The Jerusalem Assassin (2 page)

His right hand let go of the throttle and reached into his coat for the mini-Uzi. He kept a grip on the handlebar with his left hand, two fingers extended over the clutch lever. His left foot downshifted while his right foot tapped the brake to decelerate, coming to a full stop behind the Renault. He saw Al-Mazir in the back seat, pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The younger man was sitting behind the driver.

Bathsheba’s motorbike stopped a few feet behind, slightly to the left.

Boots planted on both sides of the K1 to balance it, Gideon drew the mini-Uzi and cocked it. With both arms extended over the small windshield, he aimed the weapon, but suddenly his left boot slipped, likely on an oil stain, and the motorbike began to tip sideways. He grabbed the handlebar and fought to keep from falling over.

The traffic light turned green, and the Peugeot moved instantly, making a sharp right turn onto the local road. The Renault driver glanced in his rearview mirror, noticed the weapon, and slammed the gas pedal. The engine uttered an angry roar, followed by the high pitch of spinning wheels.

His left boot found a dry foothold, and Gideon pulled the motorbike straight up. He aimed the mini-Uzi to the right, where he expected to find the Renault following the green Peugeot, but it turned left, skirted the stationary cars lined at the red traffic light, and raced away on the local road. Gideon cursed and corrected his aim, but by then the Renault was sheltered by the line of waiting cars.

He stashed the weapon back under his coat. His left foot hit the gear shift into first, his hand twisted the throttle, and the motorbike took off. He leaned all the way to the left, executing the sharpest turn possible, his head as low as the headlights of a station wagon waiting at the light. He prayed there was no more oil on the road.

*

Al-Mazir gripped the door handle and yelled into the phone, “Assassins! Help!” Abu Yusef’s reply was drowned in the screeching tires and roaring engine.

The large Renault weaved from lane to lane through traffic. It passed a delivery van and cut back in to avoid a collision, causing the van to run off the road.

Looking back over his shoulder, Al-Mazir saw the headlight of a motorcycle. “Allah’s mercy! Shoot him down!”

“Get down!” Hassan drew his gun, released his seat belt, and lowered the window. He extended his arm out, but the driver swerved sharply, and Hassan fell back. He cursed and got back to the window. His shots popped in a rapid succession.

*

Gideon bent forward, ducking behind the tiny windshield. A moment later, the shooting stopped. He twisted hard on the throttle and aimed the motorbike at the solid white line, passing a bunch of cars. The Arab driver was very good, and the top-of-the-line Renault had ample power, but no sedan could outrun a BMW K1.

He switched hands, his left reaching across to hold the right-side handlebar grip, keeping the throttle at a steady pace behind the Renault. With his right hand he drew the mini-Uzi, aimed it at the rear window, and pulled the trigger. The glass disintegrated into a thousand shards, which pelted him like hail. The Renault spun around, slid across the opposite lane and into a ditch.

Gideon kept his motorbike on a straight line, down-shifted, and stopped on the right shoulder. In his rearview mirror he saw Bathsheba slow down and cut across the opposite lane in front of an oncoming car. She couldn’t stop in time, and her K1 slipped and fell over.

He cursed, pulled on the throttle, and made a U-turn, heading back.

She was already on her feet, running to the Renault.

There was a lull in traffic, and no sign of the green Peugeot.

She aimed at the car. A long burst of bullets exploded into the side windows, crushing bones and flesh, splashing red blood. The empty magazine fell to the ground, and she shoved in a new one. Aiming forward, she pulled open the back door.

“Hurry up,” Gideon said, but the speakers in his helmet brought back only the sound of her breathing.

Inside the Renault, crouched forward, Al-Mazir recited verses from the Koran. On top of him, Hassan’s body spewed blood in slowing spasms. A phone on the floor let out a distant voice.

Bathsheba cracked open her eye-shield and met Al-Mazir’s eyes. “Greetings from Jerusalem,” she said and pulled the trigger.

He was dead before the last bullet made its short way into his torn chest.

Gideon pulled a brown envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it to Bathsheba. She tore it open and flung a bunch of photos into the car, covering the bodies with images of naked youths utilizing sex paraphernalia.

