The Jerusalem Assassin (15 page)

“To whom?”

“The Palestinians.”

“Which Palestinians?”

“Abu Yusef, leader of the opposition to Arafat.”

“You stole money from me to sponsor a terrorist?”

“He’s not a terrorist. He’s the leader—”

“They already have a leader!”

“Arafat sold out. Abu Yusef will soon emerge as the new Palestinian leader. He’ll inspire a new intifada that will drive the Jews away. And when he takes Jerusalem, he’ll restore us to our throne.”

“What throne?”

“Abu Yusef promised to make you mufti of Jerusalem. The
Kharass El-Harem
.” That was inaccurate. Abu Yusef had promised to appoint Prince Abusalim, not his father. “We will be the equals of the House of Saud—”

“You are a fool!” The sheik spoke with rage his son had rarely witnessed before. “A filthy murderer promised to make me mufti of Jerusalem? Me? The father of a thief?” He paced across the room and leaned against the wall as if he were going to faint.

“It’s our destiny,” Prince Abusalim insisted. “We must help the Palestinians in their war against the Jews.”

“Don’t preach to me! I’ve given millions to ease their suffering! In Gaza, the West Bank, the refugee camps—a worthy charity for a man righteous enough to be
Kharass El-Harem
. I give them food and fresh water, I build schools and underground sewers. But I don’t fill the pockets of murderers who fornicate with other men!”

Hajj Ibn Saroah took the sheik’s arm. “Calm down, Your Highness.”

“I know what I’m doing, Father.”

“You’re an imbecile! Abu Yusef is on the Munich list. The Israelis will kill him sooner or later, and maybe they’ll kill you too.”

“The Israelis don’t assassinate Palestinians anymore. The Oslo Accords granted complete amnesty to all PLO veterans.”

“Enough!” The sheik pointed a trembling finger at Prince Abusalim. “You will remain here with your wives and children, pray and study the Koran until I decide your punishment.”

“But I cannot stay.” He bowed to his father. “Please, forgive me. The company’s business requires my presence in Paris.”

“The company is
my
business.” Sheik Da’ood az-Zubayr picked up his Koran and left the room.

*

In the morning, after Gideon and Bathsheba left for Ermenonville, Elie swallowed one of Dr. Geloux’s pills. It took the edge off his pain but also interfered with the clarity of this mind, which he found frustrating. He stayed in bed, hoping for a few hours of sleep, but soon the phone rang. It was Tanya. Mossad had received information that a Palestinian group was buying weapons from a dealer in Paris.

“Thanks for the tip,” Elie said. Was it a lie? Another Mossad manipulation? Or was Abu Yusef using the money he got from Zurich? No. He wouldn’t spend the first cash infusion on buying weapons in the overpriced French black market. Rather, he would spend it on food and booze to keep his men happy and use the next transfer to send Bashir to Algiers to buy cheap guns and explosives, which he would smuggle back into France. “It’s not Abu Yusef, but at any event we’re going to take care of him in the next few days.”

“Let us assist you.”

“I’ll contact you if I need help.”

“For your sake, I hope you do that.”

He hung up and thought about Tanya’s offer. The stakeout at the intersection near Ermenonville was useless if Abu Yusef had already acquired a different car. The best chance to catch him was at the next bank pick-up in Senlis. The fax to Saudi Arabia should have caused a crisis in the prince’s relationship with his father, which should provoke the ambitious young man to speed up his scheme by increasing his sponsorship of Abu Yusef. But what if the old sheik locked up his wayward son in the family oasis, away from phones and jet planes? Without another transfer to Senlis, Abu Yusef might not be stopped until it was too late. Elie wondered for a moment: Should he accept Tanya’s offer? Should he trust Mossad?

No!

If he let them in, they would try to take over SOD at the very moment of its maturity and success. Many years had passed since Tanya had surrendered to him the ledger detailing the fortune that General Klaus von Koenig had deposited with the Hoffgeitz Bank. But she had never told her superiors about it, probably afraid that Elie would kill her if she did. Not that he would ever hurt Tanya, but she didn’t know that. And now Lemmy, the Israeli youth Elie had transformed into a Swiss banker and the Hoffgeitz heir-apparent, was about to fulfill his ultimate mission within one of the most secretive financial institutions in the world.

