Saturday, November 4, 1995, Sunset
Gideon found himself in a daze, engulfed by smoke and groans of pain. He was upside down, the safety harness cutting into his shoulders. It was hot, and he thought, I don’t want to burn! Bracing his head with one arm, he unbuckled and dropped to what was left of the ceiling. He helped the other agents get free and edge out of the wreckage. The nurse was gone.
They cleared off the shards from the front windshield and helped Agent Cohen and the pilot get out. The nurse’s body was sprawled on a boulder a good distance up the hill, having flown out during the crash landing.
A few minutes later, an IDF jet flew low overhead. Two military helicopters followed, landing in a swirl of dust and tumbleweed. Army medics ran over.
Agent Cohen had lost his eye patch, exposing a black eye. His broken finger was off its stick, and he cursed as one of the medics fixed it.
Touched by the last rays of the sun, the first helicopter took off with the wounded agents and the dead nurse, heading to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Gideon and Agent Cohen boarded the second one. As they ascended into the air, the rolling lights of ambulances could be seen on the road nearby. A report came through the wireless. The wrecked Subaru contained one dead woman, who fit Itah Orr’s description. Her notebook was on its way to headquarters. Spinoza, however, had apparently stolen a motorcycle and disappeared down the road. By now he was already in a dense, urban area, impossible to detect until he reached the center of Tel Aviv.
“Put out an alert,” Gideon said. “Every police officer, every sharpshooter on the roofs, every soldier manning a checkpoint. We have less than one hour until the rally begins, and Spinoza is halfway there already. We have to catch him!”
Agent Cohen radioed in the description of the Triumph Bonneville and its rider to the chief of the Tel Aviv police, who commanded all the perimeter checkpoints and roadblocks around the peace rally. A flyer with Spinoza’s photo had been distributed already, with a warning that he might be disguised as a black hat. Anyone fitting his description was to be stopped, searched thoroughly for weapons, and released only if his Israeli identity was established without doubt.
As they flew over Tel Aviv, the giant square appeared below in glorious lights, already filled with people. The helicopter circled above, and they could see the IDF sharpshooters on the roofs, the gathering spectators on balconies around the plaza, and the traffic barriers on every incoming street and avenue.
The pilot put down on the helipad at Ichilov Hospital, a short distance from the Kings of Israel Plaza. They ran to a waiting car.
*
Tanya opened her eyes to see Bira in the arms of a tall, gray-haired man in an elegant jacket and a gentle manner. He looked at her and smiled- Lemmy’s smile! -and she recognized him. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry. She swallowed, and said, “You’re free.”
Abraham Gerster rubbed his clean-shaven cheek. “Yes, at last, I am free.”
She looked at the two of them, her daughter and the man she loved, standing by her bed, holding each other. “If I knew…it would take this.” Tanya moved her broken leg, shaking the wires. “I’d have done it…sooner.”
They laughed.
“What about…Lemmy?”
Abraham hesitated. “I think he’s in Meah Shearim with Benjamin, hiding from the Shin Bet.”
Tanya sighed. “Your son isn’t…the hiding type.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She watched Abraham’s face, as handsome as the first time she had seen him, kneeling beside her in the snow, wiping the blood from her forehead. “Elie trained him,” she said. “Lemmy will prevail.”
“ We can’t lose him again.”
“ No! ” Speaking so sharply hurt her chest, where three of her ribs were fractured. Tanya shut her eyes. She felt Abraham’s warm lips on her forehead. For a moment, it took away the pain.
*
The address Lemmy remembered from Yoni Adiel’s bank statements took him to a two-story house on a busy street in Herzlia. The first floor was all windows under an unlit sign: Adiel amp; Sons – Kosher Meat and Fish
Lemmy pushed the Triumph behind the corner of the house and took the stairs up. He smoothed his hair and tried to brush off the dirt from his white shirt and black pants. There was nothing he could do about the scratches and bruises from the rollover.
