The Jerusalem Assassin

by Avraham Azrieli

  The Jerusalem Assassin

  Avraham Azrieli

  Avraham Azrieli

  The Jerusalem Assassin

  Part One

  The Chase

  Wednesday, October 11, 1995

  The flight from Damascus touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport at lunch time-an opportune time for long lines and lax immigration scrutiny. The Hawaiian shirt stuck to Al-Mazir’s sweaty back, but he counted on the flowery design to convey the vacationer’s image he aimed to fake. He walked down the drab hallways and joined the queue of mustachioed men in striped suits, elders in checkered kafiyas, and veiled matrons clutching droopy children. Progress was slow, paced by the thumping of stamps on passports. He breathed deeply, calming himself. He had no reason to worry. The French consul general in Damascus had personally handed him this passport, which belonged to a recently deceased Frenchman but carried Al-Mazir’s own photo.

  The butterflies in his stomach fluttered urgently as he stepped up to the counter and placed the passport before a uniformed woman. His French was barely conversational, and if she made any inquiries…

  “ Bonjour. ” She browsed the passport, hit a few keys on her computer keyboard, and found a vacant spot to land her stamp. Thud!

  He let the air out of his lungs in a slow, soundless whistle.

  “Bienvenue a Paris, Monsieur.”

  “ Merci beaucoup.” Al-Mazir took the passport, shouldered his overnight bag, and walked by the two gendarmes and through the automatic glass doors. He circled the luggage carousel and headed for the exit. The trickiest part was behind him, but he feared it would not take long before busy tongues reached the wrong ears. He must return to the safety of Damascus as soon as a three-way agreement was concluded with Abu Yusef and the Saudi prince for funding the fight against Arafat and his traitorous Oslo Accords with the Jews.

  Entering the Arrivals Terminal, Al-Mazir passed through a crowd of expectant relatives and cabbies looking to hook a passenger. He scanned the terminal for Abu Yusef’s men. A group of passengers peered at a large electronic display of flights information. A couple labored to pacify an irate baby. And a punk in black leathers tinkered with his motorcycle helmet. Off to the right, three young men stood near a currency-exchange booth. They returned Al-Mazir’s glance with intense, dark eyes. One of them stepped forward. “ Salaam Aleikum. ”

  “ Salaam Aleikum,” Al-Mazir replied.

  “Allah’s blessings upon you.” The young man kissed Al-Mazir on both cheeks. “I am Hassan Gaziri.”

  “ Abu Yusef’s nephew? By Allah, you were a toddler last time I saw you!” Al-Mazir embraced Hassan, detecting a gun in a shoulder holster. For a moment he hesitated. Was this a trap? Was Abu Yusef’s invitation nothing but a ruse to eliminate a competitor?

  Outside, a green Peugeot 605 waited at the curb. Bashir, Abu Yusef’s long-time enforcer, sat behind the wheel. But Hassan steered Al-Mazir to the left and opened the rear door of a second car, a black Renault Safrane. The driver was a young man in a suit, who kept both hands on the steering wheel and gazed forward. Hassan ran around to the other side, and his two companions joined Bashir in the green Peugeot. The doors slammed and the two sedans took off.

  Al-Mazir was relieved. If they wanted to kill him, they would make him sit by the driver, vulnerable to a quick knifing from behind. And the use of two cars showed Abu Yusef’s concern for his guest’s safety. Al-Mazir sat back and exhaled in relief. All was going well. Their old partnership had given birth to the Munich Olympics spectacle, which had put Palestinian resistance at the top of world news. Now, after years apart, they would join forces again to deliver an even greater catastrophe unto the Zionist enemy.

  *

  Gideon had noticed the Hawaiian shirt as soon as the middle-aged passenger emerged from the passport-control area. At first he dismissed the possibility. A terrorist travelling under a false identity would rather emulate a gray sparrow than a peacock. But a reverse strategy could be at play-deflecting suspicion by defying expectations. Gideon glanced at the photograph stuffed inside his helmet. Even though Al-Mazir had gained considerable weight since the snapshot had been taken, his facial features were yet to completely melt into his pudginess. And the reception by the Arabs confirmed his identity, especially the extended embrace he used to pat down his host for weapons.

