The Jerusalem Assassin (14 page)

Paula had respected his objection despite her craving for a baby. She had assumed his reluctance was rooted in a hurtful family history at which he hinted. He had avoided speaking about his childhood, only providing her with the scant details of the false identity Elie had arranged. He had arrived at Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas in late 1967 as a recent orphan from a fire that had killed his parents near Munich. The burn scars on his back had turned to mild scars between his shoulders and buttocks.

“I should have come around long ago.” He was referring to that Tuesday, the previous month, when he had accompanied her to her annual checkup. Paula’s long-time gynecologist, Dr. Linser, joked that soon she would no longer need to take the pill, and for a brief second Paula’s usual cheerfulness gave way to something approaching grief. Without allowing logic to intrude, Lemmy had said, “Let’s try for a girl while there’s still time.”

He kissed her again—not with lust, but with tenderness of gratitude, for she truly loved him, even with his secrets, which she must have sensed. She was forty-three, still capable of a pregnancy and the rigors of child rearing. The experience at the doctor’s office had triggered something powerful inside Lemmy, as if his life as Wilhelm Horch had finally edged out the dark past, the secret assassinations, and the great mission itself, allowing him to truly be a partner to Paula.

She touched his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I’d love to have a daughter,” he said, surprising himself at how complete he felt with the statement. “Or a boy. It’ll be a joy either way.”

*

Rabbi Abraham Gerster took the bus from Jerusalem to Ramat Gan, then a taxi to Bar Ilan University. The campus surprised him with its greenery and modern architecture. He had assumed that the only religious university in Israel would be more like a yeshiva, a large building crowded with male scholars and aging, bearded professors. But Bar Ilan University was nothing like a yeshiva. The lawns were filled with young men and women, who sat together and chomped on lunch sandwiches, chatting animatedly. Most of the women wore their hair loose, only a minority wearing scarves or hats over their natural hair. The majority of the male students revealed their religious observance with only a small knitted skullcap, while some heads were bare altogether in the manner of secular Israelis. Only a few wore the black garb of Talmudic scholars.

He was the subject of curious glances, with his white beard and payos, the black coat and hat. He still felt as young as any of these students, but in truth he was old enough to be their grandfather.

He followed the signs for the law school. The building was named after the late Prime Minister Menachem Begin. He browsed the directory.

Professor Gabriel Lemelson – Jewish Law – Room 305

On the third floor, the office door was open. A man sat at a small, round table with three female students. They were discussing recent legislation that gave civil courts jurisdiction over the financial aspects of divorce, while rabbinical courts maintained exclusive jurisdiction over the dissolution of the marriage itself.

The professor noticed him through the open door, removed his reading glasses, and stood up. “Oh, goodness!” He beckoned. “Please, it’s an honor.”

The students took their bags and left.

Professor Lemelson shut the door. “How can I help you, Rabbi Gerster?”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course! I wrote my dissertation on the abortion law.” He pulled a soft-bound book from a shelf. “Some scholars, myself included, believe that nineteen sixty-seven could have become famous for a different war—a Jewish civil war—if not for your Talmudic ruling against violence and rioting.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“I respectfully disagree. It was truly a paradigm change in ultra-Orthodox ideology. Your ruling marginalized the literal traditionalists’ advocacy of biblical stoning and burning. In essence you sanctified study and worship as preferable to violent enforcement of God’s law.”

“I only spoke to my community.”

“But your ruling, even though it was issued to the relatively small Neturay Karta sect, radiated calming rays to every black-hat yeshiva in the country. You launched singlehandedly the inward-looking, insular culture as the righteous way of life. Your vision has since become the modus operandi for all ultra-Orthodox communities in Israel. As a result, we have avoided large-scale religious violence over secular-religious conflicts, such as abortions, Sabbath violations, pork selling and consumption, restaurants serving bread during Passover, and the continuous trimming of rabbinical courts’ jurisdiction—not to mention the controversies over archeological digs.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“On the contrary. The mostly amicable coexistence with the ultra-Orthodox, which secular Israelis today take for granted, has been a direct result of how you diffused the abortion protests.” Professor Lemelson patted the book. “Perhaps you’d like a copy?”

