The Jerusalem Assassin (7 page)

This was very different from the little synagogue of his childhood in rural Germany, near the Russian border, where Rabbi Jacob Gerster, Abraham’s father, had led the service in a pleading voice, his head covered in a black-and-white prayer shawl. In the shtetl, the windows had been small and opaque, the benches roughly hewn, and the congregants bearded and hunched as they begged the Master of the Universe to protect them and their families from the cruelty of the anti-Semitic gentiles. There had been no colors at his childhood synagogue, only black and white. Mostly black. And not much singing either.

He opened a prayer book, but his eyes were misted, blurring the square letters and tiny vowels. And despite decades of loathing God, who had allowed the Nazis to kill his family, Elie’s lips pronounced the words, “
Be’yado afkid ruchi – In His hand I entrust my soul, asleep or awake, God is with me, I have no fear
.”

*

The black 1942 Rolls Royce waited at the dock. Günter held the door for his boss. Armande Hoffgeitz kissed Paula on both cheeks, hugged Klaus Junior, and shook Lemmy’s hand. “See you tomorrow at church,” he said before Günter shut the door.

Paula’s Volvo rattled over the cobblestones as it crossed the Limmat River over the General Guisan Quai. Lemmy glanced at his son through the rearview mirror. “Nice sailing, Junior.”

Klaus Junior saluted.

Paula said, “That was a nice initiative, donating those computers.”

In the back seat, the boy asked, “Can I also tell Grandpa about the baby?”

They looked at each other, and Paula said, “What baby?”

“I heard you talking yesterday.”

“There’s no baby,” Lemmy said.

“Not yet.” Paula blushed.

Their home sat on a grassy knoll in the Eierbrecht suburb of Zurich. Armande had bought it for them when Klaus Junior turned two. It had five bedrooms, a swimming pool in the back, and a six-car garage.

As soon as the Volvo stopped, the boy ran to the Porsche. “Papa! Come!”

“I promised him,” Lemmy said. It was a classic 1963 Porsche 356 Speedster in dark blue. The insurance company had recently appraised it at a price equivalent to a modest home in a good neighborhood. Lemmy had bought it two years earlier from the widow of a deceased client. The original engine enjoyed a new life with a set of dual Solex carburetors. It had a new soft top and a powerful Burmester sound system. The elaborate anti-theft alarm had been installed by a Dutch specialist from Amsterdam, an old friend who was also responsible for the security measures surrounding the new computer systems at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as well as the secret video surveillance cameras, which Lemmy alone could access.

He was about to get into the Porsche when Paula gripped his arm, pulled him closer, and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t be long. You have important work to do.”

“On the old lady?”

“
Hey!
”

“I meant her!” He gestured to the back of the garage at his next restoration project. It was an odd looking Citroën, whose Maserati engine was exposed under the missing hood, and whose existence was all but a rumor among a niche of classic cars collectors who referred to her as the
Missing Third
. Only two known examples existed of the SM Presidential—an extended body version of the Citroën SM, with four-doors and a folding soft top, which Henri Chapron had built for the 1972 official visit of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II—and both were parked safely at the
Palais de l’Élysée
in Paris. But when Lemmy had visited an African dictator to personally collect a substantial deposit in diamonds, he discovered that the rumor had been true. The
Missing Third
, a working prototype stolen from Chapron’s workshop and sold to the Francophile predecessor of Lemmy’s client, had been wrecked a decade earlier during the coup d'état that had elevated him to power. Having noticed Lemmy’s interest in the rusting Citroën, the grateful dictator shipped it to Zurich in a wooden crate marked Used Books.”

“You better be in my bedroom in thirty-minutes,” Paula said, “or I’ll find someone else to do the job.”

He got behind the wheel. “I’ll be back!”

The Porsche engine started with a deep gurgling sound, settling into an even rumble. Klaus Junior released a lever above the windshield and pushed the top down.

“Buckle up, little man.” Lemmy pumped the gas pedal, making the engine growl. “We’re taking off.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were driving along the east bank of Lake Zurich. The water to their right was blue, dotted with a few brave sailboats. A cool breeze came in through the open roof.

