The Jerusalem Assassin (51 page)

“Really? Don’t you preach against Israel?” Itah counted on her fingers. “First, that modern Zionism caused the collapse of Jewish observance. Second, that Israel’s secular nationalism and emphasis on material land possessions contradicts spiritual Judaism? Third, that the promiscuous Israeli society is a menace to the future of the Jewish faith?”

“Yes, we contend that—spiritually speaking—modern Zionism has cost this nation more Jews than the Holocaust. But we don’t advocate violence. We would never condone killing of another Jew!”

“Even of a Zionist politician who’s a danger to others? Even a
Rodef
, a pursuer of Jews, who must be struck down according to Talmud?” Itah knuckled the table. “From Shin Bet’s perspective, your support of Rabin’s assassin is perfectly logical.”

Benjamin shook his head. “The only possible explanation is that Shin Bet thinks Lemmy is fooling us into hosting him, that we don’t realize who or what he really is.”

“Then I must leave,” Lemmy said. “It’s only a matter of time before they come here. I don’t want to put you at risk.”

Benjamin gestured at the window, painted red with the setting sun. “Sabbath is about to begin. They won’t dare to invade our community.”

“Why?”

“This is the City of Jerusalem, home to over two hundred thousand ultra-Orthodox Jews, many of whom are prone to religious protests. Our Neturay Karta community is small, but visible. The government will not risk inciting a riotous explosion in Jerusalem on the eve of the peace rally. I think you’re safe within Meah Shearim, at least until after the rally.”

*

Gideon and Agent Cohen spent a couple of hours in the emergency room. A series of tests revealed no concussions, fractures, or internal injuries for either of them, which was surprising as they had been unconscious for almost an hour. Spinoza clearly knew his business.

A report came from the Shin Bet desk at the airport. The name Horch had popped up on a KLM passenger list for that morning’s flight to Amsterdam. The individual had been dressed in a sport coat and khaki slacks, eyes shielded by gold-rimmed Ray-Ban sunglasses. He presented a valid German passport that identified him as Abelard Horch, age 69. Carrying an overnight bag though security, he bought a Sony Walkman at the duty free store and a German translation of an Ira Levin novel,
Sliver
. Despite the identical last name, the German tourist did not match the age and physical description of Spinoza. He was allowed to board his flight, which had taken off before noon, passing over Tel Aviv and the Mediterranean coast toward Europe.

Agent Cohen tossed the report. “The real Horch was here at Hadassah Hospital at the same time. It’s a good thing we’re not looking for a guy with my last name, or we would get a thousand reports a day.”

“We’re running out of time,” Gideon said.

“It’s your fault. I told you to shoot him!”

“How could I put a bullet in a man who raises his hands and speaks Hebrew?”

“He’s a chameleon, don’t you get it? For what the Saudis can pay, they hire the best. This guy is probably the top assassin operating in the world today. He can probably pass for a Frenchman, a Russian, or a Hungarian for all we know. You should have eliminated him at first sight, like I told you to.”

Gideon nodded thoughtfully. “I’m impressed with how he disabled us so quickly. But why didn’t he kill us?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Agent Cohen rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Spinoza is a professional. He won’t kill unless he’s being paid to kill you, or if you represent mortal danger to him, which obviously you weren’t. Next time, I suggest that you shoot, not talk, okay?”

“First we have to find him. An ultra-Orthodox man in Jerusalem is like a needle in a haystack.”

“There’s a way to deal with those
schvartzehs.
” Agent Cohen used the derogatory term
blacks
for the ultra-Orthodox. “They know each other’s business like there’s no tomorrow. Watch this.” He curled his good finger at the hospital chaplain, who was waiting just outside the ER.

The chaplain rubbed his hands nervously while explaining how Rabbi Benjamin Mashash, the leader of the Neturay Karta sect, had arranged with him to bring a minyan of men to pray with patients. “This is a Jewish hospital,” he said, “how can I refuse when a righteous rabbi offers to spend time here, provide spiritual healing to the—”

“That’s why Rabbi Gerster yelled
Benjamin!
” Agent Cohen spat on the floor. “He was telling Spinoza to go to Rabbi Mashash in Neturay Karta!” He waved off the chaplain, who scattered away before they changed their minds.

“But what’s the connection between Rabbi Gerster, Rabbi Mashash, and Spinoza?”

