The Jerusalem Assassin (10 page)

“There’s a bed in the other room. What about your escorts?”

“What escorts?” She removed a plain clasp and her hair fell around her face, well below her shoulders. Threads of silver lightened up the black. She brushed it with her fingers and rolled it around itself, tying it together. Under the heavy coat she wore a wool dress that revealed a slim, youthful body. She had long passed sixty, but the skin of her face bore no hint of aging. He wondered whether she found time for lovers.

*

The voice on the speakerphone said, “How is my favorite banker this morning?” Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr spoke with an impeccable British accent, which he had acquired at Oxford.

“I’m delighted to hear you, Excellency!” Lemmy’s mind brought up the tall, dark man, the intelligent eyes under a groomed mane of hair. “Are you well?”

“
Insha’Allah
, my friend.” The prince’s voice was even, lucid, showing no hint of impatience as he moved on to business. “How is my six-one-nine El-Sharif?”

By providing the password and account number—chosen for the 619 AD mythological journey of the Prophet Muhammad to Jerusalem—Prince Abusalim gained access to his account with the Hoffgeitz Bank, including discussion of confidential financial information on the telephone.

Lemmy pulled up the account on his computer screen. “Current balance is near seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.”

“That sounds correct.” The prince’s voice remained calm despite the size of his fast-growing fortune. “I’d like to make a transfer.”

“Of course. Will you be investing or acquiring a pleasure motorcar?”

“Making a donation.”

“Your generosity will be rewarded by Allah.” Lemmy pulled up a blank form on the screen and typed in the prince’s name in the space for the account’s owner. “The amount?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Recipient?”

“Monsieur Perez Sachs. He’ll pick it up in cash at the local branch of Banque Nationale de France in Senlis, France.”

Lemmy’s fingers danced on the keyboard. “We’ll execute the transfer today.”

“My warm gratitude, Herr Horch. Please visit Paris again soon. I’ve discovered another cabaret—beautiful girls, every one of them!”

*

Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr put down the receiver. The rays of the sun illuminated the deep colors of the rug at the foot of the canopy bed. The pile of leather belts, pointy hoods, and studded collars brought a grin to his face, reminding him of the three teenage girls from last night. Unlike the submissive Arab females, the French gave as much as they took, wielding their alluring physique in the battle over peaks of volcanic pleasures.

Out on the balcony, he tightened the waistband around his silk bathrobe and leaned against the railing to watch the French capital’s own phallic symbol, the elevators ascending and descending through the Eiffel Tower’s enormous web of iron beams.

Back inside, he poured a cup and browsed the front page of the
Financial Times
. The British pound was falling again. Muammar al-Qaddafi announced the expulsion of thirty thousand Palestinians from Libya in protest of Arafat’s signing of the second Oslo agreement. Iraqis went to the polls to obediently reelect Saddam Hussein. And Israel prepared to hand over control of West Bank cities to the PLO.

Pierre arrived on time. “
Bonjour,
Monsieur Abusalim,” he said in his clipped, hurried French.

The bathroom was equipped with a barber chair that could turn and recline toward the sink. The prince sat down, surrendering to Pierre’s experienced hands. It was Tuesday, which meant only shampoo and a shave, but no trimming, which was just as well. He needed a nap after such a night.

*

At noon, Lemmy walked out the front door of the Hoffgeitz Bank for his daily lunch. He strolled down Bahnhofstrasse, enjoying the crisp air and beautiful shops. A pretty woman smiled at him, and he smiled back. He passed Credit Niehoch Bank, where he had worked years ago, and the massive building shared by Grieder and Bank Leu. Turning left, past the armory, he paused in front of St. Peter Kirche—the church of Old Zurich. Paula had once explained that the copper bells atop the tower were the largest in Europe, built to warn the neighboring citadels of Germanic or Mongol invaders.

The Limmat River was just around the corner, and despite the cashmere coat, he felt the cold draft from the lake. He walked faster.

The Orsini Restaurant kept an open account for the overpriced lunch he regularly shared with Zurich’s most successful bankers. But today he passed by the iron gate and continued down the narrow alley.

At the corner was the clock store, where he had bought Paula the five-foot-tall grandfather clock that rang hourly in their living room in perfect synchrony with the chimes of St. Peter Kirche. The alley curved to the left, and he slipped into the service door in the rear of the Bierhalle Kropf.