Klaus Junior tinkered with the radio. “Did your papa like to drive fast?”

“My father?”

“Did he also drive a Porsche?”

Lemmy slowed down. “No.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t into fast cars.”

“Were you good friends?”

He had shunned those memories long ago, lest they reignite the blinding rage, which would interfere with his mission. But his own son deserved answers. “When I was a young boy, my father was very affectionate. But later on, we grew apart. He was very strict.”

“And then he and your mama died?”

Lemmy hesitated. His father, Rabbi Abraham Gerster, might still be alive—that is, if you considered an insular, ultra-Orthodox sect to be a form of life. “As it happened,” he said, “a terrible autumn afternoon was the last time I saw them.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” The boy leaned over as close as his seat belt would allow and put a small arm around Lemmy’s neck. “Now you have us.”

*

That night in Jerusalem, when the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Abraham Gerster left the neighborhood unnoticed. The city was coming back to life after the day of rest, with renewed bus service and pedestrian traffic. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the King David Hotel. An armed guard stood at the entrance—a new phenomenon after a recent spate of Palestinian suicide bombings. Rabbi Gerster greeted the guard and entered the hotel.

He settled in a corner of the main lobby, where a TV set was showing a program about a new medical device invented by scientists at the Weitzman Institute. He ignored the furtive glances of hotel guests, who probably wondered why an elderly ultra-Orthodox rabbi with a white beard and long, dangling side locks would sit alone in a hotel to watch TV. And they would be correct. Not a single member of Neturay Karta owned a TV—an appliance that imported sin and promiscuity into one’s home and caused men to neglect the study of Talmud. But he had a good reason to come here, having noticed an item in Friday’s edition of the religious daily
Hamodiah
about a TV report to be aired after the Sabbath. He had to watch it.

The nightly news show started with a story about the preparations to transfer control of Ramallah to Arafat’s Palestinian Authority. Answering a reporter’s question at the entrance to the Knesset, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin said, “If Israel is to survive as a Jewish state, we must defuse the demographic bomb. Let the Palestinians establish their own state in the West Bank and Gaza and live in peace alongside Israel.”

The story Rabbi Gerster had come to watch appeared next. According to the reporter, Itah Orr, she had agreed to be blindfolded and driven to an unknown location in the West Bank for the swearing-in ceremony of new members of the Jewish underground ILOT—a Hebrew acronym for Organization of Torah Warriors.

The film was taken at night with poor lighting. A handful of young men, faces masked with bandanas, held pistols and copies of the Bible. They recited an oath: “I hereby join the ranks of the Organization of Torah Warriors. I swear, by all that’s dear to me, and by the honor of the Jewish People, that I will fight against the evil government until my last breath.”

The leader, a stocky figure who wore a large knitted skullcap, declared behind his mask, “The only law is the law of God and His Torah! No more Oslo Accords! No more sinful land-concessions! No more treason!”

Rabbi Gerster recognized the voice. It was the freckled, twenty-something stout man who had led the demonstration in front of Rabin’s residence and had furtively returned Elie Weiss’s greeting.

The camera zoomed in on one of them. Short, with a thin, boyish voice, his eyes peeked out through crude holes in the black fabric, blinking nervously.

The group sang
Hatikvah
in voices so off the mark that it bore little resemblance to the national anthem.

At the end, the leader raised a fist and declared, “We are the warriors of Torah! We will enforce the law of
Rodef!
Death to the pursuers of Jews! Death to the traitors!”

*

Monday, October 16, 1995

The first business day of the week was always busy at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as clients sent in transaction instructions after a weekend of deal making. This Monday was no exception. Lemmy lingered in the trading room, which the account managers shared. Phones rang, telex printers buzzed, and fax machines hummed. He stopped to greet each man. They ranged in age from forty to seventy, and he inquired about their children, wives, or an ailing parent. He had worked for years to earn their respect and loyalty, making sure none of them begrudged his early seniority. They knew it had not been only marital patronage that had propelled him upward in the bank. He had a gift for cultivating foreign clients whose cultures were vastly different from the Swiss. Oil-rich Arabs and African strongmen needed a safe place for their money, away from the political instability of their region, and they expected a level of personal service that few bankers in Zurich were capable of providing. Herr Wilhelm Horch often visited Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Gulf states to spend leisure time with his clients. He marveled at their oasis compounds, rode their camels, and raced their Ferraris. And they trusted him with their money and secrets.

