The Jerusalem Assassin (9 page)

“Shit!” Gideon jumped back into the car.

“It’s quite a scene.” She slammed the door. “You should go look.”

“Damn!” He started the engine. “I told you not to—”

“Relax,” Bathsheba laughed. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“It wasn’t him.”

“You’re sick.” He motioned at the green Peugeot, still waiting for its passenger down the street. “Did you take a photo?”

“He’s just a boy. Fourteen or fifteen. And he’s from Jordan.”

“How do you know?”

“I got close enough to hear his conversation with the salesman. And to smell his Cacharel. He must’ve bathed in it—a typical teenage faggot.”

“Here he is.”

The passenger with the green coat, fur hat in hand, approach the Peugeot. Bathsheba snapped a photo.

“We’ll follow them,” Gideon said.

“Waste of time. He’s just a rich boy.”

“How do you know?”

“He bought two Pierre Cardin suits for a small fortune, plus alteration charges. You were right—not every Arab in a green Peugeot is Abu Yusef.” Bathsheba leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “See? I can admit a mistake when I make one.”

“You’re an angel.” He glanced at his watch. It was too late to drive all the way back to Ermenonville.

*

In the apartment on Rue Buffault, Elie was taking a nap on the cot when he heard the front door being unlocked. He sat up and reached for the sheathed blade, but Bathsheba’s voice sounded in the hallway. They were back early.

He listened to Gideon’s report and looked at the photos. The driver was in profile, shown through the open window. “That’s Bashir Hamami, Abu Yusef’s deputy.”

“Can’t be!” Bathsheba’s face turned red. “Who would take such a risk for shopping?”

Elie picked up the other photo. “Abu Yusef’s boy toy.”

“Expensive toy,” Gideon said. “I thought he’s short on cash?”

“Not just a toy,” Elie said. “Remember the bomb at the Jewish school in Marseilles? Nineteen kids dead, almost thirty injured. The investigators found video footage of an unidentified youth entering the school ten minutes before the explosion. His face was turned away from the security cameras, but he had dark skin and short hair, just like this kid. And he wore a skullcap, even carried a Hebrew prayer book, but police later verified he wasn’t a student.” Elie fingered the photo. “This must be the guy who planted the bomb in Marseilles.”

“He’ll be back on Wednesday,” Bathsheba said, “to pick up the suits. I heard him give his name to the salesman. Latif.”

“Good,” Gideon said. “We’ll follow them back to Ermenonville.”

Elie considered it. “Bashir is a fox. He’ll notice you, if he hasn’t already. Maybe you should just kill the boy at the store.”

“Just like that?” She clicked her fingers. “What if he’s not the bomber from Marseilles? Maybe he’s just a skinny teenager who bends over for Abu Yusef?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Elie said. “Clearly the boy is Abu Yusef’s soft spot. Why else would he allow a shopping spree at a time like this? This boy’s death would shake up Abu Yusef, cause him to make mistakes.”

She glared at him. “What kind of a monster are you?”

Gideon got up. “Bathsheba!”

“Have you considered the possibility of pushing Abu Yusef over the edge? What if he throws caution into the wind and runs out to kill a bunch of Jews?”

“Unlikely,” Elie said. “But I sympathize with your sensibilities. You don’t want to kill the boy? No problem. Wait on Wednesday at Galeries Lafayette, follow the green Peugeot to Ermenonville, and find out where they’re hiding.” He collected the photos and put them in his pocket. “Let’s get something to eat.”

*

Tuesday, October 17, 1995

Across Paris, at his clinic near Gare du Nord, Dr. René Geloux moved his stethoscope on Elie’s bony back. He listened to the crackling sounds that accompanied the movement of air while his eyes glanced at the x-ray prints on the illuminated board.

“So,” Elie said, “am I still alive?”

“You may put on your shirt, Monsieur Weiss.” Dr. Geloux was even older than his patient, but long summer weekends at his estate south of Paris had kept him slim and tanned. “Your emphysema is getting worse, and there might be something worse going on. You need to carry oxygen, that’s for sure. I’ll prescribe it.”

“I can’t walk around with a tank.” Elie pulled on his shirt. “And other than my father, whose life was cut short by the Nazis, the men in my family always lived to a hundred.”

