Saturday, October 21, 1995
They dressed in suits and ties, their black shoes shining. Outside the villa, it was quiet and chilly. Bashir opened the door, and Abu Yusef got into the back seat of the BMW. As they drove out the gate, he looked back over his shoulder and wondered if he would survive the day to sleep here another night. This morning’s attack would be a needle prick compared to what he was planning for the Jews, a sample intended to whet Prince Abusalim’s appetite and reassure him that their group had the competence to shake up the world and shoot down the Oslo Accords. But if Abu Yusef died today, his plans would die with him. Bashir had tried to convince him to assign the job to the younger men, but he had insisted that age was an advantage. The police would stop young Mideast-looking men, whereas two gray-haired gentlemen would likely be allowed to pass through uninspected. Besides, he felt an irresistible urge to take this revenge with his own hands and watch the Jews die with his own eyes.
On the radio, a French woman sang about love. He thought of Al-Mazir and Latif, both of whom he had loved and lost. Now it was the Jews’ turn to lose those whom they loved.
*
Tanya rang the doorbell at Andre Silverman’s art gallery on Avenue Junot, and the lock clicked open. She nodded at her escorts, and they drove off while she took the stairs up to the duplex above the gallery, where Andre lived with Juliette and their son, Laurent.
Andre hugged and kissed her. They had known each other since she had acquired the small bookstore on the ground floor, next to the gallery. The location in the heart of Paris, only a few hundred yards from Moulin De La Galette, made it an ideal front for a Mossad station.
Today was Laurent’s Bar Mitzvah, and Andre had insisted that Tanya come over for breakfast before the synagogue service. The stately house was full of guests, who did their best to avoid collision with the myriad antique treasures, which Andre had found in estate sales and rural markets. Tanya introduced herself to Juliette’s parents and widowed sister, who had flown in from Lyons the previous night, and to Andre’s brother, who had driven from Antwerp with his wife and three daughters.
The large table in the dining room on the second floor was loaded with fresh baguettes, scrambled eggs, and an assortment of French cheeses. The guests gathered noisily, piling food on their plates.
A few minutes later, Laurent appeared in the dining room. His round face flushed as everybody circled him and patted his shoulders. “Mazal tov! Mazal tov!”
Andre clapped his hands. “Time to go!”
They walked to the synagogue along the quiet avenues. The men carried zippered bags made of soft blue velvet that contained their folded prayer shawls and prayer books. The women held shopping bags filled with candy. Tanya walked with Juliette, who shared in detail the difficulties she had endured to conceive and carry Laurent through a horrendous pregnancy.
The synagogue on Rue Buffault had been restored to its original, pre-war glory through the efforts of several patrons. Andre Silverman had been a pivotal force in the restoration project, especially in the details of craft and decoration. Now the names of his parents, who had died in Auschwitz, were displayed on the Wall of Memory by the entrance, along with thousands of other victims.
A police car and a black Citroen limousine were parked in front of the synagogue. Two uniformed gendarmes stood in the forecourt, chatting with a chauffeur in a visor hat. They glanced at the group entering the foyer of the synagogue, where Rabbi Dasso greeted Andre and his guests. Coats and scarves were discarded, the men entered the crowded prayer hall, and the women climbed the stairs to the second-floor mezzanine. Tanya sat next to Juliette near the railing and looked below, where the congregants shook Andre’s hand and patted Laurent’s shoulder. All the big names in the French art scene were here, many of them Gentiles, including Charles Devaroux, a fellow art dealer who was now minister of art and culture under President Jacques Chirac.
The rows of seats faced east, filled with men and boys in suits, ties, and colorful skullcaps. Laurent sat next to the rabbi on the dais by the Torah ark, facing the congregation.
Tanya tried to follow the prayers in the book. She had not been inside a synagogue in many years.
After an hour of silent prayers and joyous singing, the rabbi took the Torah scroll out of the ark and passed it to Laurent, who carried it to the dais. Andre Silverman joined his son, who rolled open the parchment and read the Hebrew words in a thin voice with a heavy French accent.
The Torah chapter was divided into seven, and for each part a male relative was called up to recite a blessing. For the last portion, Laurent recited, “ Blessed be God, king of the universe, for choosing us from all the nations to receive the Torah. ”
He proceeded to read aloud, “Remember, O Israel, what Amalek did when you escaped from Egypt, weary and famished, how Amalek cut you down and killed your weakest. Therefore, you shall erase the nation of Amalek and leave no trace of it under the sky. You shall never forget!”
*
Abu Yusef watched the Jews put their holy scroll back in the ark. Their rabbi went up to the pulpit, bringing with him the chubby boy, who held a sheet of paper. Abu Yusef glanced at Bashir.
“Dear family and friends,” the boy said in a trembling voice, his eyes on the paper. “Thank you for sharing this important day with us. This morning we read how God orders us to remember what Amalek did to us and take revenge, Nekamah, of our enemies.”
Abu Yusef leaned over and whispered to Bashir, “That’s us!”
Bashir placed a calming hand on Abu Yusef’s knee. They were seated in the last row, all the way to the side, dressed formally like the men and boys around them. They wore skullcaps on their heads, and the prayer shawls around their necks were white with blue stripes, like the Israeli flag. But unlike everyone else, the soft blue velvet cases in their laps were not empty.
The boy looked up and smiled at a woman in the mezzanine. “We ask a question,” he continued. “Why did God order King Saul to kill every Amalekite man and woman, baby and child, ox, lamb, camel, and ass without mercy?”
Abu Yusef realized he was sweating. He glanced back over his shoulder and was relieved that the doors remained shut. The gendarmes stayed outside during the service. He heard noises from above, looked up at the mezzanine, and saw the women passing around bags of candy. He took a deep breath. Everything according to plan.
“Amalek attacked the Israelites after God split the Red Sea for them and drowned the pursuing Egyptians. By attacking us, Amalek challenged God. That’s why it was singled out for total and eternal revenge.”
Bashir unzipped his blue velvet case. Abu Yusef did the same.
The boy cleared his throat. “But other than Amalek, even enemies deserve a chance to repent their cruelty and become friends. Forgiveness and peace should always prevail between Israel and its neighbors.”
Abu Yusef almost sneered. Peace! Right!
Bashir’s hand slipped into his velvet case.
“In conclusion, dear family and friends, God wishes us peace, shalom. And today, as I become a man, I thank my beloved parents for bringing me up to this occasion, and Rabbi Dasso for helping me prepare my Torah reading. Sabbath Shalom!”
Everyone stood and tossed sweets at the boy. “Mazal tov! Mazal tov!”
In the back of the prayer hall, Abu Yusef and Bashir pulled the hand grenades from their velvet cases, drew the rings from the fuses, and hurled the grenades through the rain of candy toward the podium. They dropped to the floor and covered their heads with their hands.
The explosions followed one another in rapid succession. An instant later, the two Arabs got up and ran through the rubble toward the front of the synagogue, away from the doors.
The wooden benches had smashed into one another as if hit by a giant fist, taking the congregants down, flesh and wood gritted together into a mass of red and brown. Smoke filled the air, descending slowly. The floor was strewn with body parts. Abu Yusef’s shoes squeaked in the puddles of blood.
A woman up in the mezzanine shrieked, “Laurent! Laurent!”
The explosions had shattered most of the wooden dais. The boy sat upright, his back to the Torah ark. The sun shone on him through the blown windows. At the foot of the dais, a white-haired Jew slumped, his chest open. Spasms of dark blood burst out between his ribs, which protruded from the flesh like broken sticks. He didn’t move. Nearby, another Jew tried to push up from the floor, his head rocking up and down. But he had no legs anymore, only stumps that oozed blood. He tried to reach down and stem the gushing blood. Slowly his head stopped rocking, and the stream of blood slowed to a trickle.
The woman in the mezzanine kept shrieking, “ Laurent! ”
The boy’s eyes opened.
Abu Yusef followed his gaze and saw, through the descending smoke, the woman lean over the railing above. She cried again, “ Laurent! ”
“ Oui, Mama? ” His voice was clear, but a moment later his head bowed, his chin rested against his chest, and his gaze froze.
“Get one of them!” Bashir’s voice tore Abu Yusef from momentary paralysis. He bent down and collected the Jew with no legs. With the corpse pressed to his chest, Abu Yusef followed Bashir, who was carrying a toddler with a split skull and a severed forearm.
The doors opened and the gendarmes peeked in cautiously.
*
The explosions tore Elie out of deep sleep. At first he thought the noise belonged in his dream. Using the wall for support, he made his way to the window. He pushed the curtains aside. Three floors below, people were running in the street.
He bent over the windowsill and looked to the right at the forecourt of the synagogue. A cloud of smoke was rising, and a small crowd formed a semi-circle around a pavement strewn with pieces of glass and wood.
His mind was maddeningly slow.
An explosion? In the synagogue? How?
It’s not Abu Yusef. Couldn’t be. Had no time to plan, to scout, to infiltrate.
Must be another group.
Hamas? Hezbollah? Al-Qaida? The Iranians?
More screaming!
A man with a colorful skullcap emerged from the smoke, carrying a bloody child.
Another man followed, also carrying a child. No. Not a child. An old man without legs!
The wounded were laid down on the pavement. A faraway siren sounded, and another one. More people ran from both ends of Rue Buffault toward the synagogue.
But against that tide of curious spectators, the two men who had carried out the first wounded walked toward Rue Chateaudun. Their suits were stained with blood, but they seemed composed and purposeful. As they passed across from his window, Elie recognized them.
Abu Yusef and Bashir Hamami!
A groan escaped his lips, and it must have been loud enough to overcome the clamor, because Abu Yusef’s head turned and his eyes met Elie’s.
For a brief moment, the world stood still around them.
Abu Yusef’s hand went under his suit jacket, reaching for a gun, but it came out empty. He moved a thumb under his throat and hurried after Bashir.
Elie watched the two Arabs until they disappeared around the corner. He stepped back into the room and found himself on the floor, gasping for air.
*
The blue BMW 740iL waited with its engine on. They jumped in. Bashir barked at the driver to go. They drove for five minutes, taking sharp turns, verifying that no one was following.
“ There!” Bashir pointed to a pay phone near a metro station.
The driver stopped at the curb and Bashir stepped out. Abu Yusef joined him. They put their heads together as the phone rang at the newsroom of Paris-1. Like all incoming calls, Abu Yusef knew it would be recorded, and he had instructed Bashir in advance what to say.
“ Paris-Une. Oui? ”
“This is the Abu Yusef group.” Bashir spoke English.
“Yes?”
“We attacked the synagogue on Rue Buffault. Our freedom fighters committed this brave attack under the command of our leader, Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine.”
“Wait a minute! Who are you?”
“Our leader is Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine. We will continue our struggle until Palestine is free again! Long live Palestine!”
Bashir hung up, they got back in the car, and the driver hit the gas, merging back into traffic.
*
The first wave of ambulances departed with the bloodied victims to several Paris hospitals. Under gathering clouds, uniformed gendarmes loaded black plastic bags into the hearses. The only sound was the crackling of glass fragments under their boots.
Gideon and Bathsheba returned from Ermenonville after hearing the news on the radio. They found Elie in the crowd, a small man in a gray coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. He looked the same as the other Parisian spectators, ogling the scene of disaster, memorizing the ghastly details to be shared with friends in the local cafe. But at a closer look, Elie’s gray face showed no curiosity. The black eyes narrowed to hateful slits, the lips pressed together tightly.
When the last body bag was gone, a fireman rolled a hose off a fire engine and began washing the pavement.
“Seventeen dead,” Elie said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as they entered the apartment, Bathsheba exploded. “I told you we should shoot Abu Yusef in Senlis! It’s your fault!”
“Your assumption is wrong.” Elie looked at her coldly. “This bombing wasn’t done by Abu Yusuf. And if you disapprove of my command, you may leave. Reapply to Mossad, see if they take you now.”
“She has a point,” Gideon said. “We should have-”
“Abu Yusef didn’t have time to plan something like this,” Elie said. “This was done by someone else, maybe even the PLO itself, trying to jack up the price for the next phase of the Oslo negotiations.”
“Didn’t you hear the news?” Bathsheba followed him into the room. “Abu Yusef took credit!”
“You believe the news?”
Gideon watched Elie’s face. Was he lying?
“Taking credit means nothing,” Elie continued. “Abu Yusef was first to call a TV station. An Algerian group also took credit, claiming they targeted the minister of art and culture. Others will follow. You’ll see.”
Bathsheba seemed unconvinced.
“We’re leaving,” Elie said. “This apartment is no longer safe for us.” He gathered his papers into a small pile, topped by his heavy copy of the Bible, a decorated edition that was bound between two plates of carved wood.
They packed their clothes, equipment, and weapons-two mini-Uzis and three handguns with silencers.
Gideon drove. On Rue de Rivoli, across from the public gardens, Elie told him to park at the curb.
No. 4 Palace de La Concorde had once been a hotel, but in the sixties an American law firm had turned it into its Parisian branch office. Now it had a wood-paneled lobby, which was bustling with men in business suits and strained faces. Elie led the way to a bank of pay phones in the back and ran a phone card through the slot. Gideon noticed the first numbers he was punching. Forty-one for Switzerland. One for Zurich. Then Elie moved and blocked the view.
*
Paula started working on a beef stew for dinner. The pot was hissing on the stove while she sliced a large sweet onion. The telephone rang. “Can one of you gentlemen get it?”
Klaus Junior moved the white knight to B-4. “Check!”
“What?” Lemmy examined the board. “Are you trying to kill my queen?”
The phone on the kitchen counter rang again.
Paula said, “Guys?”
“ Sorry,” Lemmy said, “but we’re at war here!”
She dropped the kitchen knife on the cutting board and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened for a moment. “Herr Horch will be right with you.”
Lemmy got up. “Don’t move anything. I’ve memorized the battlefield, and I’m winning.”
“You’re dreaming, Papa!”
He twisted his face at Paula, who picked up the knife threateningly. He circled her at a safe distance and snatched the receiver. “Yes?”
“Are you watching the news?” The voice was meek and scratchy, but Lemmy recognized it instantly.
“Excuse me?”
Paula gave him a curious look.
Elie Weiss coughed. “Turn on your TV.”
Lemmy’s hand tightened around the receiver. Elie had never called him at home.
“Watch the report from Paris.”
“What is this about?” Lemmy glanced at Paula, whose eyes moistened from the sliced onion.
Elie said, “Here’s what I need you to do. First-”
“I beg your pardon.” Lemmy tried to keep his voice formal, professional. “Please call my office on Monday morning. I’m sure we can assist you.”
“Shut up!” Elie’s voice was still hushed, but the rage came through clearly. “Security is not important anymore.”
Lemmy wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He could feel Paula and Klaus Junior watching him.
“Listen carefully. First, as soon as the prince contacts you, call me at the Hilton Paris under the name Rupert Danzig. Second, you must take over the bank ASAP. We’re out of time.”
Lemmy almost choked. He couldn’t believe Elie was saying this on an open line. “This is highly irregular-”
“Get rid of your father-in-law. Tomorrow. It’s an order!”
“Who is this?”
“Remember who you are! Nekamah! ”
The line went dead.
“ Is everything all right?” Paula asked.
“An odd duck. Some clients are just…weird.”
“Papa? What’s your next move?”
“Coming.” Lemmy could hardly believe what had just happened. Elie’s voice on his home phone, with Paula and Klaus Junior a few feet away. Such an invasion was never supposed to happen. Complete separation was the only way things worked. Otherwise Wilhelm Horch’s life would collapse like a tower of cards.
Get rid of your father-in-law. Tomorrow. It’s an order!
Was Elie losing it? Armande Hoffgeitz as a target? A job inside the family? It was madness! Why the sudden urgency?
The news!
“Papa? Are you playing? Check! ”
Lemmy advanced a pawn, an irrelevant move.
Klaus Junior moved in for the kill and announced, “ Check mate! ”
“Great game.” Lemmy got up and walked out of the kitchen, not looking at Paula. He could not face her.
In the living room, he turned the TV on to CNN.
Klaus Junior followed him. Lemmy put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they watched the broadcast from Paris, a procession of injured people and body bags moving across the screen.
*
Everything was white-the walls, the ceiling, the door, the sheets that covered Tanya. Even the curtain hanging from a circular rail around the bed was white. A woman appeared, her coat white, hair white, face white, only her lips were red as rose petals. “Ah! Madame is awake!”
Tanya tried to sit up. “Am I dead?”
“Not at all,” the woman said matter of fact, as if responding to a normal question. She pointed to an embroidered logo on her coat: Saint Antoine Hospital.
The pain appeared suddenly, as if someone hit her head with a hard object. Tanya groaned and touched a bandage on her right temple.
“Careful.” The nurse held her hand. “You had a concussion. Do you remember?”
It took a moment for the memory to surface. “The synagogue!”
“Yes, terrible. The detectives would like to speak with you when you’re ready.”
As soon as the nurse left, Tanya got out of bed. She was dizzy from the pain in her head, but this was no time for self-pity.
The cabinet doors were not locked. Her dress, which was dark enough to hide the bloodstains, was draped over a hanger, and her shoes rested on a shelf next to her purse, which contained false identification papers and a credit card that could not be traced. Tanya got dressed, rinsed her face in the white basin, let her hair down over the bandage, and left.
