The Jerusalem Assassin (4 page)
Almost three decades ago, on the eve of the Six Day War, IDF Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin had promised to appoint Elie Weiss to run Mossad—if Rabin ever became prime minister. But the appointment never came despite Rabin’s ascendance to the pinnacle of political power in 1974 and again in 1992. During those years, Elie had operated in Europe, where he hunted down elderly Nazis and performed unique tasks for successive prime ministers, who occasionally needed to bypass the Mossad for political, legal, or financial reasons.
Elie’s semi-independent Special Operations Department had its own funding sources, known only to him. And with the political winds shifting against the Oslo peace process, he saw his chance again. It was now or never. “My reward will be an appointment as intelligence czar. I’ll be your point man for Mossad and Shin Bet.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
The prime minister removed his glasses and examined Elie, as if questioning his sanity. “You want to run Mossad
and
Shin Bet?”
This was a crucial moment. Should Rabin take the bait, Elie would control the most powerful spy apparatus in the world.
“They’ll have their own respective chiefs,” Elie said calmly. “They’ll continue to report to you—through me. As part of your Prime Minister Office, I will coordinate all clandestine activities, including intelligence gathering and covert operations—domestic and overseas.”
“I’m an elected leader, you’re not. I can’t vest so much power in one person. We’re a democracy. There’s a reason Shin Bet may only operate within our borders and Mossad only overseas.”
Elie gestured in dismissal. “It’s a meaningless distinction. An imitation of the American FBI and CIA. We’re a small country under siege, facing chronic existential risks. For Israel the line between domestic and overseas security is irrelevant.”
The demonstrators outside broke into a new chant: “
In blood, and fire, Rabin will expire!
”
The prime minister tilted his head at the window. “Bizarre, isn’t it? One day I’m signing a peace agreement in Washington to the tune of worldwide cheers, and the next day I’m sitting in my Jerusalem home and hear my countrymen call for my death.”
The chant grew louder. “
In blood, and fire, Rabin will expire!
”
*
In Paris, Gideon was soaping himself under a warm shower when he heard the bathroom door open. “Bathsheba?”
“Who else?” She dropped the toilet seat. “What are you using? It smells great!”
He made sure the curtain was closed. “Can I have some privacy?”
“Almost done.”
A moment later he heard her flush, which sent the water temperature spiking in the shower. “Ouch!” He stepped out of the stream. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry.” She laughed behind the curtain. “Need help scrubbing your back?”
“Don’t—”
Bathsheba stepped into the shower. She was naked but for her peace-sign necklace. “Worry not. I’m here for hygienic purposes only.” She snatched the sponge from his hand, made him turn around, and started scrubbing his back.
Gideon lifted his leg to step out of the shower. “This is totally unprofessional!”
“We’re not professionals.” She blocked his way. “We’re rogue gunmen for an old butcher who suffers from a Holocaust complex.”
“You underestimate Elie.”
“And you underestimate me.” She used round motions, pressing the sponge to his skin at just the right force, leaving a fire that was a notch below actual pain, but high enough to make him groan. He leaned with both hands against the tiled wall, surrendering to her capable hands. She worked on his shoulders, treating his muscles to a soapy massage, scrubbed his neck up to his hairline, then traveled down his spine. “Nice ass,” she said.
“Hey!”
“Relax,” Bathsheba’s breath tickled his nape. “You’re in good hands.”
“I’m not interested.”
“We’ll see.” The sponge dropped by his foot. Her hand descended through the crease between his buttocks, pushed forward between his thighs, and collected his erection in a tight grip. “At least someone here is telling the truth.” She nibbled his arm while her other hand reached around his hip. “Let’s finish cleaning you up.”
*
Prime Minister Rabin shifted on the sofa as if he couldn’t find a comfortable position. “Look, Weiss, it’s not a bad idea to have someone in my office coordinate all Israeli intelligence operations. It’s practical. But you’re too old for such responsibility.”
“I’m a year younger than you and have fifty years of experience in clandestine activities.” Elie knew the prime minister couldn’t refuse a deal that guaranteed he would stay in power. This was mere posturing. “Any other issues?”
“You’re not a team player.”
“You mean, I won’t convene committees to ponder every operation long enough to make it obsolete?”
