The Jerusalem Assassin (39 page)

“Shopping.” He chuckled at the sight of her raised eyebrows. “Car parts. I restore classics as a hobby, always looking for missing pieces—doors, windows, handles, mirrors, a hood, this and that.”

“Good luck.” She handed him the passport. “There’s a street bearing your name in Tel Aviv. Check it out, take a photo, lay a wreath, you know?”

“I’ll do all three.” He passed through to the luggage area, still smiling. That was the sabra spirit he remembered—direct and irreverent!

*

Itah went downstairs to thank the PR director, a close friend who had arranged for the suite the previous day. She returned with pastries, coffee, and clothes for Elie.

They sat on the balcony, the three of them facing the view of the Old City rather than each other.

Elie pointed. “The border used to run right under this hotel.”

“Let me guess,” Itah said. “You two worked together?”

“At the time,” Rabbi Gerster said, “there was a concern that the ultra-Orthodox would rebel against the secular government. I worked with SOD to keep the extremists in check.” He put down his coffee cup. “I used to take the men of Neturay Karta to pray within sight of Temple Mount every Friday afternoon. Over there. You see that huge boulder?”

“I was doing my mandatory service in the air force,” Itah said. “I worked the wireless communications at Ramat David Air Force Base. All our planes took off that June morning, heading to Egypt. I still can’t believe they managed to reach all those enemy airfields undetected. The base commander told me that Mossad knocked down the only radar capable of early detection—that huge thing the Americans installed at the UN command over there.” She gestured at the south of the city. “At Government House.”

“It wasn’t Mossad,” Elie said. “My SOD did it. It’s old history, but today’s political situation is very similar. Back then, with the Arabs gearing up to destroy Israel, Prime Minister Levi Eshkol was losing the public’s trust. Now, the Oslo Accords are failing to deliver peace and security, with terror attacks intensifying rather than declining, and Prime Minister Rabin is losing popularity. History repeats itself.”

Suddenly everything connected in Rabbi Gerster’s mind: Elie’s financial support of the right-wing fringe ILOT as the opposition’s firebrand, the insidious mingling of the extremists’ virulent rhetoric into Likud rallies to paint the whole right as violent and lawless, the recruiting of former members of Shin Bet’s VIP Protection Unit, and the grafting of Nazi and PLO garb onto Rabin’s image to imply that he deserved to die. “Are you going to try it again? Are you?”

Itah looked from one to the other. “Try what?”

Elie lit a cigarette. “What is real wisdom but to succeed where one failed before?”

“Wisdom is to avoid repeating mistakes!” Rabbi Gerster sat back, shocked. “You’re insane!”

“What’s going on?” Itah asked.
“Back in sixty-seven, he tried to prop up Levi Eshkol with a fake assassination attempt.”

“Not fake,” Elie said. “A
failed
assassination attempt. Intentionally staged to fail.”

“Now I’m confused,” she said.

“Let me explain,” Elie said. “There’s a whole field of political science that supports this proposition—popularity through victimhood. For it to work, a politician must be the target of a real attacker with sincere murderous intentions, the weapons must be real and deadly, and the politician must be in the line of fire, in deadly peril. That’s why President Ford gained nothing from two half-hearted attempts on his life in California while few today remember how unpopular and ridiculed Ronald Reagan had been before he survived Hinckley’s nearly fatal gunshot. My plan in sixty-seven had been visionary, perfect, a real attack that was going to fail only because Eshkol was on the roof, briefing reporters, when the grenades were to explode near his ground-floor kitchen. The assassination attempt was supposed to be real in every respect, and it would have restored the prime minister’s popularity.”

“How?”

“Good luck is a political aphrodisiac,” Elie said. “Voters love a plucky leader who laughs in the face of danger, who is steady in opposing the extremists, and who unites the nation after depraved assassins tried to divide it. The political situation today is perfect for such an operation. And that’s how Rabin will win the next elections.”

“It’s madness!” Rabbi Gerster stood and grabbed the railing. “The Eshkol assassination failed because I discovered your scheme and stopped it! And by God, I will stop you again!”

“It’s too late,” Elie said. “The wheels are already in motion. Unstoppable.”

*

Lemmy rented a zippy Fiat with a manual transmission. The wide, well-marked road out of Ben Gurion Airport wound through manicured flower beds and trim shrubs, which looked more like Switzerland than the dusty Israel he remembered. The buildings were large and modern, the cars new and abundant, and the road signs multi-lingual in Hebrew, Arabic, and English.