  Gideon slipped on the full-face helmet and said, “The Frogs let him in. He’s in the second car.”

  The built-in speakers inside his helmet crackled with Bathsheba’s voice. “I see him.”

  “ Go!” He exited through the sliding doors just as her BMW K1 motorbike took off with a hushed exhaust rumble.

  In the padded back seat of the Renault, Hassan pulled a silver thermos from a pouch, unscrewed the top, and poured coffee into a porcelain cup. The rich aroma filled the car.

  “ Ah!” Al-Mazir sniffed at the edge of the cup. “The real thing!”

  “ Abu Yusef brewed it especially for you,” Hassan said. “Black, twice-boiled, no sugar.”

  He sipped and smacked his lips. “Perfect!”

  “ My uncle told me it was your only luxury back in Beirut, when the PLO fought a holy jihad for Palestine.”

  “ I’m still fighting.” Al-Mazir glanced at the young man. “I’ve kept alive the spirit of Beirut, continued to spill the Jews’ blood.”

  “ You have been wise. We all see it now, after the Oslo treachery of Arafat-”

  “Don’t mention that name!” Al-Mazir took another sip and held the thick brew in his mouth before swallowing. “So how is my dear comrade?”

  “Abu Yusef is eager to see you. He prays that you join us soon.”

  “With my courageous followers, yes?”

  Hassan blushed. He straightened the lapels of his tailored suit. “ Insha’Allah.”

  Al-Mazir noted the young man’s embarrassment with satisfaction. In the eleven years between 1972 and 1983, starting with the Munich Olympics attack, the string of extravagant airline-highjack operations, and the buildup of PLO forces in southern Lebanon for an invasion of Israel, Al-Mazir and Abu Yusef had worked ceaselessly under Arafat to achieve the dream of a free Palestine. But rather than leading an invasion, Arafat needled the Galilee with a constant barrage of Katyusha missiles until Israel sent troops into Lebanon. PLO forces quickly collapsed, and a 1983 ceasefire agreement sent Arafat and his men on a safe passage to Tunisia. But not Al-Mazir. He broke away from the PLO and went to Syria, where he had formed the Nablus Liberation Force, whose defiance resonated with disillusioned young Palestinians.

  Abu Yusef, on the other hand, had spent ten years with Arafat in Tunisia, only to splinter from the PLO in protest of the 1993 Oslo Accord with Israel. And now, after two years and a second Oslo agreement, Abu Yusef’s underfunded group could take credit for only a single attack on a Jewish school in Marseilles, while Al-Mazir claimed eighteen attacks on Jewish and Israeli targets, including a magnificent bus explosion in Tel Aviv that had almost derailed the recent Oslo II signing ceremony in Washington. It was no wonder, therefore, that his old partner had reached out to renew their alliance and had arranged for this clandestine trip to Paris. Tonight they would dine with a Saudi donor, whom Abu Yusef had cultivated to sponsor a militant Palestinian opposition to Arafat.

  Hassan poured more coffee into Al-Mazir’s cup.

  “ Thank you.” Al-Mazir took a sip and looked out the window. This was his first trip out of Syria since 1983. He had missed Europe’s colors, sounds, and smells. But while his mind was still occupied by the pleasing sights, he noticed Hassan’s right hand slip under his jacket toward the hidden gun.

  Betrayal!

  His shoulders tensed up for action as he prepared to lob the steaming coffee into Hassan�
�s eyes, shove a heavy elbow into his ribcage, and take possession of the gun.

  Gideon mounted his own K1, started the engine, and released the clutch. The heavy motorbike leaped forward. A startled porter swerved a luggage cart, and a pile of suitcases cascaded onto the curb. Gideon leaned sharply, avoiding the luggage and the angry porter, and raced off.

  He caught up with Bathsheba and slowed down to match the pace of airport traffic. An Avis shuttle bus separated them from the two cars ahead. The green Peugeot took the ramp onto the highway, followed by the black Renault.

  “ They are heading north,” he said into his helmet, “away from Paris.”

