The Jerusalem Assassin

by Avraham Azrieli

  The leader, a stocky figure who wore a large knitted skullcap, declared behind his mask, “The only law is the law of God and His Torah! No more Oslo Accords! No more sinful land-concessions! No more treason!”

  Rabbi Gerster recognized the voice. It was the freckled, twenty-something stout man who had led the demonstration in front of Rabin’s residence and had furtively returned Elie Weiss’s greeting.

  The camera zoomed in on one of them. Short, with a thin, boyish voice, his eyes peeked out through crude holes in the black fabric, blinking nervously.

  The group sang Hatikvah in voices so off the mark that it bore little resemblance to the national anthem.

  At the end, the leader raised a fist and declared, “We are the warriors of Torah! We will enforce the law of Rodef! Death to the pursuers of Jews! Death to the traitors!”

  *

  Monday, October 16, 1995

  The first business day of the week was always busy at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as clients sent in transaction instructions after a weekend of deal making. This Monday was no exception. Lemmy lingered in the trading room, which the account managers shared. Phones rang, telex printers buzzed, and fax machines hummed. He stopped to greet each man. They ranged in age from forty to seventy, and he inquired about their children, wives, or an ailing parent. He had worked for years to earn their respect and loyalty, making sure none of them begrudged his early seniority. They knew it had not been only marital patronage that had propelled him upward in the bank. He had a gift for cultivating foreign clients whose cultures were vastly different from the Swiss. Oil-rich Arabs and African strongmen needed a safe place for their money, away from the political instability of their region, and they expected a level of personal service that few bankers in Zurich were capable of providing. Herr Wilhelm Horch often visited Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Gulf states to spend leisure time with his clients. He marveled at their oasis compounds, rode their camels, and raced their Ferraris. And they trusted him with their money and secrets.

  Christopher was at his desk outside Lemmy’s office. “Good morning, Herr Horch!”

  “ And to you. Any news?”

  “ Prince Abusalim’s account just received a deposit of two-and-a-half million dollars from the Wall Street branch of Citibank.”

  “Nice. Total account balance?”

  “Almost seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.” Christopher followed him into his office. “All from undisclosed depositors.”

  “ He needs money, but receives none from his father.” During a visit to their desert oasis, Lemmy had met Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr, a cousin of King Fahd. The sheik was a powerful tribal leader, who earned fat commissions on food and equipment purchases for the kingdom. His son, Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, at thirty-eight was continuously travelling around the world to close huge deals, but his only personal asset was the secret account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.

  “ What about the prince’s own family?”

  “ His two wives and nine children live with the rest of the extended family back in Saudi Arabia. When I first met Prince Abusalim last year, I told him that a man without money is a man without power, and hidden money is hidden power, which is tenfold mightier.” Lemmy pointed downward in the direction of the bank’s subterranean vaults. “And I told him that, when it comes to secret money, Zurich is the Haram El-Sharif.”

  “ The what? ”

  Lemmy pulled a book from a shelf above his desk. He opened it to a page flagged with a blue sticker and showed Christopher a full-page photograph of a walled city crowned by two domes-one silver, one gold.

  “ That’s Jerusalem.” Christopher pointed to the golden dome. “I was a volunteer at a kibbutz once, and they took us to all the tourist attractions.”

  “Really?” Lemmy was alarmed. His assistant had never mentioned it before. “What made you go to Israel, of all places?”

  “You know,” Christopher blushed, “I was a bit rebellious, wanted to piss off my parents. They were old-fashioned Germans, hated Jews, so that’s why I went there.”

  Lemmy examined his assistant’s face, but saw no signs of deceit.

  “ Didn’t Mohammed ascend to heaven from this location?”

  “ For us Christians, it’s the biblical holy temple of the ancient Israelites, where Elijah’s carriage took off in an explosion of fire and smoke.” Lemmy returned the book to the shelf. “A smart banker can benefit from studying clients’ faiths, notwithstanding your personal religion, because there’s always a business opportunity when a rich man’s mind is possessed by spiritual beliefs that cloud his logic and reason.”