*
Sunday, October 22, 1995
Prince Abusalim spent the night in a sparse room with only a prayer rug to cushion the concrete. At dawn, he was brought to his father’s chamber, and they prayed together. No words were exchanged, and Abusalim figured this was his punishment-a night of seclusion, discomfort, and repentance.
Within an hour of sunrise, the air was already warm and dry, the palm trees still, and the servants hushed with dread. Sheik Da’ood az-Zubayr kneeled, his forehead on the carpet, and completed his prayers. Hajj Ibn Saroah helped him rise.
Prince Abusalim touched his forehead down once more and got up. The long galabiya covered him as a cloak, reaching down to the plain sandals. He could smell his own body odor and longed to soak in a foam bath, sit on the balcony in view of the Eiffel Tower, and sip chardonnay while browsing the Wall Street Journal. He took his father’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you for making me realize my errors-”
The sheik pulled his hand away and left the room with the hajj.
Prince Abusalim followed, puzzled by his father’s behavior. Two limousines waited at the foot of the marble steps. The first had already departed when Prince Abusalim got into the second. It drove in silence down the road toward the airstrip. He twisted his face at the bittersweet smell of smoke and animal manure that drifted over from the tribesmen’s huts.
They climbed into the Boeing 747, and the doors were shut. The front sitting room was paneled with gold and thick cushions. He went upstairs to the miniature mosque on the upper-deck and sat with an open Koran. The carpeted floor floated on a swivel to allow it to turn toward Mecca no matter where the plane was heading.
The engines roared and the pilots began taxiing. The plane was less than two years old, equipped with state-of-the-art flight instrumentation, including a live link to the command center at the main Royal Saudi Air Force, enabling the pilots to view air traffic in every part of the region, including neighboring Kuwait, Iran, Iraq, and the Gulf Emirates.
After takeoff, they turned west toward the Red Sea. The prince pushed aside the silk curtain and looked out the window. The yellow desert was vast, stretching through the horizon, its monotony disrupted only by an occasional nomads’ encampment, a handful of camels and sheep grazing on a faded stain of greenery.
The hajj appeared at the door. “Your father wishes to see you.”
On the main level, in the rear suite, a large TV was playing. At first the screen was red. Then the camera zoomed out from a man’s open chest and shifted to his face, which was twisted, mouth open in a last scream. It moved across a demolished hall, resting briefly on a shattered body, a severed hand on a bed of charred prayer books, a woman kneeling by a boy who sat upright, his head slumped forward, unresponsive to her pleas. In the background, a recording of a short conversation was played:
“ Paris-Une. Oui? ”
“This is the Abu Yusef group.”
“Yes?”
“We attacked the synagogue on Rue Buffault. Our freedom fighters committed this brave attack under the command of our leader, Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine.”
“Wait a minute! Who are you?”
“Our leader is Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine. We will continue our struggle until Palestine is free again! Long live Palestine!”
The TV screen again filled with red, focusing on a stained sheet over a dead body.
Prince Abusalim felt his knees go soft. This was the reason his father had ordered him into seclusion last night! He kneeled and bowed, his forehead to the carpet. He remained in this position until the plane landed near Mecca.
Two Mercedes sedans waited at the end of the runway. Again the sheik and the hajj went in the first, Prince Abusalim in the second. The sun was high already, the yellow desert surrounded by dark peaks-in the east, Jabel Ajyad and Jabel Qubays, in the northeast, Jabel Hira, where Mohammed had once found seclusion. They drove down the Al-Mudda’ah Avenue, which was crowded with pilgrims. Ancient Mecca had been the oasis on the caravan route connecting the Mediterranean coast with Arabia, Africa, and Asia. But since Mohammed had returned here in 630 AD, it had become a city of religious fervor. How he missed Paris! But not the bloody sights from Abu Yusef’s synagogue attack. What unfortunate timing, just as his father was going to forgive him!
Prince Abusalim knew he must convince his father that the attack was part of a holy jihad. The Jews had brought it upon themselves. Unlike Arafat, Abu Yusef had the stomach to continue fighting. One day the Jews would tire of death and sorrow, leave the Middle East to its rightful Arab owners, and go to America or Canada, where many of them already lived safely among the Christians. And Abu Yusef would rule Palestine, with the power to appoint the new mufti of Jerusalem.
Confident in his grand plan, Prince Abusalim was ready to grovel before his father in this holy place and put on a show of solemn penitence-a small price to pay for the glory awaiting him down the road.
The cars stopped at the gates to the vast courtyard of the el-Harem Mosque. They were greeted by a group of az-Zubayr tribesmen, who led the way across the huge courtyard, through the noise and dust, toward the black Ka’abah.
The sheik stood in front of the giant singed cube. He looked up at the holiest shrine of Islam-the building that Ibrahim and Ishmael, his son by Hagar, had built together as a replica of God’s house in heaven.
Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah beckoned Prince Abusalim to his father’s side. The prince knelt in the dust. He prepared to bow for prayers, but paused. Something was wrong.
The sheik nodded at the hajj, closed his eyes, and began whispering verses from the Koran.
The hajj drew his crooked blade. “Extend your hand forward, thief!”
Prince Abusalim froze with fear. He could not comprehend this terrible turn of events. He had expected his father to demand that he prayed, maybe even crawled in the dust to beg forgiveness. But to suffer the fate of a common thief? “Father! I beg you!”
“You stole. You pay.” Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah raised his shabriya, its blade pointing to the sky. “Your right hand!”
“ No!” Prince Abusalim tried to rise, but two of the men held him down. “I need my hand,” he cried. “Father! Don’t do this to me!”
The only response from the sheik was more verses, recited in a louder voice.
The hajj reached down, grabbed Prince Abusalim’s wrist, and pulled it forward, holding it tightly.
The prince could barely breathe. He imagined his severed hand dropping to the yellow sand, twitching with remnants of life. “Father! No!”
The sheik’s voice grew even louder, the verses uttered in quick succession, drowning out his son’s pleas.
The sun reflected in the crooked blade as Prince Abusalim felt his wrist pulled forcefully, extended before him, his open palm facing up, pale as a fearful face.
*
Tanya stood at the window while a group of Mossad agents searched the apartment on Rue Buffault. Elie and his two agents must have departed in a hurry, leaving behind food, towels, linen, and a few audio books. The street below was quiet. The synagogue forecourt had been cleaned up, but orange tape still blocked access to the building. A police car parked at the curb with two officers inside.
Tanya touched her forehead, still tender. She had searched her memory repeatedly, but could not remember any suspicious person or unusual behavior prior to the explosions. She had not even seen the grenades fly, because at that moment she was reaching down into a bag of candy. The darkness had lifted only when she woke up in the hospital.
“We’re done here,” one of her agents said. He pointed to the dismantled box of the computer. “They ripped out the hard drive.”
“Pack up everything. I want hair samples, gun residue, prints, anything you can find.”
She was already in the hallway when another agent stopped her. He held up an empty pill bottle. “Found it behind the bed. Pain killers. No patient’s name, though. It’s from a pharmacy near Gare du Nord.”
“ Go see the pharmacist,” Tanya said. “Samples go to doctors who do regular business at the shop. This could be our lead.”
*
The hajj sliced downward with the crooked blade. It sank into the flesh of the open palm. Prince Abusalim flinched and let out a cry. The hajj pulled the shabriya sideways, carving the flesh, and let go of the prince’s wrist. He wiped the blade on his galabiya and slid it into the sheath.
Prince Abusalim pressed his hands together and fell forward, his face in the sand. His hand was on fire, wet with blood, but the pain was mixed with relief. His father could have ordered the hand severed completely, as done to ordinary thieves, but instead his palm was cut symbolically, the wrist unharmed, the fingers working normally.
Sheik az-Zubayr knelt in the sand and bowed before Allah. The men around them did the same, and for a few moments the small group was an island of stillness in the midst of a bustling sea of pilgrims.
The hajj helped Sheik az-Zubayr to his feet. Prince Abusalim remained bowed, more out of feebleness than of devoutness. The kafiya fell from his head, and his unkempt black hair turned gray from the dust. One of the men bandaged the wound while the prince fought back tears of pain and relief.
*
In Zurich, the pastor spoke about gratitude for God’s gift of life on earth. The old church of the Fraumunster, with its towering stained-glass windows, glowed on sunny days, and this Sunday was especially glorious. Lemmy sat in the front row with his wife, son, and father-in-law. The church was almost full, though most were tourists. Every Zurich guidebook recommended the Fraumunster for its Chagall windows, whose incredibly vivid biblical figures dominated the sanctuary in bold colors. Lemmy was tickled by the irony-a Christian place of worship, glorified by the creations of a Jewish artist.
He felt Klaus Junior squeeze his hand as they stood to sing a hymn. Looking up at the impossibly high window depicting Jesus, he wondered what Chagall had been thinking as he painted the man whose life and death had inspired two millennia of Christian anti-Semitism, of bloody crusades, riotous burnings at the stake, a torturous inquisition, deadly pogroms, and a Holocaust perpetrated by Nazis bearing a swastika-a version of Christ’s cross with twisted tips. Illuminated by the unseasonal sun, the face of Jesus glowed as if it had an internal source of energy. The primary colors signaled joy, but on closer inspection Lemmy saw no happiness in the face of Chagall’s Jesus. His expression was severe, almost angry, glaring down at the full church, as if the hymned prayers were nothing but distasteful banter. Had this been Chagall’s private joke-to accept the hefty fee raised by Armande Hoffgeitz and his colleagues back in the sixties for the beautification of the ancient church, only to deliver a towering portrait of their savior as an angry Jew, his face expressing revulsion at their misuse of his name to justify mass murders of his kin?
Lemmy realized his father-in-law was watching him. They smiled at each other and continued to sing. Klaus Junior stood between them, holding both their hands, his thin voice sounding over the adults’ chorus. He was secure in his world of church and school, of doting parents and a loving grandfather. How would he react when told of Armande’s death? How well would a ten-year-old recover from the shock of hearing that his grandfather was shot by an assassin? And it could be worse! Every assassination on Lemmy’s secret record had been accomplished under the cover of anonymity, a quick jab of violence in a faraway location, followed by immediate departure, leaving no trace. He was a professional, his training was excellent and his preparations meticulous. He had never before feared capture, even when Elie had sent him on uniquely dangerous jobs. In his mind, the survival of the Jewish people was more important than the fate of one man, including himself. But what about the fate of one boy? What, Lemmy wondered, if he got caught this time, exposed as Herr Hoffgeitz’s killer? After all, being the next in line to lead the bank, he would automatically become a suspect. And this was Zurich, the place where he lived and worked and possessed a wide circle of acquaintances, which would make the scandal even worse. How could Klaus Junior survive the loss of both his father and grandfather at the same time in such horrific, outrageous circumstances? This was a risk Lemmy could not take. He would not chance breaking his son’s heart!
Elie’s admonishment rang in Lemmy’s ears. Your wife and son are Gentiles. Goyim. They’re your cover. Nothing more!
*
The Boeing 747 brought them back to the az-Zubayr oasis. The sheik’s personal physician sewed up Prince Abusalim’s hand. He changed into a clean galabiya and went to bid his father farewell.
The sheik embraced his son. “I now understand that Allah wanted me to see my own error in allowing my son to live among the infidels, where evil temptations led you to stumble.”
“ Don’t blame yourself, Father. It was my error. But don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”
“ We must remove you from the den of sins. Go back to Paris and wrap up our business there. Have all the files and your personal possessions packed up and ready. I will fly over next week in person to bring you home.”
Home! All he could do was bow so that his father couldn’t see the disgust on his face.
“ You will live right here by my side, with your wives and children and our tribesmen. It’s where you belong, Abusalim.”
The prospect nauseated the prince, and he struggled to control his voice. “That would be…wonderful.”
Hajj Ibn Saroah escorted him through the long hallways. “Do not disappoint your father again.”
Prince Abusalim did not respond.
“ I haven’t told him everything.”
“ Everything?”
“ The bribes from other vendors. I trust you will return the money to each one-”
“ Stay out of it!” The prince’s sharp voice hid his panic. The situation was worse than he had imagined. “How dare you spy on my affairs?”
The hajj held the door for the prince, and they stepped outside into the bright sun. A black limousine was waiting at the bottom of the steps to drive him to the plane.
“ Have a safe trip, Excellency. May Allah-”
“Don’t mention Allah!” Prince Abusalim shook a fist in the hajj’s face, realizing too late that it was his injured hand, which now pulsated with pain. “You’re a slave who forgot his place!”
Hajj Ibn Saroah bowed and walked back to the house.
As soon as the Lear jet began taxiing down the runway, Prince Abusalim pulled off the kafiya and galabiya and threw them on the floor. He sat in his underwear on the wide chair and yelled, “Come here!”
An attendant walked in and blushed at the sight of the prince.
“Jack Daniel’s!”
“Excellency, we are not out of Saudi airspace yet-”
“On the rocks! And bring the bottle!”
*
In Jerusalem, the day of study for Neturay Karta men didn’t end until close to midnight. The last group left the synagogue, still arguing about a Talmudic question of animal sacrifice, which had occupied them since that morning: Would one cow satisfy the collective sacrificial obligations at the temple on the Passover holiday or was each pilgrim required to bring his own animal for slaughter at the altar?
Along in the silent synagogue, Rabbi Gerster turned off the lights, locked the front doors, and went out into the cold night. He walked down to the gate and turned right. Halfway up Shivtay Israel Street, a car flashed its headlights. He got in.
“Almost gave up on you.” Itah Orr wore a scarf over her head, tied loosely under her chin.
“I didn’t want anyone to notice me leaving.”
“ How did it go with Ayala?”
“ Very well. She’s a lovely young woman. We need to take a look at former boyfriend, Yoni Adiel, also a law student at Bar Ilan. Apparently he suggested that the Talmudic law of Rodef applies to politicians who hand over parts of the land of Israel to the Arabs.”
“ That’s all? He’s not the only one making this argument. I don’t have time to go around engaging right wingers in theological debates. It’s a waste of time.”
“The girl says he’s got money to spend but no regular job and no family support. He hinted that the funds came from a rich sponsor who likes Freckles.”
“ Who’s the sponsor?”
“ She only knew that he was an elderly man living in Paris.” Rabbi Gerster suspected Elie Weiss was that sponsor, but that was not a name he would mention to anyone. “But the combination of cash and know-how in guerilla resistance, such as the ILOT manual you gave me, indicates a high level of competency. Go to your sources and find out everything possible about Yoni Adiel.”
“If you’re right,” Itah said, “this story might be much bigger than a group of right-wing youths harassing a few Arabs.”
“Follow the money. That’s the key.” He opened the door to leave, but shut it when the interior light came on. “Have you heard from Freckles? Anything going on with ILOT?”
“ He told me to attend the large Likud rally at the Zion Square on Saturday night.”
“ If these guys have money for girlfriends, restaurants, and handguns, they could afford more serious weapons.”
“I’ll make some calls and let you know.”
“Good. Once we have the facts, I’ll corner Yoni Adiel.”
“ Why would he talk to you?”
“ He’s a fundamentalist Jew. You think he would pass up an opportunity to talk shop with Rabbi Abraham Gerster of Neturay Karta-”
“- who doesn’t believe in God?” Itah grinned in the darkness.
“ Shush.” He put his finger to his lips. “That’s our secret.”
*
Monday, October 23, 1995
At the Hilton in Paris, Elie took the elevator down to the lobby and found a bank of pay phones near the restrooms. He called the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich and asked for Gunter Schnell.
“ Guten Morgen, Herr Schnell,” Elie said.
“ Who is this?”
“ Untersturmfuhrer Rupert Danzig. Remember me?”
The sound of air sucked in a shocked inhalation was followed by a long silence. “Please hold.”
After a few minutes, two clicks sounded, and another voice came on. “Armande Hoffgeitz speaking. What is this about?”
“ Herr President?” Elie waited for a couple of hotel guests to pass by on their way to the restrooms. “This is Untersturmfuhrer Rupert Danzig.”
“ Who?”
“ It’s been a long time, but here I am again, calling on behalf of your old friend, Oberstgruppenfuhrer Klaus von Koenig.” Elie spoke German with an eastern accent, an area until recently under Soviet communist control.
“ That’s impossible!” The banker’s voice was shaking. “I don’t know who you are!”
“ I think you do, Herr Hoffgeitz.”
“ Do not call here!”
“ But surely you want to hear from dear Klaus, yes?”
“ I will summon the police! This is Zurich, not some lawless East German province!”
“ The police?” Elie chuckled. “Perhaps you should consult your lawyers before contacting the authorities. Even Swiss law forbids misappropriation of clients’ funds. It’s a serious felony.”
“ How dare you! This bank has never lost a deposit from any client-”
“ Including Klaus von Koenig?” Elie didn’t expect a response. “If anyone should call the police, it should be me, don’t you think?”
There was a loud bang as if someone hit the desk in frustration.
“Very good,” Elie said. “Please make sure the records are in good order for my inspection. I will see you soon. Auf Wiedersehen!”
*
After dropping Klaus Junior off at school, Lemmy drove to the bank. As he climbed the stairs, Gunter was coming down, his face ashen. “Gunter? Are you feeling ill?”
“Ah, Herr Horch.” He paused, looked up toward the next floor, and continued on his way down, mumbling something incoherent.
Christopher was at his desk. “Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr called. He just landed in Paris. He’ll call from his hotel.”
