The Jerusalem Assassin (23 page)

“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 Résumé:

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 & 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.”