Rabin laughed. “That’s how the government works.”
“Would you trust a committee to devise a secret plan to ensure your political survival?” Elie used the word
survival
to drive home the point. “And when you lose, what’s the future of your peace agenda under a Netanyahu government?”
“Oh, please.” Rabin shook his head. “There will never be a Netanyahu government. He barely made it to major in the army. The voters won’t put him in power.”
“The polls tell a different story.”
“I don’t believe trickery would sway the voters. And I don’t fight dirty.”
“My plan is fail-safe. And there’s no prize for an honest loser.”
“Are you calling me a loser?” Rabin’s smile was lopsided, more hurtful than humored. “Tell me about the Paris situation.”
Elie swallowed his disappointment and responded in a measured tone. “With Al-Mazir out of the way, we’ll soon move on Abu Yusef and his Saudi sponsor.”
“Arafat will be delighted.” Rabin looked at Elie for a moment, as if contemplating whether to say something. “Tanya Galinski was here the other day.”
“Ah.” Elie was immediately concerned. “We go a long way back.”
“So I’ve heard. She’s doing an excellent job running Mossad’s Europe desk.”
“Is she?” He wondered whether Rabin mentioned Tanya as a possible opponent to his appointment as intelligence czar.
“She was concerned,” Rabin said. “The spectacle of crashing cars and flying bullets so close to Paris seemed excessive. She said you’re better with a blade.”
“The Munich Olympics massacre was also a spectacle. Al-Mazir’s death required equivalence.”
“Tanya is upset with me.” The prime minister smirked, as if this was a personal tiff. “She gave me a little lecture about how only Mossad may operate abroad.”
“Fine with me.”
“Technically, that’s the law.”
“Do you want Mossad to take over the Abu Yusef situation?”
Rabin sighed. “Mossad has more lawyers than agents these days. I’ll be waiting for analysts to investigate, bureaucrats to exchange memos, accountants to authorize budgets, lawyers to issue caveats about the Geneva Convention—”
“It will be different under me. How would peace survive if not by fear and intimidation of its opponents?”
“That’s a twisted approach. Peace will succeed through prosperity, through momentum of positive results. The Arabs wouldn’t fight us if they had a good life.”
“Illusions. Anti-Semitism is deadly bacteria, which have kept mutating over three thousand years into worse forms of cruelty toward Jews. It’s a brand of hatred that has thrived among rich and poor alike.”
“That’s why I’m making peace!”
“Peace won’t extinguish the most resilient germs in the history of human wickedness.”
“So what? You want to kill a billion Muslims?”
“Only the carriers who spread the contagious disease of anti-Semitism.” Elie suppressed a cough. “Your Oslo Accords will only work with a serious dose of antibiotics—an army of Jewish assassins, hunting down every opponent of Israel, every plotter of attacks on Jews, every mosque preacher who calls for jihad—”
“How will you pay for this army of assassins?”
“I have enough funds.” Technically he was lying. The Nazi fortune held by the Hoffgeitz Bank of Zurich was still out of his reach. But not for long. The mole he had managed to insert into that secretive private bank was getting close to the top. “Money will never be a problem for me,” he added.
“Money is a problem for Mossad and Shin Bet.” Rabin stood. “Anyway, go back to Paris and take care of Abu Yusef and his Saudi sponsor so that I can seal a final deal with Arafat.”
Elie went to the door. “I’ll get it done.”
“I know.” Yitzhak Rabin returned to the window and squinted through the slats at the nightly vigil across the street. “I have complete trust in you.”
“Unfortunately I cannot reciprocate the sentiment.”
The prime minister laughed. “Sometimes I wonder, Weiss, whether you intend to be funny or scary.”
*
Rabbi Abraham Gerster observed the group of demonstrators from the rear of the sidewalk. They yelled hoarsely, “With blood, and fire, Rabin will expire!” Across the street, the windows in the prime minister’s three-story residence were shuttered. A wall separated the forecourt from the street, which was illuminated by floodlights.
A stout young man with a freckled face and a large knitted skullcap silenced the group with a raised hand and recited from Psalms, “
So shall all your enemies perish, O God, lost and destroyed!
