The Jerusalem Assassin (52 page)

“Are you afraid of a bunch of Talmudic scholars? The worst they can do is spit on you. Do you carry a handkerchief?”

Everybody laughed, and another officer asked, “What if the two suspects aren’t in the synagogue?”

“They’ve taken cover inside a sect with strict rules of behavior, which include mandatory attendance at Sabbath morning prayers. We expect them to adhere to their hosts’ customs in order to blend in.”

“That’s correct.” Agent Cohen stepped forward. “However, we have identified Rabbi Mashash’s apartment as an alternative hideout. My team will raid it. We’re experienced in urban warfare from our work in the West Bank and Gaza. If the suspects are hiding there, I’m confident we can apprehend them easily. Or eliminate them.”

*

An hour into the service, the Torah scroll was carried up to the dais and rolled open on the table for the reading of the weekly chapter. The men stood in honor of the sacred scroll. They all wore striped prayer shawls draped over their heads and shoulders, providing each man with spiritual privacy.

The reading was divided into seven portions, and one man was honored to come up to the dais and make a blessing over each portion. Lemmy followed the verses, his finger proceeding under the Hebrew words in his book as Cantor Toiterlich read them from the scroll on the dais. The familiar ritual calmed him, taking away the worries that had plowed his mind all night. He felt at home, yet this wasn’t home. Zurich was home, Paula and Klaus Junior were home, and the coming baby was home.

An hour later, for the last portion, Rabbi Benjamin Mashash announced, “Ascend and rise for the seventh Aliya, our guest, who took the name Baruch.”

A murmur passed through the congregants. Normally a person was called up to the Torah by his first name and his father’s name. Lemmy hesitated. Everyone in this hall, except Benjamin, knew that Rabbi Gerster’s only son, Jerusalem, had been dead for almost three decades. What if someone recognized him?

Benjamin beckoned him to the dais.

Raising his prayer shawl to cover his head and most of his face, Lemmy paced up the aisle and onto the dais. Cantor Toiterlich, Sorkeh’s elderly father, used the silver pointer to mark the spot on the parchment. Lemmy placed the corner of the prayer shawl on the words and kissed it. His face hidden by the edge of the shawl, he bent over the scroll and recited. “
Blessed be He, Master of the Universe, who chose us from all the nations and gave us his Torah.
”

As Cantor Toiterlich bent over the parchment to read the quill-scribed ancient words, a loud bang sounded in the back of the synagogue.

Lemmy turned to see a group of police officers burst in, spreading left and right and along the side walls. The last to enter was Elie’s young, curly-haired agent from the Galeries Lafayette, whom Lemmy had knocked out cold at Hadassah Hospital yesterday.

*

Gideon was pleased. The operation has commenced smoothly. While Agent Cohen and his Shin Bet team headed to the rabbi’s apartment, he led the police team to take control of the synagogue. As expected, it was filled with men and boys, while the women of Neturay Karta gazed down from the mezzanine in rapt silence.

“Good Sabbath!” Mounting the dais, Gideon held up his laminated ID. “This is an official search by the police and the security services of the State of Israel. Stay where you are and nothing will happen to you!”

“And Good Sabbath to you.” Rabbi Benjamin Mashash smiled. “Nice to see you again. Would you like to join us for the reading of the Torah?”

Gideon stood among the handful of men on the dais, all draped in their prayer shawls. “I apologize for this interruption,” he said. “You should be able to continue with the service as soon as we complete our business here.”

“God will be pleased,” Rabbi Mashash said.

“Could you instruct your people to cooperate with us?”

The rabbi gestured at the police officers along the walls. “Do we have a choice?”

“Exactly.” Gideon pulled a copy of the flyer. “We are searching for this man, who uses the name Baruch Spinoza.”

The name provoked angry muttering. The excommunicated philosopher, though long dead, was not a popular figure among ultra-Orthodox Jews.

The elderly cantor started saying something, but the rabbi interrupted him. “If we had such a troublesome Jew among us, we would have excommunicated him right away.”

The congregation exploded in laughter.

Gideon put his lips to the rabbi’s ear. “Your actions yesterday at Hadassah suffice to justify your arrest as well. Cooperate, or else!”

Rabbi Benjamin Mashash turned to his men and spoke in a sonorous voice that reached every corner of the large hall. “Our sages said that the laws of the land should be respected, even when they contradict the laws of Talmud.”