The woman who opened the door was heavy, with dark skin and a wide smile. “Shalom! How can I help you?”
“I am Professor Baruch.” Lemmy smiled. “From Bar Ilan University.”
“Oh!” She opened the door wide and beckoned him. “Please, come in. It’s an honor!”
An older man with a black skullcap and a gray beard was sitting in the living room, swaying over a book.
“ This is Professor Baruch,” she explained, “from Yoni’s law school.”
The man extended his hand. “I am Yaakov Adiel, Yoni’s father.”
They looked at Lemmy’s soiled clothes.
“ I ride a motorcycle,” he explained with an apologetic smile. “Today, gravity reminded me what a foolish hobby it is.”
“ Oy vey! ” Mrs. Adiel cradled her cheek in her hand. “Did you get hurt?”
“Only my pride.” He turned as a young man entered the room-dark, skinny, frizzy black hair, and intense, dark eyes under a colorful knitted skullcap.
“That’s Yoni’s older brother,” the mother said. “Haim, please say hello to Professor Baruch from Bar Ilan Law School.”
The brother didn’t smile. “Yoni never mentioned you.”
“Is he home?”
“He just left,” she said. “As soon as Sabbath was over. He’s going to visit friends at a settlement-four different buses, a long trip.”
“No taxis?”
The parents laughed, and Mr. Adiel said, “We’re raising seven children, Professor. They use public transportation.”
“ Which settlement?”
The brother said, “Why do you want to know?”
“ Haim!” She smiled apologetically. “Yoni went to Tapuach. He will be so disappointed to have missed you.”
But Lemmy wasn’t listening to her any longer. He returned the brother’s hostile glare without blinking. Did Haim know Yoni’s real agenda?
She said, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Haim turned and walked out of the room. Lemmy followed him down a hallway, past a kitchen, which seemed to be in the midst of a major cleanup after the Sabbath, and into a bedroom with two sets of bunk beds against opposite walls.
Haim kicked the door shut. “What do you want?”
On the desk Lemmy noticed a clean ashtray that held several bullets. He picked one. Twenty-two caliber. A blank. “He switched the bullets?”
“ The Arabs ambush our people in the West Bank. Blanks won’t help him.”
“ Help him with Arabs or with something else?”
Haim came closer, his fists clenched. “Stay out of my brother’s business-”
Lemmy grabbed him by the neck, hooked a leg behind his knees, and slapped him down on the floor, knocking the air out of him. “Where is Yoni?”
The young man tried to push away the hand from his throat, but Lemmy landed a knee on his sternum and pressed a thumb onto his Adam’s apple.
The bravado was gone, the eyes wide with fear.
Lemmy lifted his thumb. “Answer!”
“ He took the bus.”
“ Which one?”
“ Number 247. To Tel Aviv.”
“ The bus route?”
“ Ayalon Avenue. All the way.”
Lemmy let go of Haim. “What color skullcap is Yoni wearing?”
“ I don’t know. Blue and white, I think.”
*
The immensity of the crowd surprised Gideon. Israelis of all ages, ethnicity, and economic status stood shoulder-to-shoulder, straining to see the stage. The mayor of Tel Aviv, a retired IDF general, spoke about his dream of peace with the Arabs, his voice booming from hundreds of loudspeakers. “And that’s why I’m honored, on behalf of the people of Tel Aviv, to host this peace rally and to support my courageous comrade and brother-in-arms, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin!”
A deafening cheer came from the crowd, and Rabin could be seen in the front line of the public figures on the stage, waving at his supporters.
Agent Cohen stopped and listened to a report on his walkie-talkie. A man fitting Spinoza’s description was stopped on King Saul Avenue. He was carrying a licensed pistol. His ID had an address of a kibbutz in the south, and he claimed to be a veteran major in the IDF. “I don’t care! Arrest him!”
