The Jerusalem Assassin (43 page)

“Gideon?” Elie glared at him. “Why are you here?”

“Same reason you’re here.”

Agent Cohen entered the kitchen, all smiles. “Here are your administrative detention papers.” He tossed the documents in front of Elie, Itah, and Rabbi Gerster. The forms appeared genuine, with Ministry of Defense stamps and signatures at the bottom, authorizing Shin Bet to hold them without further proceedings and without a lawyer for up to ninety days.

The grandmotherly housekeeper cooked eggs to each person’s liking, which they ate with slices of grainy bread and bowls of Israeli salad.

“Almost as good as the King David Hotel,” Agent Cohen said as he poured olive oil on his salad.

“You’re playing with fire,” Elie said. A nurse had come in earlier and fitted him with a portable oxygen tank. A transparent plastic tube was held under his nose with a rubber strip that circled his head. “What has Freckles told you?”

“Question is, what has he told
you?
” Agent Cohen laughed and bit into a chunk of bread.

Rabbi Gerster wiped his lips and sat back in the chair. He had a hunch that the mutual antipathy between Elie and Shin Bet somehow involved Lemmy, but how? He sighed. Despite the bright light from the floor-to-ceiling windows and the endless span of the glistening blue Mediterranean, he was in the dark.

*

The synagogue was full of Neturay Karta men engaged in afternoon prayers. Lemmy’s blue baseball hat and windbreaker stood out among the homogeneous black coats and hats. His clean-shaven face felt bare among the uniformly bearded men.

He sat in the rear and hoped that they would take him for another curious tourist who had wandered into the Meah Shearim neighborhood for its narrow alleys, old stone houses, and quaint inhabitants.

When the prayers ended, the men went back to studying. They swayed over open books of Talmud, arguing with each other, puffing on cigarettes. He felt a swell of longing, drawn to join them, even for a few minutes of reliving his youth. Their immersion in the study of Talmud was unlike any other scholarly endeavor—reciting, discussing, pondering, and debating every word and every subtlety in the sages’ conflicting positions on every subject imaginable. Like their ancestors over countless generations, the men of Neturay Karta dedicated their lives to the study of Talmud as the ultimate way to glorify the Creator. At eighteen, Lemmy had broken away from the long chain of tradition. Until now, he had never doubted that decision.

But here, as the old synagogue enveloped him in the smells and sounds of his boyhood, with the palpable warmth and sense of purpose, with the joy of intellectual fencing in the worship of
Adonai
, the one God who had chosen us to receive His word, Lemmy was struck by an overwhelming sense of loss, as if all the years of his adult life had been wasted away from his true destiny—
from his true self!

With great mental effort, Lemmy shunned those nostalgic misgivings and focused his mind on the task at hand. One of these men was Benjamin—not the young and cheerful youth he remembered, but an older Benjamin, a man of forty-six with dark eyes and a laughter that was likely less explosive, yet still contagious.

Lemmy got up and paced along the book-lined side wall in order to better see their faces. Some of the men resembled what he imagined Benjamin would look like, but up close, none of them turned out to be his childhood friend and study-companion. Lemmy walked down the other side, examining more bearded faces, none of them Benjamin’s.

Disappointment descended on him. Why had Father yelled Benjamin’s name? Had Benjamin left Neturay Karta? Perhaps one of these men knew where Benjamin Mashash lived now?

Before he could ask, someone pounded on the lectern three times. Lemmy realized the lecture of the day was about to begin. He returned to the bench in the rear.

Rabbi Gerster’s daily lectures had been the main event of each day of study, exposing novel, complex interpretations that none of the men had managed to reach independently. Superior intellect had long been the engine of rabbinical leadership, perhaps because Jews had lived in exile for two thousand years, lacking a political structure in which ambition alone could float a meritless man up to leadership. For Orthodox Jews, Talmudic scholarship had always been the sole criteria for prominence. And in the Neturay Karta of Lemmy’s youth, his father, Rabbi Abraham Gerster, had reigned supreme with his incisive mind and powers of persuasion.

One of the men stepped up onto the dais and stood by the lectern, his eyes on the open book in front of him. “Two men grip a prayer shawl. Each one claims full ownership.” His voice was soft and pleasant, intoning the words. He swayed back and forth, playing with his spiraling payos. “Talmud says that each one must take an oath that he owns at least half of the prayer shawl and shall accordingly receive one-half.”