“I already have one.”

“You’ve read my book?”

“When it was first published. Your conclusions were all wrong.”

“Wrong? Why?”

“You assumed that the ultra-Orthodox culture is homogeneous. It’s not. And violent fundamentalism could grow from modern orthodoxy, as the settler movement is proving.”

“Against the Arabs, yes, but they’re not engaged in internecine violence. Since your sixty-seven ruling, there has not been a single case of Talmudic advocacy for Jews to attack Jews. Not one!”

“That’s precisely why I’m here. What do you know about ILOT?”

The professor’s face registered no interest. “Just what I saw on TV. It seemed like a bunch of kids playing pretend—”

“They carried Bar Ilan Law School backpacks.”

“So do thousands of students, alumni, and their family members. These ILOT kids are a fringe minority.”

“I thought you’d be interested, considering your work on the abortion conflict.”

“Oh, I’ve moved on.” Professor Lemelson laughed. “Religious violence is dead, academically speaking. Completely passé. Jews fight each other with words, not weapons. My research focus has shifted to legislative conflicts. Grant money is plentiful, and students are interested in politics.”

“What about our history?”

“That’s the reason studies of intra-Jewish violence are conducted in the archeology department. And I’m allergic to dust.” Professor Lemelson chuckled. “I now study overlapping Jewish laws and modern Israeli legislation. It presents a more acute intellectual conflict.”

“And what if you learned that your students are among the Torah warriors of ILOT? Wouldn’t that present an acute intellectual conflict?”

Professor Lemelson got up and paced back and forth across his small office. “Are you speculating or are you in possession of factual indicia requiring further study?”

“Have your students raised the question of
Rodef
or the legitimacy of attacking other Jews for their political positions? Or for any reason?”

The professor seemed shocked. “We discuss many topics in the classroom.”

“And this particular topic—killing a Jew who’s endangering another Jew?”

“Yes, in fact we recently discussed it. The issue was raised theoretically as a proposition for debate. But that’s the whole point of free, intellectual exchange in an academic setting, isn’t it?”

“Who raised it?”

“I can’t give you names! My students shouldn’t be persecuted for discussing ideas!”

“Who’s talking of persecution?” Rabbi Gerster smiled at the much-younger professor. “Do you take me for a member of the Zionist police?”

The comment caused Professor Lemelson to laugh. “I’m sorry. I should have realized your interest is merely Talmudic.”

“Exactly. It’s an intellectual interest. I’m sure your student wouldn’t mind chatting with a harmless old rabbi.”

Sitting at his computer, Professor Lemelson searched his students’ list. “I can give you a name, but no contact information.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “Leave a message with your phone number in the office downstairs. One never knows with these students. You might get a call back.”

*

Friday, October 20, 1995

Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr reclined in the wide chair with the
Wall Street Journal
. The Lear jet crossed the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, and the Red Sea filled the round window with deep-blue water. Tiny oil tankers left white wakes, pointing to the Suez Canal.

At the sight of the approaching Saudi coastline, he finished his scotch. Holding the glass up against the sun, he examined his fingernails. Pierre had brought a manicurist with him that morning, a cute little Korean with perfect little hands. He would have kept her for the rest of the morning if not for the unexpected phone call that summoned him for a meeting with his father. Perhaps the king had granted them additional contracts for imports? It could mean millions more for his secret account!

The Lear entered Saudi airspace and banked its wings to the right, veering south. An attendant came into the cabin with a silver tray. He placed a cup of black coffee next to Prince Abusalim and reached for the half-full scotch bottle.

“Wait!” Prince Abusalim filled the glass and emptied it in a few gulps. As the servant was leaving with the forbidden alcohol, the white-stucco sprawl of the holy city of Medina appeared in the distance. The prince lowered the back of his seat and closed his eyes. He had an hour to kill while the Lear flew over Hejaz into the Najd region.

Touchdown was barely felt. The long runway bordered the north side of the family oasis, ending in a giant hangar. The doors slid open to welcome the Lear. It was dwarfed by the sheik’s personal Boeing 747.

