The Jerusalem Assassin (56 page)

Gideon was already raising his gun, but noticed Agent Cohen’s expression turn into fear as he turned and yelled at the policemen, “Get all the civilians out of here!”

They started pushing back the spectators.

“Hey!” Gideon pointed to the dark youth Spinoza was holding. “Who’s this guy? What bullets?”

“It’s his accomplice!” Agent Cohen pointed. “Shoot them both, idiot! Now!”

“He’s framing you,” Spinoza said. “Shin Bet wants to pin everything on SOD in case the assassination scheme goes badly.”

“What scheme?” Gideon turned to the Shin Bet agent. “Didn’t you shut it down?”

Agent Cohen drew his own gun with his left hand and aimed it at Gideon. “Shoot, or I’ll shoot you!”

With a casual flip of the hand, Spinoza knocked the gun from Agent Cohen’s hand. “Shin Bet kept Elie’s operation going,” he said. “But Rabin won’t wear a vest, so they loaded Yoni’s gun with blanks.” He shook the young man, causing his skullcap to fall off. “Right?”

The assassin reached behind his back. “I’m just getting my wallet.” He pulled it and showed them a laminated card. “I have a license to carry a gun everywhere, including into secured zones.”

Spinoza patted him down and found a package stuffed under Yoni’s shirt. “You always carry it like this?” The gun was wrapped in a parchment, but the wax seal was broken in half. He handed it to Gideon. “They had a fake rabbi load it with blanks, recite a blessing, and seal the parchment. But this kid outsmarted them, switched the bullets back to deadly hollow points. Did you recite another prayer over it?”

“Of course,” Yoni Adiel said.

Gideon turned to Agent Cohen. “Is it true?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The Shin Bet agent pointed at Spinoza. “This is the real assassin!”

Drawing a large pistol, Spinoza held it up with two fingers. “This is the only weapon I have—took it from Freckles earlier. It’s an FN Browning, nine millimeters long. No silencer. If I try to shoot Rabin with this, it will make more noise than a Howitzer. I’ll be lynched.”

“But you were in Paris!” Gideon tried to think straight. “You killed Abu Yusef’s boy, caused us to lose Bashir, provoked the synagogue attack—”

“Elie sent me on that job. You know how he operates. Belt and suspenders. I also shadowed you when you were chasing Al-Mazir—those BMW bikes were fast!”

“The blue Porsche?”

Spinoza nodded.

Agent Cohen beckoned a group of men in civilian clothes who appeared out of nowhere. They circled the group in a tight ring.

Gideon lowered his gun. “Who are you?”

“My name is Jerusalem Gerster,” Spinoza said. “Lemmy, for short. I’m the rabbi’s son. Been working undercover for Elie Weiss in Zurich for years.”

“Take him,” Gideon said to the men, pointing at Yoni Adiel. “Only him!”

“Wait a minute,” Agent Cohen protested, “I’m giving the orders here!”

“Not anymore.” Gideon raised his gun and slapped Agent Cohen with the barrel right on the mouth, causing him to fall backwards, blood splattering from his mouth.

Yoni Adiel turned, connecting his wrists behind his back for the handcuffs. He smiled at Gideon—a cold, arrogant smile. As they took him away, he yelled, “Redundancy!”

*

Elie watched as the TV camera followed Prime Minister Rabin. He shook hands with the long-haired singer, who also won a kiss from Mrs. Rabin. Going down the wide stairs to the sterile area, the camera caught Foreign Minister Shimon Peres linger by Rabin’s car on the opposite side.

A reporter asked the prime minister whether he intended to accept opposition leader Benjamin Netanyahu’s invitation to discuss the rising level of political violence. Rabin’s smile disappeared. “It would be stupid, naive, for me to meet with him. Why should I? I’m tired of the hypocrisy of the Likud. They speak against violence, but support it. One day Netanyahu leads a rally while his supporters are calling for my death, another day he wants to meet with me. It’s the epitome of hypocrisy!”

The camera backed away as the silver-haired mayor came over to introduce one of the organizers. The prime minister’s wife, Leah Rabin, effusively thanked them for the most successful political rally in the country’s history.

Meanwhile Rabin paused and extended his hand to the cameraman. “And thank you as well,” the prime minister said. The picture jittered with their handshake.