  Christopher laughed.

  “ According to my research, the az-Zubayr tribe has a historic aspiration to rule Haram El-Sharif. Just like the Saudi clan is the Kharass al-Hameini, Guardians of Mecca, the tribe of az-Zubayr claims to be the Kharass El-Sharif, Guardians of the Dome of the Rock.”

  “ Isn’t Jerusalem the capital of Israel?”

  “The Israelis unified Jerusalem during the Six Day War, but they gave control of Temple Mount to the Muslim Wakf, which is an independent religious council of mullahs. Later, King Hussein of Jordan was pressured by the PLO to give up his rights in the West Bank and Jerusalem. Now Arafat is getting ready to negotiate the final phase of the Oslo Accords, hoping to obtain East Jerusalem as capital of Palestine. But other powers are at play.”

  “The prince?”

  “Correct. Even though his father has pledged loyalty to the Saudis, Prince Abusalim harbors ambitions to recover the status of Kharass El-Sharif. He must choose who to support-Arafat and the Oslo peace process or the militants committed to destroying Israel.”

  “ How would he choose?”

  “ Arafat is already getting billions from the Europeans and Americans. His opponents, on the other hand, need money for their anti-Oslo jihad. Prince Abusalim can make a deal with them. When Israel is gone, they’ll anoint him Kharass El-Sharif, Guardian of the Dome of the Rock, restoring the hereditary birthright for the tribe of az-Zubayr.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous fantasy.”

  “ Clients’ fantasies are a major force in the banking business. What is wealth but a fantasy?” Lemmy sat back in his chair. “He has gotten several deposits through Citibank in New York, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he maintain an account there?”

  “No. It’s a conduit.”

  “But Citibank knows where each deposit came from, correct?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Will they tell us?”

  “Not directly, but when I worked in New York, I noticed a weakness in the system.” Christopher took a piece of paper and scribbled a diagram. “Citibank sent us electronic funds for Prince Abusalim’s account. If we reject the transfer, it would bounce back to Citibank, which in turn would bounce it back to the original bank, which would issue an electronic receipt for the returned funds. Usually the acknowledgment bears the account’s information.”

  “ So if we ask on behalf of the client that Citibank provides a copy of the acknowledgment, we’ll see the source of the money?” Lemmy thought for a moment. “Let’s do a partial rejection, a hundred dollars from each deposit, and see what comes back.”

  Christopher hesitated. “Without client authorization?”

  “It’s in the prince’s interest that we know his affairs, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

  “Still early in New York City. We could get a confirmation today, unless they smell a rotten fish and call the prince directly.”

  “ It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Lemmy watched Christopher reach the door. “By the way, which kibbutz?”

  “ Excuse me?”

  “ That summer you spent in Israel, which kibbutz was it?”

  “ Oh, it was in the north, near the Lebanese border.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure about the name.”

  Lemmy wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “Was it Haifa?”

  “ No, Haifa is a city.”
Christopher’s forehead creased in a show of mental effort. “I think…it was called…Gesher.”

  *

  Shortly after two p.m., Bathsheba noticed another green Peugeot 605. It came from the direction of Ermenonville and made a left turn onto the highway ramp.

  Gideon followed. “Get the camera. Elie wants photos. He thinks they might be using decoys to check for tails.”

  Bathsheba kept her head straight, looking forward through the front windshield, but positioned the vanity mirror on the sun visor diagonally to give her a clear view through the side window. The green Peugeot passed a group of slower cars and returned to the middle lane. Gideon pressed the gas pedal, changed lanes, and passed it. Bathsheba held the Polaroid camera just below the window sill on the passenger side, raised it briefly, and snapped a photo.

  Gideon returned to the middle lane ahead of the Peugeot. He glanced at the rearview mirror. “Driver looks Arab, about forty. Didn’t look at us. I think he’s the same guy who drove this car at the airport. There’s a second man in the back, wearing a fur hat.”