He glanced at the directions Carl had given him to the town of Bet Shemesh and turned onto the Tel Aviv-Jerusalem highway, heading east. The radio played edgy music, a mix of American pop and Middle Eastern crooning. He searched the stations for something more to his taste and happened upon the Voice of Israel, which announced the ten o’clock news.

Obeying the speed limit of ninety kilometers per hour earned him honks from the Israeli drivers, who tailgated him before passing. Some gave him angry glares, and others cut back in within inches of his front bumper. A couple of them actually hit their brakes as soon as they returned to his lane, forcing him to do the same. It was funny for a while, but eventually, as he approached the imposing monastery at Latrun, he decided that speeding was safer than driving legally. He swung into the fast lane and increased his speed to 130 kilometers per hour, which made all the difference.

The news started with politics, quoting Prime Minister Rabin: “The Oslo Accords are the only path to peace and security for Israel and its neighbors!” Opposition leader Bibi Netanyahu was quoted next: “The current government has placed our national security in the hands of Palestinian murderers!” Next came economic news, mixing impressive achievements by several exporters with pessimistic forecasts for the industrial and farming sectors should Palestinian terror attacks grow even more frequent and deadly.

Crime news came last: “A government spokesman announced this morning the exposure of a suspected ring of identity thieves. The group allegedly hacked into computers at the Central Bank and stole personal banking data, which was then used for illegal purposes. The suspects include a well-known ultra-Orthodox rabbi in Neturay Karta and a TV reporter.”

Lemmy swerved across the left lane and came to a stop on the shoulder.
A well-known ultra-Orthodox rabbi in Neturay Karta!
No one in the insular sect, which banned television, computers, and all forms of entertainment, would have the means or inclination to engage in financial fraud, let along hack into computers at the Central Bank. And who beside his father could be described as a well-known rabbi in Neturay Karta?

The news ended, followed by a promotional jingle for vacations in Eilat. Lemmy turned off the radio. What was the meaning of this? Tanya had told him that his father, the great Rabbi Abraham Gerster, had been Elie’s mole in Neturay Karta. Was Rabbi Gerster now in the crosshairs of Shin Bet, another casualty of SOD’s collapse? Was Shin Bet busy arresting Elie’s agents on trumped-up charges? And how long would it take for Shin Bet to pounce on Wilhelm Horch in Zurich? Or to track down the Dutch tourist Baruch Spinoza, who had ventured into Israel with neither contacts nor allies for support?

He looked over his shoulder at the moving traffic. No one stopped behind him or ahead of him. He rolled down the window and looked up at the sky, searching for a plane, a helicopter, or perhaps the Israelis’ favorite—a drone.

Nothing but a blue sky and an endless chain of cars buzzing by his window. Were they waiting for him at Hadassah? Was Elie Weiss the bait in a Shin Bet trap?

The next exit off the highway took him to Bet Shemesh. The mechanic’s shop sat on the main road. An elderly man wearing a greasy coverall and a colorful yarmulke had his hands deep in the engine well of a tiny Alfa Romeo.

“Shalom,” Lemmy said. “I’m here to see the Citroën.”

The man beckoned.

Behind the shop, twenty or so cars rested in various grades of disrepair. The DS was propped on blocks, but its space age, aerodynamic shape still connoted speed and sophistication. It was white, which would make painting any pirated skin sections easier. It was also rusty in all the suspect spots and was missing the rear seat. But otherwise Lemmy’s meticulous inspection revealed it to be complete inside and out—a treasure trove of usable little parts that would otherwise cost a fortune to fabricate from scratch for the SM Presidential, which shared many of its components with the standard-body DS sedan.

The mechanic was back inside with the Alfa.

Lemmy found a sink and a bar of soap. Over the sound of the running water, he asked, “How much do you want for it?”

After a long silence, the mechanic said, “It was once owned by a lawyer in Haifa. He’s now a minister in the government.”

“That’s quite a pedigree. I’ll treat it well…except for taking off a bunch of parts.”

That drew a chuckle.

“I can give you two thousand dollars. That’s my only offer.” Lemmy pulled a bundle of bills from his pocket. “I’ll have it picked up in a couple of weeks.”

The mechanic put on reading glasses and fumbled through a drawer. He produced a creased envelope with a title, which he and Lemmy signed.

He examined the signature. “Baruch Spinoza?”

“Guilty as charged,” Lemmy said.

The mechanic gave him the title and took the money. “Wait a minute.” He went into an adjoining space, which seemed like a combined kitchen-storage-hangout room, and reemerged with a small volume. “Sign this as well,” he said, holding it forth.