Lemmy went into his office and shut the door. “Here we go,” he said out loud. He called the Hilton in Paris and asked for Rupert Danzig’s room.
After a few rings, a woman answered. “Who is this?” She said it as an Israeli, and he assumed she was the agent he’d seen by the Galeries Lafayette.
“ I’d like to speak with E.W. please.”
“ E.W. is out right now,” she said, switching to English with an even sharper Israeli accent. “A message?”
“ Tell him that the prince has landed.”
“ Thank you.” She hung up.
The computer completed its boot-up process. After two separate pass codes, the live video menu appeared with the list of the cameras: On the third floor, the interior of Herr Hoffgeitz’s office and the anteroom with Gunter’s desk, on the second floor, Christopher’s desk just outside Lemmy’s door, and on the first floor, the large room where the account managers worked. Each camera was smaller than a fingernail, built into a smoke detector, together with a pin-sized microphone. His computer was set up by the Dutch specialist to operate all cameras remotely.
He selected Herr Hoffgeitz’s office.
The chair at the desk was vacant, the office quiet. Lemmy used the arrows on his keyboard to turn the camera left and right.
No sign of his father-in-law.
As his finger reached to hit the escape button, Lemmy heard an odd sound, like an abrupt whizzing. He moved the camera again, searching the empty office. At the bottom of the screen a black object appeared. It grew as he aimed the camera lower, closer to the door.
A shoe.
The whizzing sounded again.
Lemmy made the camera shift to the right. A face appeared. Armande Hoffgeitz was on the floor, his eyes closed. He breathed with a whizzing.
This would be Armande’s fourth heart attack, Lemmy thought. A few more minutes and he would be dead of natural causes-no need to plan and execute a job or fight Elie over it.
He closed the video program, and Armande Hoffgeitz’s face disappeared from the screen. All he had to do was sit tight for a few more minutes, let the old man take his last few breaths.
Lemmy’s gaze wandered to the desk and met Paula’s laughing eyes in a photograph, standing with Klaus Junior. She loved her father, and the boy loved his grandfather. Lemmy imagined them crying at the news, sobbing by the open coffin, kneeling at the gravestone-
“ Damn!” He ran out of his office, startling Christopher, and sprinted upstairs. The door was slightly open. Herr Hoffgeitz was lying behind it. Lemmy pushed until there was enough space to squeeze in.
Christopher followed him.
“ Call an ambulance!” There was no pulse, or it was too weak to detect. Lemmy shoved his fingers into Armande’s mouth and pulled on the tongue. With the airway clear, he began resuscitation.
*
Gideon watched Elie walk into the suite, find a chair, and sit down, panting heavily.
“Someone called,” Bathsheba said. “A man with a very nice voice.”
Elie pulled off his wool cap. “The message?”
“ The prince has landed.”
Black rings circled Elie’s eyes. He pressed his chest and coughed again.
“ I’m listening to his phones,” Gideon said, pointing to the equipment. “Nothing yet.”
Bathsheba pulled a juice bottle from the fridge. “I hate waiting like this. We need to take the initiative. What if Abu Yusef drops another bomb?”
“ Another? He didn’t attack the synagogue,” Elie said, “and he won’t act until he gets more money.”
Bathsheba was unfazed. “How do you know the prince will contact Abu Yusef? Maybe they’ve already arranged it or maybe he’ll call from a public pay phone, like you do all the time to hide things from us-which is insulting, by the way.”
“ You miss the point,” Elie said, ignoring her gripe. “Prince Abusalim is no passive donor, but a businessman with an ambitious agenda. And he’s too spoiled to be inconvenienced by pay phones. Especially now, after he almost lost everything, he’ll be even more eager to secure his birthright. He will lead us to Abu Yusef, and we’ll take them both down.”
“ What birthright?” Bathsheba laughed. “He’s a rich Saudi with a taste for rough sex.”
“ Not so simple,” Gideon said. “The last Quraysh to rule Mecca was Abd Allah ibn az-Zubayr-a direct ancestor of Prince Abusalim, who’s next in line to lead this old and bitter dynasty.”
“That’s right,” Elie said. “His dreams of prominence have deep roots in history. He won’t wait for another quarrel with his father.” Resting his hand on the carved wooden cover of his bible, Elie added, “It’s a story as old as time.”
“ I think we should break into his suite as soon as he arrives,” Bathsheba said, “and start chopping off his toes one by one until he tells us where to find Abu Yusef.”
“You’re so eager to inflict pain.” Elie twisted his face, the skin as taut as wax paper over his facial bones. “Pain is a fine tool for the right occasion. In this case, inflicting pain on the prince is like using a screwdriver on a nail. He doesn’t know Abu Yusef’s hiding place, and therefore he’d be useless to us without his toes.”
Gideon laughed, but Bathsheba pressed on. “So that’s it? We wait for another transfer to Senlis and follow Abu Yusef home? And then what? How are you planning to get through all those men protecting him?”
*
The medics arrived within minutes and took over the resuscitation effort. Lemmy sat down and watched them work with efficiency and skill until they brought back a pulse.
When they rolled Herr Hoffgeitz out of the building, a few spectators stood on the pavement by the waiting ambulance.
“Call Paula,” Lemmy told Christopher. “Tell her I’ll meet her at the hospital.” He climbed in after the gurney, the doors closed, and the ambulance sped away.
Armande Hoffgeitz was admitted to the cardiac ICU at Zurich University Hospital. Paula arrived moments later, and so did Armande’s long-time physician, Dr. Spilman, who went in to consult with the hospital staff.
An hour later, Dr. Spilman came out to speak with them. He hugged Paula, who had known him since childhood. “It’s not good,” he said. “His condition has stabilized, but it’s too early to predict the chances of recovery.”
“ He’s a strong man,” Paula said. “Look, he’s still alive, right?”
“ Only because of this young man.” Dr. Spilman patted Lemmy’s shoulder. “Another minute or two, and he would have left us forever.”
Paula stayed with her father, and Lemmy took a taxi back to the bank. Christopher was waiting for him. They hurried up the stairs.
Gunter stood in front of Herr Hoffgeitz’s door. His lips trembled.
“It’s touch and go,” Lemmy said. “He’s very ill.”
Gunter did not move from the door. He took off his glasses and began shining them nervously with his tie.
“Dr. Spilman and Paula are with him.” Lemmy took a step closer. “I’d like to check his office, in case he took some medications before-”
“I’ve already checked. No medications in there.”
“I must insist.”
“But Herr Hoffgeitz left instructions for such an event.” Gunter pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “I am responsible for all his accounts. Me alone!”
“ For up to thirty days-while I run the bank’s affairs on behalf of the family.”
“ Maybe longer. The board of directors shall meet and decide.”
“ Their job is to appoint a qualified person to take over. Do you feel qualified to run this bank?” Not waiting for an answer, Lemmy turned to go.
“Would you like to see the instructions?”
“I have my own copy.” Halfway down the stairs, Lemmy paused. “Were you in Herr Hoffgeitz’s office when he collapsed?”
Gunter stepped back as if physically assaulted. “Of course not! I would have called for help!”
“ You seemed upset when I came in this morning.”
Gunter hesitated. “We received a phone call. Very disturbing.”
“Why?”
He clearly did not want to say any more, but the desire to defend himself tipped the scales. “A man called, pretending to represent someone else.”
“ Who?”
“ He has done it before. Many years ago.”
“ Done what?”
“ Pretended to represent someone else.”
“Who?”
“An old friend of Herr Hoffgeitz.”
“Let me see if I get it straight.” Lemmy blew air in feigned frustration. “Many years ago a man called-”
“ Visited. In person.”
“ When?”
“ In sixty-seven.”
“ Twenty-eight years ago?”
Gunter nodded. “He had the signed ledger that recorded all of the deposits, but he didn’t have the account number and the password.”
“ So he went away, and after all these years, he called again this morning, claiming to speak for an old friend of Herr Hoffgeitz. I assume that friend still has an account with us, yes?”
“ It’s complicated.” Gunter seemed ready to collapse. “Herr Hoffgeitz was very angry.”
*
Bathsheba brought Chinese takeout. Elie wasn’t hungry. He stayed in the bedroom, reading his bible with a cigarette in hand. The two of them ate outside on the balcony, Gideon with a paperback edition of Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Identity and Bathsheba with the binoculars, examining every detail on the imposing structure of the Eiffel Tower. Below, heavy traffic snarled across the Seine River on Pont de Bir Hakeim.
When the sun went down, Gideon went inside and lay on the sofa to read.
Close to midnight, the lights blinked on the eavesdropping equipment. He grabbed the headset and listened. Bathsheba called Elie from the bedroom.
When the conversation ended, Gideon took off the headset. He shook his head. “Unbelievable! Just unbelievable!”
“ Play it from the beginning,” Elie said.
The prince said, “Hello?”
“Allah’s blessings, Excellency.” The caller spoke with an Arabic accent.
“ Insha’Allah.”
“Your generosity was put to good use. The Palestinian revolution is indebted to you forever.”
Prince Abusalim hesitated for a moment. “The suffering of our Palestinian brothers is a bleeding wound in the heart of every Arab.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Abu Yusef exhaled audibly. “May Allah open the eyes of our more fortunate brothers so they follow your example.”
“Your courage is certain to break through their hardened souls. Though next time you should care not to hurt the French, our hosts.”
“Indeed it was unfortunate.” Abu Yusef sighed. “But when you cut wood, chips fall. We are fighting for the Haram El-Sharif, which deserves your guardianship, as destiny has prescribed, to spread the rule of Allah under the Koran.”
“ Insha’Allah.”
“ Our operation last week was just the beginning. Allah will bring us victory. And he will bless you with fortunes ten times your generosity.”
“Yes,” said Prince Abusalim, “I think He will. How much do you need?”
“The fight is long and costly. Very costly.”
“ Truth is, I’m having some difficulties right now.”
“ I understand.” Abu Yusef paused. “Can we help?”
“There is a man who stands in my way. He will be in Paris soon.”
“We shall be honored to remove that man from your way.”
“ Five million dollars.”
“Excellency!” Abu Yusef uttered a strange chuckle, probably out of shock at the size of the reward. “Your friendship alone is a sufficient gift. But of course, we accept!”
“ Good. I’ll arrange to transfer half the amount. Call me on Wednesday morning for the details. The other half will be paid after you remove him.”
“ Agreed! And who is that dog, that filthy infidel, who dared to stand in your way?”
Elie pressed the stop button. He took a piece of paper, scribbled on it, and showed it to Gideon. “Is this the target?”
“ Correct.” He looked at Elie with astonishment. “How did you know?”
Elie put his hand on the thick bible. “There are no new stories. It’s all in here.” He pointed at the recorder. “Make a copy of the tape.”
“Hey,” Bathsheba said, “I want to hear the end!”
“The end is near.” Elie went back to the bedroom. “Wake me up at eight.”
*
Tuesday, October 24, 1995
The three of them waited outside until the doctors completed morning rounds in the ICU. Paula explained to Klaus Junior what had happened to his grandfather and how the doctors were trying to help him recover.
The room was painted light blue, with framed posters of greenery and water. Armande Hoffgeitz’s eyes were closed and various tubes entered his body. Steady beeps came from the heart monitor above the bed.
“Hi, Grandpa.” The boy touched the hand that rested on the sheet. “I have to go to school now. Get better so I can see you later, okay?”
Paula and Lemmy followed him out of the room.
“Is Grandpa going to die?”
Lemmy kneeled, his face level with his son’s. “We don’t know yet. But he’s very ill. Will you pray for him?”
The boy nodded.
Paula smiled through her tears.
Lemmy took him to school and drove to the bank. Christopher had summoned the staff to a conference room. Lemmy gave them a brief update on his father-in-law’s medical condition and prognosis.
Herr Diekman, the most senior account manager, stood up. “All of us pray for Herr Hoffgeitz’s quick and full recovery. In the meantime, we have complete confidence in your leadership.”
“ Thank you. Paula and I appreciate your support and friendship at this difficult time.”
Everyone was silent for a moment.
“ Being one of the oldest institutions in this city,” Lemmy continued, “the Hoffgeitz Bank is a symbol of stability. We take pride in our superb and uninterrupted client service. As vice president, I have assumed all administrative and managerial responsibilities for the bank. Any and all account transactions that exceed the equivalent of ten thousand dollars, cumulative for a single day, require my signature-including the accounts owned by Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients, which are under the supervision of Herr Schnell.”
Gunter, who was standing against the wall, nodded. The other men exchanged glances around the table, but no one questioned the instructions.
“ If you have any concerns, please come to me. Our message to our clients and the banking community is that business continues as usual at the Hoffgeitz Bank.”
He returned to his office and spent an hour returning phone calls and answering mail. Before lunch, he summoned Christopher. “I was wondering, has Gunter completed entering the data into the system?”
“Yes. I’ve followed his progress on my computer. He has inserted numbers for all of the accounts that Herr Hoffgeitz handles personally, which amounts to less than thirty accounts actually. Is there a problem?”
“My father-in-law had a heart attack right after a mysterious phone call regarding an account of an old friend. Why?”
“ Maybe your wife knows who it is?”
“ I won’t drag Paula into the bank’s business.” Lemmy rocked in his chair. “It’s my responsibility to find out what’s going on before the bank’s reputation could be damaged. You agree?”
Christopher nodded. “You want me to ask Gunter again?”
“ He won’t talk. But the computer now holds all the records of deposits and withdrawals in each of the bank’s accounts since the beginning of this year, correct?”
“ Yes, but because Herr Hoffgeitz’s accounts are segregated from the clients managed by you and the account managers, I can only see the total turnover for his clients’ accounts as a combined group, not individually.”
Lemmy played with the pen. “What’s the total value of all the deposits currently with the bank?”
“Calculated in U.S. dollars, our total holdings in all the accounts add up to about forty-two billion.” Christopher rose. “I can find the exact number-”
“And what part of it is held in the accounts of Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients?”
“As a group, almost sixty percent.”
“ About twenty-four billion dollars?”
“ Yes.”
“Good. What I need from you are two numbers. First, the total turnover-deposits and withdrawals-in Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients’ accounts as a group during the month of September. Second, the total turnover in the rest of the bank’s clients’ accounts as a group, also during the month of September. Can you do that?”
“Easy.” Christopher left to run the numbers.
Lemmy brought up Herr Hoffgeitz’s office on his computer screen. Gunter was sitting in the president’s chair on the far side of the room, surrounded by the light from the window behind him. Using the arrows on his keyboard, Lemmy zoomed in. The face drew closer, filling the screen, the lips trembling, the eyes shut tightly, the tears flowing.
A moment later, Christopher knocked on the door.
Lemmy punched the escape key and unlocked the door.
Christopher placed two pieces of paper on the desk.
The numbers were shocking. Lemmy examined them carefully, calculating in his mind, and then sat back in his chair, struggling to keep his feelings from showing on his face. On the desk before him was the reason for Elie Weiss’s lifelong obsession with the Hoffgeitz Bank.
“Herr Horch? Anything wrong?”
“Don’t you see?” Lemmy grabbed a pencil and jotted down a few numbers, then turned the page. “I rounded up your numbers for simplicity. Herr Hoffgeitz and Gunter manage accounts for a small group of clients. We don’t know who they are, but we do know there’s a total of about twenty-four billion dollars, right?”
Christopher nodded.
“During September, the total turnover in his clients’ accounts was about twenty-one million dollars. That’s about-”
“Less than one-tenth of one percent of the total balance of all his clients’ accounts combined.”
“Correct.” Lemmy wrote the number down. “Now, in the rest of the bank’s accounts, including those that I manage and the accounts handled by the others, we have total balance of about eighteen billion dollars altogether, correct?”
Christopher nodded.
“And according to your numbers, the total turnover in and out of these accounts during the last month was four hundred and seventy million dollars, which is a little more than-”
“ Two-and-a-half percent.”
“ Correct!” He threw down the pencil. “See?”
“How strange.” Christopher stared at the numbers in astonishment. “Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients barely move their money. Why?”
“Good question!”
“Maybe some of his clients are not active at all?”
“Bingo!” Lemmy picked up the pencil. “If Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients are divided into two groups-active accounts and inactive accounts-how much would each group hold?”
“You mean, if we assume that Herr Hoffgeitz’s active clients behave like the rest of the bank’s clients?”
“ Correct.”
“ We could extrapolate the turnover amount in Herr Hoffgeitz accounts-twenty-one million dollars-by the normal turnover percentage of two-and-a-half percent.”
“ In other words, take the turnover amount in his accounts and multiply it by forty, which comes to-”
“ Eight hundred and forty million.”
“ That’s right. So out of twenty-four billion dollars in the accounts that Herr Hoffgeitz manages exclusively with Gunter’s help, only eight hundred and forty million dollars are in active accounts.”
Christopher thought for a moment. “And the rest is sitting in inactive accounts-”
“ Or a single account.”
“ With a total balance of over twenty-three billion dollars!”
“Based on September’s figures,” Lemmy said. “But even if the numbers fluctuate a bit, we can safely assume that a huge part of Herr Hoffgeitz’s clients’ holdings remains inactive.”
“That’s incredible!”
“ Interesting may be a better word. But also logical, because he would normally assign the routine handling of clients to one of the accounts managers. Herr Hoffgeitz would only keep special accounts under his own management.”
“ Special in what way?”