More people were arriving. Many waved Israeli flags on little sticks or held up placards in support of Labor, Meretz, or Shalom Now! As expected, the hundreds of balconies overlooking the plaza were filled with spectators. Near the stage, a bunch of youths jumped into the reflecting pool, splashing each other to the delight of the TV cameras.
A singer took the mike, his hair long, his face heavily made up. He broke into a familiar tune with lyrics that Gideon couldn’t follow. The crowd went crazy, clapping, dancing, squealing at the top of their voices.
Gideon smiled, then remembered the reality of Spinoza on the loose. This happy night could still end in tragedy.
Behind the rear of the stage, Agent Cohen entered the sterile area, which was guarded by police officers and Shin Bet agents in civilian clothes. “Wait here,” he told Gideon and consulted quietly with a few colleagues who, Gideon assumed, were also members of Shin Bet’s VIP Protection Unit.
At the far end of the sterile area, the prime minister’s official car-a gray Cadillac-waited with its doors open, the driver standing by, smoking a cigarette.
*
Lemmy rode the Bonneville as hard as he dared. He cut in front of cars, passed in narrow spaces between lanes, bypassed stationary traffic on the shoulder, and took chances at busy intersections. After the restful Sabbath, when most businesses were closed and families spent time together at home, Israelis flooded the streets, especially teenagers and young professionals, patronizing restaurants, bars, and movie theaters. Many were young and inexperienced drivers, though it took nothing away from their confident aggression at the wheel.
But the risk paid off when Lemmy saw bus number 247 ahead, ascending the bridge over the Yarkon River at the entrance to Tel Aviv. The motorbike sputtered a bit on the upswing, but caught up on the downward stretch of the bridge. A pickup truck separated him from the bus, but the street lamps briefly illuminated the interior. Through the rear window Lemmy could see the head of a young man with black hair and a knitted blue-and-white skullcap.
He leaned into the opposite lane to pass the pickup truck, catching a glimpse of the side of the bus, which bore an ad showing a swimsuit model lounging in the curves of a giant green pepper. The pickup truck accelerated, the youths in the cabin hollering. Lemmy downshifted and pulled the throttle all the way. He barely had time to cut in, avoiding an oncoming car whose headlights beamed into his eyes with intensity that left him momentarily blinded. As he struggled to regain focus, his vision concentrating on the rear of the bus, Lemmy failed to notice the lights turn red above the next intersection. He approached it at full speed just as a woman and a child stepped down from the curb.
*
An elderly nurse came in to plump up Elie’s pillows. She raised the head of the bed and brought a cup of apple juice to his lips. On the TV screen across the room, a live broadcast from the peace rally showed happy faces singing in Hebrew. Colorful banners swayed in the gentle breeze:
Peace Now!
Yes to Peace!
We Love Rabin!
Kibbutz Movement Supports Peace!
Labor Students for Peace!
The anchor described the unprecedented high attendance-possibly half a million people.
The singing ended, and the mayor of Tel Aviv invited Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin to speak. The crowd cheered.
Rabin’s face filled the screen. He smiled sheepishly at his perennial political rival, Foreign Minister Shimon Peres, who stood beside him.
When the crowd finally quieted down, Rabin spoke. “I was a soldier for twenty-seven years. I fought as long as there was no prospect of peace. But I believe that there is now a chance for peace. A great chance! And it must be seized!”
More cheers while Rabin leaned on the podium with a lopsided grin. Elie wondered if his posture meant that Rabin had relented and put on a bulletproof vest, its weight causing him to lean on the podium. He watched Rabin’s familiar yet aged face. They had both spent a lifetime in the service of the Jewish people. Elie wondered what was going through Rabin’s mind, how it felt to receive such explicit adulation, to be embraced by the loving masses, to bask in the glow of popular gratitude, rather than lie alone in a starched hospital room.
“ I have always believed,” Rabin continued, “that most of the nation wants peace and is prepared to take risks for peace. You, by coming here, are taking a stand for peace. You prove that the nation truly wants peace. And rejects violence!”