A couple of cars came down the road, slowing to a crawl, windows rolling down, voices shouting in French. Behind them, a little blue Porsche arrived at high speed, honking to hurry them along. But Gideon could only think of the green Peugeot, racing over with three armed Arabs ready for battle amidst all of these French civilians. “Let’s go,” he said. “Now!”

*

In a country villa surrounded by tall hedges and old pecan trees, Abu Yusef slammed the receiver and looked at a room full of men. “Battle stations! Go!”

They grabbed their weapons and ran out to their assigned positions—twelve around the perimeter of the property, four on the roof, and three pairs patrolling the road through the village.

A few moments later, Bashir appeared. He was a muscular native of Hebron, who had been with Abu Yusef for many years. “Two motorcycles,” he said. “Hassan went in the other direction to escape the assassins—”

“He’s dead. They’re all dead.”

Bashir’s face darkened. “I should have turned back to help them.”

“You should have noticed the tail from the airport!” Abu Yusef struggled to control his rage. “You should have driven
behind
the Renault, not rush ahead like a mindless dog!”

“I didn’t expect Arafat’s people to find out—”

“It was the Israelis. I heard a woman’s voice.
Greetings from Jerusalem.
”

“The Israelis? How?”

“They must have a snitch in Damascus, or in the French foreign service. Are you sure they didn’t follow you here?”

“Impossible.”

“Go, check our defenses. And keep the men in position until tomorrow, just in case you made another error!”

Bashir left.

Abu Yusef stepped outside to a wide patio decorated with fresh roses and sprinkled with mint leaves. A long table had been set, the plates patterned with the Palestinian tri-colors, the silverware shining to perfection. A giant outdoor grill stood at the edge of a sparkling swimming pool. A steel skewer impaled a lamb over the red embers. A handle attached to the skewer dangled unattended. The man assigned to turn it must have run to his assigned battle post.

The belly of the limp animal dripped fat, producing a hissing sound and a flare-up below. The aroma of roasting gave way to the stench of burning fat. Abu Yusef stepped forward and kicked the grill. It tipped over and fell into the swimming pool with a huge splash of water and steam.

*

Bathsheba closed the distance in long steps. Gideon moved forward on the saddle, making room. Her almond-shaped eyes glistened through the helmet eye-shield. “Did you see his—”

“Climb on! Quick!”

She mounted the motorbike behind him, breathing hard. “
Wow! Wow! Wow!
”

The earphones rang in his ears. “Don’t shout.”

“The terror! You should’ve seen his eyes!”

Distant sirens sounded.

Gideon made another U-turn and headed in their original direction, away from Ermenonville. The surge of power propelled the motorbike forward. In four seconds, they were moving at sixty miles per hour.

“He knew!” She slipped forward on the short saddle, her hands around Gideon, her panting loud in the tiny speakers inside his helmet. He felt her thighs pressing against him on both sides. She groaned. “He watched me! Terrified! Knew he was about to die!”

“Every dog has his day.”

“He got it alright!
Pow!
”

The thin hand of the RPM gauge rolled clockwise and crossed the red line. The engine’s buzz flowed through the saddle, and Gideon heard Bathsheba utter a grunt as her thighs closed on him again, her body molded against him like a spoon. As he passed the blue Porsche and the other two cars, his foot kicked into second gear. The engine pace dropped, its shuddering subsided. He felt the tension in her body loosen, her thighs parting.

“He saw the bullets hit his chest.
Splash!
”

The engine revs peaked again, high-pitched buzzing, transferred through the saddle. Gideon felt her arms tighten around him, her body cling to his back. Her thighs squeezed inward rhythmically. The motorbike moved fast on the local road, leaning deep into each turn.

He released the throttle. “Stop it!”

“No!” Her voice came deep through the earphones. “Keep going!” Her breathing grew more rapid. “His face! His eyes!
His fear!
”

“Stop it!”

Her right hand dug under his leather jacket, forcing its way under his shirt. Her glove was gone, her fingers cold against his skin. “Go faster!” Her body moved back and forth.

He leaned forward, trying to separate from her.

“The bullets tore him up! He felt them!” Her body pressed against Gideon’s back, her fingernails plowing his stomach.

“Enough!” Gideon used his right hand to try to pull her hand out from under his jacket while holding on to the handlebar with his left, keeping the motorbike balanced. He cried in pain as her fingers hooked into him.