“ That’s what we need to find out.” Lemmy walked around the desk and stood by the door. “Great work, Christopher. You’ll make an excellent assistant to the president.”
“Thank you!”
“Now try to sniff around Gunter, but don’t frighten the old guy, okay?”
Christopher disappeared behind the door, but a moment later buzzed Lemmy on the intercom. “Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr is on the line. He wants to talk to you.”
*
At the Hilton suite in Paris, the lights blinked on the eavesdropping system. “Outgoing call,” Gideon announced.
“ Put it on the speakers,” Elie said.
“ What happened?” Bathsheba clapped. “No more secrets?”
Gideon hushed her, and a man’s voice came from the speakers. “Welcome back, Excellency. How is Paris treating you?”
“It’s good to be back, Herr Horch. Six-one-nine, El-Sharif.”
“ How can we help you?”
“ I know this voice!” Bathsheba pointed at the machine. “That’s the man who left the message earlier.”
Elie put a finger to his lips.
“ Another transfer,” the prince said, “to the same bank in Senlis.”
“Of course. How much would you like to give Monsieur Sachs this time?”
“Two-and-a-half million dollars. And there will be another transfer of the same amount in a week or so, after he completes a certain job for me. I’ll let you know.”
“It’s an honor to serve you. The transfer will take place tomorrow, Wednesday, the twenty-fifth. It might take the French a few hours to get the cash ready. Should be available for pickup in the afternoon.”
“Perfect. Be well, my friend.”
Gideon turned off the speakers. “We’re back in the game.”
“It’s not a game,” Bathsheba said. “And who’s Herr Horch?”
“ This is it,” Elie said. “Tomorrow afternoon. We must prepare well. We won’t have a second chance.”
“Wasn’t Horch a carmaker?” Gideon reset the recording device.
“ This guy doesn’t make cars.” Bathsheba looked at Elie. “How the hell did you manage to turn a Swiss banker into an Israeli agent?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“ I do worry! What if he’s a double agent? What if he’s sick of you blackmailing him or whatever you’re doing to make him work for you? What if he’s setting us up for Abu Yusef?”
“ She’s right,” Gideon said. “We need to know if Horch is reliable.”
“ He’s more reliable than the two of you put together.” Elie lit another cigarette and opened his bible. “Better start to prepare. Everything will depend on your performance.”
*
Prince Abusalim rang room service for a bottle of iced champagne and an assortment of sweets. He went to the bathroom and watched his naked image in the wall-to-wall mirror, taking pleasure in his muscular body as it produced a healthy stream of urine.
Wearing nothing but a bandage on his hand, he returned to the bedroom, where a voluptuous blonde was spread out on the bed, supported by a mound of pillows, eating square bits of chocolate from a silver bowl nestled between her breasts.
He wondered if he should let her stay the night.
The book of Koran rested on the night stand. He opened the drawer and dropped the Koran out of sight. “You eat too much chocolate, my little Rubens.” He squeezed the flesh of her thigh.
She giggled, reaching for his groin. “Maybe I’ll eat this chocolate.”
“ That’s my girl.” He grabbed her hair. “ Bon appetit.”
*
Paula served tender pork chops and sweet potato fries for dinner. Klaus Junior nibbled at the food as he listened to Lemmy reading aloud get-well cards sent by bank employees, clients, and a few of Armande’s old friends.
While Paula served cheesecake for dessert, the phone rang.
Lemmy got up. “I’ll take it in the study.”
He shut the door and picked up the phone. “Wilhelm Horch here.”
“I gave you an order,” Elie said. “Have you finished off the old man?”
“And I asked you not to phone me at home.” Lemmy covered his mouth as he spoke into the receiver. “I have a family!”
“Silence!” Elie launched into a series of coughs, followed by spitting. When he spoke again, his voice was weak. “Do not interrupt me again, or I’ll visit your home in person and practice my father’s trade on your Gentile wife and your little Nazi namesake.”
The threat was so extreme that Lemmy could not speak.
“ I need you to change the prince’s money transfer instructions. Write it down.”
Lemmy jotted Elie’s instructions on a pad and hung up. He sat there for a long time, unable to return to the kitchen and face Paula and Klaus Junior as if nothing had happened. Had Elie spoken merely out of rage? Or had it been a valid forewarning of real intentions? There was no way to know what Elie would do to ensure the realization of his grand vision. It had been a terrible mistake to give Elie the impression that his feelings for Paula and Klaus Junior could in any way hinder his complete dedication to the cause of Counter Final Solution. Elie would not hesitate to send a hit team to Zurich. What’s a couple of dead Gentiles in the context of obtaining twenty-three billion dollars to combat global anti-Semitism?
The door opened and Paula entered the study. She closed the door and came around the large desk. Gently she wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Are you going to leave us?”
“What?” He looked up at her. “Hell, no!”
She kissed the top of his head.
He hugged her, his ear against her stomach. “I’ll never leave you.”
“Good. Very good.”
“It’s something else.” He stood, facing her. “I should have told you long ago.”
Paula put a hand on his mouth. “I know who my husband is. You are a wonderful man and a terrific father. The rest is work stuff. I don’t want to know.”
He held her tightly. She truly, unconditionally loved him. And he felt the same, which meant that Elie had a valid reason for his deadly threat, because if Lemmy had to choose, Paula and Klaus Junior would come first. He had no qualms about killing to protect Israel, and he would have no qualms killing to protect his family!
They descended to the floor, kissing each other on the way down. They lay on the carpet. He nibbled at her neck, his left hand around her nape, his right hand pulling up her skirt. He mounted her, his knees parting her thighs. Paula quivered, breathing rapidly.
*
Wednesday, October 25, 1995
“ My father will recover.” Paula sat in front of the vanity in the corner of their bedroom. “He won’t give up. I know him.”
“Armande is strong,” Lemmy agreed while tying his shoes.
Paula started her morning makeup routine. “I should have convinced him to work less, to spend more time with Junior. Maybe now he’ll agree to work part-time. You could run the bank day-to-day, right?”
“I’m not his son.”
Any reference to her dead brother, even indirectly, made Paula’s eyes moisten. She no longer cried, and most people would not even notice it, but Lemmy saw her reaction and regretted it. She smiled, which was her way of telling him it was okay to discuss this painful subject. “You’re like a son to him.”
“ Not exactly. He doesn’t mind it when I go skiing, but when Junior wanted to learn how to ski, your father flipped.”
“ We’re going to do it this year. We have to.”
“ That’s right. I mean, what kind of a Swiss kid doesn’t ski?” Lemmy watched her face, which lit up when discussing their son. “The winter is coming. Should I make reservations?”
“ As long as it’s not Chamonix.”
The Alpine ski resort had taken the life of Klaus V.K. Hoffgeitz in the twilight hours of a sunny day in the winter of 1973. He was found in a crevasse near an easy blue-diamond slope. An expert skier, he must have taken a wrong turn, confused by the shadows so typical of the western face of the mountain. Autopsy revealed that his injuries had not been severe, except for a stab wound, likely caused by the unlucky fall on a sharp icicle, which entered his brain through the throat, melting away long before the body had been found.
“ I miss my brother,” Paula said. “He was fun.”
Lemmy held her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“ I’ve accepted it. God wanted him by His side.” She wiped her eyes. “And my mother’s real illness, what really killed her, was a broken heart, which I also understand. But for my father, losing Klaus V.K. has been the tragedy of his life-not just the grief over a wonderful, loveable son, but the loss of his heir. I think it’s like the world went out of order for him. It was the breaking of continuity, an end to generations of family tradition. My father feels that he failed in his hereditary duty to groom a male heir.”
“It’s tragic.”
“I tried to convince him it wasn’t like this anymore. It’s the twentieth century. Families hire professional managers to run inherited businesses. No one cares about bloodlines any longer. It’s so old fashioned.”
“Your father is not easy to convince. He takes everything very seriously.” Lemmy had not told Paula about the phone call that had instigated her father’s heart attack or about the huge sum in the inactive account. She was safer not knowing. “I think he was hoping to run the bank until Junior is ready to take over.”
“He’s ten!” She laughed, and the light from the window glistened in her eyes.
“ It will take twenty years before-”
“Not necessarily. If we expedite his schooling, he could graduate university at twenty, while spending each summer at the bank to learn the ropes. Theoretically, in twelve or thirteen years he could take over as president. And I’ll be there to help him.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Paula brushed her hair. “My father is already eighty-four.”
“ He’s as sharp as a young man, and if he recovers from this heart attack-”
“ Our son is not the banker type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s good with numbers.”
“Klaus Junior would be miserable as a banker. It’s too boring.”
“Am I miserable and boring?”
She laughed. “You’re delightful and fascinating.”
“In what way?”
“ I can show you.” She came into his arms, smelling fresh and enticing. “If you want.”
“ I’ll be late to work. But if you won’t allow Klaus Junior to become a banker, then we have to-”
“Make a banker.”
“It’s our hereditary duty.” Lemmy began to undress. “A matter of generational traditions. The board of directors expects no less from us!”
Paula’s body shook with laughter. “We’re going to make the rabbits jealous-”
Pop! The window exploded, raining slivers of glass all over them.
Lemmy pushed Paula down and lay on top of her, sheltering her with his body. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw a bullet hole. His mind digested the incredible fact: Elie had acted on his threat!
*
Gideon listened as Prince Abusalim called room service to order breakfast for two. A half-hour later, Abu Yusef called. The prince put the Palestinian terrorist on hold and, after a moment, picked up one of the phones in the bathroom. “The money is ready,” he said without a preamble. “It will arrive at the bank in Senlis later today.”
“The freedom of Palestine shall belong to you!”
“ Insha’Allah. Call me in three days. I’ll give you the time and place for the job. Make sure you have enough firepower. He will be well protected.”
“Don’t worry, Excellency. It will be executed successfully.”
“Don’t underestimate your target. In Saudi Arabia we have a saying: A man whom the desert failed to kill is immortal.”
“We also have a saying,” Abu Yusef said. “A man who feels immortal is easier to kill.”
*
Lemmy expected a second bullet, but none came right away. He heard the Porsche’s alarm whining and recalled leaving it out in the driveway last night. “Stay down! I’ll get Junior.”
Paula tried to rise. “I’m coming-”
“Down!”
Staying low, he headed for the door. The bullet had come through the front of the house. Why had the shooter aimed at the window, when he could have shot them later outside? Was it a diversion while another assassin broke down the front door? Or the rear patio glass? Or was a lone sniper hiding in the woods across the street, waiting to take a second shot when a face appeared in the window? But the angle was too steep, as if the shooter was close to the house!
He ran downstairs, reached the kitchen, and crouched under the counter. “Klaus! Where are you?”
No response.
A sense of terror flooded Lemmy. Was the boy injured? Was he bleeding? But there had been only one shot, and the bullet was stuck in the bedroom ceiling. The boy must be listening to music with headphones.
“ Klaus!”
Nothing. Where was he?
The Mauser! Lemmy knew he had to get it from the car and shoot back. By now he was doubting that this attack was Elie’s doing. It was too imprecise, even illogical considering that Elie’s threat had been directed at Paula and the boy. Elie would not have sent a shooter to attack while Lemmy was in the house, ready to defend them or get killed himself. Without him, how would Elie gain control of the Nazi funds at the Hoffgeitz Bank?
All these thoughts rushed through his mind while the professional assassin within him coldly planned the run for the Mauser and the ensuing shootout. It would be hard to take proper aim at the sniper, but mounting a counter-attack was the best defense. He crouched by the front door, focusing on the task at hand. The Mauser had been in the car since the Paris job. It had taken two bullets to finish off the Arab. Nine left. He would have to run to the Porsche, break the windshield, pull the storage cover, get the gun out of the box, load it, cock it, aim, and start shooting. Even with the car between him and the sniper, Lemmy knew he’d likely get hit at least once. But there was no other way to scare off the attacker before Paula or Klaus got hurt.
He grabbed the knob and realized the front door wasn’t locked. Why? Had Junior gone outside?
He threw the door open and sprinted to the Porsche in the driveway, expecting the pop of a shot and the jolt of a bullet hit.
Nothing. The sniper must have been focused on the windows, not expecting someone to run out. He was adjusting his rifle right now. Lemmy sped up. Ten yards to go. He lifted his arm over his head, ready to elbow in the windshield.
Five. Four. Now-
The windshield was already shattered. Like a spider-web, thousands of tiny cracks spread like rays from a finger-size hole in the upper part.
A bullet hole!
Lemmy glanced up at the broken bedroom window on the second floor of the house. The bullet had come from inside the car!
Through the windshield he noticed the open storage compartment.
Klaus Junior was in the passenger seat. His face was white, his eyes wide open. Lemmy opened the door and removed the Mauser from the boy’s hand. He held the warm barrel and pulled the small forefinger out of the trigger slot. Aiming at the sky, he released the magazine and cocked the Mauser to dispose of the bullet in the chamber, which he picked up and put in his pocket with the gun.
As he lifted his son from the car, Paula ran out of the house.
“He’s okay,” Lemmy managed to say, his voice choking. “He’s not injured.”
*
Christopher jumped to his feet. “Good morning, Herr Horch!” He seemed surprised to see his boss in so early.
“Prince Abusalim called me last night,” Lemmy lied. “A small modification in the transfer instructions. The recipient name will change to Grant Guerra.”
“ Okay.”
“ Send the order as soon as business opens. Such a large amount in U.S. dollars might require them to order extra cash.”
Christopher took the sheet and turned to his computer. The altered order would travel on telephone lines electronically through two inter-European clearing centers to the local branch of Banque Nationale de France in Senlis.
Lemmy wondered how Elie was planning to do the job. Was he sending in his agent to receive the money and wait to shoot Abu Yusef? The Arabs would be armed and alert. The bank probably had security cameras and push-button alarms, possibly even an automatic lockdown feature, which could be a disaster. And even if the assassination was successful, the subsequent investigation could lead to the Hoffgeitz Bank. The Zurich police department would never attempt to obtain the identity of his client-bank secrecy laws were sacred-but the French might tip the media, which would attract unwanted attention. A hit inside a bank was too risky, even in France. What was Elie thinking?
Paula called to report that Klaus Junior was watching TV and eating pancakes but refusing to discuss with her what had happened. She had told him that his father had promised to take him to a shooting range to have proper training in gun safety and usage, which made the boy excited. Lemmy apologized again for making such a foolish mistake-he should not have left a weapon in the car. Paula didn’t ask why he had the gun in the first place-most Swiss men served in the national army reserve and owned personal firearms.
He pulled the Mauser from his pocket and placed it on the desk. He recalled holding it for the first time in his father’s study, back in Jerusalem. So much had happened since then-the abortion riots, his excommunication from Neturay Karta, paratrooper service in the IDF, and the mission into Jordanian-occupied East Jerusalem to destroy the UN radar, which had prevented detection of Israel’s preemptive strike and led to the victory of the Six Day War. And then, alone in the world, he had accepted Elie’s offer of clandestine service, spent a summer in intense German-language study, attended Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas, courted Paula, and turned himself into a successful Swiss banker, a family man, and a secret agent. The key to his long career was careful planning and meticulous execution to minimize risk of exposure. The exception was his continuous use of the Mauser for killing Israel’s enemies. The barrel had been honed to prevent ballistic tracing of the bullets, and he had taken pains to keep it out of sight and utilize generic ammunition. He knew that the repeat use of the same weapon was hazardous, but this Mauser was the single object of continuity in his life, the only physical possession going all the way back to the city of Jerusalem-and a boy named Jerusalem.
*
When Abu Yusef walked into the dining room, the men stopped talking and gathered around the large table. “We achieved a great victory on Saturday,” he declared. “The Zionists are bleeding badly. We must hit them again and again until they scatter to the four corners of the earth or die!”
The men cheered, raising clenched fists.
He turned to a map of Europe, which Bashir had pinned to the wall. “With our donor’s generosity, we are ready to launch a historic campaign that will blow away the Oslo Accords.” Abu Yusef paused, looking around. “Who in this room speaks Italian?”
Two of the men raised their hands.
“Spanish?”
Three hands came up.
“Greek?”
One hand.
“Dutch?”
No hand came up. Abu Yusef shook his head. “Pity. The Dutch are all Zionist bastards. Danish?”
A hand came halfway up. “I get by,” the man said.
Abu Yusef nodded. “Swedish?”
Another hesitant hand.
“Good.” He noticed two men whispering. “What?”
One of them said, “I speak good German.”
Abu Yusef shook a finger. “We’re not going to Germany. We won’t fall into that trap again. The world doesn’t like to watch Jews getting killed in Germany. It’s counter-productive.”
He realized they didn’t understand.
“ Munich was an unusual opportunity,” he explained. “The Olympics, the media. And I admit that even Munich might have been a mistake. When the Nazis exterminated the Jews, the Americans or British could have easily bombed the German rails and silenced the death camps. That’s why, after the war, everybody felt guilty and let the Jews steal our land. Jews know a lot about guilt, and if we kill them in Germany, they’ll cry Holocaust! Everybody will forget about us and feel sorry for the Jews again.”
Some of the men mumbled curses.
“ But you can go to Austria,” Abu Yusef said to the German-speaking man. “There are plenty of fat Jews in Vienna-an excellent target.” He looked at his list. “We still need Flemish and Portuguese.”
“ I have a few recruits,” Bashir said. “They’ll be in later.”