Gideon breathed in relief.

“It follows, therefore, that the lawmen of the Zionist government, who have just interrupted our Torah reading, should be respected.” The rabbi pulled off his prayer shawl. “Respect means forgiveness, which we will express by including them in our prayers.”

“Thank you.” Gideon turned to glance at the front section of the synagogue, making sure the officers guarded the front rows.

“To be thus included,” the rabbi said, “a Jew must drape himself in holiness, like this.” He tossed his prayer shawl in the air, holding on to one end, and shook it as a maid would shake linen over a bed in order to expand it to its full size. He swiveled sideways, forming an overhead canopy, which softly descended onto Gideon, engulfing him completely.

*

When Benjamin covered him with the prayer shawl, the young agent uttered a muffled shout and tried to free himself. Lemmy pulled off his own prayer shawl and wrapped it over him as well. Cantor Toiterlich, with impressive swiftness for his age, did the same, and the agent’s struggle turned helpless. The cantor laughed, but when his eyes landed on Lemmy, he froze, his mouth agape.

“It’s a long story.” Lemmy gave him a quick hug. “Benjamin will explain later.”

The hall turned into a madhouse. The men followed their rabbi’s example and shrouded each of the policemen in prayer shawls. Soon Neturay Karta’s frail scholars were doubled over in laughter while all the policemen were struggling to find their way out of multiple layers of striped cloth.

“Thank you,” Lemmy kissed Benjamin’s cheek and ran off. “I’ll be back one day!”

“God bless,” Benjamin yelled after him.

Itah was already in the foyer, her headdress loose, her sleeve torn from the wrist up to the armpit. “Don’t ask,” she said as they ran out. “We didn’t have prayer shawls upstairs, but there were only two of them.”

They reached the gate, which was blocked by several police vans and a few white Subaru sedans, one with a half-open window. Lemmy reached inside and opened the door. It took him thirty seconds to rip off several plastic pieces from under the steering column, strip a few wires, and start the car.

“I’m impressed.” Itah held on as he made a sharp turn. “They teach hotwiring in Swiss banking school?”

“I just finished re-wiring an old Citroën. They’re all the same, basically.”

“And your buddy Benjamin—he’s something else! That agent didn’t know what hit him!”

“My clever, wonderful Benjamin.” Lemmy changed gears. “It’s like we’re teenagers again.”

*

What struck Gideon more than anything else during the few minutes of his confinement was that no one tried to hit him or push him off the dais or hurt him in any way. On the contrary, when he stumbled after failing to free himself, the ultra-Orthodox men pulled off the prayer shawls, helped him sit on a bench, and served him with sweet wine in a plastic cup. Similar scenes took place around the synagogue, where the frazzled police officers, their hair messed up, their faces red, were nevertheless smiling as the men catered to them with wine and good cheer.

Rabbi Benjamin Mashash was gone, and suddenly Gideon remembered that Agent Cohen was about to raid the rabbi’s apartment. Was Spinoza hiding there? Gideon ran out and headed down one of the alleys, trying to recall the map he had pinned to the briefing room wall. He took the turns from memory, catching up with the rabbi, who was older and in the physical shape of one who spends his days studying.

“He’s not there.” The rabbi panted badly. “Only my son…ill…stayed home.”

Gideon sped up. “I’ll stop them,” he yelled over his shoulder. But he knew he was too late.

*

“Slow down,” Itah said. “Nobody is chasing us.”

“Are you sure?” Lemmy opened the storage bin between the seats, finding a bottle of water and loose change. There were two sets of communication devices—a CB radio and another unit he wasn’t familiar with. He made sure both were turned off. “Search the glove compartment.”

She did. “Registration papers and manuals. A pen.”

“What kind?”

“The pen? Ballpoint.”

“Good.” He took it and stuck in his shirt pocket. “Where are we?”

“The French Hill neighborhood. It was built after the Six Day War.”

“That’s why I don’t recognize it.” Lemmy stopped on the side of the road. “We need to figure out what’s going on.”

“The raid?” Itah unscrewed the cap from the water bottle. “I thought they’d wait for you outside the neighborhood, but obviously they’re impatient.”

“Why? How can I hurt Rabin if I’m holed up in Meah Shearim?” Lemmy took the bottle from her and took a sip. “Maybe they’re worried about something else.”

“Other than Rabin’s safety?”