“Did they smoke for fifty years?”

Elie shrugged.

“You need a breathing test and a specialist to take a look inside your airways with a bronchoscope. How’s tomorrow?”

“I’m busy.” Elie buttoned his shirt. “Give me something for the pain.”

“That’s not a solution. Low oxygenation, combined with excessive exertion, could be fatal.”

“We’re old pals, the grim reaper and I.” Elie’s laughter was dry, scratchy. He grabbed the physician’s hand. “Come on, I have a job to do.”

“Don’t tell me about your jobs. I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. And you should be in a hospital!”

“Not yet.” Elie coughed into a tissue. “This is a crucial time. Important things are happening, long-term efforts finally coming together. But in a few weeks I expect to relocate back to Jerusalem. The doctors at Hadassah will fix me.”

“They might need to give you new lungs.” The old physician took a small bottle from the glass cabinet. “One tablet every three hours. It’ll take the edge off the pain.”

They walked through the empty waiting room and down the hallway, which was lined with books on glass-fronted shelves. Dr. Geloux handed Elie his coat and unlocked the door.

Two-thirds of the way up the doorjamb, nailed to the wood, was a silver tube shaped as a thick cigar. Rolled inside was a parchment bearing Hebrew letters that a righteous scribe had inked with a quill. Dr. Geloux took Elie’s hand and made him touch the mezuzah. “You need all the help you can get, my friend.”

Indulging his old doctor, Elie kissed his fingers. He crossed the sidewalk and got into a waiting taxi. “To the airport,” he told the driver. “Departures terminal. Swissair.”

*

“Christopher?” Lemmy held down the intercom button. On the computer screen, the video feed from a hidden camera showed his assistant swivel in his chair toward his desk.

“Yes, Herr Horch?”

“I just filled out a withdrawal order for one of my clients—Rupert Danzig. You’ll see it on your screen in a moment. Kindly draw up a cashier check for seventy-five thousand U.S. dollars for him.”

On the screen, Christopher’s face seemed tense as he leaned over the phone, speaking directly into the microphone. “Will Herr Danzig come here in person?”

“No. I’ll deliver the check personally over lunch.”

“Should I draw it to the order of Herr Danzig or
To Bearer
without a name?”

“Make it
To Bearer
. He can endorse it to himself if he so chooses.”

*

Gideon sat on the wide windowsill and marked an orange with a knife. Halfway through peeling it, he noticed a woman cross the street three floors below and approach the building. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, dark against her pale face. She wore a heavy coat over plain winter boots and seemed like any other petite Parisian woman returning home from work, elegant in a subdued, graceful style. But Gideon saw the slight twist of her head, left and right, as her eyes quickly scanned Rue Buffault up and down before she pulled open the heavy door at number 34. Her escorts were even less obvious—a delivery guy on a scooter, pretending to tinker with the motor, and a woman in a pay phone booth at the corner.

He went to the hallway, unlocked the front door, and opened it. He could hear her coming up the steps.

“Good morning, Gidi’leh.”

“Shalom, Tanya.” He shut the door behind her. “Elie didn’t say you were coming.”

“How would he know? I’m a spy, remember?” She pinched his cheek. “Your mother sends her love. We met for coffee last week.”

The half-peeled orange slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. Gideon picked it up and brushed off the specks of dirt. “How is she?”

“How should she be, with her only son throwing away his life?” Tanya Galinski, whom he had known since childhood as his mom’s elusive friend, now ran the Europe desk at Mossad. She controlled a network of agents and informants, spoke several languages with a variety of regional accents, and had developed a thorough understanding of the EU’s economic and political life. But she still treated him as a kid. “Hasn’t your mother suffered enough?”

A guilt trip, all over again. “Please, I’ve heard it a thousand times.”

“Hearing isn’t the same as listening.” Tanya passed by the window and gestured subtly with her hand, signaling her escorts. “Your mother is a widow without a grave to visit, only a medal in the drawer. If you die like your father, she won’t survive it.”

“Is this the reason you blocked my application to Mossad?”

In the cluttered room, Tanya looked for a place to sit, changed her mind, and remained standing. “The rules exclude children of bereaved families from serving. No exceptions.”