“ Good.” Abu Yusef turned to the map. “The blue pins stand for El Al stations and terminals. Red pins for Israeli embassies and consulates. And yellow pins for synagogues and Jewish schools. We’ll hit all these targets on the same day. Forty-seven targets representing the forty-seven years since the United Nations allowed the Zionists to declare their state!”
The men clapped.
“ That’s right!” Abu Yusef held up a fist. “We’ll rock the world!”
When they quieted down, Bashir stepped forward. “Listen carefully. The money is coming in today. This evening you’ll receive your individual assignments, including maps, blueprints of the target buildings, and escape routes. Also, each team will receive enough cash to purchase vehicles, weapons, explosives, timer fuses and everything else you’ll need to successfully destroy your targets. Tonight you’ll pack up your personal belongings and be ready to head out in the morning, each team travelling separately. After the simultaneous attacks, we’ll reconvene in a new location.”
“Think of the international impact!” Abu Yusef looked each man in the eye. “Forty-seven years of shame will be redeemed by delivering forty-seven unforgettable lessons to the Jews. We’re getting enough money to do what no one has ever dared before-a barrage of attacks at the same time, synchronized to maximum shock and awe. On a single glorious day, we’ll flood Europe with the blood of the Jews, just as the valleys of Palestine are flooded with the Zionist pests.”
He paused to give them time to absorb the enormity of the operation. They seemed excited. And nervous.
“ This time next week, the Oslo process will be derailed by your daring and unprecedented accomplishment. Your spirit will revive our people’s hopes. And soon you’ll lead them back to Jerusalem!”
He turned and left the room, hoping his words had inspired them. He had spoken as if a whole army was lined up in front of him, not merely two dozen men. More were joining, though. And when forty-seven Jewish targets blew up simultaneously all over Europe, every Palestinian man would leave his family and join their ranks. There would be an army of warriors waiting for his orders. The peace process would collapse into accusations and counter-accusations, and soon after that, he would see Palestine again as a victor, sailing his armada into the Haifa Bay through water dotted with the bobbing heads of dead Jews.
Bashir joined him. “It won’t be easy. We’re taking on the whole Oslo peace process. They’ll be pissed off-Arafat, Rabin, Clinton. Everybody will be after us.”
“No,” Abu Yusef said. “Everybody will respect us.”
“ That also,” Bashir said. “Many of Al-Mazir’s men are ready to join. After the operation, we’ll set up recruiting networks all over.”
“But first of all, we need our best two men to do the job for the prince. We can’t afford to disappoint him.” Abu Yusef opened the door to his bedroom. It was dark except for a lamp near the empty bed.
Bashir turned to go.
“Latif was a good boy,” Abu Yusef said. “I miss him. Maybe one day, after our victory, I will marry a woman. Like Arafat.”
“That’s right.” A rare smile appeared on Bashir’s face. “A woman like Arafat.”
*
Gideon wore a navy-blue suit and a gray tie. He stuck on a thin, black moustache. The small leather briefcase completed the image of a young businessman. Bathsheba had brushed his curly hair back, smoothed it down with gel, and sprayed him with Cacharel. Before he left the car to enter the bank, Elie said, “Put your hook deep into him and give him no reason to suspect you.”
“Show him,” Bathsheba said, “how deep you can bend over.”
Gideon slammed the car door and walked down the street to the bank.
The manager, Monsieur Richar, put down his pen and stood up. “ Oui? ”
“Grant Guerra.” Gideon extended a hand. “I believe you have funds awaiting me?”
“Oh, yes!” The bank manager beckoned a bespectacled clerk. “We’re ready for you. It’s an honor!”
“ Much obliged.”
“ Would you like to open an account with us? Our investment department can assist you with devising an appropriate strategy for growth. We’d like to earn your business.”
“ Perhaps in the future. Today’s transfer is earmarked for a joint venture that requires a substantial cash transaction. I will require a meeting room to conduct it.”
“ Of course.” The bank manager seemed a tad disappointed. “We ordered additional bills as soon as we saw the wire. We normally don’t carry that much in U.S. dollars.”
“Excellent.”
They led him to a vacant office. An electrical counting machine rested on the table. The manager examined Gideon’s driver’s license, a fake that matched the particulars on the transfer from Zurich, and asked him to sign a receipt. A few moments later, a clerk brought in the money in a sack-twenty-five thousand $100 bills.
As the manager was leaving the room, Gideon said, “My associate, Monsieur Sachs, should arrive within the hour.”
“Certainly, Monsieur Guerra. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”
*
The street outside the Banque Nationale de France buzzed with afternoon shoppers. The white Citroen drew no attention. Bathsheba sat behind the wheel, Elie in the passenger seat. It was four o’clock p.m., and there was no sign of Abu Yusef.
Bathsheba turned on the radio and searched the dial until she found music. Her head rocked with the drumbeat. “What if he doesn’t show up?”
Elie shut off the radio. “Abu Yusef has been waiting all his life for something like this. Arafat has always managed to squeeze heaps of cash from donors, who liked and feared him at the same time. Today Abu Yusef will step out of Arafat’s shadow, financially speaking.”
“ And he’ll cast his own long shadow, if we don’t stop him.”
Elie nodded. “They’ll be edgy with so much cash on board. You must be very careful following them back to the nest. If they notice us, bad things will happen.”
Bathsheba used a piece of cloth to shine the binocular lenses. The minutes passed slowly with constant traffic along the street. Customers visited the retail shops and clients frequented the bank. Closing time approached fast.
“Here we go.” Elie pointed.
A blue BMW sedan stopped in front of the bank, followed by a red Mazda RX-7. Bashir Hamami got out of the BMW and looked up and down the street, his right hand under his coat. Two younger men emerged from the red Mazda and joined Bashir. One of them opened the rear door of the BMW, and Abu Yusef stepped out with a large briefcase.
“Nice cars.” Bathsheba reached into a tennis bag on the back seat and took out a handgun with a silencer. She cocked the gun and put it on the floor between her legs. She repeated the process with another gun, which she kept in her lap.
“You’re a pessimist,” Elie said.
“ Wasn’t plan B your idea?”
“ For me, redundancy is a necessity, not an aspiration.”
*
Gideon was on the move as soon as he saw the cars through the glass front of the bank. He took off his jacket, straightened his tie, and hurried to the front door, reaching it just as one of Abu Yusef’s men opened it from the outside.
He flashed a wide smile. “Monsieur Sachs?”
Abu Yusef looked at him with surprise and shook his hand.
“Welcome to Banque Nationale de France. I’m Grant Guerra-foreign currency desk. I’m sorry we missed each other last week.”
“ Then how did you recognize me?”
Without missing a beat, Gideon gestured at the men and cars. “We don’t handle many transactions of this size in our branch.”
Abu Yusef’s eyes measured him up and down. “It’s a pleasure, Monsieur Guerra.”
“ Please, call me Grant.”
“ Grant. A strong name.” He signaled to his men to stay outside and followed Gideon through the bank.
As they passed by Monsieur Richar’s office, the bank manager glanced over his spectacles and started to get up. Gideon waved and continued to walk. These few seconds were the weakest link in the sequence of planned events. An interaction with Richar could blow his cover. Abu Yusef would realize he was dealing with someone pretending to be a bank employee and try to draw a weapon. Gideon was ready for plan B. He would kill Abu Yusef quickly with a knife, but the way out of the bank would require a public shootout with the Arabs outside. Even with Bathsheba and Elie attacking them from the rear, Bashir and his men presented a formidable force, and such a battle would have uncertain consequences.
They entered the office before Monsieur Richar managed to join them, and Gideon shut the door. “A few formalities, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course,” Abu Yusef presented a Belgian passport under the name of Perez Sachs.
Gideon examined it carefully and compared it to a copy of a false transfer order he had brought with him that carried the name Perez Sachs as recipient. He smiled at Abu Yusef and handed him the form and a pen. “Please sign here, Monsieur Sachs.” He pointed and rested his hand on the Arab’s shoulder.
*
Abu Yusef recognized the scent. Cacharel. It reminded him of Latif, and the memory at once saddened and aroused him. He signed Perez Sachs and looked up at the young man, who was standing over him. Their faces were only a few inches apart, and Abu Yusef took in the sweet scent, leaning slightly closer. His nostrils quivered. He returned the pen. For a moment, their hands connected, and Abu Yusef felt a wave of heat in his groin.
“Would you like to count the money now?” Grant’s gaze was direct and unwavering, bright with excitement.
“I trust you.”
“ We have time. It’s no problem.” Delicate wrinkles adorned the corners of his glistening eyes. The white, tailored shirt fit perfectly on what was clearly an athletic, masculine body. “I’m at your service, in every way you should require.”
“ I might be a demanding man.” Abu Yusef chuckled.
“ I’m accommodating by nature.”
“ You work out regularly?” He moved a finger down the clerk’s shirtsleeve.
“Yes.” His face became a little red, but he kept smiling. “I like to break a sweat.”
“It shows.” Abu Yusef felt doubly aroused by the young man’s discomfort. He opened the large briefcase, packed up the money, and closed the lid. The handsome bank clerk remained close, smiling, inviting. Didn’t he mind the age difference, the belly, the receding hairline? His body language communicated undeniable interest. Was it the money? Did it matter? Abu Yusef took a deep breath and asked, “Perhaps we could chat later?”
“If you’d like to, sure.” Grant scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Abu Yusef. “Call me at eight tonight, okay?”
Abu Yusef followed him to the front door. It was obvious Grant was anxious to usher him out of the bank lest his boss noticed there was more going on between the two of them than a banking transaction. “Until later then.”
“ Au revoir, Monsieur Sachs.” The young banker’s hand touched Abu Yusef’s back, gently prodding him out to the street. He winked and closed the glass door.
Bashir had the men facing away in all directions, alert to any sign of trouble. Abu Yusef got in the back seat of the BMW, the briefcase on his lap. “Allah is great,” he declared. “Let’s go!”
*
The Arabs kept to local roads, avoiding the highway. Rush hour slowed everything down and provided plenty of vehicles to blend in. Bathsheba stayed well behind, while Elie kept the binoculars trained on the red RX-7. Twenty minutes later, they reached Ermenonville. The two cars turned into a narrow street. Bathsheba passed the turn and stopped. She got out, ran to the corner, and peeked through the shrubs. An iron gate opened, and several armed guards stood aside to let the cars enter.
Back in the Citroen, Bathsheba said, “This is it. The snake pit.” She drove off while Elie wrote down the name of the street: Boulevard Royale.
*
After ten minutes, the manager came to check on Gideon. “Monsieur Guerra, I was hoping to meet your associate.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gideon said. “He was anxious to get going. It’s a large sum to carry around.”
“Of course. I assume the arrangements were satisfactory.”
“Superb.” Gideon put on his coat. “Thank you again.”
The bank manager bowed. “At your service.”
As they headed back to the front door, Gideon was relieved to see the vacant curb. He stepped out into a chilly evening, walked down the street, and turned right at the next corner. Halfway down the block, he leaned against the wall and vomited.
*
Rabbi Gerster joined hundreds of mourners at the Sanhedriah Cemetery in Jerusalem for the funeral of the rabbi from Paris, whose body had been flown to Israel that morning on an El Al jetliner. He had never met Rabbi Dasso, but felt an urge to show his respect to a man who had literally given his life to the pulpit. Besides, Rabbi Gerster was quite certain that the funeral would attract political activists, possibly even a few ILOT members.
A Paris-born Knesset member took the microphone to deliver a eulogy. “Rabbi Maurice Dasso was devoted to his congregation and to God. He died while praying, while celebrating a Bar Mitzvah with a Jewish boy, who also died. Those evil hands killed Rabbi Dasso in the middle of the holy Sabbath, a day of spirituality and peace, but not for the Jews of Paris. The murderers descended on the righteous! Cut short the prayers! Turned the joy of a Bar Mitzvah into grief! Snatched away Sabbath’s peace and turned it into blood and death and grief!” He raised his hands at the sky. “ Oy! Oy! How the righteous have fallen!”
Rabbi Dasso’s wife and children, standing by the coffin at the open grave, began crying. Many others cried with them.
“ Our enemies never rest.” The Knesset member wiped his eyes. “I want to ask them: Why do you hate us so? Why does your hatred of Jews thrive with every generation?”
Many in the crowd yelled, “Why? Why?”
“ Why does your thirst for Jewish blood never languish?” He looked up, shaking his head. “What have we done to deserve your venom? Is it the faith in one God, which we have gifted to mankind?”
The mourners cried, “No!”
“ Is it the justice of the Ten Commandments and the civil law of Talmud’s thousand pages, which has inspired laws of fairness and equality in every country in your so-called civilized world?”
“ No!”
“ Is it the wisdom of philosophy and ethics that we have shared with humanity? Or the beauty of music and literature, scribed by Jewish quills to pleasure the ears of all nations?”
“ No!”
“ Is it the scientific leaps that improve the lives of millions? Or the cures we’ve invented for fatal maladies?”
“ No! No! No!”
Taking a deep breath, he cried, “Then why do you hate us, Gentiles?”
There was no response. Even the French ambassador, standing in a section reserved for dignitaries, bowed his head-perhaps in agreement, perhaps in shame. The morning newspapers had reported that the French government had known of Abu Yusef’s activities even before his deadly attack on a Jewish day school in Marseilles the previous month. An anonymous source at the Quai D’Orsay, enraged over the death of the minister of arts and culture in the synagogue bombing, had told the Associated Press that Yasser Arafat himself had asked the French to look the other way while he attempted to deal discreetly with his estranged deputy.
After the burial and prayers, as he was leaving the cemetery, Rabbi Gerster saw a group of women holding a huge placard:
Prime Minister Rabin: Here is your “partner for peace” Arafat’s Resume:
Founder of PLO, Fatah, Black September, Tanzim, Al-Aksa Brigade: 1965-present;
Attacks on farm communities in the south and north, hundreds dead, 1965-70;
Bombing of Swissair Flight 330, 47 passengers dead, 1970;
Bombing of School bus near Moshav Avivim in Israel, 9 children dead, 1970;
Highjack of TWA, Pan Am, and BOAC passenger planes, 1970;
Attacks on multiple civilian targets in Jordan, thousands killed, 1970;
Attack by guns and grenades at Lod Airport in Israel, 1971;
Attack on the Munich Olympics, athletes massacred, 1972;
Attack on US embassy in Saudi Arabia, civilians dead, 1972;
Murder of US ambassador to Sudan, Cleo Noel, 1972;
Murder of 11 civilians in an apartment building in Kiryat Shmona, Israel, 1974;
Murder of 21 children and 5 adults in a school in Ma’alot, Israel, 1974;
Murder of 4 civilians in Bet She’an, Israel, 1974;
Attack on Hotel Savoy in Tel Aviv, numerous dead, 1975;
Attack on bus on coastal highway in Israel, many civilian deaths, 1978;
Inciting civil war in Lebanon that killed thousands of Christians, 1979-82;
Launching thousands of Katyusha missiles into n. Israel, many dead, 1979-82;
Highjack of Achille Lauro, wheelchair-bound old man shot, thrown overboard, 1985;
Bombing of buses, trains, beaches, schools, thousands dead amp; injured, 1986-today;
Signing Oslo “Peace,” continuing terror via PELP, Islamic Jihad, Hamas, 1993-today;
Another sign read: Prime Minister Rabin: How can peace be made with a mass murderer?
An elderly woman held a sign that showed Arafat in a leopard skin with a subtitle: Will a leopard change its spots?
Across the street, Rabbi Gerster saw another group. They held a long banner made of cloth and colored in blue and white. It said: Give Peace a Chance!
*
Gideon sat on the floor in the corner of the hotel room, surrounded by tools and wires. He picked through the bag of Jaffa oranges and chose a small one, not much bigger than a nectarine. He marked the skin with a knife and peeled it, placing the pieces of skin in a neat row.
“Can I help?” Bathsheba sat crossed-legged next to Gideon.
“You can watch.”
“I’d like to watch you later with your new friend.”
“Jealous?”
She stretched her legs. “Abu Yusef isn’t my type.”
“Unfortunately you’re not his type either.”
“Let him work,” Elie said.
Gideon added a few drops of gasoline to a small container of explosive powder and mixed it. He scooped out the paste, shaped it into a ball, and inserted a miniature fuse. Bathsheba held a square of aluminum foil in her palm, and he placed the black ball in the center, wrapping it and smoothing out the creases. Using liquid adhesive, he glued the pieces of peeled skin to the foil, forming a fake orange, marked by a knife to ease its peeling.
“It won’t kill him,” Bathsheba said. “It’s too small.”
“Depends where it explodes,” Gideon said. “Location, location, location.”
*
Abu Yusef walked into the villa with Bashir. The men gathered around them. He held up the briefcase and declared, “In the name of Allah, we’re in business!”
The men cheered.
“The world is about to hear us! Forty-seven lessons on one day! And then again, another forty-seven! And another! Until blood spews out of their ears!”
Everyone cheered again.
Bashir stepped forward. “Now to practical details. We received word from our French hosts. They prefer that we leave the country as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “You have until midnight to pack up and be ready to go. I will have operational instructions and cash ready for each team. Allah’s blessings upon you, heroes of Palestine!”
Abu Yusef shook each man’s hand as they left the room. He would follow them out of France after completing the job for Prince Abusalim and collecting the second half of the money.