The last word generated booing through the plaza, and the TV camera captured individual faces, mouths open, hands waving.
“ Violence is undermining the foundations of Israeli democracy.” Rabin’s voice grew angrier. “Violence must be rejected! Condemned! And contained! Violence is not the way of the State of Israel! Democracy is our way!”
“ Exactly,” Elie said quietly. “Exactly!”
*
Lemmy knew that the old brakes wouldn’t manage to stop the motorcycle in time. The woman gripped her daughter’s hand, both of them paralyzed in his path. Paula’s face flashed in his mind, the girl she may be carrying. His foot pressed the rear-brake pedal, locking the wheel, and he shifted his weight left, leaning the Triumph as it slid sideways, both wheels now perpendicular to the direction of travel, sliding rather than turning. The tires uttered a hiss as they scraped against the road, slowing him down. Just before hitting the two, he straightened up, swerved right, and hit the curb. The bike became airborne. In slow motion it flew over the street corner, into the main cross street, bounced a few times without falling over, and reached the median, where the front wheel lodged into thick shrubs, throwing Lemmy off.
He lay on his back for a moment, only the dark sky filling his view.
People ran over and helped him up. They asked him questions, their voices indistinct. He didn’t reply.
Traffic was stationary. A siren sounded in the distance. He checked himself. Each of his limbs worked fine, nothing broken.
More questions. Someone held Lemmy’s arm.
He pulled the Triumph out of the bushes, off the median, and mounted it. The people around him stood back, stunned. He stepped on the kick start, the engine roared, and he took off, using the pedestrian crossing to return to his original direction.
Despite pulling the throttle all the way, the bike rewarded him with meek acceleration. Possible causes flew through his mind. A failing cylinder? A cracked fuel line? A misaligned sparkplug? Anything worse than that and the bike would croak!
As his speed increased, he noticed a wriggle in the handlebar. Was the front wheel bent?
Yoni’s bus was out of sight.
*
Elie Weiss watched Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin waiting for the applause to quiet down. He stood straight now, an old soldier’s proud bearing. So much for a bulletproof vest. “Peace is not just a prayer,” Rabin declared. “It starts with a prayer, but it’s also the primary aspiration of the Jewish people. Peace has its enemies. They are trying to harm us. Torpedo the peace.”
A few catcalls sounded in response.
“ We have found a partner for peace,” Rabin said. “The PLO, once an enemy, has now forsaken terrorism.”
He paused, but there were no cheers. Even after signing the first two Oslo agreements, the murderous PLO and its scruffy, arch-terrorist leader were perceived as necessary evils rather than friends.
“ There is no painless way forward for Israel,” Rabin said. “It is our fate. And the way of peace is painful also. Filled with sacrifices. But better the pain suffered along the way of peace than the way of war. Anyone who served like me, who has seen the grieving families of the IDF, knows it. We must exhaust every possibility. Every opening. Bring a comprehensive peace!” He paused and watched the applauding crowd, indulging them like a father.
“ This rally sends a message to the Israeli public,” Rabin announced. “To Jewish people everywhere. To the multitudes in the Arab lands. And to the world at large. The nation of Israel wants peace and supports peace! And for this, I thank you!”
Elie watched a blonde woman take the microphone, Rabin and Peres at her side. She had a clear, sonorous voice, as she broke into an old, familiar tune of Israel’s lingering hope: “ Let the sun rise, the morning brighten up, and the purest of prayers, shall not disappoint us… ”
The camera caught faces in the crowd, singing, waving flags, throwing flowers at the stage. Rows of men and women clasped hands and swayed from side to side, lips moving with the words, eyes bright with hope, some with tears of joy.
Back on Prime Minister Rabin, the camera showed him singing, his eyes on a piece of paper, scribbled with the lyrics. “ So let’s sing a song for peace, no whispered prayer, sing for peace, cheer it loudly!”
Elie closed his eyes and listened to the singing from Tel Aviv. He knew that soon the singing would give way to screaming.