Christopher was at his desk outside Lemmy’s office. “Good morning, Herr Horch!”

“And to you. Any news?”

“Prince Abusalim’s account just received a deposit of two-and-a-half million dollars from the Wall Street branch of Citibank.”

“Nice. Total account balance?”

“Almost seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.” Christopher followed him into his office. “All from undisclosed depositors.”

“He needs money, but receives none from his father.” During a visit to their desert oasis, Lemmy had met Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr, a cousin of King Fahd. The sheik was a powerful tribal leader, who earned fat commissions on food and equipment purchases for the kingdom. His son, Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, at thirty-eight was continuously travelling around the world to close huge deals, but his only personal asset was the secret account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.

“What about the prince’s own family?”

“His two wives and nine children live with the rest of the extended family back in Saudi Arabia. When I first met Prince Abusalim last year, I told him that a man without money is a man without power, and hidden money is hidden power, which is tenfold mightier.” Lemmy pointed downward in the direction of the bank’s subterranean vaults. “And I told him that, when it comes to secret money, Zurich is the Haram El-Sharif.”

“The
what?
”

Lemmy pulled a book from a shelf above his desk. He opened it to a page flagged with a blue sticker and showed Christopher a full-page photograph of a walled city crowned by two domes—one silver, one gold.

“That’s Jerusalem.” Christopher pointed to the golden dome. “I was a volunteer at a kibbutz once, and they took us to all the tourist attractions.”

“Really?” Lemmy was alarmed. His assistant had never mentioned it before. “What made you go to Israel, of all places?”

“You know,” Christopher blushed, “I was a bit rebellious, wanted to piss off my parents. They were old-fashioned Germans, hated Jews, so that’s why I went there.”

Lemmy examined his assistant’s face, but saw no signs of deceit.

“Didn’t Mohammed ascend to heaven from this location?”

“For us Christians, it’s the biblical holy temple of the ancient Israelites, where Elijah’s carriage took off in an explosion of fire and smoke.” Lemmy returned the book to the shelf. “A smart banker can benefit from studying clients’ faiths, notwithstanding your personal religion, because there’s always a business opportunity when a rich man’s mind is possessed by spiritual beliefs that cloud his logic and reason.”

Christopher laughed.

“According to my research, the az-Zubayr tribe has a historic aspiration to rule Haram El-Sharif. Just like the Saudi clan is the
Kharass al-Hameini
, Guardians of Mecca, the tribe of az-Zubayr claims to be the
Kharass El-Sharif
, Guardians of the Dome of the Rock.”

“Isn’t Jerusalem the capital of Israel?”

“The Israelis unified Jerusalem during the Six Day War, but they gave control of Temple Mount to the Muslim Wakf, which is an independent religious council of mullahs. Later, King Hussein of Jordan was pressured by the PLO to give up his rights in the West Bank and Jerusalem. Now Arafat is getting ready to negotiate the final phase of the Oslo Accords, hoping to obtain East Jerusalem as capital of Palestine. But other powers are at play.”

“The prince?”

“Correct. Even though his father has pledged loyalty to the Saudis, Prince Abusalim harbors ambitions to recover the status of
Kharass El-Sharif
. He must choose who to support—Arafat and the Oslo peace process or the militants committed to destroying Israel.”

“How would he choose?”

“Arafat is already getting billions from the Europeans and Americans. His opponents, on the other hand, need money for their anti-Oslo jihad. Prince Abusalim can make a deal with them. When Israel is gone, they’ll anoint him
Kharass El-Sharif
, Guardian of the Dome of the Rock, restoring the hereditary birthright for the tribe of az-Zubayr.”

“Sounds like a dangerous fantasy.”

“Clients’ fantasies are a major force in the banking business. What is wealth but a fantasy?” Lemmy sat back in his chair. “He has gotten several deposits through Citibank in New York, right?”