He carried the briefcase to his bedroom. He placed it on the bed, opened it, and marveled at the green bills. He wished Latif could be here to celebrate this new beginning. He sighed, and thought of the foreign currency manager at the bank. Why not? Better to celebrate with an attractive stranger than alone.
The piece of paper had a Paris number on it. He sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed.
*
At 8:07 p.m., the phone attached to the outside line rang. Gideon let it ring twice before answering. Elie heard the conversation through the speaker. Abu Yusef suggested meeting Grant at the corner of the Champs Elysees near the Obelisque.
Elie stubbed his cigarette in a cup of stale coffee. “Let’s get ready.”
“Party time,” Bathsheba said. She pulled on a pair of leather boots with high heels, which made her buttocks stick out under the black miniskirt. Her legs seemed endless in their mesh-black stockings. She put on a black jacket over a red tank top. A chain of glass pearls and a pair of gold coins as earrings completed the look.
In the car, she pulled off the boots in order to drive. Traffic was heavy, but they reached Place de La Concorde a few minutes early and parked on the south side. Gideon got out and shouldered a knapsack. He waited for a brief break in traffic and crossed the square, careful not to slip on the cobblestones. Past the Obelisque, he reached the north corner of the Champs Elysees, where he leaned against a street lamp. He was dressed in gray slacks and a blue jacket, and his red tie flapped in the breeze.
The blue BMW sedan sped around the square and stopped at the curb. Gideon got in, and the car drove off.
“There we go!” Elie cracked his window and tossed out his cigarette. “Don’t lose him!” The tension demanded more oxygen from his ailing lungs, and his chest felt as if a porcupine had moved in.
Bathsheba engaged first gear and looked over her shoulder in search of an opening in traffic.
“ Go!”
“I’m trying.” She released the clutch, but a car raced by, causing her to hit the brake. The engine died. “Damn Frogs!” She restarted and pulled into traffic without a glance, tires screeching. A man shouted something in French through his open window, and she yelled back, “Asshole!”
The BMW was out of sight. Elie leaned forward, his nose almost touching the windshield, and searched through the river of cars that flooded the Champs Elysees. A passing car’s headlights shone on him, and he saw his reflection in the glass-a narrow face and two hollow, dark eyes under the black wool cap.
Bathsheba gripped the steering wheel with two hands and raced up the Champs Elysees. She swerved left and right to get ahead, cut cars with barely room to spare, and earned a lot of honking.
“You lost him,” Elie said, peering ahead. “Not good!”
*
Abu Yusef was relieved to see the young man waiting at the appointed place and time. His worries of a last-minute change of heart now put to rest, he settled back and relaxed, his left arm resting on the black briefcase that held his fortune, his right hand in Grant’s lap. The back seat of the BMW 740iL felt like a tranquil island amidst the intensity of city traffic, but the young man’s hand was cold, a sign of nervousness. It was understandable, a bank clerk of modest means on a date with a very wealthy suitor-who was really a dangerous guerilla fighter! Abu Yusef chuckled at the thought.
Grant smiled in the dark.
It would be a thrilling tryst, a fitting conclusion to the most successful day in Abu Yusef’s life. Money to spend, loyal men to implement his synchronized, Europe-wide attacks, and thousands of potential recruits to join his group. Munich had been a modest success compared to what awaited the world. His chest was too tight to contain all his pride and excitement. He felt alive!
Bashir steered the large car effortlessly among the crazy French drivers. His eyes occasionally left the road and checked the rearview mirror for a tail. He had objected to this rendezvous, pacified only by the argument that it would be months, maybe years, before Abu Yusef again would have the opportunity to pursue a chance encounter with a willing, alluring companion without fear of detection.
After a series of sudden turns and aimless cruising, they were back at the circle around the Arc de Triomphe. Reassured that no one was following them, Bashir seemed calmer, driving with one hand as he turned down Avenue De Friedland. Abu Yusef trembled with excited anticipation. In a few minutes, secluded in the privacy of a hotel room, they would be free to go at each other, and this young man would give himself completely, surrender without resistance, do as he was told!
*
They had lost Abu Yusuf’s BMW on Champs Elysees, and had circled the Arc De Triomphe several times, scanning each avenue and boulevard to no avail. Elie decided to wait, reasoning that Bashir would return to the huge circle once he was satisfied that no one was following. Bathsheba found a place to linger at the corner of Avenue Kleber, and they watched the hundreds of cars that drained into the circle from all directions. As Elie had predicted, the BMW eventually reappeared.
“I’m impressed,” Bathsheba said, “you called his next move.”
“Bashir had to come back here to reorient himself. Now he’ll go straight to a cheap hotel that rents rooms by the hour.”
This time, Bathsheba stuck to the BMW with only a few cars separating them. She counted on Bashir’s false sense of security.
*
Abu Yusuf felt his pulse rising, accompanied by a happy lightheadedness. Avenue De Friedland became Boulevard Haussmann. They were getting closer. At Chaussee D’Antin, Bashir waited for a green light and took Rue La Fayette all the way to the Gare du Nord-the city’s railway station for all northbound travelers. He eased into an alley and parked under a yellowish neon sign: Pinnacle Motel.
They got out of the car. It was quiet except for the music from a bar at the corner.
Bashir grabbed Grant’s knapsack.
“It’s okay.” Abu Yusef put a calming hand on Grant’s arm, and they watched Bashir empty the bag on the hood of the car. His callous hand sorted through the objects-a book, a wallet, a magazine about motorcycles, and an orange. Bashir threw the book into the bag, then the wallet and the magazine. He held up the orange and examined it against the street light. The shining skin had been marked by a knife. Bashir turned the orange and put his thumb under the stamped word: Jaffa.
Abu Yusef said, “My friend’s family once owned a citrus grove in Jaffa.”
The bank clerk nodded, and Abu Yusef realized how alien their political grievances must appear to this young Frenchman.
Bashir dropped the orange into the bag and quickly frisked Grant’s body. “I called your bank’s headquarters,” he said. “In Paris. They never heard of Grant Guerra.”
“ I’d be surprised if they did,” the answer came without hesitation. “We have over four hundred branches and seven thousand employees. But they’ll know my name when I’m chairman of the board.”
Even Bashir smiled at this response, and Abu Yusef breathed in relief. He had high expectations for tonight and didn’t want the mood spoiled before the pleasure began. He tilted his head at the car, signaling Bashir to watch the briefcase, which rested on the passenger’s seat.
*
Bathsheba parked the car around the corner from the Pinnacle. Elie got out and peeked. He could see Bashir’s head through the rear window.
“It’s getting cold,” she said.
“ It was colder in the attic,” Elie said, “when I watched a bunch of German soldiers kill my siblings. They used the knives my father sharpened daily for the ritual slaughter of kosher animals. I heard my brother explain to my baby sister that it wouldn’t hurt-a quick nick and she’d fall asleep, just like the lambs. But one of the Germans heard him so they cut her belly open and laughed as she screamed.”
For the first time since she’d join SOD, Bathsheba was speechless.
“ They’re beasts.” Elie pulled the wool cap down over his ears. “The Germans. The French. The Arabs. All of them. Beasts. Don’t forget it. They’re the beasts and we’re the lambs.”
“ Get back in the car,” she said. “Gideon can manage by himself.”
“ Redundancy is the key to success.” Elie touched the handle of the blade that was sheathed against his thigh. The pain was gone from his chest. The net was suspended above his prey, ready to drop. He felt like the fearless youth he had once been, kneeling in deep snow by an Alpine road with Abraham Gerster, ready to take revenge on another Nazi.
*
The room on the third floor smelled of hashish and unwashed bodies. The plastic shade over the lamp on the night table was painted with red leaves and green flowers, which threw bleak shadows on the walls. A stained quilt covered the bed. A fan turned slowly above.
Gideon put his knapsack on the bed. Before he could turn, Abu Yusef’s hands encircled his waist, and the soft belly pressed against his back. He shuddered in disgust as moist lips slurped his nape.
“Ah, Grant!”
An overwhelming tide of nausea swept Gideon as Abu Yusef’s hands grabbed his crotch. The room rolled around him, and he took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. This brought about a series of lustful sighs from behind, and Gideon raised his hands to absorb the impact as he was thrown facedown onto the bed, the Arab atop him, thrusting, breathing faster. A tongue stuck deep into his ear.
In panic, Gideon rolled aside, pushing him off.
Abu Yusef was panting hard. He slipped his fingers into Gideon’s curls, clutching hard. “You’re just so sexy!”
He forced a smile. “ Merci. ”
Abu Yusef seemed bothered by something. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a round object. As he placed it on the bed, Gideon realized it was a hand grenade.
*
Any feelings of inadequacy evaporated when Abu Yusef saw Grant’s apprehension. He had planned to impress the young banker with the grenade, and the effect was magical. Overweight and out of breath after a few minutes of lustful physical exertion, he was still a warrior, a brave man, who inspired awe in young men. It had been the same with Latif, may he rest in peace.
“Is this a real bomb?”
Abu Yusef sat up on the bed. “Don’t be afraid. It’s not going to explode-unless I make it go off.”
Grant nodded, but his face remained tense, and he glanced at his knapsack on the bed. He must be thinking of leaving, Abu Yusef realized. “I’m experienced with weapons. It’s very safe if you know what you’re doing.”
“ Really?”
Abu Yusef held up the grenade. “If you pull this ring and the pin comes out, it’s four seconds.” He made a sudden motion with his hands and yelled, “Boom!”
The laughter brought them closer, but clearly the bank clerk was not yet ready to take off his clothes. Abu Yusef got down from the bed, placed the grenade on the floor, and pushed apart Grant’s knees. They parted reluctantly, so he pushed harder, which excited him even more. “Let me pleasure you. Don’t be afraid.”
“ Okay…but go slow.”
“Sit back, and I’ll take care of you.” Abu Yusef leaned forward and kissed the rough cloth of Grant’s trousers, his hand reaching down to unzip his own fly.
*
The hardest part was not to vomit. Gideon’s hands rested on Abu Yusef’s shoulders. He wished he could just strangle the Arab. He could try. He was younger. But Abu Yusef was bigger and heavier.
Stick to the plan!
He looked down at the Arab’s head digging in his groin, heard the sounds of slurping and groaning. From above, the sight of the thinning, oily hair made him convulse. Abu Yusef reached for the grenade on the floor, held it, rubbed it against himself, while his kissing lips searched through Gideon’s trousers for a trace of an erection. It would not be long before he realized this was a one-sided affair.
Gideon swallowed to push down a tide of sickness. He reached into the knapsack with one hand and found the orange. He tore off the skin with the underlying foil and held the small ball in his fist.
His face still buried in Gideon’s groin, Abu Yusef lifted the grenade and pressed it to Gideon’s chest. The sight of the live grenade in the Arab’s hand was unsettling. Would Abu Yusef manage to pull out the fuse in the last minute and take Gideon’s life with his own?
There was no time for contemplation. Gideon brought the tiny bomb to his mouth, and closed his teeth on the head of the tiny fuse. At the same time, he placed the palm of his right hand on Abu Yusef’s forehead. The Arab shook with lust, his motions intensifying, biting into Gideon’s crotch, his teeth plowing the pants. Gideon pushed on the sweaty forehead, tilting back the head, and Abu Yusef’s face turned upward, the mouth gaping, dripping with saliva, the eyes wide and partly blinded by the light. Gideon’s left hand pulled the small ball, the fuse pin remaining between his teeth, and dropped the ball into the Arab’s gaping mouth, shoving it deeper with his thumb until it slid far down the back of the mouth into the throat.
Abu Yusef gagged. He tried to breathe. His mustachioed face stricken by incomprehension, his hands-the right one still holding the grenade-reached for his throat.
“ Swallow!” Gideon forced the Arab’s jaw to close and slapped him across the face. “It’s good for you.”
There was a sound resembling a hiccup, and the ball of explosives slid down into Abu Yusef’s stomach.
Gideon kicked him in the chest, sending him to the floor, and rolled over the bed to the opposite side, landing behind it.
*
Elie passed by the BMW, a little old man in a winter coat and a wool cap, hunched and slow, drawing no attention from Bashir Hamami, who sat inside with the engine running. Up the three steps, he was gone through the wood-and-glass doors into the motel.
The night manager asked, “ Que veux tu? ”
Elie handed him a few bills. “Two men came in a little while ago, one much younger.”
“Room thirty-two.” He pointed at the stairs. “Third floor on the right.”
Elie climbed up the stairs. Reaching the third floor, he paused on the landing to catch his breath. A door cracked open, and Gideon beckoned him in.
Abu Yusef was lying on the carpet, red foam dripping from his mouth. His eyes glared, frozen in horror. His pants were bundled around his ankles, and bloody feces piled by his naked buttocks.
“ You used too much explosives.”
“Next time I’ll use a fake grape.”
Elie leaned over the dead face. “ Nekamah,” he said quietly. “Revenge.” He handed Gideon a Polaroid camera he’d carried under his coat.
The camera ejected each photograph with a buzzing sound as it recorded Abu Yusef’s humiliating end.
“ The money is in the car,” Gideon said as they stepped out of the room. “A black briefcase.”
Downstairs, Elie went out first. He ambled past the BMW, his collar pulled up against the cold. At the corner he told Bathsheba, “Be careful. He’s clever and vicious.”
“He’s a pig.” She strolled down the street, her heels knocking on the cobblestones.
Elie watched from behind the corner. He saw Bashir’s head turn, following Bathsheba as she walked by the car, her long, sculpted legs in black stockings, the leather miniskirt swaying.
She paused by the Pinnacle and pulled a cigarette from her cleavage. She stooped and looked at Bashir through the car windshield.
His window slid down. He flipped on a lighter and reached out with both hands, shielding the small flame.
“Nice car,” Bathsheba said. “Are you German?”
He grinned.
She put the cigarette between her lips and leaned on his hands. The tip of the cigarette entered the flame, and she drew in, blowing the smoke in his face. Her fingers closed around his right wrist, weighing down on it. Her grip must have been firmer than he had expected, yet her smile was disarmingly lurid. Elie was impressed by her coolness.
The burning cigarette fell from her mouth. “My father died in Munich.”
She was taking too long. Elie started toward the BMW while reaching under his coat for the blade.
Bashir dropped the lighter and pulled his hands back in. But Bathsheba was ready. Her right hand rose, and the black barrel of the handgun, lengthened by a silencer, pointed at Bashir’s chest. It coughed twice, and his body jerked with each shot. She brought the end of the silencer to her lips and blew on it.
Gideon emerged from the motel and approached the BMW while Bathsheba was walking back toward Elie, slow in high heels over the cobblestones. Elie sheathed the blade, relieved. He beckoned them to hurry up as a group of Frenchmen emerged from the bar up the street, blabbering loudly.
The BMW’s white reverse lights came on.
Gideon reached under his coat for a gun he didn’t have. Elie opened his mouth to warn Bathsheba, but the engine roared and the tires screeched.
She turned abruptly and lost her balance, falling down. Gideon was on the pavement within reach of the BMW, but there was nothing he could do as the large car leaped backward. Bathsheba tried to get up, but she was too slow. Her hands rose in futile defense as the rear bumper hit her. The car continued, the right wheels running over Bathsheba’s extended legs, crushing her bones in a series of sickening crunches. The car jumped the curb and hit the wall of a building.
His perforated chest dark with blood, Bashir turned slowly and looked at Elie through the passenger-side window, his face a mixture of pain and satisfaction. Up the street, the bar patrons yelled, and a few of them approached what seemed like a drunk driver running over a prostitute. Elie crossed the street, leaned on the car, and inserted the blade just above Bashir’s collarbone, sliding it downward into his chest cavity. For a second he felt the Arab’s heart muscles flutter against the blade. He twisted and pulled it out, while Bashir uttered a last groan.
Gideon sprinted to Bathsheba. He grabbed her arms, pulled her up over his shoulders, and hurried to the Citroen. They laid her on the back seat, legs folded up.
Pulling Abu Yusef’s hand grenade from the knapsack, Gideon ran back to the BMW. He snatched the heavy briefcase from the passenger seat, tore out the fuse from the grenade, and tossed it in.
As they raced away, a ball of fire exploded behind them.
Gideon made a sharp turn, and in the back seat Bathsheba cried, “ Daddy! ”
A moment later she became quiet. Glancing back, he saw her open eyes, not moving.
*
Dr. Geloux took a while to get downstairs from his living quarters. He unlocked the front door and let them into the clinic. Gideon lowered Bathsheba on an examination table. Her face was gray and blank. He closed her eyelids.
There was a telephone in the outer office. “Make the calls,” Elie said.
Gideon called the police station in Ermenonville. He told the attending officer that he lived on Boulevard Royale and was hearing explosions and the staccato of automatic weapons from the direction of a villa surrounded by a brick wall. He made similar calls to the police stations in neighboring Senlis and Chantilly.
Dr. Geloux joined them a few minutes later. “Terrible shame,” he said. “Such a beautiful young woman.”
Gideon dropped into a chair. He felt cold and empty.
Elie handed Dr. Geloux an envelope with the photographs they had taken of Abu Yusef’s dead body. “We have to leave Paris immediately. Please take this to the nearest TV station. Tell them it’s Abu Yusef. His body is at the Pinnacle Motel near Gare du Nord, room thirty-two.”
Dr. Geloux put the envelope in his pocket.
Elie opened the black briefcase and took out a bundle of bills. “Hide this briefcase. We’ll come back for it.”
The doctor pushed it into a closet.
