The Jerusalem Assassin (28 page)

And you, Christopher? Are you engaged in criminal activity? Are you a risk to the bank’s future?
Lemmy suppressed the hostility that rose inside him. “Perhaps Herr Hoffgeitz knows facts that would protect the bank in case of exposure. But he’s unconscious in the ICU, his recovery in doubt, and I don’t trust Günter.”

“He’s very secretive. I don’t think he has a life outside the bank.”

“Günter is merely an employee. If there’s trouble, they would look to the executive in charge for answers. That’s me, and I’m concerned. Very concerned.” In fact, Lemmy wasn’t concerned at all. There was no risk of government interference in the bank’s affairs, and according to Elie, the Nazi general had been dead since 1945. “What do you think they’re hiding?”

“Maybe,” Christopher said, “it’s about Recommendation 833?”

Lemmy considered the idea. In 1978, the Council of Europe had adopted what became known as Recommendation 833, which required European countries to share banking information when clients were suspected of international money laundering and tax evasion. Switzerland was not a member of the European Community, and Swiss bankers enjoyed a surge in business.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Lemmy said. “This money isn’t moving—no withdrawals, no deposits. Why? Tax evaders and criminals use their accounts. We know this from our own clients. Why is this account inactive? Maybe it’s related to Clause 47b?”

“What’s that?” Christopher shifted uncomfortably. He hated being caught unprepared.

“When Hitler came to power, Switzerland added Clause 47b to the 1934 Banking Act. It was aimed at reinforcing secrecy of bank accounts against the competition of bankers from Liechtenstein, in order to attract deposits from German Jews, who at that time thought the new Nazi government was only after their money.”

“Wasn’t there a big case about it?”

“Good memory.” Lemmy gave Christopher an appreciative nod. The Interhandel case involved proceeds from a post-war sale of General Aniline and Film Corporation by the German cartel I.G. Farben, which employed slave labor during the war. The scandal had exposed the Swiss banks as Nazi profiteers.

“At least we’re not like Banque Leclerc.”

“No,” Lemmy chuckled, “we’re not. Our president is dying naturally.” In 1978, the Swiss Banking Commission had shut down Geneva-based Banque Leclerc after the suicide of its CEO and the discovery of another executive floating in Lake Geneva. The investigation had revealed a deficiency of close to 400 million Swiss francs related to a shady resort project.

“I would have thought it’s Jewish money from the war,” Christopher said. “But the Banking Association has recently sent another survey.”

“Only twenty-six banks responded to the questionnaires about dormant accounts.”

“Didn’t they find a lot of money?”

“Peanuts. In September they informed the World Jewish Organization that they had found eight hundred and ninety-three pre-war accounts with a total value of thirty-four point one million U.S. dollars and that they would continue to search. I assure you the Hoffgeitz Bank reported no such accounts.”

“But Herr Hoffgeitz would not lie to the association, would he?”

“Not blatantly.” Lemmy recalled watching his father-in-law rephrasing his response to the commission to fit the idea that the account was not completely inactive because of a single attempted withdrawal in 1967. But this wasn’t something Christopher should know. “I need you to think creatively. Find a path around Günter’s secrecy. We must find out what he’s hiding and take control of whatever it is before it becomes a problem for the bank.”

*

The El Al flight from Tel Aviv to Zurich was only half-full, and Tanya managed to sleep for most of the time. She travelled alone, her hair covered with a headscarf, her face behind oversized sunglasses. Passport control was quick at this early hour, and she had no luggage.

She bought a cup of coffee and wandered up and down the terminal, trying to shake off a feeling that she was being watched. The people around her seemed like the typical purposeful travelers, and she could trace no tail. It must have been her own unease, travelling without escort for the first time since she had taken command of Mossad’s European operations a few years earlier.

Tanya found a bank of pay phones. She had committed to memory the telephone number for the Hoffgeitz Bank. There was little to go on—the name of the bank executive who had signed the wire transfer to Senlis, which ultimately resulted in Elie’s successful elimination of Abu Yusuf and the Saudi prince. But she had a hunch that Elie must have planted a mole inside the bank. There was only one way to find out.

*

The phone rang and Lemmy picked it up. “Wilhelm Horch here.”