“Maybe the Saudis are paying Neturay Karta to help Spinoza. That sect hates Israel as much as the Arabs do.”

“I doubt it. But let’s assume he’s still with them. Neturay Karta has hundreds of families, and each one would do the rabbi’s bidding and hide Spinoza, no questions asked. How are we supposed to find him?”

“Break down their doors one by one until we get him!”

“Not so simple.” Gideon pressed on the bruise at the back of his head. “Going door to door would require lots of agents, together with police support, roadblocks, armored vehicles. There’s going to be resistance, barricaded doors and windows, stone throwing. And as soon as word gets around Jerusalem about police invasion in the middle of the Sabbath, thousands will flood the streets. Neturay Karta is a core of fundamentalism, but the rest of the other ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods aren’t exactly bastions of patriotism. Unless we’re ready to deal with a city-wide riot, we must come up with a better plan.”

The ICU doctor appeared. “I checked Weiss. His vitals are fine, but we can’t wake him up. I don’t know what’s going on. It might be neurological.”

“We need him awake,” Gideon said. “He possesses information that’s essential to our investigation. It’s a matter of national security.”

The physician shrugged. “You’ll have to wait.”

“He’s pretending,” Agent Cohen said. “Stick a needle in his foot, and he’ll wake up.”

“We tried pricking his toe.”

“And?”

“No response. Not even an eyelid twitch.”

“What did you expect?” Gideon chuckled. “You’re not dealing with a normal human being.”

“Try breaking his finger,” Agent Cohen said. “Or poking his eye.”

*

Saturday, November 4, 1995

Sabbath morning at Benjamin’s small apartment was different than any other morning. A huge pot of meat, potatoes, and pinto beans had been simmering on the stove since sundown on Friday, filling the apartment with the unique smell of
tcholent
that Lemmy remembered from childhood. He was looking forward to Sabbath lunch after the services.

Everyone was up early, preparing to go together to the synagogue. Rather than a full breakfast, Sorkeh had put out slices of pound cake and a pitcher of milk. Benjamin sang to the youngest while changing his diaper. Lemmy helped one of the boys lace up his shining Sabbath shoes, while Sorkeh brushed her teenage daughter’s hair and tied it with a red ribbon. Itah borrowed a flowery headdress from Sorkeh, which went well with a taupe dress she had found in a box of donated clothes. The oldest boy, Jerusalem, was lying on the living room sofa, his face rosy with fever. When everyone was dressed and ready to go, they wished Jerusalem Good Sabbath and a speedy recovery, and went to the synagogue.

Itah walked with Lemmy behind the large Mashash family. “I used to hate them,” she said. “Their black coats and hats, their beards and side locks, and their holier-than-thou isolationism, as if we, secular Israelis, were not really Jews.”

“And now?”

“Now that Neturay Karta is the only place I’m safe?” She laughed. “Your father cares for these people, and I understand why. They’re like a Jewish microcosm, a biosphere of Talmudic life, unchanged and uncontaminated since before modernity. Look at them—like shtetl dwellers in Poland three centuries ago.”

At the forecourt of the synagogue, hundreds of Neturay Karta members congregated to exchange greetings and share news of recent engagements, new babies, and illnesses. Everyone was dressed in their best clothes, the men in tailored black coats and wide-brim felt hats, the women in colorful headdresses, and the kids in miniature outfits resembling the adults, except that the unmarried girls wore their hair uncovered.

“One day,” Lemmy said, “I’ll bring my wife and son to visit, see how I grew up, what gave me a solid foundation in life.”

“And what is that?”

“Talmud,” Lemmy said. “Everything you see here is the direct result of a communal, lifelong devotion to the study of Talmud, which is a boundless intellectual world spanning ten thousand pages of debates over right and wrong. A student of Talmud spends his days agonizing over what constitutes an ethical behavior in every aspect of one’s life—worship, family, business, politics. There’s nothing like it.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes, I miss Talmud. I miss it terribly. But I don’t miss the insular lifestyle. And I couldn’t live without cars.”

Itah laughed. “Cars?”

“Love them,” he said. “Have you ever fooled around with a Porsche? Made out with a classic Citroën?”

“Shhh!” She gestured at the people around them. “It’s Sabbath!”