Lemmy raised his hand. “You call this justice?”

Many of the men turned their heads to see who spoke.

“One of them must be lying,” he continued. “To split the prayer shawl between them means that the honest owner loses half. Is that fair?”

A man in a front bench responded, “These are not the original owners. They found the shawl in the street.”

“Even then,” Lemmy said, “the dispute is factual, not legal. One of them was the first to find it, and he’s deprived of half of his new property while the other one walks away with plunder.”

The man at the podium caressed his salt-and-pepper beard. “Plunder is not the issue here. These two are honest disputants. Each one believes he was the first to notice and grab the prayer shawl. Now—”

“So Talmud avoids the real issue,” Lemmy said.

A murmur swept through the rows of men.

“What if one is lying? The honest one loses half to a thief.”

Another man said, “Rabbi Sumchus and Rabbi Yossi discuss a similar scenario, with a banker who took deposits from two men. One deposited two hundred shekels, and the other only one hundred. When they came to collect, both claimed to have deposited the larger amount, and the banker couldn’t remember. Rabbi Sumchus rules that each takes one hundred shekels, and the disputed one hundred remains until one of them admits that he had lied or until the Messiah comes and decides. But Rabbi Yossi says that neither should get anything so that the liar would lose his first one hundred shekels. Otherwise, there’s no deterrence to lying.”

“Okay,” Lemmy said, “both Rabbi Yossi and Rabbi Sumchus agree that the disputed one hundred shekels should be held, not split, correct?” He swayed in the manner of a Talmudic scholar. “So why are we cutting the prayer shawl in half?”

“No one’s cutting it,” yelled another man from the opposite end of synagogue, “we split the value, not the thing itself!”

The rabbi on the dais closed his book and descended the three steps. He walked down the middle aisle toward the stranger in the back.

Lemmy stood up.

The rabbi stopped abruptly a few rows away and blinked, shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t utter a word.

“Shalom, Benjamin.”

“
Oy!
” Rabbi Benjamin Mashash pressed his hands to his chest as if experiencing a sharp stab of pain. “
Oy! Oy! Oy!
”

*

Rabbi Gerster was determined to find out what was really going on. He would not grope in the dark while his son, who had just come back from the dead, could unwittingly get entangled in a scheme to assassinate—or to pretend to assassinate—the prime minister! Squeezing Elie Weiss for information was pointless, even risky, with Elie’s proclivity for sudden violence. But Agent Cohen seemed cocky enough to be susceptible to goading. Perhaps he would say something revealing.

“I was wondering,” Rabbi Gerster said, holding up the detention order, “how many renewals you could obtain before the law requires you to release us or bring us before a judge?”

“I won’t need renewals.” Agent Cohen broke off another chunk of bread and smeared it with butter. “This whole thing will be over next week.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gideon said. “I’m going back to graduate school.”

“You want us to believe that?” Agent Cohen laughed.

“I’m going back to Channel One,” Itah Orr said with sudden venom, “and you’ll watch me on TV telling the nation about you!”

“I don’t think so,” Agent Cohen said. “You’ll be busy with criminal defense lawyers, trying to stay out of jail, fighting off computer hacking charges. Your friend at the treasury ministry has been very cooperative.” Before she could respond, he turned to Rabbi Gerster. “And you? Will you go to Switzerland?”

The rabbi played with his fork, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. He had a feeling that the Shin Bet agent was fishing for information, that he didn’t know the real situation. “Why Switzerland?”

“We know you called Zurich from the King David Hotel yesterday. Do you keep money at the Hoffgeitz Bank? Or is it SOD deposits?”

The rabbi exchanged a glance with Elie. Agent Cohen was assuming that the Zurich connection was merely about financial convenience and secrecy. His error must be reinforced. “God’s work doesn’t come free,” he said.

The Shin Bet officer sipped from his orange juice. “Tanya Galinski was also in Zurich a couple of days ago.”

“That’s impossible!” The harshness in Elie’s voice made everyone turn to him. “You’re lying!”

Agent Cohen pulled a photo from his pocket and placed it on the table. It had been taken in the rain from a distance too great for detailed clarity. A man and a woman were sitting on a park bench under a bare tree. Her hair was loose, and he was pressing a handkerchief to the side of her head. Her petite size and pale face resembled Tanya, though it was hard to tell, especially as Rabbi Gerster had not seen her in many years. The man, however, he recognized from last night’s encounter at the entrance to the King David Hotel: Lemmy!