“I have a message for you.” It was a woman, speaking German with a Bavarian accent. “From Elie Weiss.”

“Excuse me?” Lemmy watched Christopher get up and leave the office.

“I have a message from Elie Weiss.”

“You have the wrong number.” He heard a click and noticed Christopher’s line light up. Turning to his computer, Lemmy hit the keys for the video surveillance system.

“Aren’t you Herr Horch of the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich?”

Lemmy selected the camera in Christopher’s office. On the computer screen, his assistant was holding the receiver to his ear, listening. Lemmy hung up.

On the screen, Christopher put down the receiver.

Two minutes later, the phone rang again. The delay told him that she was probably dialing the general number of the bank and following the automatic directory instructions to reach his line.

He pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

Behind the wall, Christopher picked up his receiver and listened.

“Don’t hang up.” She had a calm voice, almost familiar.

“You have the wrong person.”

“Elie Weiss is incapacitated. You must talk to me now. Or would you prefer that I show up in your office?”

“We open at nine a.m., if you’d like to come in.” There was something in her voice that interfered with his clear thinking. But with Christopher on the line, there was no time to hesitate. “Good-bye.” He hung up, went to the door, and opened it.

Christopher’s hand was still on the receiver. He looked up, blushing.

“Please go downstairs,” Lemmy said, “and ask the account managers to search their client lists for the last name Weiss. Someone called me, and I thought it was a wrong number, but now I realize it could be a client of one of the others—”

“I can look it up on my computer. Other than Herr Hoffgeitz’s accounts, we have all the account owners’ names in the database.”

“I already looked,” Lemmy lied. “Perhaps the account is registered to a corporation. The account managers would recognize a name if it’s the trustee or the executive related to the account, even if the name on the account is different.”

The phone started ringing. Christopher reached to answer it.

“I’ll take it in my office. You go downstairs and ask around.” He waited, watching Christopher leave. Back at his desk, Lemmy answered.

“Don’t play games with me, Herr Horch.”

“Lindenhof Park,” he said. “It’s at the top end of Oetenbachgasse. Five thirty this evening.”

“That’s better,” she said, and the line went dead.

Lemmy turned to the window. The sky was gray and bleak. He forced himself to think clearly. Elie’s agent, Grant Guerra, had called yesterday with a message that could only come from Elie:
Launch CFS!
But the woman who had just called could not be speaking for Elie, who would never allow the use of his real name on a phone line. But how did she know Elie’s name and that he was incapacitated? And if she wasn’t part of SOD, who was she? Not an agent for any European law enforcement agency, that was certain, or she would have arrived at the bank for an official meeting, escorted by a Swiss detective, speaking politely and expecting no answers. And an official would not agree to meet at a public park on a drizzly evening.

Was she an agent for Mossad? No. There was no trace of a Hebrew accent in her speech, which he identified as purely native German from Bavaria. And Mossad wouldn’t dare harass a senior Swiss banker in such a direct manner for fear of causing a diplomatic skirmish with Switzerland, which was highly protective of its banks. A Palestinians agent? Unlikely. Judging by her speech and haughty, clipped style of interaction, she was German through and through.

Could she belong to the same Nazi organization as Christopher? Perhaps Elie had crossed swords with them, so to speak, or had even eliminated one of their Nazi elders years ago, causing them to follow him, trace him, and discover his connection to Lemmy. Had they planted Christopher at the Hoffgeitz Bank because of Elie? Was this German woman operating as Christopher’s Nazi handler? That would explain how she knew that Elie was incapacitated: Christopher had told her after eavesdropping on the call from Grant Guerra!

But did it really matter how she knew about Elie or his connection to Lemmy? She endangered his cover as Wilhelm Horch, a successful, respectable banker. Therefore she endangered his life!

Paula and Klaus Junior looked back from the photograph on his desk.

What should he do?

That wasn’t the correct question, which was:
What would Elie do?

After almost three decades of working for Elie, Lemmy knew the answer, especially now, as they were finally nearing control of the Koenig fortune, about to launch the most ambitious secret program in the history of the Jewish nation—an end to centuries of anti-Semitic genocide. The order from Elie had been consistent with the mission.
Launch CFS!
But this German woman was an enemy. There was no doubt what Elie would do in this situation.
Eliminate her!