The dining hall smelled of cigarette smoke, fried sausages, and potatoes baked in butter. Lemmy unbuttoned his coat, loosened his tie, and stepped into the clutter of voices and laughter. The long wooden tables and hard benches were occupied with the usual mix of bank clerks, blue-collar workers, and off-season tourists. He negotiated his way down the center aisle until he reached the far end. The last table was partly occupied by four elderly men, chewing on fried sausages and sauerkraut. He squeezed through and sat all the way in the corner, his back to the wall.

A voluptuous waitress waved cheerfully from the aisle. He pointed at his neighbors’ beers and plates, then held up two fingers and gestured at the empty seat across the table.

The lead article in
The Economist
, which he had brought with him, questioned the viability of the Swiss private banking industry should Switzerland join the European Community.

Two overflowing glasses of beer were passed down from the aisle, followed by two plates loaded with sausages and
Apfelkochli
—sugary apple slices, fried in cinnamon and butter. Lemmy winked at the waitress, nodded at his neighbors, and returned to
The Economist
.

Halfway through the meal, he heard coughing from across the table.

Elie Weiss blew his nose into a paper napkin, which he squeezed into a ball and put in his coat pocket. He kept his wool cap on.

Lemmy leaned forward and spoke German with minimal movement of his lips. “You look awful.”

“You, on the other hand, look prosperous,” Elie said. “How’s your father-in-law?”

“Fine for eighty-four, but the next heart attack could be fatal.”

“It’s about time. By the way, good tip about Damascus.” Elie held the beer glass with two hands and sipped.

“I saw the salacious photos in the papers. Quite a scene.”

“A public execution scares other Oslo opponents. Rabin hopes the benefits of peace will calm the Palestinian street.” Elie smirked. “And swords shall be forged into scythes.”

“Ploughshares.”

“Yes, those also.”

Lemmy glanced at their table mates, who were engaged in argument over a soccer game lost to a Spanish team the previous weekend.

“What about the Koenig account?”

“Günter needed goading, but he’s cooperating now. In two or three weeks, all of the accounts will be on the system.”

“Finally. It’s been a long road.”

“I’ll still need a password to take any action within the account itself.”

Elie nodded. “Letters and numbers. Something related to Tanya Galinski. That Nazi truly loved her. You can relate, yes?”

The comment needled Lemmy, even after all these years. “I’m not my father.”

“There’s no shame. She was irresistible.”

“Is my father still alive?”

“For you, he’s dead.” Elie’s lips twitched as if he tried to smile, but couldn’t. “Rabbi Abraham Gerster disavowed you, sat shivah after you, even though you were still alive, just because you decided to leave his holy sect. A real father wouldn’t do that. What do you care if he’s dead or alive?”

“I cannot understand him, especially now that I have a son of my own. Nothing could make me stop loving Klaus Junior. It’s against nature—”

“What’s not to understand? He’s a religious fanatic. And you denounced his God. For him, you died the day you chopped off your side locks and threw away your black hat. And your mother became a sinner when she killed herself. That man is nothing to you.”

“Still, I can’t imagine anything that could cause me to disown my son.”

“Don’t forget who you really are.” Elie was whispering, but the hoarseness in his voice gave it a tone of hushed rage. “That family of yours? Just part of the job!” He slipped a brown envelope across the table. “Your wife and son are Gentiles.
Goyim!
”

“That’s irrelevant—”

“They’re your cover, nothing more!”

It was no longer the case, but neither was it something he could actually discuss with Elie—not at this time and place, anyway.

“Our destiny,” Elie said, barely audible, “is about to arrive. Money and power to launch
Counter Final Solution.
”

Lemmy nodded.

“I’m banking on you!”

“Of course.” Lemmy understood. It had been Elie’s lifelong project—to take possession of the enormous fortune SS Oberstgruppenführer Klaus von Koenig had deposited with Armande Hoffgeitz fifty years ago and use it to finance a worldwide network of Jewish assassins who would eliminate every enemy of the Jewish people. “I’ll gain control over the account very soon. It’s a lot of money. Will you transfer it to Paris?”

Elie shook his head. “Up to you. You’ll be in charge.”

“What do you mean?”

“As my successor.”