*

Lemmy almost felt sorry for Elie’s young agent. Gideon’s face reflected utter confusion as he began to realize how Agent Cohen had used him to further a devious agenda that could have led to an unintended
real
assassination of the prime minister. “Can you believe their stupidity,” Gideon said, “trusting the prime minister’s life to blanks and parchment?”

“It could have worked,” Lemmy said.

“He wanted me to shoot you,” Gideon said, “one SOD agent killing the other, or better yet, we shoot each other simultaneously, providing a perfect cover story in case something went wrong with their scheme—which it would have! That’s why Yoni said—”

“Redundancy?” Lemmy considered it for a moment. “No. I don’t think he was talking about us.”

“What else?”

Suddenly Yoni’s departing comment seemed ominous. “Could there be another assassin?”

Following him down the path to the street, Gideon said, “But Elie supported ILOT. Why would he…you mean, a parallel operation?”

“Exactly!” Lemmy pushed through the remaining spectators and broke into a sprint toward the plaza. “Another ILOT-like group, another
Rodef
verdict, another religious extremist! The same thing!”

“Redundancy!” Gideon yelled the word like a man discovering the key to heaven—or hell. “Belt and suspenders!”

They ran across Ibn Gevirol Street, against the flood of departing revelers, toward the massive city hall building that overshadowed the empty stage.

Many well-wishers had lingered around the sterile area behind the stage, pressing against the waist-high police barriers. Lemmy and Gideon pushed through, shoving people aside. The music was still playing from the loudspeakers, making it useless to yell any warnings.

Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was walking across the sterile area toward his Cadillac, circled by bodyguards.

Lemmy scanned the area. “There!”

A lone man, dark and skinny, with a knitted skullcap and intense face, stood near a fountain, smack in the middle of the sterile area. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Yoni Adiel, except that he was slightly shorter and wore dark clothes. He watched Rabin and his entourage approach.

Gideon and Lemmy jumped over the barriers, and immediately a group of policemen was all over them.

“Protect Rabin!” Lemmy pointed. “Stop this man!”

But as Rabin neared the Cadillac, the assassin took three steps, reached with one arm through a gap that opened between two bodyguards, and shot the prime minister in the back.

*

On the TV in Elie’s room at Hadassah Hospital, gunshots sounded. Someone yelled, “Blanks! Blanks!” A scuffle erupted around the prime minister. Cries of fear. Sirens whined.

Elie watched the confusion on the screen, people running back and forth.

A few minutes passed.

A woman was being interviewed. “No,” she said, “I saw him enter his car. There was no blood. Rabin was fine!”

Elie sighed. All according to plan. He closed his eyes, dozing off.

A little while later, someone yelled—not on TV, but outside the door. Another voice responded, anxious, fretful. Then an anchor on the screen said, “We now go to Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv for a live news conference.”

A man stood with a stained sheet of paper, his eyes red. “With horror, grave sorrow, and deep grief, the government of Israel announces the death of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.”

Elie Weiss heard a wail from the television—or maybe from the hallway outside his room. The words repeated in his mind.
Yitzhak Rabin, murdered by an assassin.

Laughter erupted from Elie’s dry lips. He fought for air, and another screeching laugh cut through his chest. He sat up, choking, as the nurse ran into the room. She was yelling for help. His hand pulled off the hospital gown, his fingernails plowing the flesh of his chest, digging to reach the fire inside.

Someone outside his room cried. More voices down the hall, filled with horror.

The nurse pressed a button on the wall. An alarm went off.

The man on the TV held up the paper and said, “Rabin’s blood spilled all over his copy of the Song of Peace.”

Drawing a last breath, Elie convulsed in laughter and pain. He rolled off the bed to the hard floor.

*

Part Eight

The Aftermath

Sunday, November 5, 1995

Lemmy entered the house, using his own key. He surprised Paula in the kitchen. They hugged and kissed. “What happened to you?” She touched his chin, then took his hands and caressed the bruises. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Sort of.” He smiled. “It’s a long story, but I’m fine.”

She pressed his hand to her tummy.

He laughed. “
Really?
”

“Really. And I have another surprise for you. Father woke up yesterday and dictated instructions to the board of directors. They approved your appointment last night.” Paula smiled. “My husband, the president.”

