s over.”
“ And the idea that intrigued you most? Was it the duty to kill a person who endangers the life of another Jew?”
“ The duty is not in doubt. Only the scope of it.” Ayala hesitated. “Of course you should stop a person who’s intentionally endangering a Jew. Torah’s Rodef is a murderer in hot pursuit of his victim. The same goes for Moser, a Jew who hands over other Jews to be killed by the Gentiles. But some people argue that the rule applies more widely.” She drew a large circle in the air with her hands.
“ To include someone who’s not actually pursuing or handing over other Jews, but who persists in actions that endanger Jews?”
“ Maybe.”
“ Like a politician who pursues policies that imperil Jewish lives?”
“ Or hands over Jewish land,” Ayala said. “I mean, you could argue that the Land of Israel is as sacred as a Jewish life, so the same concept applies to land concessions, correct?”
“ Are you saying that the Rodef and Moser rules require killing a Jewish leader like Prime Minister Rabin, for example, who’s handing over parts of biblical Israel to the Palestinians?”
“ In theory, it’s a valid line of reasoning, a logical conclusion, don’t you agree?”
“ Was that your boyfriend’s conclusion?” Rabbi Gerster leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “Is that why you became uncomfortable?”
“ With Yoni?” She laughed. “Oh, no. Ideas don’t scare me. I love to argue about ideas. I mean, no one’s going to kill anyone. He was just theorizing, you know?”
“ Are you sure?”
“ Of course! We’re law students, and Jewish law is a big thing at Bar Ilan University. We always compare modern Israeli law to the law of Talmud, okay?”
“ Then what scared you about him?”
“ I didn’t like his friends.”
“ The one nicknamed Freckles?”
She nodded, surprised. “You know Freckles?”
“ A lucky guess.” He smiled. “I’ve heard of him.”
“ Oh.” Ayala looked at the window, her face contemplative. “Yoni was secretive. I can’t waste my time on someone who doesn’t share, right? How can we get married if we don’t know everything about each other?”
“ Such as?”
“ Money and stuff. Yoni has nice clothes, a new handgun-”
“ He carries a gun?”
“ We all do. I got a Beretta twenty-two. It’s cheap, but you can’t travel in the territories without a gun.” She patted the pocket of her long skirt.
“ What kind of a gun does he carry?”
“ Also a Beretta, but bigger caliber. He let me shoot it when we went hiking in the desert. It’s nice. I mean, we had fun together. Like, we drove to the Galilee and to Haifa, ate at nice restaurants. But I know his parents don’t have money, so how? ”
“ He must have told you something.”
She rolled her eyes. “Some story about an old Jew who likes Freckles, kind of a sponsor, wants to help religious-nationalistic young men who are dedicated to the Land of Israel.”
“ Did you meet this sponsor?”
“ No.” She laughed. “He supposedly lives in Paris.”
“ Did Yoni mention a name?”
“ No, but I didn’t believe it anyway. Why would a rich old Jew from Paris give money to some Israeli students to buy stuff and take their girlfriends to restaurants? It made no sense.”
“ But the money must have come from somewhere.” Rabbi Gerster tugged at his beard, pondering what she’d said and whether to push any further. “It must be very frustrating for you.”
“ Not anymore.” Ayala smiled, looking very young. “I met someone else. Really nice.”
“ May God bless your new relationship.”
“ Amen.”
“ Would you mind telling me Yoni’s last name?”
“ Yoni Adiel.” She jotted down a number. “Please don’t mention my name.”
*
After sunset, when Gideon and Bathsheba returned to the apartment, Elie took Gideon to bug the phones in the prince’s suite at the Hilton. On the street, Elie noticed police signs along the barricades by the synagogue: No Parking!
“Must be a big function here this coming Sabbath,” Gideon said.
“ This is useless.” Elie stopped and leaned against one of the metal barricades. “To effectively prevent a car bomb, they must block off the street completely, ban all vehicles, and frisk pedestrians. Do they really think a terrorist cares about getting a parking ticket?”
At the Hilton, it took Gideon less than thirty seconds to bypass the cardkey system and enter the suite. He drew his gun and checked the rooms. No one was there, but it clearly served as someone’s permanent living quarters.
One corner of the living area was taken by a desk and a filing cabinet. Gideon started working on the phone. Elie browsed through the files, which contained copies of contracts between Transport International El-Saud and its vendors.
“ Look at this!” Gideon called Elie to the bathroom. It was vast, including a makeup station that accommodated a full-size barber chair. Inside the cabinet, arranged on shelves, were chains, hooks, nooses, studded leather straps, handcuffs, and a horse whip.
Elie shut the cabinet doors. “How stimulating.”
The bathroom phones-one on the counter, another by the toilet-kept Gideon busy for a few more minutes. All bugs were voice-activated and set for the same frequency. The signals could be picked up within a quarter of a mile.
Eleven minutes later they were back in the car. Elie swallowed another pill.
*