”
Rabbi Gerster pulled down the brim of his black hat. His photo occasionally appeared in news articles about Neturay Karta, the ultra-Orthodox sect that he had led for decades before handing the reins over to his protégé, Rabbi Benjamin Mashash.
One of the demonstrators, a skinny youth with dark skin and a colorful skullcap, walked up and down with a cardboard sign: 1936 Berlin = 1995 Oslo
.
Rabbi Gerster asked, “What does it mean?”
“They’re the same.” His face was more mature than his slimness suggested. “Adolf Hitler and Yitzhak Rabin. Pursuers of Jews!”
The intense hate shocked Rabbi Gerster. Unlike the theological objection to Zionism, which ultra-Orthodox Jews held because only God may bring Jewish sovereignty back to the Promised Land, these demonstrators focused on the prime minister personally. The nationalist camp saw the handover of territories to the Palestinians as a handover of Jews to be killed by Gentiles. Until now, their rage had been expressed only with words and threats, but could it evolve into physical violence? Could this be the revival of the old menace of Jewish internecine bloodshed?
“
The sinner shall have no hope
,” the demonstrators chanted. “
The traitor’s path shall end in demise!
”
Across the street, a steel gate opened and a guard stepped out of the prime minister’s courtyard. He surveyed the street, glancing left and right, and beckoned a white sedan that was idling nearby. Its headlights came on, and it advanced along the curb until its rear door lined up with the open gate.
As if expecting their voices to reach the prime minister more easily through the open gate, the demonstrators increased the tempo of their chanting, practically shouting each word that King David had written three millennia ago. “
God’s enemies…shall have neither seed…nor issue!
”
A small figure wearing a dark wool cap emerged through the gate, crossed the curb, and got into the sedan. The face was visible for only a second or two, but Rabbi Gerster recognized Elie Weiss by his aquiline nose.
The chubby leader switched from Psalms to a familiar song of Jewish defiance. “
Scheme your evil plot, and it shall be blotted!
”
The rest of them immediately joined him. “
Utter your curse, and it shall not stand, because God stands with us!
”
The white sedan moved off the curb slowly while the rear window rolled halfway down. The interior was illuminated by the floodlights, and Rabbi Gerster locked eyes with Elie Weiss.
“
Scheme your evil plot, and it shall be blotted
,” the demonstrators sang again, pushing against the barricades.
Inside the car, Elie’s hand rose in a subtle greeting. Rabbi Gerster nodded, but then he noticed the leader of the demonstrators return Elie’s gesture with a quick thumbs up while chanting, “
Because God stands with us!
”
*
Friday, October 13, 1995
Wilhelm Horch, vice president at the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich, adjusted the contrast knob on his computer screen. It showed a live video feed from the hidden camera in the office of the bank’s president upstairs. Satisfied with the picture quality, he put his feet up on the desk and watched his father-in-law dictate the next letter.
“To the Association of Swiss Banks, chairman of the board, address, greetings, etcetera.” Armande Hoffgeitz tilted his chair backward and gazed at the ceiling. “We are in receipt of your recent inquiry about wartime accounts opened between nineteen thirty-five and forty-five. We commend your initiative to pacify the concerns of the last remaining victims of Nazi aggression. We are thus pleased to report that our records show no inactive accounts from said years—”
“Perhaps we should use a different term.” The voice belonged to his assistant, Günter Schnell, who was sitting with his back to the hidden camera. “Something more…vague.”
Wilhelm listened intently. He knew that at least one dormant account existed—a huge account, opened during the war by SS General Klaus von Koenig—which likely constituted a major part of the bank’s assets. How would they get around it without lying?
“Let’s see.” Armande Hoffgeitz contemplated for a long moment. “Technically Klaus’s account has been inactive, which would require disclosure.”
“But there was one instance of activity, when he sent a messenger to attempt a withdrawal—”
“That little Nazi with the long nose, who didn’t know the account number or the password?”
Günter looked at his notes. “Untersturmführer Rupert Danzig. He tried to make a withdrawal in May, nineteen sixty-seven.”
“That’s twenty-eight years ago!”
“He presented appropriate credentials,” Günter insisted. “And he had General Klaus von Koenig’s ledger showing all of the deposits made to the account.”