The Jerusalem Assassin (12 page)

“I’ll give you a week. But if Abu Yusef spills Jewish blood, all bets are off. We’ll come after you, shut you down.”

Elie understood. This was the message she had come to deliver. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

“Yes!” Tanya’s serious expression suddenly broke into a smile. “I will!”

He watched, reluctant to even blink, afraid to miss the transformation of her features, the arch of her lips, the faint creases in her cheeks, the way she moved with efficient, quick agility, full of grace. Even as she mocked him, Elie wanted this moment to last so he could take in every detail, memorize her every gesture, savor every bit of emotion he had managed to rouse in her.

“Haven’t you had enough of this?” Tanya came closer. “For fifty years you’ve begrudged me for loving Abraham instead of loving you. But how could I—or anyone else—love you? You’re consumed by hate, by death, by killing our enemies, real or imagined. Even Yitzhak Rabin knows that yesterday’s worst enemy could be today’s best partner.”

Was she speaking of Rabin and Arafat or of the two of them, facing each other in this Paris apartment after a lifetime of rivalry? For a moment, Elie’s mind was consumed by hopes. Was there a chance for the two of them, after all these years? Would she take him in her arms, kiss him, caress him, tell him that she loved him? Because if she did that, he would give her everything—the job, the Nazi fortune, the life he had lived in secrecy, even his single-minded dedication to the cause. One hug, one kiss, one demonstration of true feelings, and he would give up everything that his life had stood for until this moment.

“We’re not going to let you go on killing,” she said. “Don’t force me to shut you down. Quit voluntarily, and you can go home to live in peace for the rest of your days.”

Her words burst the bubble of his pathetic dream. Elie coughed a few times, intentionally causing the pain in his chest to spike, knowing his face would become ashen. He had to make her believe his deceit. “You’re right. I’m worn out. After Abu Yusef is done, I’ll go to Jerusalem.”

“And you’ll hand over all SOD operations to Mossad.”

“Not much to hand over,” he lied.

“Including Klaus’s money? I want his bank ledger back.”

Elie gave her his hand, and she shook it. He held on, gazing at their joined hands, savoring the moment. Clearly she was fishing for information about her lover’s fortune, trying to find out whether Elie had ever been able to put his hands on it. “On one condition,” he said.

“What?”

“Will you take care of Gideon and Bathsheba?” The question implied that the two were his only agents. To give credence to his deception, he met her eyes. “I’ll give back Koenig’s deposits ledger. To you, personally, so you can use it for a worthy purpose.”

“It’s a deal.” Tanya hesitated. “You’re not playing games again, are you?”

“With you? How could I?” His hand let go of hers and rose to her face. Barely touching, his fingers caressed her hair. “My beautiful Tanya.”

*

Wednesday, October 18, 1995

Abu Yusef woke up early. Through the window he watched the bare tree branches sway in the wind. He heard Latif shift under the covers and turned to look at him. Settled back into sleep, hugging a body pillow, Latif’s smooth face was peaceful. Abu Yusef smiled. The boy was an angel, a heavenly gift sent to ease the loneliness of the long struggle for Palestine.

There was a knock on the door. Bashir entered with a pitcher of orange juice and a thermos of black coffee.

“Assemble the men in the dining room,” Abu Yusef said. “We have work to do—and the money to do it with.”

“Of course.” Bashir glanced at the sleeping Latif and left the room.

*

Lemmy’s favorite border crossing handled traffic between Paris and Dijon to the west, Strasbourg and Stuttgart to the north, Basel and Zurich to the east, and Bern and Lucerne to the south—thousands of cars and trucks bearing license plates from France, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Italy, in addition to many EU, NATO, and UN vehicles. The inconvenience of using a stick shift in slow traffic was a small price to pay for reliably lax border inspections. He had estimated the delay at no more than one hour, which would enable him to reach Paris by early afternoon at the latest. He could also push the Porsche harder, which was even more fun.

At the French side of the border, a customs officer beckoned him to stop. Lemmy lowered the window, turned down Stravinsky’s
The Rite of Spring
, and handed his passport to the officer. “
Bonjour!
”

The officer glanced at the Swiss passport and handed it back. “Anything to declare?”

Lemmy smiled. “Nothing at all.”