  “Abu Yusef!”

  “ We don’t know.”

  “The same car, the same driver, and Abu Yusef is getting the same treatment as Al-Mazir!”

  “We follow and watch. Elie said to do nothing more.”

  “Screw Elie.” Bathsheba opened the glove compartment and took out the handgun.

  *

  “ It worked!” Christopher waved a sheet of paper like a flag. “I got acknowledgements with the names of the sources. Here, I listed each one with the amount transferred.”

  Lemmy examined the list. An $11 million deposit had come from J.C. Jameson amp; Co., an international wheat dealer in Kansas. An additional $7.5 million from Seattle Air and Jet Inc., a manufacturer of replacement parts for fighter jets. And $13 million from F. Lucas and Sons, a canned foods processer in Virginia. It went on-a list of leading corporations in the various industries. “This is incredible,” he said. “Great job!”

  His assistant was grinning with pride.

  “ I’ll keep this.” He patted the list of companies that had bribed Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr. “Needless to say, don’t mention this to any of our colleagues.”

  *

  Gideon snatched the handgun from Bathsheba. “Abu Yusef isn’t stupid. He won’t use this car himself after it’s been seen.”

  “Maybe he’s out of money. He can’t walk to Paris.”

  The sign showed an exit for the Peripherique, the beltway that circled Paris. Gideon slowed down and let the green Peugeot pass him two lanes away. It took the exit, merged onto the Peripherique, and headed west. They followed. A couple of minutes later, the Peugeot took the exit for Avenue de Saint Ouen.

  Bathsheba said, “Where the hell is he going?”

  “Have you regained your sanity?”

  “Don’t patronize me. This man killed my father.”

  “Abu Yusef killed your father. This man might be a retired CEO or a gynecologist. We need a positive ID before we take a life.”

  “Give it back.”

  Gideon threw the gun in her lap. “You may shoot only in self-defense, understood?”

  She pushed the gun under her leather waistcoat. “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’m not waiting for him to shoot first.”

  He followed the green Peugeot, letting two or three cars separate them at all times. Mossad procedure required taking side streets in coordination with two other vehicles in order to avoid detection by the target. But they were not Mossad, and there were no other vehicles to assist them. Gideon tried to minimize the risk of detection by dropping farther behind.

  At La Fourche, the green Peugeot bore left onto Avenue de Clichy, circled the square, and continued on Rue d’Amsterdam. Evening traffic was dense, moving with the typical Parisian briskness. At Place de Havre the green Peugeot suddenly sped forward, taking advantage of a gap in the traffic. When Gideon tried to follow it, a stream of cars emerged from Boulevard Haussmann on the right. He accelerated, but a small Fiat cut into his lane. He slammed the brakes, skidded on the cobblestones, and barely missed the Fiat. For a moment he thought he had lost the Peugeot, but Bathsheba spotted it farther down, turning into a side street. Gideon closed the distance quickly and made the same turn.

  There was no trace of the green Peugeot. He drove slowly along Rue de Provence, a narrow, one-way street.

  Nothing.

  They looked down the first side street.

  Clear.

  The second.

  Clear again.

  At Rue de Mogador, a one-way street going south, the green Peugeot was parked at the curb. Gideon made the turn and pulled over.

  Bathsheba brought the binoculars to her eyes. “He’s dropping off the passenger. Fur hat and a long coat. I can’t see his damn face!”

  “Even the coat is green,” Gideon said.

  “I’m going after him.” Bathsheba took out her gun and screwed on a silencer.

  “ Don’t shoot!”

  “If it’s Abu Yusef, I’ll give him my father’s regards.”

  Gideon knew he couldn’t stop her. He shoved the camera into her hand. “If it’s not him, take a picture. Maybe it’s one of his men. Elie would know.”

  *

  Cafe Atarah on Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem was almost empty. “I am Rabbi Abraham Gerster,” he said, joining the lone woman at a corner table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “How could I decline?” Itah Orr, a veteran reporter for Channel One TV, held the note he had left for her at the office that morning. “I tried to do a story about you years ago, on the tenth anniversary of the Six Day War. It would have been a good story.”