“Me?” Lemmy pushed aside the half-full plate and leaned forward over the table. “I’m a Swiss banker. I’ve never communicated with anyone but you. I don’t know anything!”

“The information will be available to you when it’s time for a transition.”

“Not interested. It’s too dangerous!”

Elie clacked his tongue.

“My life is complicated as it is. You don’t know—”

“I know more than you think.” A hint of a smile passed over Elie’s thin lips. “All in good time. Have a pleasant day, Herr Horch.”

Lemmy folded his coat over his arm and made his way to the aisle. Their table mates lifted their beers in greeting. Glancing back, he saw Elie examine the cover of
The Economist
, his thin body rocking back and forth as if in prayer.

*

In his alcove off the foyer of the synagogue, Rabbi Abraham Gerster took out the stapled booklet Itah Orr had given him and placed it on the small desk. ILOT – Member Manual – Top Secret. The second page carried typed text that resembled the oath recited at the swearing-in ceremony he had seen on TV. The third page had the Table of Contents:

1. Tight lips – how to keep your true identity secret from friend & foe;

2. False identity – how to select, maintain, and change your alias;

3. Passwords – how to create, obtain, and use them;

4. Comrades’ personal info – what you don’t know you can’t reveal;

5. Field security – how to detect and shake off a tail;

6. Surveillance – how to conduct basic tracking, scouting, and watching;

7. Sabotage – how to maximize damage while using everyday materials;

8. Street warfare – how to start a riot, trip law enforcement, and slip away;

9. First aid – how to treat for tear gas, baton strikes, horse kicks, and bullet wounds;

10. Light weapons – how to obtain a license, purchase, and maintain guns;

11. Target practice – basic rules, secret locations, standards of proficiency;

12. Surviving capture – how to resist physical/psychological pressure by the authorities;

13. Readiness to sacrifice – giving up your life for Torah, Land, and People of Israel!

Rabbi Gerster proceeded to read each page of the ILOT manual with growing concern. The loud, constant hum of hundreds of Neturay Karta men studying Talmud in the synagogue filtered through his door, providing none of the calming effect he usually found in the familiar noise. Some of the pages provided detailed instructions, which appeared to have been copied from military manuals more suitable for urban warfare than an illegal militia. The pages dealing with passwords, aliases, and surveillance tactics contained details and procedures that had clearly originated in professional secret service training manuals, not in the mind of an amateur right-wing activist.

A knock came from the door. Rabbi Gerster folded the ILOT manual and stuck it in his coat pocket. “Yes?”

Benjamin’s eldest son, Jerusalem, poked his head in the door. “My father asked if you would like to hear today’s lecture.”

“Ah, yes.” Rabbi Gerster rose slowly from the chair. “I can’t wait to hear how Benjamin explains the sage Elazar’s comment about the lawyers.”

“You mean, how
not
to be like the lawyers?” Jerusalem held the door. “I told my father that maybe the sage Elazar was joking.”

Rabbi Gerster laughed. “You’re a clever boy.”

The synagogue greeted them with cigarette smoke and the intensity of voices arguing over Talmudic quandaries.

“Most of our friends here,” Rabbi Gerster waved at the rows of scholars, “would never assign humor to our ancient sages. Why is it, Jerusalem?”

“Perhaps they forgot,” Benjamin’s son intoned in the traditional singsong of Talmudic studying, “that the sages were flesh and blood, like us.”

“Precisely!”

*

At the Hoffgeitz Bank, Lemmy entered his office and made sure the door was locked. On the way from the Bierhalle Kropf he had reflected on the conversation with Elie.
You’ll be in charge…as my successor.
It must have been a joke. Running SOD required skills and knowledge he did not possess. He had been an undercover agent for twenty-eight years, slowly growing roots as a reputable banker in Zurich. His Mideast clients had been a fountain of useful intelligence for Israel, and every year Elie had sent him on jobs that sharpened his deadly skills. But he had never worked directly with other SOD agents, had not been privy to the organization’s structure or composition, and had never interacted with any Israeli official. To the best of Lemmy’s knowledge, only Elie Weiss knew who Wilhelm Horch really was and that Jerusalem Gerster had not died in battle on the Golan Heights in 1967. This total anonymity enabled him to do his job in relative safety while protecting his family. There was no way he could take over command of SOD from Elie Weiss. It would put everything he possessed and everyone he loved at an unacceptable risk.