Obtaining access to the Nazi fortune was the key to Elie’s plan—the money to finance his grand vision. And soon Prime Minister Rabin would make the only rational decision and accept Elie’s offer of help. Rabin would regain his popularity and win the next election, and Elie would become Israel’s intelligence czar, gaining control of both Mossad and Shin Bet—a combined clandestine force with a worldwide infrastructure and highly trained personnel. He would have the money, the power, and the means to launch a potent network of assassins, ready to strike down the next Hitler, the next Arafat, Khomeini, or Gaddafi, the next Eichmann, Nasser, or Stalin. Multiple teams would burrow under the social fabric of every country, ceaselessly working to identify, pinpoint, and eliminate every agitator who spewed hatred of Jews. For the first time in their painful three thousand-year history, the Jewish people would wield a global weapon capable not only of eliminating contemporary enemies, but also of eradicating altogether the sturdy germs of a chronic, murderous mental disease called anti-Semitism. And considering what was at stake, the risk of another Abu Yusef terror attack seemed irrelevant.

*

When Lemmy went downstairs, Klaus Junior was already in the kitchen, eating cereal with milk. “We’re late, Papa!” He snatched the keys to the Porsche and sprinted out.

Lemmy rinsed the cereal bowl in the sink, collected a bottle of water from the fridge, and went to the garage. He found the boy in the passenger seat, the engine already working. “How did you manage to turn off the alarm?”

“It’s easy!”

“Is that so? Then why don’t you just drive yourself to school, smarty?”

“Can I?”

The Porsche sped down the winding road, tires screeching with each curve. On the right, Lake Zurich was covered by a thin layer of morning mist. Klaus Junior, buckled up in the passenger seat, fiddled with the radio, changing stations. “We’re going to be late. I hate to be late.”

Lemmy glanced at his son. “Nothing wrong with a little tardiness.”

“I’ll tell my teacher it’s your fault.”

“Now I’m really scared.”

The boy laughed and banged on the dashboard with his hand, causing the rectangular storage cover to pop out. Lemmy reached across and tapped it back in. He had not yet returned the Mauser to the safe deposit box at the bank, where it would stay until the next job.

The car phone rang. Lemmy pulled the receiver from its cradle. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Herr Horch.” It was Christopher. “I have Prince az-Zubayr on the line.”

“Put him through.”

The familiar voice came on the line. “Wilhelm?”

“Excellency! How are you?”

“Been better, my friend.” The British accent was not as smooth, the vowels abrupt. “I had to fly home. My private dealings have been compromised.”

Lemmy steered the Porsche onto the shoulder and stopped. Klaus Junior pointed to his watch.

“My father’s slave has been snooping around.”

“Where?”

“A wheat vendor. Those Americans have big mouths. No business ethics whatsoever.”

“They’re unscrupulous cowboys. How can I help?”

“My father ordered me to stay here. I expect his anger to subside soon, but if not, I might need your assistance.”

“Not a problem. We have a standing charter arrangement with Swissair. I’ll come for you personally.”

“Your loyalty is exemplary,” the prince said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Lemmy put down the phone. The call had not surprised him. It was typical Elie Weiss methodology—jarring the target, who made hasty moves, precipitated exposure and defeat.

“Papa, was that a real prince?”

“Yes,” Lemmy said. “He’s the first-born son of an important Saudi sheik. They consider themselves royalty.”

“Why did he call you?”

“I’m his banker, probably the only person he can trust.” Lemmy turned on the engine, glanced over his shoulder to find a gap in traffic, and drove on.

“Does he need money?”

“He needs his father’s forgiveness.”

“What did he do?”

“He lied.”

“That’s bad.” Klaus Junior brought his knees to his chest, resting his feet on the seat and hugging his legs. “Do you ever lie?”

“Well, I must keep secrets. For the bank, I mean. Our clients expect it, you understand?”

*

Abu Yusef stood outside, letting the sun soothe his face, and watched Bashir back up a dark-blue BMW 740iL sedan. The men unloaded wooden boxes of Kalashnikov machine guns, pistols, ammunition, and hand grenades. In all, the car and weapons cost almost everything the prince had given them. But soon their group would headline every news report in the world, and there would be more money, men, and power. He was sure of it.

Abu Yusef pulled Bashir aside and asked him to remove Latif’s clothes from the bedroom. He wanted them in the car when they drove to Paris to punish the Jews.