Lemmy looked around his office—the wood furnishings, the Persian rugs, the soft leather chairs, the original paintings on the walls, and the family photographs on his desk. This was his world. The woman posed an existential risk. He must respond in kind. And then it would be Christopher’s turn—force him to divulge his true identity and who he worked for, and then make him pay the ultimate price of betrayal. Perhaps that’s what Elie had meant when ordering
Launch CFS!
Did Elie know that these modern-day Nazis were on his tail? Did he expect Lemmy’s first action in the Counter Final Solution campaign to be the elimination of Christopher and his cohorts?

Kneeling by the small safe, Lemmy turned the knob left and right until it clicked. He took out the box with the Mauser.

*

The vast plaza in front of the Wailing Wall was mostly in the shade now, as the sun descended behind the rooftops. A late-afternoon breeze picked up. Rabbi Abraham Gerster rocked back and forth in the rear of the group of Neturay Karta men.

Benjamin led the prayers, reading each sentence aloud, pausing for the men to recite the words. “
And we shall continue to mourn,
” Benjamin chanted, “
we shall dwell in sorrow, until God forgives His sheep, until He rebuilds His house on the mountain of His glory, on the ruins of Solomon’s Temple.
”

Repeating the words, Rabbi Gerster looked up at the tall wall of massive stones. Even after so many years, it was hard to believe they could stand so close to the focus of centuries-old Jewish longing. As the leader of Neturay Karta, he had started this weekly prayer tradition back in 1948, after the War of Independence had left Jerusalem divided, with the Old City in Jordanian hands. Every Friday afternoon, he had led the men to a hill by the border, where they had prayed in view of Temple Mount. In 1967, the Six Day War drove the Jordanians back across the Jordan River, and Rabbi Gerster had turned the Friday afternoon prayer of longing into a Friday afternoon prayer of gratitude at the Wailing Wall. And when Benjamin had taken over as the sect’s leader, he had put his own stamp on this tradition, modifying it yet again into a prayer for the rebuilding of the temple.

But for Rabbi Gerster, this special time of the week—the hours before the commencement of the Sabbath—was a time of reflection about a past that had grown more painful with time. He thought of those early Fridays on the hill by the border, when Lemmy was a toddler, light as a feather, happy in his father’s strong arms atop the huge boulder, with the Jordanian-occupied Old City spread before them, the ancient walls and the Tower of David in reddish-brown, glowing in the twilight. The prayers had been mournful back then, but the days had been happy, Lemmy a blonde boy who loved his daddy with complete, unblemished adoration.

“Rabbi?” Benjamin took his arm. The prayer was over, time to walk back to Meah Shearim and receive the Sabbath. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Thank God, yes.” He smiled at Benjamin. “And you?”

They followed the group up the ramp, away from the Wailing Wall.

“I’m worried,” Benjamin said.

“Why?”

He helped Rabbi Gerster up a set of stairs. “Perhaps we can take you to a doctor?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m getting old.”

They reached the top of the stairs and followed the road that circled the Old City along the walls. A group of tourists surrounded their guide, who gestured at the firing slats in the ancient battlements, his Spanish rapid and melodic. A few of the tourists stared at the ultra-Orthodox group as if it were part of Jerusalem’s quaint attractions.

“I’m worried, because you disappear for hours at a time, and Sorkeh complains that the food she brings for you is left untouched.” Years ago, the rabbi had given his apartment to Benjamin and moved into an alcove off the foyer of the synagogue, which did not have a kitchen.

“Tell me something,” Rabbi Gerster said. “As my heir, my successor in leading Neturay Karta, can you point to the primary lesson I have taught you, to the fundamental idea, the consistent thread of light in the chaos of faith?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“What is the single most important thing that I expect you to perpetuate as Neturay Karta’s leader?”

“The value of shalom?”

“Go on.”

“To maintain peace among our people,” Benjamin said, “even when we see blasphemy, even when we see the secular Israelis breach the most sacred teachings of God—drive cars on the Sabbath or dig up sacred graves in search of archeological evidence of a past that we already know existed as written in the Torah. We pray, we show them an example of a life of virtue, and we protest loudly. But we don’t raise a hand against a fellow Jew, albeit a sinner.”