A Mercedes limousine took him down the paved road, shaded by rows of palm trees. Tribesmen in white robes and kafiyas opened the gates, and a moment later the main house appeared.

Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah, the sheik’s loyal deputy, descended the marble steps in his traditional white galabiya, which touched his sandals. A checkered kafiya was secured to his head by the two black bands that symbolized his religious status.

They embraced and kissed.

Hajj Ibn Saroah had been with the sheik all his life. He had commanded the sheik’s nomads through fierce fighting for the establishment of a position of power in the king’s court and had continued to command the sheik’s personal security guards, to communicate the sheik’s orders, and to mete out punishment to sinners. Under his belt the hajj kept a shabriya—a crooked blade that could slice a man’s hair lengthwise.

“How is my beloved father?”

“His Highness is in good health. As you are, I hope.” Hajj Ibn Saroah walked quickly, his head slightly bowed.

“Indeed. Allah has been good to me.” He wanted to ask for the purpose of this urgent summoning but was reluctant to show a weakness to this man who, despite his pretences, was only a notch above a slave.

A marble-tiled hallway led them to a pair of gold-plated doors.

“Abusalim!” The sheik put aside the worn volume of the Koran, which he had been reading, and rose slowly. “I am so happy to see you!”

“Father.” Prince Abusalim bowed and kissed the lapel of his father’s long galabiya, its white cotton embroidered with gold.

The sheik embraced his son, planting a kiss on each cheek. “It’s been almost three months since your last visit.”

“I’ve been working very hard.”

“And you did well. Our revenues have doubled this year.” The sheik smiled. “I’m very proud of you, Abusalim.”

“May Allah preserve your health for many years. I am nothing without your guidance.”

Sheik az-Zubayr had just celebrated his seventieth birthday and, as his three wives could testify, had maintained his youthful virility. “But what good is my guidance if you live in Paris, among all the infidels?”

“I would come more often, Father. But I have many responsibilities.”

“Indeed you do.” The sheik caressed his goatee. “Have you lost interest in your wives? Maybe you should take a new one?”

“Not yet. Maybe next year.”

“You only need to ask, yes?”

“Thank you, Father.” Prince Abusalim wondered if that was the reason for calling him home. Had one of his wives complained about his long absence? The younger one was pregnant, so it must be his first wife. He would visit her tonight, satisfy himself, and rough her up as a lesson in the virtue of silence.

Hajj Ibn Saroah cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes.” The sheik’s hand pointed vaguely. “I’m sure it’s nonsense, but do you remember the deal we made about a year ago with Jamson, the American wheat dealer?”

“Yes. Thirty million, I think.”

“Exactly! You always had a good memory for numbers. Anyway, Vahabh was told that you asked them for a reward.”

Abusalim stood up. “
What?
”

“A bribe,” the hajj said.

“Who told you this lie?”

Sheik Da’ood put a hand on Prince Abusalim’s shoulder. “We know it’s a lie. But Vahabh recommended that I ask, that we hear it from you, that’s all.”

The hajj picked up the sheik’s Koran. “Swear that the accusation is false.”

Prince Abusalim turned to his father. “This is outrageous!”

“Swear!” The hajj held the Koran forward.

Sheik Da’ood looked at his son expectantly.

“Fine!” Prince Abusalim rested his hand on the holy book. “I swear in Allah’s name that—” He tried to continue, but his throat became parched like the desert outside. He coughed, but his voice was gone.

The hajj put the Koran aside.

The prince knew he had to come up with an explanation. But how much did they know? “Abusalim?” Sheik az-Zubayr sounded bewildered. “Why don’t you swear it?”

“Because he took the bribe,” the hajj said. “And whatever he demanded, they added to the price we paid.”

Prince Abusalim considered arguing, but remained silent.

“My son is a common thief.” The sheik’s voice shook. “In Allah’s name, why?”

The hajj asked, “What did you do with the money?”

Prince Abusalim was relieved. It appeared that they didn’t know about the Swiss account or the other vendors. “I gave it away. For you, Father.”