“ Let’s go,” Elie said.
Gideon stood. “What about Bathsheba?”
“ She made a mistake and paid for it. Nothing we could do.” Elie turned to Dr. Geloux. “Call the Israeli embassy, leave word for Tanya Galinski. She’ll make the arrangements to ship the body to Israel for a proper burial.”
“Tanya Galinski?” The doctor scratched his chin. “Is she a petite woman, with dark hair, a porcelain face, and the bearing of a princess?”
“ Yes,” Elie said, “that would be Tanya. Why?”
“ She was here yesterday, looking for you.”
“ Here? ” Elie gripped Gideon’s arm. “We must leave! Now!”
When they opened the door to exit the clinic, several quiet men pointed guns at them.
Tanya appeared from the shadows. “Shalom, Elie.”
*
Thursday, October 26, 1995
The El Al jumbo jet stood on the tarmac far from the main terminal at Charles De Gaulle Airport. Several armored police vehicles guarded the plane. The first group of passengers crossed the short distance from the bus to the stairs. Gideon watched them through the window on the upper deck. A Mossad agent guarded the door, occasionally whispering to his wristwatch.
Some of the first-class seats had been removed to make room for Bathsheba’s coffin and Elie’s hospital bed. He was asleep. His skin was almost transparent, and his facial bones gave him a skeletal appearance. A nurse attended to his IV bags and the heart monitor.
While the flight attendants downstairs recited the emergency instructions for use of exits and oxygen masks, Tanya Galinski showed up with a small entourage. She greeted Gideon with a nod. He turned away, adjusted the small pillow against the fuselage, and closed his eyes.
*
Pierre was ready for Prince Abusalim in the bathroom with a jar of warm lather and soft music on the radio. He fastened the cape around the prince’s neck, lowered the back of the barber chair, and laid a steamed towel over his eyes. He applied the lather to the prince’s cheeks and chin while on the radio Jacques Brel sang “ Regarde Bien Petite. ”
The blade was like a musical instrument in Pierre’s hand, hovering near the skin so lightly that Prince Abusalim barely felt it. Pierre worked slowly, patiently, humming with Brel as he stretched each plot of skin and slid the blade.
His eyes closed under the soothing facecloth, Prince Abusalim thought about the dramatic events that would unfold in the next few days, paving the path to the restoration of the family’s greatness and his own eternal fame. Pierre was done with the left side, and the prince heard him shuffle around the chair. Brel continued singing, but Pierre stopped humming.
The prince began to wonder. He pulled the warm towel off his eyes and tried to sit up, but strong hands held him down.
The barber was gone. Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah looked back from the mirror, his brown skin and white hair oddly out of place in the dark business suit that replaced his robe and kafiya. He held Pierre’s blade. His sun-beaten face radiated raw power. Two men stood by the chair, holding the prince down.
The hajj took out a pocket-size cassette player and placed it on the counter among the toiletries. He leaned over Prince Abusalim and brought the blade to the skin, moving it down, marking a dark path in the white lather. When the hajj placed the blade for a second take, the voices came from the small cassette player:
“ Our operation last week was just the beginning. Allah will bring us victory. And he will bless you with fortunes ten times your generosity.”
Prince Abusalim recognized Abu Yusef’s voice and tried to rise, only to be pushed down. He heard his own voice reply: “Yes. I think He will. How much do you need?”
“The fight is long and costly. Very costly.”
“ Truth is, I’m having some difficulties right now.”
“ I understand.” Abu Yusef paused. “Can we help?”
“There is a man who stands in my way. He will be in Paris soon.”
“We shall be honored to remove that man from your way.”
“ Five million dollars.”
“Excellency! Your friendship alone is a sufficient gift. But of course, we accept!”
“ Good. I’ll arrange to transfer half the amount. Call me on Wednesday morning for the details. The other half will be paid after you remove him.”
“ Agreed! And who is that dog, that filthy infidel, who dared to stand in your way?”
“Turn it off!” Prince Abusalim again struggled to sit up, but fell back, defeated, his own condemning words coming from the counter:
“That man is my father, Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. My father will be in Paris next week. I’ll let you know where he’s staying. And I don’t want him to suffer. A clean job, that’s what I’m looking for.”
“Your own father? Allah’s mercy!”
“ Can you do it?”
“ Ah, well, for the freedom of Palestine, five million-”
The hajj’s fingers tightened around Prince Abusalim’s wavy mane, holding his head back against the headrest. He slid the blade down the prince’s cheek, taking bristles and skin with it. “Stealing from your father to pay for his murder?”
The prince shouted, “Get your hands off me, slave! ”
“I’m proud to serve.” The hajj looked down at him. “Your father is a great man.” He pushed up the back of the barber chair until Prince Abusalim was sitting up straight, the white cape around his neck, the hajj’s left hand tightly clenched in his hair. The other hand held the blade to the prince’s neck. “Your father is my master, not you!”
“And my father must have told you not to harm me!”
“ Do not raise your hand to my boy! He did say that.”
“ Then obey! Or you’ll pay dearly!”
“But I must protect my master, especially when his kind heart could cause his demise. I’ve known you since the moment you came out of your mother’s womb. You won’t wait for Allah to take your father in old age. You’re a menace, and I’m your father’s protector.”
“ If you kill me, my father will never forgive you!”
“ All the same, I must do my duty. Now beg for Allah’s forgiveness.” The hajj’s hand pulled hard on Prince Abusalim’s hair, tilting his head back. With one quick movement, he slashed the prince’s throat from ear to ear.
In the mirror, Prince Abusalim saw blood burst out of his slashed throat. At first there was no pain, but soon a fire spread from his throat to his chest and arms, and in another moment his whole body was burning. He tried to move but couldn’t. The blood oozed down onto the white cape. He tried to talk, his jaw moving up and down without sound. The air that left his lungs never reached his vocal cords but slurped out through his severed trachea. He realized that this was the sound of his last breath. In desperation, his hands rose to stem the flow of blood, but he slumped, powerless. His head dropped forward, his eyes still open, seeing only red.
*
Gideon woke up as the jetliner crossed the coastline south of Tel Aviv. Hebrew music played on the speakers, “ We bring shalom upon you .” The small TV screen above the aisle showed a video clip produced by the Israeli Ministry of Tourism, with flowers and sunshine and deep blue water splashed by a passing windsurfing board and a pretty woman on a grinning camel.
Down below, Gideon saw the cigar-like shadow of the plane on the blue water, the sandy Tel Aviv beach, and the strip of five-star hotels. The jetliner tipped its wings eastward. The roar of its engines drew up the tiny faces of fishermen on the rocky pier of Jaffav›
They descended in a wide crescent over Ramla and Lod, touched down on a runway that bordered well-groomed fields, and came to a final stop a few hundred feet from the main terminal.
On the upper deck, a side door opened to welcome a hydraulic ramp. Men in El Al uniforms rolled out Bathsheba’s coffin and Elie’s hospital bed.
Gideon followed them onto the ramp, which descended to the ground. Feather clouds floated above, and the warm rays of the sun shone on Elie’s face. He opened his eyes, and his hand felt about until it found the heavy bible, which rested on the sheets by his side. Gideon had placed it there last night, after helping Tanya and her Mossad agents clear out the suite at the Hilton.
Elie curled a finger.
Gideon leaned over the bed to listen.
“ Call Zurich,” Elie whispered. “Hoffgeitz Bank. Wilhelm Horch. Tell him to launch CFS.”
“Tell him what?”
“Launch…CFS.”
“Hey!” One of Tanya’s agents ran over. “No talking!”
Gideon gestured dismissively. “He’s confused. What did you give him?”
A plane was taking off nearby, and the ground quivered with the thunderous roar of its engines.
Screeching tires made him turn. Two white Subaru sedans, each with several antennas, let out men in civilian clothes. The leader was a smallish man in his thirties with dark complexion, rust-colored hair, and a blue blazer. He flashed an identification card at Tanya. “I’m Agent Cohen from the Shin Bet. We’ll take over from here.”
Tanya’s team stepped forward, surrounding her protectively.
Gideon watched the confrontation with interest. Cohen was a generic last name that filled several pages in the telephone directory. His accent revealed a Sephardic background, probably from Iraq or Morocco. The Shin Bet, Israel’s domestic security agency, primarily engaged in counter-terror and anti-spying activities. Many of its agents were Sephardic Jews, first or second generation immigrants from Arab countries, who were able to easily infiltrate Palestinian organizations and recruit informants.
“I am Tanya Galinski,” she said.
“ I know. An honor to meet you.”
“ What’s your first name, Agent Cohen?”
“ It’s classified.” He grinned.
“ Do you know who this is?” She gestured at the hospital bed standing in the sun.
“Elie Weiss, Special Operations Department. Now retired.” Agent Cohen placed a hand possessively on Elie’s bedrail. “As you are aware, Shin Bet has jurisdiction over all clandestine activities inside Israel.”
“That’s the law, but-“I
“He’s our responsibility now.”
“But we need to question him about his activities overseas, which is Mossad’s jurisdiction.”
“We’ll make him available to you in a few days.” Cohen beckoned to his men. They rolled Elie’s bed into an ambulance marked with a red Star of David and loaded Bathsheba’s coffin into a hearse. Both vehicles drove off, disappearing around the terminal building. The Shin Bet team got back into their Subaru sedans.
Tanya walked over to Cohen’s window. “What Shin Bet department are you with?”
“ Yehida Le’Avtahat Isihim.”
Gideon was surprised. The VIP Protection Unit provided bodyguards for senior government officials. Did it also conduct investigative operations? Their sudden appearance here implied that they did. But why were they interested in Elie Weiss?
Tanya tilted her head at the departing ambulance. “Are you taking him into protective custody? Because I really need access to him-”
“No problem.” Agent Cohen’s car began to move. “We’ll be in touch.”
*
Tanya watched the departing cars. How did Shin Bet know she was bringing Elie back? Perhaps someone at El Al Airlines was on the lookout? It would have been better to question him in Paris, find out about his network and how close he had come to Klaus’s fortune. The small, leather-bound ledger that Klaus had entrusted to her in 1945, which she had given to Elie in 1967, was nowhere to be found in Elie’s hotel suite or among his belongings. Where was he hiding it? Without the ledger she had no basis to approach the Hoffgeitz Bank.
And why was Shin Bet so eager to take custody of Elie before Mossad had a chance to properly question him? The Abu Yusef assassination clearly fell under Mossad’s overseas jurisdiction. Something was up, and she was piqued. Did they know about the Nazi fortune? Everyone in the upper echelons of the small Israeli intelligence community envied the financial independence of SOD and its consequent freedom from bureaucratic budgetary constraints. But Elie’s operation had always been tiny in comparison, too little for anyone at Shin Bet or Mossad to make a move to take over SOD. And as far as Tanya knew, only Abraham and Elie were aware of the plundered fortune her Nazi lover had deposited with the Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich fifty years earlier. Had Elie managed to put his hands on it?
She turned to her agents. “I’ll see you at headquarters tomorrow morning.”
They departed toward the main terminal, and she held Gideon’s arm, following behind. “Gidi’leh, how long have you worked for Elie?”
“Three years.”
“ Do you know where he got the money to finance SOD operations?”
“ I know where he got the orders-from the prime minister.”
“Elie was his own man. He took no orders.”
“Why do you use the past tense? He’s not dead yet.”
There was no point in arguing. She stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the terminal. “What are your plans?”
“ I’d like to continue to serve.”
“ Well, SOD has just gone out of business.”
“ Don’t be so sure. Elie believed in redundancy. He always had two tracks going on at the same time.”
“Not when it came to himself. SOD was his show, and it’s retiring with him. It’s over. Would you like me to talk to Bira about a position for you at Hebrew University’s archeology department?”
“In exchange for information?”
The sun was in her eyes, and Tanya used her hand as a visor. “I’ll help you no matter what. But you care about Israel’s security, don’t you? Elie spent decades building a network of agents in Europe, possibly elsewhere. And he’s got money for operations. Why should his agents and funds go to waste?”
“ I can’t help you. Elie traveled on his own, conducted hushed telephone conversations, and told us only what we needed to know. He kept things strictly compartmentalized.”
“ How about a notebook? A computer file? Any lists?”
“ None that I saw, other than the files concerning Abu Yusef.”
“We got those. Do you know names? Contacts? Locations?”
“ Sorry.”
She sensed that he was holding back. “Come by Bira’s house later. Her vines have ripened late this year, red and juicy. I’ll have her squeeze a pitcher for us, okay?”
Gideon smiled.
They passed through the wide doors into the main terminal and were greeted by the familiar air of impatience and excitement. The place was bustling with passengers and luggage carts. Loudspeakers played Hebrew music. They were home.
*
Tanya’s team had tried to pry information from him in Paris the night before, but Elie had laughed at them. So they had put him to sleep, and now he was back in Israel. He held his bible, which gave him confidence that his plans would proceed despite this interruption. The switch at the airport had troubled him. It was all temporary, of course, until the deal with Rabin materialized. But why was Shin Bet so eager to take him in? He could hardly think with the drugs still in his system.
From the sights outside the window Elie could tell the ambulance was traveling east, across the Ayalon Valley on the Tel Aviv-Jerusalem Expressway. He glanced at the nurse, a plain, middle-aged woman, who sat on the bench with the patience of one used to long hours on the job.
The ambulance slowed down and took an exit ramp. A moment later it stopped on the side of the road. The nurse opened the rear doors and stepped out. Elie saw a gray Cadillac stop behind the ambulance.
A man in oversized sunglasses came out of the Cadillac and climbed into the ambulance. The doors closed, and a moment later they were moving again.
Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin sat on the bench and took off his glasses. His face was wrinkled, his hair almost white, but his vital gruffness hadn’t changed.
Elie cleared his throat. “Shalom, Yitzhak.”
“ Welcome home, Weiss.” Unlike most of his generation, Yitzhak Rabin was a born Israeli, not an immigrant from Europe, and his Hebrew was free of any Diaspora accent. “How’re you feeling?”
“In need of a major overhaul.” Elie coughed.
“The doctors at Hadassah Hospital will put you back on your feet.” Rabin leaned closer. “You’ve done Israel a great service by removing Al-Mazir, Abu Yusef, and their Saudi sponsor. Arafat can now proceed with the third phase of the Oslo process. And you can finally rest.”
“Rest? I must get back to work. Great dangers ahead-”
“You’ve done enough.” Rabin tilted his head sideways, signaling impatience. “It’s the era of peace, my friend. Two states for two people.”
“ It’ll never happen if your government falls. I told you. Everything is lined up.”
“ I can’t accept your deal.”
So that’s what he came to say.
“ Don’t you want to stay in power? Don’t you want Oslo to succeed?”
Rabin shifted on the hard bench. “I can’t appoint you intelligence czar. Your agenda is too militant.”
“ Peace won’t work without it. Carrots need sticks. Our enemies need deterrence.”
“ You’re an old warrior. Me too. For us, peace is hard to believe in. But it’s happening.”
“ All the more reason to eliminate anti-Semitic germs before they infect those willing to make peace with us. My network will launch-”
“ Your time is over, Weiss. Retire, pass the torch, let other people do the job. We’ll take care of your people, of course, once you tell us who they are.”
Elie tried to speak, yet no voice sounded. He coughed again, and the burning in his chest blurred his vision. It was maddening that now, when he had finally managed to line up all his cards in a neat row, his own body was betraying him.
“Calm down, Weiss.” The prime minister rested his hand on Eli’s forearm. “Everything is taken care of.”
Feeling Yitzhak Rabin’s cool hand against his burning skin sent a shudder through Elie. It was a large hand, soft yet meaty, like a farmer’s hand that had been away from the plow for too long. This unexpected gesture of affection told Elie that this was a farewell visit, not the bargaining among equals he had expected. “Not yet.” He forced the words out. “There’s work to be done.”
Rabin smiled, his eyes creased. “Your life is a legend. I know better than anyone else that our victory in sixty-seven would have been a terrible defeat, a calamity, if not for your secret operation to destroy the UN radar. We owe you the glory of the Six Day War. And the Yom Kippur War, which could have been a second Holocaust if not for you. And now, our peace with Arafat would have been in peril if not for your decisive actions in Paris.”
“ There’s more-”
“ It’s time to say enough. You must cooperate with the Shin Bet in winding down your operations. It’s an order!”
Elie reached with great effort and grabbed the prime minister’s shirt. “Don’t you understand? I’m about to save you!”
“Save me?” Rabin laughed. “I have signed a peace agreement with Jordan, two interim agreements with the Palestinians-a dream come true! But when I come home at night, Orthodox hoodlums curse me and wave posters showing me in SS uniform. And to get Knesset approval for Oslo, I had to rely on the Arab members, and Shimon Peres had to bribe a member with a ministerial post and a staff car to get the tiebreaking vote. How can you help me? Get real!” The prime minister lit a cigarette, drawing on it a few times, filling the ambulance with smoke.
Elie extended his hand.
Rabin gave him the cigarette. “I don’t need killers anymore. I need peacemakers-doctors, scientists, entrepreneurs, farmers, builders. Your time has passed, Weiss, and my time will pass soon as well. History will recognize us for what we’ve done for our people-you in secret, me in public.”
The smoke filled Elie’s lungs. He let it out slowly. “I’ve set things in motion. To help you regain popularity.”
“ I’m not making deals.”
