The Jerusalem Assassin (54 page)

*

Other than the Dutch signage and abundance of tall nurses of both genders, the VU Medisch Centrum in Amsterdam wasn’t much different from Hadassah Hospital. The recent computer glitch had forced the staff to pay close attention to each patient, making sure the correct treatment was provided to the right person. Many beds carried cardboard signs with patients’ names, and family members stayed around the clock to guard against mistakes. Carl joked with a pretty nurse in the elevator, who seemed disappointed when he stepped off with Rabbi Gerster on the fifteenth floor.

Carl led him to a room across from the nurses’ station. “Best location,” he explained. “From such proximity, the nurses are motivated to empty the bedpans.”

Rabbi Gerster was still chuckling when he entered the room and saw Bira, holding a moist cloth to her mother’s forehead. Tanya’s eyes were closed. Her arm and leg were in a cast, attached to a steel-wire apparatus. Her face was impossibly white. He stared at her, unable to breathe.

“Can I help you?” Bira didn’t recognize him.

He removed the sunglasses.

Her eyes opened wide and she hurried around the bed. She stopped before reaching him, holding back, unsure of his reaction.

He stepped forward, opened his arms, and took Bira into a tight embrace. And to his great surprise, Tanya’s daughter, the tough archeology professor who had defied him repeatedly, buried her face in his chest and sobbed like a little girl.

*

The Cross-Samaria Roadway followed a moderate decline through the West Bank hills toward the Green Line and the Israeli city of Kfar Saba, a large bedroom community at the edge of the Tel Aviv metropolis. “Look at this view,” Itah said. “On a clear day you can see every Israeli city from Ashdod in the south to Hadera in the north. Basically, sixty-percent of Israelis live within sight of here.”

“And within range.”

Itah looked at him. The resemblance to his father was striking, but so were the differences. Where his father was a thinker, a deliberate leader who used words and gestures to influence others, Lemmy spoke and acted like a man of action—decisive, showing no hesitation. “Range is a relative term,” she said. “In sixty-seven, we worried about King Hussein’s artillery positions on these hills, and in fact he bombed our cities before the IDF destroyed his army and pushed him back from the West Bank. But in ninety-one, Saddam Hussein’s Scud missiles easily hit Tel Aviv from Baghdad, and the Americans forbade us from responding in kind.”

“And in a few years, we’ll be within range of Teheran’s ballistic missiles.” Lemmy sped up to pass a station wagon.

“That’s the reason Yitzhak Rabin decided to make peace,” Itah explained, “even if the Palestinians get to sit here and aim Katyusha rockets at us. He wants to create a ring of peaceful Arab countries around Israel—Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, as well as a Palestinian state—together forming a buffer against Iran, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia.”

“It’s a risky gamble.” Lemmy crossed into the opposite lane to pass a motorcycle, ridden by a couple who both wore black helmets and gray ponytails.

“Rabin is a strategic thinker. He looks at the whole region as a single battlefield, which is the reason he really believes in this peace. Only he could inspire so many Israelis to support reconciliation with the PLO—”

The shots came one after the other, blowing both tires on the left side of the car. Lemmy struggled with the steering wheel, but the car veered to the shoulder, flipped over, and landed upside-down in a ditch.

In the sudden silence, Lemmy heard the rattle of a helicopter. “Are you okay?”

No response from Itah.

Bullets knocked on the car.

The seat belt buckle took several tries to yield. He crawled out through the shattered window. A cloud of dust lingered from the car’s tumbles. Freckles’ FN Browning was already in his hand. He cocked it, advanced up to the edge of the ditch, and waited for the dust to settle.

The helicopter was somewhere to his right, hovering low. Lemmy traced the sound with the barrel of the FN Browning. A gust of wind cleared the dust. A sniper hung out of the open door as the helicopter slowly descended toward a flat piece of desert. More shots hit the car.

Lemmy aimed at the most vulnerable part of the craft—its rear rotor. He released one, two, three shots.

At first there was only a brief burst of steam-like vapors, but then the sound level changed. The sniper managed one more shot, hitting the dirt by Lemmy’s head, but the helicopter began to spin around, showing its other side, which gave Lemmy direct visual line to the pivot holding the rear rotor. He pressed the trigger three more times. There was a popping noise, and the helicopter turned again, tilting sideways, and hit the ground.

No explosion. Must have been low on fuel.

Lemmy crawled back into the wrecked Subaru.

He didn’t need to check Itah’s pulse to know she was gone. The car’s gyrations must have tossed her upper body sideways through the window. Her head was crushed.

Someone was yelling.

The motorcycle riders.

They had been close behind when the first shots hit the car. The bike was lying on its side, and the man was crouching by his female passenger in the middle of the road. Lemmy ran over. She was conscious, crying softly.

A car was approaching. It was the station wagon he had passed earlier. “There’s your ride,” Lemmy told the biker. “Get her to a hospital.”

The motorbike was an old Triumph Bonneville, its few chrome parts shining, a testimony to pride of ownership and, Lemmy hoped, good repair. He lifted the bike, scanned the controls, slipped the gear into neutral, and stepped on the kickstand. The engine fired up immediately.

The owner yelled something.

Lemmy shoved the FN Browning in his belt and straddled the bike, revving the engine.

Another shout, this one closer.

He turned.

The biker held forth a helmet. “Don’t leave the bike idling too long—it’ll overheat.”

Slipping on the helmet, Lemmy rode off, surprised by the engine’s smooth response. A moment later he was speeding down the hill, his eyes squinting against the sun, which was descending toward the Mediterranean. As he breathed deeply, the adrenaline rush subsided, and anger flooded him. Itah was dead, and with her died the feelings she had developed for his father and the knowledge she had accumulated to help him in his quest to uncover the truth and secure his family’s safety. Again he was alone.

*

Part Seven

The Redundancy

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 & 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?”