  In his side mirror he saw her black helmet tilting as if saying: So what? But Gideon was alarmed by this development. Their operational assumption had been that Al-Mazir, if he actually showed up, would be driven to a safe apartment in Paris, where Abu Yusef would be waiting. After the meeting, he would become an easy target. Inner-city assassinations were quick and uncomplicated-a red stoplight, spraying the target with bullets, disappearing into traffic. End of story. But the highway was tricky, even on powerful motorbikes. Shooting at high speed could lead to cars flipping over, a multi-vehicle pileup, and innocent casualties, followed by police barricades at the highway exits. On the other hand, trailing the two cars to their destination carried its own risks. A suburban setting would make the two K1 motorbikes stand out like black flies on a slice of cheesecake.

  Their orders for this scenario had been clear: Once they’re off the highway, eliminate Al-Mazir at the first opportunity. Tracking down Abu Yusuf’s hideout would have to wait.

  “ As soon as they exit,” Gideon said. “I’ll go first. You finish off.”

  Her black helmet nodded once.

  Hassan’s hand emerged with a mobile phone, not a gun. Al-Mazir slouched back in the seat. He accepted the proffered phone, pressed it to his ear, and heard Abu Yusef’s unmistakable voice. “ Ya habibi! ”

  “ Ah-Salaam! Allah’s blessings upon you!”

  “ Hearing your voice is like hearing the prophet Mohammed himself!”

  Al-Mazir laughed. “Your slick tongue is still anointed with the olive oil of Palestine.”

  Abu Yusef’s laughter was hoarse with static. “In my dreams I still chase you among the ancient groves of Nablus.”

  “ Me too, my friend. Me too.” Al-Mazir chuckled with pleasure. The intervening years of estrangement had failed to diminish their childhood bond. He had been foolish to harbor suspicion.

  “ The excitement has kept me awake all night. You’ll be awed by my plan. It is grand! More impressive than Munich, more spectacular than Entebbe, more stunning than a hundred Achille Lauros. And we’ll soon have the money to do it!”

  “ And where will we meet your generous friend?”

  “I have arranged a dinner right here, at our villa. A tender lamb is roasting over red embers-just like home. The scent alone will get you inebriated.”

  “Ah! You know me too well!”

  Gideon leaned right and rolled the throttle, accelerating after the cars, which cut through three highway lanes toward an exit ramp. The motorbike responded with explosive power, rapidly closing the gap between him and the cars. “Here we go!” He glanced at the mirror by his right hand and registered her headlight close behind.

  The green Peugeot approached the turnoff to the local road. It stopped at a red light, its right taillight blinking. The Renault stopped behind it.

  His right hand let go of the throttle and reached into his coat for the mini-Uzi. He kept a grip on the handlebar with his left hand, two fingers extended over the clutch lever. His left foot downshifted while his right foot tapped the brake to decelerate, coming to a full stop behind the Renault. He saw Al-Mazir in the back seat, pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The younger man was sitting behind the driver.

  Bathsheba’s motorbike stopped a few feet behind, slightly to the left.

  Boots planted on both sides of the K1 to balance it, Gideon drew the mini-Uzi and cocked it. With both arms extended over the small windshield, he aimed the weapon, but suddenly his left boot slipped, likely on an oil stain, and the motorbike began to tip sideways. He grabbed the handlebar and fought to keep from falling over.

  The traffic light turned green, and the Peugeot moved instantly, making a sharp right turn onto the local road. The Renault driver glanced in his rearview mirror, noticed the weapon, and slammed the gas pedal. The engine uttered an angry roar, followed by the high pitch of spinning wheels.

  His left boot found a dry foothold, and Gideon pulled the motorbike straight up. He aimed the mini-Uzi to the right, where he expected to find the Renault following the green Peugeot, but it turned left, skirted the stationary cars lined at the red traffic light, and raced away on the local road. Gideon cursed and corrected his aim, but by then the Renault was sheltered by the line of waiting cars.

  He stashed the weapon back under his coat. His left foot hit the gear shift into first, his hand twisted the throttle, and the motorbike took off. He leaned all the way to the left, executing the sharpest turn possible, his head as low as the headlights of a station wagon waiting at the light. He prayed there was no more oil on the road.

  Al-Mazir gripped the door handle and yelled into the phone, “Assassins! Help!” Abu Yusef’s reply was drowned in the screeching tires and roaring engine.