The officer gave the car an admiring look. “
Bon voyage.
”

*

Abu Yusef walked into the large dining room with Bashir. The twenty or so men stood at attention. “I lost my beloved friend,” he said. “May Allah accept Al-Mazir’s soul with open arms.”

Some of the men touched their foreheads in devoutness.

“Like me, he was a boy from Nablus, who dedicated his life to fight for our land.” Abu Yusef lowered his head and placed his right hand on his chest. “Al-Mazir was a hero of the Palestinian revolution. We must avenge his blood.”

They grunted in agreement.

“We are few, but we will grow. Our Palestinian brothers will soon realize that the PLO is selling out, that Arafat is whoring away our land to the Zionist enemy. He calls it peace, but we know it’s capitulation and shame. They will join us from Syria’s refugee camps, from Tunisia and Lebanon, and even from the slums of Paris.” Abu Yusef shook his finger in the air. “We will lead the Palestinian jihad. Off with Arafat and his gang of pork-eaters and vodka-drinkers! Off with the Jews!”

Abu Yusef embraced each of his men. Back at the head of the table, he opened his arms to Bashir. “May Allah’s blessing accompany us on the path to victory.”

“
Insha’Allah!
” Bashir embraced Abu Yusef.

They exited the dining room together.

“You spoke well,” Bashir said. “The men’s morale is renewed—”

“The hell with their morale. You think I don’t know my men?” Abu Yusef snorted. “They would rather drink vodka and lay with prostitutes than risk their lives to liberate Palestine from the Zionists.”

“A strong leader can inspire the meekest of soldiers. They want to believe in you, but they see this.” Bashir gestured down the corridor, toward the bedroom.

Abu Yusef felt his face turning hot. “Latif is a good soldier.”

“I can send him into the synagogue with explosives and use a remote detonator.”

“No!”

“He won’t even know what happened to him. It’s the best way to get rid—”

The door to Abu Yusef’s bedroom opened. Latif appeared wearing only his white briefs. The olive skin of his chest was hairless, his shoulders straight and bony, his arms long and slim. His boyish face flushed under Bashir’s hard glare. “Sorry,” he said and closed the door.

Bashir said, “Allow me to take care of him.”

“Not yet.” Abu Yusef placed his hand on Bashir’s shoulder, which felt as hard as a rock. “When we win Jerusalem, I’ll marry a good woman and give Palestine ten brave sons.”

Bashir’s expression was neither blank nor hostile, but all-knowing. “As you wish.”

*

Shortly before one p.m., Lemmy drove into the underground parking garage at the Societe Generale building, across from the Paris Opera, and parked the Porsche in a corner spot far from the stairway. He sat in the car and waited to see if anyone was following. The garage was quiet.

Using the point of a pocket knife, he popped out the cover of a storage compartment built into the steel dashboard. A wooden box filled the space. He opened it and removed the Mauser handgun that rested in a perfectly matched depression.

Etched along one side of the barrel, it read: K.v.K. 1943 Deutschland Über Alles

On the other side was the Hebrew word for revenge: Nekamah

He wiped off the excess oil and cocked it. The clanking of steel sounded louder in the tight confines of the car.

*

At one thirty p.m., Abu Yusef gave Latif a thick bundle of cash. “After you pay for the suits, give the rest of the money to Bashir.”

“I can’t wait for you to see them!”

Abu Yusef patted his behind. “Go, quick, before Bashir loses his patience.”

Latif put his arms around Abu Yusef’s neck. “You’re so good to me.”

“That’s right.” He breathed in the scent of shampoo from the boy’s hair. “Go, go. We’ll have plenty of time when you come back.”

*

With well-practiced motions, Lemmy screwed on the silencer. He put an extra magazine in the breast pocket of his jacket and replaced the cover over the dashboard storage compartment. Standing by the car, he quickly put on the trench coat and brown fedora. The Mauser fit in a special pocket sewn into the coat at the right hip, easily accessible through a zippered slit. He buttoned the coat and locked the Porsche. The red alarm light next to the steering wheel started blinking. He bent to look in the side mirror and pressed on a fake salt-and-pepper goatee.