*
Police had set up detours in the center of Tel Aviv, the roads clogged with stop-and-go traffic. Lemmy threaded the bike between cars. His elbow hit a side-view mirror, and the driver shouted an expletive. He passed several buses. None was number 247. He scanned the road ahead. He was not familiar with the streets, unsure where the peace rally was taking place.
Pedestrian traffic was getting denser. He heard music from loudspeakers and recognized the tune as an old song from his army days-something about giving peace a chance.
Farther ahead a bus took a left turn, and Lemmy recognized the swimsuit ad on the side of Yoni’s bus. But in the moment before the bus disappeared, he saw the vacant rear bench. There must be other buses displaying the same advertisement! On the other hand, the proximity to the peace rally could mean that Yoni had disembarked.
On the right, Lemmy saw a bus stop, now empty. The passengers who had stepped off the bus were walking away, melting into the crowd. He proceeded slowly down the road, searching. Many bare heads, a few skullcaps, none blue-and-white.
A side street was blocked off to vehicle traffic with steel barriers. At the far end Lemmy could see the bright glow of the Kings of Israel Plaza, the throngs of people, the banners, and huge flags. He stood on the pegs, holding on to the handlebar, and from that higher perch scanned the forest of heads that filled the side street between him and the plaza.
Blue-and-white skullcap! Halfway down!
His finger on the horn button, Lemmy steered the Bonneville around and jumped the curb. He rode between two barriers, speeding up just as a policeman noticed him and blew his whistle. People heard it and turned. Others were startled by the engine noise and moved aside.
He was halfway down when the pounding of horseshoes made him glance back. Two policemen mounted on huffing beasts bore down on him. With one hand, Lemmy pulled off the helmet and tossed it over his shoulder. It hit one of the horses on the snout, causing it to neigh, swerve, and bump the other horse. Lemmy returned his gaze to the front while the noise behind went from huffing and trotting to cursing and shouting.
The blue-and-white skullcap was near the end of the blocked-off street, close to the plaza and the mass of people at the peace rally. Lemmy maneuvered around a group of elderly ladies bearing flags of the Workers Union and circled back, stopping in front of a young man who resembled Haim Adiel. He bumped into the bike, but as Lemmy reached to grab his arm, he stepped back. His face was covered by a film of sweat, which the mild winter night did not merit.
Yoni Adiel turned and ran.
Lemmy rode after him.
He turned into a path that led to the entrance of an apartment building, where the Bonneville leaped over the front step and roared into Yoni, pinning him to the wall. Lemmy leaned forward over the handlebar and punched him hard in the right kidney.
The two policemen showed up, batons at the ready.
“ Sorry about the horses,” Lemmy said as he lowered Yoni to the floor. “This guy is armed and dangerous. Call for reinforcement!”
*
“ They got Spinoza!” Agent Cohen broke into a run down Ibn Gevirol Street, shoving people aside, and turned right into a dense, pedestrian-only street. Gideon followed him close behind. A few policemen were running from the opposite direction.
A narrow path led to an apartment building.
Inside the small lobby, Agent Cohen pushed between the policemen.
Gideon saw a motorcycle. Behind it, a dark-skinned youth was being held facedown by Spinoza, who smiled and said, “There you are. The beauty and the beast.”
Gideon drew his gun, cocked it, leveled it at the Swiss, and pressed the trigger. But the man again acted with swiftness that belied nature as he dodged out of the line of fire and somehow kicked up the motorcycle. The bullet must have hit the gas tank, which burst out in flames and sent everyone running outside.
Agent Cohen yelled, “Don’t let him get away!”
“Not going anywhere,” Spinoza said in perfect Hebrew, appearing next to them, his skinny captive dragged along by the neck. “Your patsy here has switched his blanks for hollow-point bullets. He would have killed Rabin.”
Gideon was already raising his gun, but noticed Agent Cohen’s expression turn into fear as he turned and yelled at the policemen, “Get all the civilians out of here!”