“Punishing me because my father got himself caught?”

“Shush!” Her porcelain-like face reddened. “Your father took the worst personal risk in order to defend Israel from its greatest national threat.”

Gideon knew the basic facts: Over two decades ago, the KGB had caught his father taking photographs inside a nuclear installation near Leningrad. That night he banged his head on the floor repeatedly until he fell unconscious. He died of a brain hemorrhage before the Soviets managed to interrogate him. Israel couldn’t even ask for his body—the KGB was convinced he was a West German agent. His corpse was buried behind the Lubyanka prison.

Tanya sighed. “Why don’t you go back home, Gidi’leh? Working for Elie Weiss is a dead end. The Special Operations Department is a one-man show. Once he’s gone, it’s the end.”

“What do you know about SOD?”

“Who’s going to take over?”

“I’m sure Elie has designated a successor.”

“Has he ever spoken with you about his other agents? His finances? Any operations beside what you’re involved in?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Elie Weiss is finished. Mossad will no longer allow him to operate. We’ve made it clear to the top authority in Jerusalem.”

Gideon was shocked. “Mossad is challenging SOD? What’s next? You’ll challenge Shin Bet?”

“That’s ridiculous. Shin Bet and Mossad are the two spy agencies set up by Israeli law—for domestic and overseas operations respectively. Elie Weiss created SOD without legal authority.”

“And you guys do everything according to the law?”

Tanya shrugged.

“Elie doesn’t need your permission to operate. He has direct authority from Rabin and independent financial resources!”

“Those funds belong to the State of Israel, and by law only Mossad may conduct clandestine operations abroad. We’re determined to enforce this principle.”

“Don’t you think Elie has prepared for such confrontation? You, of all people, know how dangerous he is.”

Tanya took off her coat. “I’ve told you too much already. For your mother’s sake, leave now. Go back to the university, find a lovely Israeli girl, get married—”

“You never married.”

“How can you compare? I’m a member of the Holocaust generation. We survived to do a job, not to pursue personal happiness. It’s a totally different situation with us.”

“Why? You were young when the Germans lost the war. Couldn’t you fall in love?”

Tanya looked away, grimacing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude.”

“I’ll tell you.” She took a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh. “His name was Abraham. Near the end of the war, I was seventeen, and he was eighteen. For a short time, a few months, despite the cold and hunger and violence, our passion was endless. It was like a glorious dream in the middle of the worst nightmare. But then we lost each other.”

“How?”

“We each thought the other one had died. We were deceived.”

“By whom?”

“By Elie Weiss.”

“
What?
”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Fifty years have passed. Hard to believe.” She patted his cheek. “I’m sharing this so you understand how devious Elie can be. You’re still young. Go back to Israel, live a normal life, raise kids. Your poor mother deserves a bit of happiness. I can tell you that for me, as busy as I am with my work, the little time I spend with my daughter and her family is the only time I feel happy.”

Was she lying to make him distrust Elie? He wanted to question Tanya about her old love and Elie’s involvement, but he could see on her face that she would not answer.

“With all my achievements at Mossad,” Tanya said, “Bira is my greatest pride.”

“Is she still digging out old bones and broken clay with her students?”

“What else?” Tanya laughed. “She’s working on a Jewish cemetery at Gamla, on the Golan Heights. It dates back to the Great Revolt. Every other day a bunch of black hats come by to chant curses at her team for the
desecration
of those stupid old bones.”

“Those stupid bones are archeological evidence of the Jewish past on our land.”

“You see?” Tanya’s face lit up. “You’re still passionate about that! Bira said you should return to archeology.”

“Tell her I’m more interested in fresh corpses.”

“That’s morbid. And where’s Elie?”

“We expect him back later today.” Gideon glanced at the desk, making sure nothing revealing was left on it. Tanya was the only outsider Elie allowed in the apartment, but her comments about shutting down SOD would change that.

“I’m just off a red eye from Washington,” she said, “and we didn’t stop working, takeoff to landing. The second Oslo agreement requires careful implementation. We’re working with other countries to drum up support for the Palestinians’ effort to build government institutions.”

“Including secret services?”

“It’s a necessary evil.” Tanya rubbed her eyes. “I could use a good nap.”