  Rabbi Gerster smiled. “There are many stories that are far more interesting than mine.”

  “More interesting than the leader of the anti-Zionist Neturay Karta sect, who sacrificed his only son for Israel’s greatest victory?”

  “The former leader. Rabbi Benjamin Mashash took over my duties a long time ago.”

  “ You were still Neturay Karta’s leader when you sacrificed your son.”

  “ I didn’t sacrifice him. Jerusalem rejected our faith and joined the army without my blessing.”

  A waitress brought two cups and poured black coffee. The reporter added cream and sugar, mixing it in. “Lemmy, wasn’t it?”

  “ His nickname, yes.”

  “ He graduated paratroopers training first in his class and went on to serve courageously on the Golan Heights.”

  “While ignoring his mother’s desperate letters until she killed herself!” Rabbi Gerster immediately regretted his outburst. Temimah’s despair had been caused by his own behavior no less than by Lemmy’s silence. “Please. These are old wounds. My son and wife deserve to rest in peace.”

  “So why did you contact me?”

  Rabbi Gerster glanced over his shoulder. The few patrons in the cafe did not appear to pay attention to him. “I watched your report on Saturday night.”

  “I thought you people don’t watch TV.”

  “Those boys, taking the oath, were they for real? Or was it some kind of a show, a make-believe piece of propaganda?”

  “Wait a minute.” Itah Orr jerked her head, clearing away shoulder-length gray hair. “What do you care about those kids? Or about Israel? You people live in your ghetto in Meah Shearim, don’t pay taxes, don’t serve in the army, don’t even recognize the State of Israel-except for its social security checks, of course.”

  “ We object to Zionism, but we study Talmud every waking moment to make up for all the Jews who neglect their sacred duty.”

  “ And how exactly would your Talmudists feed their hordes of children without Zionist tax money?”

  “ Questions, questions.” Rabbi Gerster sighed. “You’re like a vacuum cleaner for information. I need a peek inside your dustbin, that’s all.”

  She laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “About that swearing-in of ILOT, tell me what you think. Please.”

/>   “ Tit for tat. First tell me why you-a lifelong anti-Zionist rabbi-are suddenly concerned with a tiny nationalist militia? What’s going on?”

  Rabbi Gerster stood up and buttoned his black coat. “I was mistaken in approaching you. May God bless your day.”

  “Wait!” Itah Orr stood. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still angry about my story getting killed.”

  “Twenty years ago?”

  “I had enough material for a great piece. Your son was very popular with his boot camp buddies, an excellent soldier and loyal teammate. And there was a mysterious woman he was carrying on a relationship with, much older than him and very attractive. Petite, black hair, pale face. She came to the base once, caused quite a stir.”

  He kept his face straight, hiding the storm that Tanya’s description whipped up inside him. “Are you fishing for information?”

  Itah smiled, looking much younger. “Just curious. I can’t do anything with it now. It’s too old a story.”

  “ Why didn’t you publish it back then?”

  “ Because a little creep from some secret service came to the studio and threatened me and my editor with immediate arrest on trumped up charges. He took all my drafts and notes and all the roughs we had filmed. It was as if I had touched a live wire.”

  “ Perhaps you had.” He chuckled. “But that’s ancient history. I didn’t contact you to speak about my Jerusalem, may he rest in peace. Now will you grant me the respect of answering my questions?”

  “ Will you answer mine?”

  “ When a time comes for me to tell my story, I promise to speak only to you.”

  “ Give me something now.”

  “ Okay. How about this: I don’t believe in God.”

  The reporter’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline.

  “ It’s true.” He placed a hand against his heart. “I swear.”

  “ Okay, Rabbi Gerster. You don’t believe in God, and we are in business.” She offered her hand.

  He glanced around furtively, making sure no one was watching, and shook it. “Tell me about the ILOT ceremony.”