“Elie would know. I should have squeezed him harder.”

“There’s someone else you could squeeze.” Itah found a roadmap folded between the seats and spread it open.

“Who?”

“Freckles.” Her finger traced a road on the map. “He’s the only agent serving both SOD and Shin Bet.”

“He’s a low-level provocateur. Why would they tell him?”

“Freckles doesn’t need to be told. He’s a born sniffer. He would know.” She tapped the map. “The settlement of Tapuach. That’s where he lives.”

“In the West Bank?”

“No. In Switzerland.” Itah laughed. “You’ve never been to a settlement, have you?”

“I left Israel one day before the IDF captured the West Bank. Other than my radar sabotage foray into East Jerusalem and a recent visit to the Wailing Wall, I’ve never been across the sixty-seven border.”

“How bizarre. Our worst political problems in the past decades—the vicious rift between left and right, the loss of international support, and the Intifada—all came after the Six Day War.” Itah punched his arm. “If not for your pyrotechnics at Government House, Israel’s first strike would have failed. Even if we had somehow survived the Arabs’ overwhelming forces, we would have never captured the West Bank. If not for you, the Middle East would have gone in a different direction.”

“You blame me?” Lemmy merged back into traffic, speeding up. “Don’t you believe in God?”

*

Smoke petered out of the windows on the second floor of the apartment building. Gideon ran up the stairs. The door was broken, hanging from a single remaining brass hinge. He yelled, “Abort! Abort!”

“Stay back!” Agent Cohen’s voice was muted by the gas mask. “We got Spinoza!”

The teargas had immediate effect on Gideon. His eyes watered and his nose began to burn. The apartment was wrecked, with bullet holes and broken furniture. “Abort, I said!”

Agent Cohen was crouching in the hallway. “He’s cornered!”

“It’s not him!”

Down the hallway, the nurse lifted her leg to kick in a door to one of the bedrooms, while another agent stood with his back against the wall, gun ready.

“Go,” Agent Cohen shouted. “Shoot to kill!”

“No!” Out of time and breath, Gideon sprinted forward. The nurse kicked in the door and released a first shot. Gideon collided with her, and together they fell on the other agent, who yelled in pain.

Agent Cohen ran toward them.

Inside the room, Gideon glimpsed a bookcase that fell over on its side. A choked cough came from behind the makeshift barricade. A hand rose and tossed a book at them.

“Give it to me!” Agent Cohen grabbed the gun from the nurse and aimed it into the room with both hands.

Gideon lifted his leg and kicked him in the crotch.

“It’s my son!” Rabbi Benjamin Mashash ran into the apartment, his face pale, his black hat pressed over his mouth and nose. “Jerusalem!
Jerusalem!
”

Agent Cohen sat against the wall and moaned.

The youth emerged from behind the makeshift barricade. He was badly bruised, and his torn pajama shirt hung from one shoulder. Half-blinded by the tear gas, he fell into his father’s arms. “Don’t worry,” he said, “the stupid Zionists didn’t get me.”

*

As soon as they left Jerusalem, the trees disappeared, giving way to the barren hills of the West Bank. The occasional Arab village welcomed them with odors of smoke, a mix of small and large homes in no particular order. The stark absence of vegetation was broken only by the Jewish settlements with their tidy red roofs, green fields, and fruit orchards, cut off from the surrounding parched land with tall fences.

Half an hour later, the settlement of Tapuach—
Apple
in Hebrew—welcomed them with a massive steel gate across the access road. A sign read: No vehicle traffic during Sabbath!

Lemmy parked the car, and they walked to the guardhouse. A man in a white shirt and a knitted skullcap shouldered his machine gun and opened the gate.

Up close, Lemmy realized that most houses were nothing more than rickety prefabricated trailers, covered with ivy and painted white. Cracked concrete paths meandered between young trees and makeshift vegetable gardens. A woman pushing a double-stroller gave them directions.

Freckles opened the door, wearing a blue tank top, shorts, and sandals.

“Hey, partner,” Itah said.

Behind him, a woman with a Russian accent yelled, “Who is it?”

“I’ll be right back,” he replied and joined them outside, closing the door.

“Good Sabbath,” Lemmy said. “Do you remember me?”

Freckles shifted his knitted skullcap back and forth on his head, as if he had a bad itch. Then his eyes lit up. “King David Hotel. You wore a baseball hat, right?”