“ Imagine. A right-wing assassin. Caught red-handed. In public.” He drew from the cigarette and spoke while smoke came from his mouth. “In front of TV cameras. Your bulletproof vest shown to the world. The assassin’s bullets still stuck in it. You’ll bounce in the polls. You’ll win!”
“ I don’t like to wear a bulletproof vest.”
“ You should. You must!”
Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin got up, keeping his head bowed under the roof of the ambulance. He knocked three times on the partition separating the driver’s cabin. “I’ll win public opinion with peace, not with bullets.”
“ The wheels are already turning.” Elie rose on one elbow. “You’ll see! Each bullet’s worth a million votes-”
“ Shin Bet is dealing with local terrorists-Muslim Arabs, Orthodox Jews, whatever. They keep us safe. Keeps me safe.”
“ It’s my expertise.” Elie fought to keep his voice even. p his vOrthodox militants can bring down Israel. I still have assets.”
“ We have enough moles.” Rabin knocked on the partition again. “You’re very sick, Weiss. Make peace with the past. Take pride in what you’ve achieved. And share everything with the boys. Including your financial resources. We’re all on the same side, you know?”
“ Come on, Yitzhak.” Elie tried to smile, feeling the ambulance slow down. “We go a long way back. Once I’m recovered, we can do great things together. Say the word, and the doctors will save me. They kept Golda alive for ten years with lung cancer!”
“ Be well, Weiss.”
“ I have money for your campaign.” Elie’s voice was reduced to hoarse screeching. He grasped the heavy bible, lifting it. “Billions of dollars-”
The ambulance swerved to the side of the road, bumping over a pothole, and the bible dropped to the floor.
Rabin picked it up, put it on Elie’s chest, and stepped down from the ambulance. A few seconds later, his chauffeur-driven Cadillac departed toward Jerusalem with a hiss of its powerful engine.
The nurse reappeared. She fixed the pillow under Elie’s head. The ambulance continued on, shaking on the bumpy road.
He gestured at the small window. She opened it, and a soft breeze carried in the scents of Jerusalem pine. He watched the trees pass by, heard the whistles of sparrows, and contemplated his next move.
*
Tanya greeted the two soldiers at the entrance to the Mount Herzl Cemetery. She followed the path through the rows of rectangular gravestones, each bearing the name of a dead soldier. Elderly parents and a few young women tended to pots of flowers. An old man lounged in a beach chair, arguing with a headstone, his hands gesticulating in emphasis.
She reached Lemmy’s grave and knelt beside it to brush off the dust and dry leaves from a recent storm. Her movements were almost automatic after years of practice-a ritual she had kept since 1967, stopping by every time she visited Israel. A few pieces of gravel rested on the stone-a mourners’ custom. She counted six-one for each time Rabbi Gerster had visited his son since she had last cleaned the headstone. She sighed. O, Abraham, what pain we’ve caused each other.
With a handkerchief she cleaned the letters carved into the stone, shining each one patiently, and stepped back to look at the writing:
Private Jerusalem (“Lemmy”) Gerster
Killed in Battle, June 7, 1967
In the Defense of Israel
God Will Avenge His Blood
Tanya brushed off an errand leaf. She noticed age spots on the back of her hand. So many years had passed. Such a loss. Unfair. Lemmy would have been forty-six now, a g rown man with a family and a career. Successful. Happy. But no, he had been deprived of all the wonderful experiences of adult life. He was dead. Buried. Gone.
“Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
She turned, wiping her tears.
It was the old man with the beach chair, now folded under his arm. “Been away, eh?” His handlebar mustache moved with each word. It would have been comical if not for the wet lines down his creased cheeks.
Tanya nodded.
“ I visit my son every day. I’m retired, wife’s dead, so what else is there?”
“ I work,” she said, “to keep my mind busy.”
He gestured at Lemmy’s grave. “Your son?”
She hesitated. “Lover.”
“ Ah, well. That’s a different kind of pain.” The old man looked at Lemmy’s inscription, likely trying to calculate their age difference.
“ He was eighteen, I was thirty-seven.”
“ A boy with good taste.”
“ Thank you.” She thought for a moment, and then told the stranger what she had not told anyone else. “I killed him.”
He pointed to the stone. “Says here he was killed in battle. You don’t look Arab to me.”
“ If not for me, he wouldn’t have been on the Golan Heights. Or in the army.”
“ That explains it.” The man put down the folded chair and leaned on it like a crutch. “The men of Neturay Karta don’t enlist in the army.”
“ How do you know he was from Neturay Karta?”
“ I see his father here every once in a while. The infamous Rabbi Abraham Gerster, leader of the ultra-Orthodox fanatics. But he’s not the extremist the media made him out to be. A kind man, actually.”
“ True.” Tanya sighed. “And I took away his only child.”
“ Do you have any children?”
Tanya hesitated. “A daughter.”
“ No husband?”
She shook her head. No one but Elie and Abraham knew that her daughter, Professor Bira Galinski, was the daughter of SS Oberstgruppenfuhrer Klaus von Koenig, whom Abraham shot dead in the snowy forest one night near the end of World War II.
“ Guilt is the worst pain.” The man pointed at his son’s grave. “Shalom was our only child. Our pride and joy. A handsome, smart, miracle boy. Our precious Shalom.” He sighed. “An irony, isn’t it? We named our baby for peace, and he grew up to die in war.”
“ Yes,” Tanya said, choking on sudden tears. “An irony.”
“ As an only child, Shalom was supposed to serve in an office, far from the front. But I agreed to sign a consent form. He wanted to serve as a frogman. It was a matter of pride for him, to serve in a fighting unit, like his friends. And he had never asked for anything else. What could I do? Refuse his only request?” He stooped, as if all the air deflated from him. “ Ay, yai, yai. Don’t tell me about guilt. I hold a world record in guilt.”
“ I’m close behind you,” Tanya said. “If not for me seducing him, Lemmy would have stayed in the yeshiva, studying Talmud, becoming a rabbi. I often think of what he lost-all those beginnings that make life worth it-a wedding, a first child’s birth, a baby’s smile, the joys of a full life-”
“ Don’t beat yourself up.” The old man waved his hand. “Those black hats live in a kosher cocoon. At least you gave him a taste of real life before he died.”
She remembered Lemmy on top of her, inside her, crying her name, possessed by passion and joy. The memory made her smile. “Thank you for putting it in perspective.”
“ My pleasure.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Got to see the wife before dark. She’s at Sanhedriah Cemetery. So, shalom!”
“ Shalom.”
He turned toward his son’s grave and yelled, “See you tomorrow, Boychik! ”
Tanya sat on the ground by Lemmy’s grave. His face came to her, tanned under the military haircut, his blue eyes squinted in laughter, his lips moist and sweet and warm. Despite what the old man had said, the guilt would forever fester in her. She had won Lemmy’s heart, and his body too. But to achieve that, she had to tear him away from his world and put him on a path that took him to war and made him another statistic in the great victory of the Six Day War. And now, twenty-eight years later, Abraham was living as a monk among the ultra-Orthodox, and Tanya was working around the clock without a break lest her mind find the time to roam a regrettable past. And if she ever retired from Mossad, would she come here every day with a beach chair to carry on a conversation with a dead boy?
A while later she got up to leave. It was true, she realized, that the older you get, the fresher your memories become. Before she reached the gate, rain started to fall. She quickened her pace. The drizzle turned to a downpour. The guards hid under a canopy.
Bira leaned over and opened the passenger door. She held a pen between her teeth and a pile of students’ exams in her lap. “You’re soaked.” She handed Tanya a box of Kleenex.
The rain drummed on the roof of the car, and the water formed streams down the windshield, giving the world a distorted, gray appearance.
When she wiped her face, the thin tissue paper fell apart, the pieces sticking to Tanya’s skin. “Look at this. Who makes this junk?”
“ It’s not a bath towel, Mom.”
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Do you see these spots?” Tanya showed the back of her hand to Bira. “Like an old woman!”
Bira put the exams on the back seat and turned on the engine. “You’re sixty-seven. What do you expect? Acne?”
“ I expect nothing,” Tanya said. “I had misery when I was young and beautiful, so why should I care about getting old.”
“ Why don’t you retire and come live with us? The kids would love it. Eytan wants to build an extra bathroom to provide you with privacy. He’s giving a new meaning to the Oedipal complex-he’s in love with his mother-in-law!”
Tanya looked out the window at the passing views of wet sidewalks and people bent under umbrellas. “A man told me that he sees Abraham here often.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“ I wish you didn’t choose a career that runs so opposite to his people.”
“ You agree with what he said?” Bira quoted. “‘Archeologists incite hate and violence between secular and Orthodox Jews for the sake of meaningless clay shards!’”
“Here we go again.” Tanya sighed. “You could sympathize a tiny bit with his lifelong efforts to prevent fighting among Jews-”
“By appeasing those fanatical black hats?”
“Fine. You win.” Tanya looked away. “Let’s go home. I only have one night to spend with my grandkids.”
“Only one night?” Bira glanced at her mother while changing gears. “Can’t they leave you alone? You’ve done so much. Let others risk their lives.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not risking my life. I’m a government bureaucrat, a paper-pusher.”
“ I read the news, okay?” Bira drove slowly, staring forward through the mist left by the swishing wipers. “The Palestinian, Al-Mazir, killed in Paris. The attack on the synagogue. Abu Yusef’s macabre departure. The Saudi prince’s botched haircut. And the next day you suddenly show up in Jerusalem with a nasty bruise on your forehead, looking like you’ve been up for a week straight. I’m not stupid, and you’re too old to dodge bullets.”
“ Rabin is older than me. And Golda Meir was even older when she took office. Maybe I’ll run for prime minister? Shamir left Mossad to enter politics.”
“You took over his job, didn’t you?”
Tanya looked at her with surprise. “Shamir ran the Europe desk before me. But we are very different.”
“I hope so. Had Shamir won another term as prime minister, we would still have no hope of peace. I couldn’t wait for Rabin to beat him in ninety-two.”
“Me too,” Tanya said quietly. “Me too.”
*
“ Herr Horch?” Christopher was on the intercom. “There’s a call for you. From Jerusalem.”
“From whom?” A cold front passed through Lemmy’s chest.
“ He says his name is Grant Guerra.”
“From Senlis?”
“It’s the same name, but the call came from Jerusalem through the international operator. It’s a collect call.”
“I’ll take it.” Lemmy had seen the news of Abu Yusef’s gruesome assassination and the ensuing firefight at the villa in Ermenonville, where most of his men were either killed or injured in a massive police raid. A clever setup, vintage Elie Weiss. But why would Elie’s agent call from Jerusalem?
Christopher transferred the call, and it rang on Lemmy’s desk.
“ Yes?”
“ Herr Horch?”
“ Speaking.”
“ Have I reached the right person?”
“ There is no other banker in Zurich with my name, if that’s your concern.”
“ Good. Are we alone?”
“ I’m alone in my office. As to the open international phone line you’re calling on, we might as well be shouting at each other across Bahnhofstrasse.” Lemmy switched his computer to the video portal.
There was hesitation, as if the caller was framing his sentences with great caution. “You saw the news from Paris?”
“ I watch CNN like everyone else. How can I help you?”
“ It’s about E.W. You know who he is?”
“ What is this about?”
“ He’s been confined.”
“ Yes?”
“ He ordered me to call you, tell you to launch CFS.”
“ Say again?” Lemmy looked at his computer screen and saw Christopher at his desk, holding the receiver to his ear, his hand on the mouthpiece.
“ E.W. wants you to launch CFS. I don’t know what it means.”
“ Neither do I,” Lemmy lied. “You called the wrong number. This is a bank in Zurich. We don’t launch anything. Good day.”
“ Wait! You transferred the money-”
Lemmy hung up. On the screen he saw Christopher put down his receiver. Why was his assistant listening in on the conversation? Lemmy put the thought aside. The message from Israel was more important right now. Elie had looked sick at their last meeting, and his order to get rid of Herr Hoffgeitz and expedite the takeover of the bank had implied the urgency of a man whose time was running out. And then he had phoned Armande and scared him into a heart attack. And now this! The order was clear. Launch CFS! Launch Counter Final Solution!
How was he supposed to launch it? The money was within reach, but what about an organizational chart, detailed plans, lists of agents? Everything had been Elie’s exclusive domain. He had hinted about sleeper agents, ready to activate at any time. But how was Lemmy supposed to find their names and contact information? Perhaps someone else would soon be activated, ordered to make contact. For now, it was clear that his task only was to penetrate Herr Hoffgeitz’s veil of secrecy and take possession of the Koenig account. Perhaps that’s what Elie had meant with his order.
*
Bira’s home was in Ramot, a suburb of two-story homes built of roughly cut Jerusalem stones. Her oldest son, Yuval, was home on leave from the army. There were three other children-two girls in their teens and a nine-year-old boy who walked around the house wearing Yuval’s red beret.
As they sat down for an early dinner, the doorbell rang. Bira went to the door and returned with Gideon. He was introduced to everyone. The girls giggled and whispered in each other’s ears.
Tanya led Gideon to the small garden in the back, where they sat at a white plastic table. Three bicycles in different sizes leaned against the wall near a barbecue grill covered by a piece of stained gray cloth. A fence with climbing vines separated them from the next house, but the back of the garden was open to the east, where arid hills stretched all the way to the glistening lights of a distant Arab village.
Tanya rubbed her hands to warm up. “Isn’t it good to be home?”
“Mom’s happy.”
Bira brought a pitcher of fresh grape juice and cookies. She poured the juice into plastic cups. “Why don’t you stop by the university tomorrow? A Bedouin man has brought us a piece of clay with Aramaic writing. He found it near the Dead Sea. We’ll start a dig as soon as I can find financing.”
He watched Bira return to the house. She was tall and big-boned, with shoulder-length blonde hair. “She doesn’t look like you,” he said.
“More like her father.”
“You did a good job raising her alone.”
“We weren’t alone. Mossad is like a big family. We moved often, different assignments, but she got a lot of love and grew up fine.”
“ That’s an understatement”
“ I always marvel,” Tanya said, “how natural it seems to raise kids with a loving partner in a busy home, to pursue an interesting career and worry about soccer practice and monthly bills. To me it seems like a miracle.”
“ Thanks for the hint.” Gideon sipped juice. “You didn’t invite me here to discuss my love life or Dead Sea excavations, right?”
Tanya rested her elbows on the plastic table. “We have a problem with Elie Weiss. He didn’t give us any info last night in Paris, and now the Shin Bet has him. We’re trying to locate his human assets abroad so we can run them under Mossad. We’re also curious about his source of funds. But we can’t find anything.”
“Elie never shares information. He doesn’t trust anyone. Keeps it all in his head.”
“ Was there another safe apartment in Paris?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ How about a safe deposit box in a bank? Did you drive him somewhere or pick him up in a certain location?”
“ Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Listen, I understand. He’s a scary man.” Tanya looked at Gideon for a long moment. “After the war, alone with a small baby, I was so afraid of Elie Weiss that I joined the Mossad to hide from him.” She gestured at the three bikes leaning against the wall. “It’s a different world now. And Elie’s locked up. Retired. You don’t have to be afraid of him any longer.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Gideon said. “I’m loyal.”
“ Your loyalty should be to Israel, not to Elie Weiss.”
“ I don’t see the difference.”
“ There’s a big difference! A long time ago, Elie Weiss was legitimate. He started under Ben Gurion, building up the Special Operations Department right out of the prime minister’s office. The idea was to control homegrown insurgents, such as ultra-Orthodox fanatics and religious fundamentalists, by planting moles in every yeshiva and sect. But the law required all domestic-security operations to come under the Shin Bet. Elie was never a team player, so in sixty-seven he moved SOD operations to Europe.”
“ Serving the State of Israel.”
“ His agents think they work for Israel, but they-and you-work for a rogue outfit.”
“ Elie said that all SOD assignments come from Prime Minister Rabin personally. Did he lie?”
“ Even the prime minister can’t legitimize unauthorized assassinations!” Tanya took a deep breath, calming herself. “Mossad is the only government agency authorized to conduct secret operations abroad. We are entitled to his agents and resources.”
“You’re wasting your time. I work for SOD. Elie took me in, you didn’t.”
“But Elie is out,” Tanya persisted, now that Gideon had implied being silent out of loyalty, not out of ignorance. “Why let his life’s work go to waste-the agents, the funds, the contacts? You must do the right thing!”
“Will you hire me as a full Mossad agent?”
“You think Mossad is so glamorous? You’ll spend the next thirty years in anonymity, in constant temporariness, away from family and friends, sleeping in cheap hotels and buying information from the slime of the earth. And you won’t be able to tell your friends that you’re sacrificing your life for them. That’s what you want?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t do it,” Tanya said. “I’ve ruined enough lives. I won’t ruin yours.”
“Mom?” Bira showed up with the phone. “It’s for you.”
Tanya listened as one of her subordinates in Paris reported on the investigation of Abu Yusef’s murder, which headlined every news program in Europe. “Make reservations for me,” she said. “I’ll fly to Zurich first thing in the morning. Alone. No escort.”
She put down the phone and looked at Gideon. “Our contact in the French police said that a man resembling Abu Yusef visited a bank in Senlis, supposedly for a meeting with a young business associate regarding a large cash payment. The money had come from the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich. Does it ring a bell?”
“ For Whom the Bell Tolls? ” Gideon stood up. “Shalom, Tanya.”
*