*

The bus to Efrat, a West Bank settlement that had grown into a town, dropped its passengers at a shaded strip mall, where many women and a few men were shopping for the Sabbath. Rabbi Gerster asked for directions to the address he had written on a piece of paper. The reporter, Itah Orr, had run the name of Professor Lemelson’s student through her sources and obtained the address. He hoped it was correct.

The apartment building had an elevator, but he took the steps to the fourth floor, finding the family name scribbled above a doorbell button. He pressed it.

The woman who opened the door looked at his black garb, reached into the pocket of her apron, and handed him a few coins. “Here. Shabbat shalom.”

“No, thank you.” Rabbi Gerster bowed slightly, declining the charity with a quick gesture. “I’m looking for Ayala. Is she home?”

“My daughter hasn’t arrived yet. What do you want with her?”

“Professor Lemelson from Bar Ilan suggested that I speak with her. It’s nothing serious.”

Two little boys peeked at him from behind their mother. She tightened her head covering. “Well, I don’t—”

“Hello there.” Rabbi Gerster extended his hand to the older boy, who looked about ten. “My name is Abraham. What’s yours?”

The boy shook his hand. “I’m Amos.” He pointed at his brother. “This is Chaim.”

“Hi, Chaim.” Rabbi Gerster shook the little one’s hand. “And do you boys know this week’s Torah chapter?”

“I do,” Amos said. “
Zachor
. Remember what Amalek did when we escaped from Egypt.”

“Correct!” Rabbi Gerster smiled at the mother, whose face softened. “And who were the Amalekite people, Chaim?”

“They were really bad goyim,” the boy said. He was not older than seven. “And they hurt the Jews and even killed some. Even that!”

“Correct. And you, Amos, do you know why God gave Amalek, an evil Gentile nation, the honor of dedicating a whole Torah chapter to them?”

“Please.” The mother moved aside. “Come in.”

The room had a sitting area on the left and a dining table on the right, with little space left to move around. The smell of cooking was heavy, even with the windows open.

Rabbi Gerster sat on the sofa.

The boys shared an armchair, squeezing together.

“A whole Torah chapter is a big deal, right?”

They nodded.

“So there must be a reason for this honor, yes?”

“Maybe they weren’t all bad,” Amos said, glancing up at his mother, who shrugged and went to the kitchen.

“But they killed Jews,” Chaim protested. “That’s a big sin!”

“True,” Rabbi Gerster said. “But maybe the story is such an important lesson that—”

“I know!” Chaim raised his hand, as if he were in class. “To make peace!”

“That’s stupid!” Amos elbowed him. “They didn’t make peace! God told them to kill all of Amalek, even goats and cows!”

“Boys?” The mother reappeared, a towel in her hand. “Are you behaving?”

“You’re both right,” Rabbi Gerster said. “God named the chapter for Amalek because they taught us an important lesson—the difference between a real enemy and a temporary rival. An enemy we must fight to the end. But a temporary disagreement we must resolve peacefully. Do you understand?”

“To make shalom?”

“Correct.” He looked at Amos. “Now, is your brother an enemy?”

Amos looked at his shoes and shook his head.

“So even when you boys fight, you still must make peace, yes?”

Both of them nodded, and Amos said, “Sorry.”

“But if you see a snake about to bite your brother, do you try to make peace with it?”

They yelled in unison, “No!”

“That’s the lesson of Amalek. We fight if there’s no chance for peace. But with everyone else, we must give a chance to shalom. Especially between brothers, right?”

The boys looked at each other and giggled.

“Hey, guys!” A young woman carrying a backpack and a guitar came in.

“Ayala!” The boys ran to their sister and hugged her.

The mother took the bag and the guitar. “You have a visitor.”

Rabbi Gerster stood.

Ayala had a kind smile and large, brown eyes that radiated intelligence. “I’m sorry but…have we met?”

“Please.” He gestured at the armchair. “Only a moment of your time.”

They sat opposite each other, while the mother took the boys to the kitchen. Ayala tugged at her denim skirt, making sure it covered her knees.

“I’m Rabbi Abraham Gerster.”

“From Neturay Karta?” Her face expressed surprise but not hostility. As a modern-Orthodox, educated young woman, she would know about the ultra-Orthodox sect that viewed Zionism as a form of blasphemy. “What are you doing here, among us Zionist usurpers?”

He laughed. “Spoken like a future lawyer. And speaking of law, I understand you have questions about the concept of
Rodef
, yes?”