Once outside the parking garage, he took the corner around the opera, crossed the street, and headed down Avenue Haussmann, away from the Galeries Lafayette department store. He paused at shop fronts and pretended to examine the displays. Some had already put up their Christmas decorations, hoping to elevate shoppers’ spirits more than two months before the holiday. He took more than an hour to make sure no one was following him before he headed back to the Galeries Lafayette. It was time to get acquainted with the operational landscape.

*

Before Gideon and Bathsheba left the apartment, Elie repeated his instructions. They were to watch Abu Yusef’s boy toy go in, wait until he came out, and follow the green Peugeot back to the Arabs’ hideaway. But under no circumstances were they to raise any suspicions. If there was any disturbance, they must return to the apartment immediately.

“If you think he noticed you,” Elie said, “drop the tail and return here. We’ll get him on his next visit to the bank in Senlis.”

Gideon was curious to know what made Elie so certain about future money transfers, but kept the question to himself. He had learned from experience that Elie Weiss divulged only the information he absolutely had to share.

*

Lemmy kept on the coat, fedora, and gloves. He scouted the enormous store, up and down the escalators, across each wing, in and out through different entrances. Avenue Haussmann, a six-lane road with heavy traffic and no legal parking, offered four pedestrian entries into Galeries Lafayette, with hundreds of shoppers coming and going continuously. Rue de Mogador was a side street that passed between the two blocks of the store. It was lined with cars in which husbands and chauffeurs waited. He spent a few moments examining a wall map of the store to memorize several alternative escape routes through various fire exits and loading docks.

Standing inside the store behind the glass doors, Lemmy watched customers being dropped off and picked up on Rue de Mogador.

At 2:43 p.m., a white Citroën arrived. Lemmy recognized Elie’s young agents—the man with a head of curls and the woman with sharp, beautiful features and close-cropped hair. They remained in the parked car.

The minutes passed quickly. By 3:12 p.m., Lemmy was concerned. He would not wait for the green Peugeot more than thirty minutes beyond schedule.

Inside the white Citroën, the driver kept watching the street in his side mirror.

Another ten minutes went by. Lemmy felt the Mauser through the side of his coat. Was Elie’s information wrong? Could this be a trap?

The couple in the Citroen began arguing. The man shook his head repeatedly. The woman suddenly bolted out of the car and ran down the street to the corner of Avenue Haussmann. Lemmy stepped closer to the glass doors to watch her. She glanced left and right over the railing that separated the sidewalk from the traffic. As she turned, her expression changed, her pace slowed to a casual stroll, and she stopped at a window display. Lemmy looked the other way and saw a green Peugeot coming down Rue de Mogador. It stopped at the curb near the entrance.

The driver was a Middle Eastern man, about fifty. He unfolded a newspaper and began to read. There was no passenger in the car, and Lemmy realized the target had been dropped off at the main entrance on Avenue Haussmann. He was already inside!

A flight of stairs led to the main level. Lemmy passed the counters displaying Chanel, Estée Lauder, OrLane, Shiseido, and Monteil. He circled the line of women at the cashier and took the escalators up, two steps at a time.

Crossing the ladies’ shoes area, he noticed Paula’s favorite—Lundi Bleu.

Another set of stairs to the right.

Menswear.

He passed Yves Saint Laurent, and turned left.

Red-and-white sign:
Pierre Cardin
.

The salesman at the counter smiled.

Lemmy slowed down, looked away, pretended to browse through a rack of shirts, and approached the far end. A few customers pecked at the long racks of suits in shades of gray.

Around the corner was a line of dressing rooms. One curtain was shut.

His right hand slipped through the slit and gripped the ivory handle. He aimed the Mauser under the coat, barrel forward, pressed to the hip, the silencer parting the coat lapels. His finger slipped into the trigger slot.

Shifting the curtain with his left hand, Lemmy saw a fur hat on a hook, a green coat, and a thin man in white briefs, his back to the curtain, his leg raised, poised to slip into the pants.

Lemmy’s finger started pressing the trigger.

The target must have sensed the movement behind him. He straightened and turned. “
Pardon
,” he said in a voice surprisingly soft. “I’m almost done.” His body completed the turn, and he looked at Lemmy, no more than a foot separating them, smiling with shiny teeth against olive skin. It was a familiar smile, but there was no stopping now. The Mauser coughed twice.