Lemmy nodded. The seeds that Elie had planted decades earlier were finally bearing fruit. With the power to direct every aspect of the bank’s business, combined with control of the enormous Nazi fortune, the time had come for the Final Counter Solution.

“Papa!” Klaus Junior ran down the stairs and jumped into Lemmy’s arms. “What did you bring me?”

“Actually, I brought something very special.”

Paula’s forehead creased. “Not another old car?”

“An old man, actually.” Lemmy smiled to ease the shock. “Not too old, though.”

“Who?”

“My father.”

Klaus Junior said, “I have another grandpa?”

“Is this one of your jokes?” Paula seemed ready to laugh.

“No.” Lemmy kissed her again. “I’ll explain later. Right now, he’s anxious to meet you.”

They went to the foyer.

“Father,” Lemmy said, his voice choking, “please meet my wife, Paula.”

The hand that shook hers was large yet soft.

“Welcome to our home,” Paula said. “It’s a wonderful surprise.”

“And this is Klaus Junior,” Lemmy said.

“Hi.” The boy looked up at the clean-shaven face, the gray hair, and the large blue eyes that smiled down at him. He beckoned. “Want to see my room?”

*

“Calm down,” Gideon said, holding his mother, “I’m here, okay?” But she clung to him silently, not letting go. He led her to the kitchen, sat her down, and made tea for both of them.

The apartment smelled the same—fried chicken schnitzel and detergent—the smells of his childhood. She had aged since he last saw her, almost a year ago, and her hands shook as she held the saucer and sipped tea. Seeing her like this made him realize how much pain his career had caused her.

“I’m staying home,” he said.

“Until when?” She put down the saucer.

The correct answer would be:
Until the investigation is over.
But he couldn’t say that. “My department is going through some changes. I’ll hear in the next few days.”

“Changes? Because of the tragedy?”

“Not directly. My boss is very sick.” The
Ma’ariv
newspaper was on the table. Most of the first page was dedicated to the assassination, the responses from world leaders, and the accusations against the Likud and other right-wing parties for creating a murderous environment. Gideon turned to the second page and saw the headline: Itah Orr, veteran TV reporter, dead in car accident.

“It’s the end of the Zionist dream.” His mother sighed. “A Jew killing the prime minister? It’s a nightmare! All the right-wing leaders should go to jail, every last one of them!”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Gideon took off his shoes.

“What happened to your boss?”

“He’s in a coma. I just visited him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. At least he’s not lying alone in a foreign country like your father, his memory be blessed. A man should be surrounded by his family.”

“He doesn’t have a family. The Nazis killed them. He dedicated his life to preventing another Holocaust.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “How sad.”

Gideon knew what she was thinking. “Don’t worry. I plan to have a family one day.”

“Of course you will. When I’m too old to enjoy it.”

He laughed. “I’ll give you grandchildren. It’s a promise, okay?”

“I should live long enough to see them.” His mother went to the fridge. “I’ll fry some chicken for you. Do you want potato latkes with it or blintzes?”

*

Tanya watched them enter her hospital room, three solemn men in ill-fitting suits. The oldest one she had known for decades. He was her direct commander, the chief of the mighty Mossad. He was a lifelong agent who had risen through the ranks, surviving countless clandestine operations in a morbid process of elimination that left him alone at the top.

He hugged Bira. “Sorry, kid. We screwed up, letting your mom get hurt like this.”

“Is this a get-well visit,” Tanya asked, “or an execution?”

“A little of both.” He smiled and pulled a chair while his two companions left the room with Bira. “How are you feeling?”

“Physically or mentally?”

“Mentally, we’re all sick. The worst day in Israel’s history.” He sighed. “A watershed event. A breaking point. We’ll never be the same.”

“What really happened? How
could
it happen?”

He rubbed his tired eyes. “The witch hunt has started. Finger pointing. Heads rolling. The works.”

“Then why are you here?” Tanya felt sudden anger. “You should be in Jerusalem running the investigation.”

“I’m a Rabin man. And today there’s a new king in Jerusalem.”

“Shimon Peres is smart enough to know that no one but you has the credibility, the experience, the tools to investigate this as deep as it gets—”