They started pushing back the spectators.
“ Hey!” Gideon pointed to the dark youth Spinoza was holding. “Who’s this guy? What bullets?”
“ It’s his accomplice!” Agent Cohen pointed. “Shoot them both, idiot! Now!”
“He’s framing you,” Spinoza said. “Shin Bet wants to pin everything on SOD in case the assassination scheme goes badly.”
“What scheme?” Gideon turned to the Shin Bet agent. “Didn’t you shut it down?”
Agent Cohen drew his own gun with his left hand and aimed it at Gideon. “Shoot, or I’ll shoot you!”
With a casual flip of the hand, Spinoza knocked the gun from Agent Cohen’s hand. “Shin Bet kept Elie’s operation going,” he said. “But Rabin won’t wear a vest, so they loaded Yoni’s gun with blanks.” He shook the young man, causing his skullcap to fall off. “Right?”
The assassin reached behind his back. “I’m just getting my wallet.” He pulled it and showed them a laminated card. “I have a license to carry a gun everywhere, including into secured zones.”
Spinoza patted him down and found a package stuffed under Yoni’s shirt. “You always carry it like this?” The gun was wrapped in a parchment, but the wax seal was broken in half. He handed it to Gideon. “They had a fake rabbi load it with blanks, recite a blessing, and seal the parchment. But this kid outsmarted them, switched the bullets back to deadly hollow points. Did you recite another prayer over it?”
“Of course,” Yoni Adiel said.
Gideon turned to Agent Cohen. “Is it true?”
“Don’t worry about it.” The Shin Bet agent pointed at Spinoza. “This is the real assassin!”
Drawing a large pistol, Spinoza held it up with two fingers. “This is the only weapon I have-took it from Freckles earlier. It’s an FN Browning, nine millimeters long. No silencer. If I try to shoot Rabin with this, it will make more noise than a Howitzer. I’ll be lynched.”
“But you were in Paris!” Gideon tried to think straight. “You killed Abu Yusef’s boy, caused us to lose Bashir, provoked the synagogue attack-”
“Elie sent me on that job. You know how he operates. Belt and suspenders. I also shadowed you when you were chasing Al-Mazir-those BMW bikes were fast!”
“The blue Porsche?”
Spinoza nodded.
Agent Cohen beckoned a group of men in civilian clothes who appeared out of nowhere. They circled the group in a tight ring.
Gideon lowered his gun. “Who are you?”
“My name is Jerusalem Gerster,” Spinoza said. “Lemmy, for short. I’m the rabbi’s son. Been working undercover for Elie Weiss in Zurich for years.”
“Take him,” Gideon said to the men, pointing at Yoni Adiel. “Only him!”
“Wait a minute,” Agent Cohen protested, “I’m giving the orders here!”
“Not anymore.” Gideon raised his gun and slapped Agent Cohen with the barrel right on the mouth, causing him to fall backwards, blood splattering from his mouth.
Yoni Adiel turned, connecting his wrists behind his back for the handcuffs. He smiled at Gideon-a cold, arrogant smile. As they took him away, he yelled, “Redundancy!”
*
Elie watched as the TV camera followed Prime Minister Rabin. He shook hands with the long-haired singer, who also won a kiss from Mrs. Rabin. Going down the wide stairs to the sterile area, the camera caught Foreign Minister Shimon Peres linger by Rabin’s car on the opposite side.
A reporter asked the prime minister whether he intended to accept opposition leader Benjamin Netanyahu’s invitation to discuss the rising level of political violence. Rabin’s smile disappeared. “It would be stupid, naive, for me to meet with him. Why should I? I’m tired of the hypocrisy of the Likud. They speak against violence, but support it. One day Netanyahu leads a rally while his supporters are calling for my death, another day he wants to meet with me. It’s the epitome of hypocrisy!”