  The large Renault weaved from lane to lane through traffic. It passed a delivery van and cut back in to avoid a collision, causing the van to run off the road.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Al-Mazir saw the headlight of a motorcycle. “Allah’s mercy! Shoot him down!”

  “Get down!” Hassan drew his gun, released his seat belt, and lowered the window. He extended his arm out, but the driver swerved sharply, and Hassan fell back. He cursed and got back to the window. His shots popped in a rapid succession.

  *

  Gideon bent forward, ducking behind the tiny windshield. A moment later, the shooting stopped. He twisted hard on the throttle and aimed the motorbike at the solid white line, passing a bunch of cars. The Arab driver was very good, and the top-of-the-line Renault had ample power, but no sedan could outrun a BMW K1.

  He switched hands, his left reaching across to hold the right-side handlebar grip, keeping the throttle at a steady pace behind the Renault. With his right hand he drew the mini-Uzi, aimed it at the rear window, and pulled the trigger. The glass disintegrated into a thousand shards, which pelted him like hail. The Renault spun around, slid across the opposite lane and into a ditch.

  Gideon kept his motorbike on a straight line, down-shifted, and stopped on the right shoulder. In his rearview mirror he saw Bathsheba slow down and cut across the opposite lane in front of an oncoming car. She couldn’t stop in time, and her K1 slipped and fell over.

  He cursed, pulled on the throttle, and made a U-turn, heading back.

  She was already on her feet, running to the Renault.

  There was a lull in traffic, and no sign of the green Peugeot.

  She aimed at the car. A long burst of bullets exploded into the side windows, crushing bones and flesh, splashing red blood. The empty magazine fell to the ground, and she shoved in a new one. Aiming forward, she pulled open the back door.

  “ Hurry up,” Gideon said, but the speakers in his helmet brought back only the sound of her breathing.

  Inside the Renault, crouched forward, Al-Mazir recited verses from the Koran. On top of him, Hassan’s body spewed blood in slowing spasms. A phone on the floor let out a distant voice.

  Bathsheba cracked open her eye-shield and met Al-Mazir’s eyes. “Greetings from Jerusalem,” she said and pulled the trigger.

  He was dead before the last bullet made its short way into his torn chest.

  Gideon pulled a brown envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it to Bathsheba. She tore it open and flung a bunch of photos into the car, covering the bodies with images of naked youths utilizing sex paraphernalia.

  A couple of ca
rs came down the road, slowing to a crawl, windows rolling down, voices shouting in French. Behind them, a little blue Porsche arrived at high speed, honking to hurry them along. But Gideon could only think of the green Peugeot, racing over with three armed Arabs ready for battle amidst all of these French civilians. “Let’s go,” he said. “Now!”

  *

  In a country villa surrounded by tall hedges and old pecan trees, Abu Yusef slammed the receiver and looked at a room full of men. “Battle stations! Go!”

  They grabbed their weapons and ran out to their assigned positions-twelve around the perimeter of the property, four on the roof, and three pairs patrolling the road through the village.

  A few moments later, Bashir appeared. He was a muscular native of Hebron, who had been with Abu Yusef for many years. “Two motorcycles,” he said. “Hassan went in the other direction to escape the assassins-”

  “ He’s dead. They’re all dead.”

  Bashir’s face darkened. “I should have turned back to help them.”

  “You should have noticed the tail from the airport!” Abu Yusef struggled to control his rage. “You should have driven behind the Renault, not rush ahead like a mindless dog!”

  “I didn’t expect Arafat’s people to find out-”

  “It was the Israelis. I heard a woman’s voice. Greetings from Jerusalem. ”

  “The Israelis? How?”

  “They must have a snitch in Damascus, or in the French foreign service. Are you sure they didn’t follow you here?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Go, check our defenses. And keep the men in position until tomorrow, just in case you made another error!”

  Bashir left.

  Abu Yusef stepped outside to a wide patio decorated with fresh roses and sprinkled with mint leaves. A long table had been set, the plates patterned with the Palestinian tri-colors, the silverware shining to perfection. A giant outdoor grill stood at the edge of a sparkling swimming pool. A steel skewer impaled a lamb over the red embers. A handle attached to the skewer dangled unattended. The man assigned to turn it must have run to his assigned battle post.