“Shin Bet agents following Tanya Galinski?” Elie took a few shallow breaths. “It’s illegal for you to spy on Mossad, and it’s twice illegal to do it abroad!”

“Don’t get technical with me.” Agent Cohen beckoned the housekeeper to remove the dishes. “Who’s this man Tanya met? Is he a bank employee?”

“She has many men,” Elie said.

Rabbi Gerster was delighted. This photo confirmed that Lemmy was living in Zurich and working at the Hoffgeitz Bank. Also, it was obvious that Elie recognized Lemmy. And best of all, Shin Bet had not yet figured out who he was.

Agent Cohen turned to Gideon. “Do you know him?”

The young SOD agent shook his head. “Never been to Zurich.”

Rabbi Gerster said, “Why don’t you ask Tanya?”

Agent Cohen shrugged. “She’s gone incommunicado at the moment.” He pocketed the photo. “We have people in Zurich trying to identify the man she met. But it would be easier if you just told us.”

Elie Weiss smirked. “Easier for whom?”

“Easier for him,” Agent Cohen said. “My men are very upset. He’ll suffer less if he turns himself in.”

“Upset?” Rabbi Gerster struggled to keep his voice disinterested. “Why are they upset with this Swiss guy?”

“He shot one of our agents. When we find him, we’ll make sure he
also
limps for the rest of his life—if he lives.”

*

“Master of the Universe,” Benjamin cried. “Blessed be His name for keeping us alive to celebrate this day!”

They held each other for a long time.

“Master of the Universe,” Benjamin kept saying, “Master of the Universe!”

They wiped their eyes and stepped out to the foyer. Behind them, the men in the synagogue returned to studying Talmud, as wasting time was considered the worst of all sins.

They sat down, and Lemmy told Benjamin that the corpse of a Jordanian soldier had been buried in Mount Herzl under his name while he assumed a new identity and served Israel abroad. He gave no more details. It was safer for Benjamin not to know.

Benjamin told Lemmy about his life as Rabbi Gerster’s heir, about his wife, Sorkeh Toiterlich, who had once been engaged to Lemmy, and his children, whom he listed by name and age, starting with his eldest, Jerusalem, born ten years after Lemmy’s departure. Benjamin’s wise eyes became moist again. Up close, Lemmy could see the wrinkles from age and responsibility, the paleness from the indoor life of a scholar.

“It worked out for the better,” Lemmy said. “You’re worthy of my father’s place.”

“Oh, no.” Benjamin shivered. “Who could possibly replace Rabbi Abraham Gerster? We try to follow the path he has charted for us, that’s all.”

“He’s not an easy man to please. I know from experience.”

“That’s true!” Benjamin laughed, his white teeth and squinting eyes instantly transforming him back to the youth Lemmy remembered.

Lemmy laughed too. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

“It’s wonderful! To see you alive…thank God for miracles!” Benjamin’s face became serious again. “But your father is gone now. It’s a terrible scandal. We’re so worried about him.”

“I saw him yesterday. He was arrested. We couldn’t talk, but he communicated to me that I should come to you.”

“To me? But I don’t know anything.”

“Perhaps he left papers or letters?”

“Government investigators came here and took all his belongings. Come, I’ll show you.”

A small alcove off the foyer held a cot, a desk, and Rabbi Gerster’s chair. The bookcase was empty. The desk drawers were pulled out and turned over.

“They took everything, even his books.”

Lemmy sat in the chair and gripped the carved lion heads at the ends of the armrests. “He committed no crimes. It’s a diversion from what’s really going on. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did he tell you anything?”

Benjamin shook his head. “A woman was here, the TV journalist that’s also being accused. And the rabbi received a note from a patient at Hadassah hospital.”

“What did it say?”
“Asked him to come to Hadassah. And it said:
Long live Jerusalem!
Now I understand what it meant!” Benjamin took a deep breath. “Did he recognize you last night?”

Lemmy nodded.

“He must be so happy! Every week he visited your grave. Your death continued to torment him. So when the note came, he rushed out with the woman in the middle of the night. He didn’t tell me where they went, but there was mud all over their shoes the next morning, and he was happier than ever.”