They made their way between the people of Neturay Karta into the foyer of the synagogue. At the foot of the stairs leading to the women’s section, Itah said, “You could have been their rabbi.”

Lemmy looked at the animated faces of bearded men, the kind smiles of untimely aged women, the cacophony of Yiddish and Hebrew, and the little boys with kiddie black hats and dangling side locks, running around, squealing in joy. It was so familiar, yet so alien. He tugged at his fake beard. “I guess…it wasn’t meant to be.”

*

Rabbi Gerster spent the night in a small hotel overlooking a muddy canal. When he checked out, the Dutch proprietor said, “Good-bye, Herr Horch.” It took him a moment to remember this was his last name—same as his son’s, yet again.

According to the phonebook, Doctor Mullenhuis Data Recovery operated out of a warehouse in the southern outskirts of Amsterdam, on the road to Leiden. He didn’t have much hope of finding the office open on a Saturday morning, but to his surprise, a man opened the door as soon as the taxi stopped in front of the building. Rabbi Gerster asked, “Are you Carl?”

“It depends.”

“My name is Abelard Horch.”

Carl’s eyes lit up, but he didn’t volunteer anything.

“I’m Lemmy’s father.” He put down the bag and patted his chest. “Back from the dead.”

“Yes,” Carl said, “I can tell by the sense of humor!”

They went inside, where floor-wide workrooms were filled with computer terminals and bundles of color-coded wires. If there was a method to the madness, it was well concealed. Carl collected his keys and led the way to an underground garage, a large space occupied by about twenty cars. He went for a red Ferrari. “This is a real sport car,” he said, holding the door open for Rabbi Gerster, “not like your son’s wimpy Porsche.”

He sat with his bag on his lap as Carl maneuvered the grunting Ferrari out of the garage. “I don’t know my son as an adult. Do you like him?”

“He’s the best.” Carl drove fast through the deserted industrial area toward the highway. “And if I ever marry, it will be someone like his Paula. Body and soul, that woman is perfect. Delicious!”

*

A map of the neighborhood was pinned to the wall, and within it, an area was marked with a red border that started and ended at the gate on Shivtay Israel Street. “This is our area of activity.” Gideon tapped the map with his pointer. “The vehicles will drop us at the gate. We’ll have sixty seconds to run up the alley to their synagogue. We must place a tight ring around the building before they notice what’s happening. Neturay Karta is a fundamentalist sect, and the men are accustomed to evading police during demonstrations. We don’t want them running out of the synagogue and alerting other neighborhoods. Surprise and speed are the keys to our success today.”

The briefing room at the Jerusalem central police station was almost full. In addition to Agent Cohen’s four subordinates, there were forty police officers and two medics.

“Our intelligence,” Gideon continued, “indicates that all the members of Neturay Karta attend Sabbath morning services, including women and children. This is our only chance. A door-to-door search would incite a full-scale riot here, possibly spreading to the rest of the city.” He tapped on the enlarged photos beside the map, showing Spinoza and Itah Orr. “Former TV reporter Itah Orr, accused of banking fraud and identity theft. The man with her uses the name Baruch Spinoza, but is also known as Wilhelm Horch, a Swiss national. He’s probably dressed as an ultra-Orthodox man. Study his face in the flyer you’re about to receive. Be alert and careful. He’s a professional assassin.”

Each of them had been given a printout of a photo from Hadassah Hospital’s security cameras, which had captured Spinoza’s bearded face as he had entered the hospital on Friday with the other Neturay Karta men.

“The plan is simple,” Gideon continued. “We’ll enter through the main synagogue doors and run up the side walls to surround the congregation. Two of you will go upstairs to the women’s section.” He selected them with his pointer. “As soon as we surround the crowd, I will explain to them that we have no hostile intentions other than to apprehend the two criminals. At this point, either they’ll hand the suspects over to us or we’ll search the rows in the prayer hall and in the upstairs mezzanine until we find them. Questions?”

One of the police officers raised his hand. “What are the engagement rules? Should we have guns at the ready, or keep them holstered?”

“Holstered,” Gideon said. “We won’t give him a reason to shoot. He’s a professional, not a fanatic. He doesn’t want to die. As soon as he realizes he’s trapped by an overwhelming force, he’ll surrender.”

“What about the rest of them. How can we defend against them?”