The camera backed away as the silver-haired mayor came over to introduce one of the organizers. The prime minister’s wife, Leah Rabin, effusively thanked them for the most successful political rally in the country’s history.
Meanwhile Rabin paused and extended his hand to the cameraman. “And thank you as well,” the prime minister said. The picture jittered with their handshake.
*
Lemmy almost felt sorry for Elie’s young agent. Gideon’s face reflected utter confusion as he began to realize how Agent Cohen had used him to further a devious agenda that could have led to an unintended real assassination of the prime minister. “Can you believe their stupidity,” Gideon said, “trusting the prime minister’s life to blanks and parchment?”
“ It could have worked,” Lemmy said.
“ He wanted me to shoot you,” Gideon said, “one SOD agent killing the other, or better yet, we shoot each other simultaneously, providing a perfect cover story in case something went wrong with their scheme-which it would have! That’s why Yoni said-”
“ Redundancy?” Lemmy considered it for a moment. “No. I don’t think he was talking about us.”
“ What else?”
Suddenly Yoni’s departing comment seemed ominous. “Could there be another assassin?”
Following him down the path to the street, Gideon said, “But Elie supported ILOT. Why would he…you mean, a parallel operation?”
“ Exactly!” Lemmy pushed through the remaining spectators and broke into a sprint toward the plaza. “Another ILOT-like group, another Rodef verdict, another religious extremist! The same thing!”
“ Redundancy!” Gideon yelled the word like a man discovering the key to heaven-or hell. “Belt and suspenders!”
They ran across Ibn Gevirol Street, against the flood of departing revelers, toward the massive city hall building that overshadowed the empty stage.
Many well-wishers had lingered around the sterile area behind the stage, pressing against the waist-high police barriers. Lemmy and Gideon pushed through, shoving people aside. The music was still playing from the loudspeakers, making it useless to yell any warnings.
Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was walking across the sterile area toward his Cadillac, circled by bodyguards.
Lemmy scanned the area. “There!”
A lone man, dark and skinny, with a knitted skullcap and intense face, stood near a fountain, smack in the middle of the sterile area. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Yoni Adiel, except that he was slightly shorter and wore dark clothes. He watched Rabin and his entourage approach.
Gideon and Lemmy jumped over the barriers, and immediately a group of policemen was all over them.
“ Protect Rabin!” Lemmy pointed. “Stop this man!”
But as Rabin neared the Cadillac, the assassin took three steps, reached with one arm through a gap that opened between two bodyguards, and shot the prime minister in the back.
*
On the TV in Elie’s room at Hadassah Hospital, gunshots sounded. Someone yelled, “Blanks! Blanks!” A scuffle erupted around the prime minister. Cries of fear. Sirens whined.
Elie watched the confusion on the screen, people running back and forth.
A few minutes passed.
A woman was being interviewed. “No,” she said, “I saw him enter his car. There was no blood. Rabin was fine!”
Elie sighed. All according to plan. He closed his eyes, dozing off.
A little while later, someone yelled-not on TV, but outside the door. Another voice responded, anxious, fretful. Then an anchor on the screen said, “We now go to Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv for a live news conference.”
A man stood with a stained sheet of paper, his eyes red. “With horror, grave sorrow, and deep grief, the government of Israel announces the death of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.”
Elie Weiss heard a wail from the television-or maybe from the hallway outside his room. The words repeated in his mind. Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.
Laughter erupted from Elie’s dry lips. He fought for air, and another screeching laugh cut through his chest. He sat up, choking, as the nurse ran into the room. She was yelling for help. His hand pulled off the hospital gown, his fingernails plowing the flesh of his chest, digging to reach the fire inside.
Someone outside his room cried. More voices down the hall, filled with horror.
The nurse pressed a button on the wall. An alarm went off.
The man on the TV held up the paper and said, “Rabin’s blood spilled all over his copy of the Song of Peace.”
Drawing a last breath, Elie convulsed in laughter and pain. He rolled off the bed to the hard floor.
*