Lemmy looked at the cover. It was a Hebrew translation of Spinoza’s 1662 work:
On the Improvement of the Understanding.

*

Elie tossed his cigarette over the balcony railing. “The problem with you, Abraham, is that your emotions drive your decisions. We’re not theorizing over Talmudic esoteric quandaries here. We’re dealing with reality. Don’t you remember what we saw with our own young eyes? Don’t you remember what happens to Jews who let misguided righteousness determine their fate?”

“I remember,” Rabbi Gerster said. “They died like sheep in the slaughterhouse.”

“You two might as well speak Chinese.” Itah stood. “You better explain what’s going on, or I’m going straight to the police. What’s this talk of an assassination?”

“Calm down,” Elie said. “Nobody is going to die.” He lit another cigarette and puffed a few times. “It’s very simple. The first stage of my plan required that I nurture a right-wing militia.”

“The ILOT group,” Itah said. “I’ve covered their activities for Channel One. Is Freckles your agent?”

“You know Freckles?” Elie looked at her with renewed appreciation.

“He’s getting regular cash deposits in French francs. From you?”

For a moment, Elie considered whether she should be eliminated. But a TV reporter could be useful to his operation. “Some of the ILOT boys are familiar with the VIP protection procedures. When opportunity comes, one will strike at Rabin.”

“When?”

Elie shrugged. “They’ve shadowed the prime minister to major events, waiting for a lapse in security. The bullet will have low velocity, and Rabin will wear a bulletproof vest. A broken rib would be the worst he could suffer.”

“That’s your plan?” Itah gave him a doubtful look. “You’re counting on a coincidence? You think Rabin’s bodyguards will step aside for your assassin?”

“They’re only human. The protective ring opens occasionally, even for a brief moment.”

“And if this unlikely chance presents itself, how do you know the bullets won’t kill Rabin?”

“Our rabbi here can explain why,” Elie said.

“A religious man,” Rabbi Gerster said, “especially one with a legalistic mindset, would follow Talmud to the letter. He will shoot at the fifth rib.”

“The fifth rib?” Itah seemed bewildered. “Why not the fourth rib? Or the sixth?”

“Talmud is very specific about this. It’s the prescribed method to stop a
Rodef
who is in deadly pursuit of another Jew, to disable the pursuer by striking him in the fifth rib. It’s discussed in the tractate of
Sanhedrin
.”

“Correct,” Elie said. “Rabin will walk away from the shooting almost unscathed, but the Israeli public will have witnessed an honest-to-God assassination attempt. The political ramifications will be spectacular. The whole right wing will be swept off the map of legitimate politics and into the trashcan of fringe irrelevancy. Rabin’s aura as an invincible warrior will be bolstered, making him undefeatable. He will win an absolute majority in the Knesset and use that mandate to push through the rest of his peace agenda.”

“And owe you everything?” Rabbi Gerster tugged at his side locks thoughtfully. “What’s your reward?”

“Everything I do is for our people,” Elie said, looking at Itah, whose loyalty he wanted to win. “My work will not only end Arab terrorism, but will also prevent another Holocaust, another Exile, or another Inquisition. I’m determined to end the long chapter of suffering in Jewish history, to inoculate us against national disasters that have repeatedly stricken us.”

“A lofty goal,” Rabbi Gerster said. “You’re still pursuing that phantom solution.”

“The two of us are the same,” Elie said while resting his hand on Rabbi Gerster’s arm. “Since the day we hid in an attic and watched the Nazis slaughter our families, we have dedicated our lives to the eternal survival of our people, to the defeat of the next Final Solution, devised by another Führer, another Pope, or another Grand Ayatollah.”

Rabbi Gerster remained quiet, which pleased Elie, who feared his long-estranged mole would rise up in opposition at this critical time.

“I’ve developed a comprehensive strategy,” Elie continued. “
Counter Final Solution
. In short, we will reorganize the existing secret services—Mossad, Shin Bet, and my SOD—into a single worldwide force capable of performing all operational elements at top level. It will gather information, infiltrate government agencies, and worm its way into ideological organizations and academic institutions in order to identify, track down, and eliminate every enemy of the Jewish people at the outset of their hostile activity. The concept aims at preventing attacks on Jews or Israeli interests worldwide, thwarting all on-going anti-Semitic activities, and suffocating all anti-Jewish intellectual enterprises. Ultimately we will achieve a total and complete immunization of the Gentile world, a cure for all of its anti-Semitic tendencies. In other words, our Counter Final Solution will exterminate the anti-Semitic virus in its totality.”