“Go! Go! Go!” Her voice was filled with urgency, her body not ceasing from its constant jerking. “Give it gas, damn it!”

Gideon’s hand closed around the throttle, pulling it violently. Her crotch hit him repeatedly from behind as she rubbed herself back and forth on the quivering saddle. The engine screamed, rising to the highest pitch. Her body moved faster and faster. Her thighs closed on him like a vise, opened and closed, again and again. Her breathing turned into moans while he kept the throttle open all the way, the engine revs well into the red. The shuddering intensified, buzzing through the saddle into their bodies. She slid back and forth, her moans becoming short, rapid whimpers. Gideon twisted his face in pain as her thighs clamped on him. He kept the motorbike zooming in a straight line, thankful for a gap in traffic, and gasped as she clung to him in a final, violent spasm—thighs and arms tight around him, fingernails digging into his chest. She cried out, and a moment later her body slackened.

He shifted to a higher gear. The engine revs declined. He felt Bathsheba begin to tremble. His hand found the small switch on the right side of his helmet and turned off the communications system. He wished he could wipe the sweat from his face.

*

At his bedroom in the rear of the villa, Abu Yusef shut the door and locked it. He called the Hilton Hotel in Paris and left word for Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr that dinner was cancelled.

Latif put his slim arms around Abu Yusef. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe Al-Mazir is dead.” He sat on the bed, and tears emerged from his eyes. “Why did I bring him here? To see him? To hug him? To celebrate with my beloved friend? It’s my fault. I should have gone to see him in Damascus. His blood is on my hands!”

“Allah took him for a reason.” Latif caressed Abu Yusef’s thinning gray hair and kissed his forehead. “So that you can take over. His men will now follow you.”

“And Hassan? What will I tell my sister?” Abu Yusef wept. “Allah has deserted me!”

“Allah loves you.” Latif’s embrace tightened. “He will help you take revenge, kill a hundred Jews for each of our martyrs.”

*

They crossed the Seine River at Pont de la Concorde, circled the Obelisque, and sped up the Champs Elysees. Gideon kept the motorbike in the left lane, glancing at the side mirrors, his ears pricked for sirens that would break the constant hum of the widest avenue in the world.

Halfway to the Arc de Triomphe, he pulled to the left and parked between two cars along the center divider. They dismounted and ran between moving cars to the opposite sidewalk, still wearing their black helmets, scanning the flow of people and automobiles for any irregularity, any change of pace, any indication that someone had spotted them.

Nothing.

They slowed down and removed their helmets. Bathsheba’s tall figure, cropped hair, and sculpted face never failed to draw men’s eyes, which right now was a disadvantage.

At the Café Renault, where tourists sipped coffee in booths resembling cars, they turned left onto Rue Pierre Charron and passed by the window displays of Iran Air. Bathsheba motioned at the Iranian flag. “Do you have any bullets left?”

He walked faster.

On Rue Francois they turned right.

Near the end of the block, a short, thin man wearing a dark wool cap leaned against a white Citroën BX. He drew once more from his cigarette, dropped it, and put it out with the sole of his shoe.

Bathsheba got in the back, Gideon behind the wheel, and Elie Weiss in the passenger seat. The car smelled of cigarette smoke. They drove off.

Elie looked forward, not turning his head.

“Your source told the truth,” Gideon said. “Al-Mazir was on the Damascus flight. Abu Yusef’s men picked him up, but drove north to the suburbs, not to the city. They split up. We chased the car he was in and shot him.”

“Any problems?”

“Not with the Arabs.” Gideon glanced at Bathsheba through the rearview mirror.

“We had fun.” She leaned forward and ruffled his hair. “We’re a good team.”

Elie coughed in a slow, deep rumble that sounded as if it should emerge from a much larger man. He pulled the tight-fitting wool cap down over his ears. It gave his head a conical shape. His face had a sickly hue.

Gideon drove fast, passing other cars whenever possible, taking turns with sudden jerks of the wheel. In Paris, slow driving drew attention.

Heading east on Rue La Fayette, he slammed on the brakes and made a tight U-turn. A quarter-block back, he turned into Rue Lamartine, a narrow one-way street with little traffic, and took a swift left turn into Rue Buffault, where he stopped at the curb.