“ But the money must have come from somewhere.” Rabbi Gerster tugged at his beard, pondering what she’d said and whether to push any further. “It must be very frustrating for you.”
“ Not anymore.” Ayala smiled, looking very young. “I met someone else. Really nice.”
“ May God bless your new relationship.”
“ Amen.”
“ Would you mind telling me Yoni’s last name?”
“ Yoni Adiel.” She jotted down a number. “Please don’t mention my name.”
*
After sunset, when Gideon and Bathsheba returned to the apartment, Elie took Gideon to bug the phones in the prince’s suite at the Hilton. On the street, Elie noticed police signs along the barricades by the synagogue: No Parking!
“Must be a big function here this coming Sabbath,” Gideon said.
“ This is useless.” Elie stopped and leaned against one of the metal barricades. “To effectively prevent a car bomb, they must block off the street completely, ban all vehicles, and frisk pedestrians. Do they really think a terrorist cares about getting a parking ticket?”
At the Hilton, it took Gideon less than thirty seconds to bypass the cardkey system and enter the suite. He drew his gun and checked the rooms. No one was there, but it clearly served as someone’s permanent living quarters.
One corner of the living area was taken by a desk and a filing cabinet. Gideon started working on the phone. Elie browsed through the files, which contained copies of contracts between Transport International El-Saud and its vendors.
“ Look at this!” Gideon called Elie to the bathroom. It was vast, including a makeup station that accommodated a full-size barber chair. Inside the cabinet, arranged on shelves, were chains, hooks, nooses, studded leather straps, handcuffs, and a horse whip.
Elie shut the cabinet doors. “How stimulating.”
The bathroom phones-one on the counter, another by the toilet-kept Gideon busy for a few more minutes. All bugs were voice-activated and set for the same frequency. The signals could be picked up within a quarter of a mile.
Eleven minutes later they were back in the car. Elie swallowed another pill.
*
Part Three
The Diversion
Saturday, October 21, 1995
They dressed in suits and ties, their black shoes shining. Outside the villa, it was quiet and chilly. Bashir opened the door, and Abu Yusef got into the back seat of the BMW. As they drove out the gate, he looked back over his shoulder and wondered if he would survive the day to sleep here another night. This morning’s attack would be a needle prick compared to what he was planning for the Jews, a sample intended to whet Prince Abusalim’s appetite and reassure him that their group had the competence to shake up the world and shoot down the Oslo Accords. But if Abu Yusef died today, his plans would die with him. Bashir had tried to convince him to assign the job to the younger men, but he had insisted that age was an advantage. The police would stop young Mideast-looking men, whereas two gray-haired gentlemen would likely be allowed to pass through uninspected. Besides, he felt an irresistible urge to take this revenge with his own hands and watch the Jews die with his own eyes.
On the radio, a French woman sang about love. He thought of Al-Mazir and Latif, both of whom he had loved and lost. Now it was the Jews’ turn to lose those whom they loved.
*
Tanya rang the doorbell at Andre Silverman’s art gallery on Avenue Junot, and the lock clicked open. She nodded at her escorts, and they drove off while she took the stairs up to the duplex above the gallery, where Andre lived with Juliette and their son, Laurent.
Andre hugged and kissed her. They had known each other since she had acquired the small bookstore on the ground floor, next to the gallery. The location in the heart of Paris, only a few hundred yards from Moulin De La Galette, made it an ideal front for a Mossad station.
Today was Laurent’s Bar Mitzvah, and Andre had insisted that Tanya come over for breakfast before the synagogue service. The stately house was full of guests, who did their best to avoid collision with the myriad antique treasures, which Andre had found in estate sales and rural markets. Tanya introduced herself to Juliette’s parents and widowed sister, who had flown in from Lyons the previous night, and to Andre’s brother, who had driven from Antwerp with his wife and three daughters.
The large table in the dining room on the second floor was loaded with fresh baguettes, scrambled eggs, and an assortment of French cheeses. The guests gathered noisily, piling food on their plates.
A few minutes later, Laurent appeared in the dining room. His round face flushed as everybody circled him and patted his shoulders. “Mazal tov! Mazal tov!”
Andre clapped his hands. “Time to go!”
They walked to the synagogue along the quiet avenues. The men carried zippered bags made of soft blue velvet that contained their folded prayer shawls and prayer books. The women held shopping bags filled with candy. Tanya walked with Juliette, who shared in detail the difficulties she had endured to conceive and carry Laurent through a horrendous pregnancy.
The synagogue on Rue Buffault had been restored to its original, pre-war glory through the efforts of several patrons. Andre Silverman had been a pivotal force in the restoration project, especially in the details of craft and decoration. Now the names of his parents, who had died in Auschwitz, were displayed on the Wall of Memory by the entrance, along with thousands of other victims.
A police car and a black Citroen limousine were parked in front of the synagogue. Two uniformed gendarmes stood in the forecourt, chatting with a chauffeur in a visor hat. They glanced at the group entering the foyer of the synagogue, where Rabbi Dasso greeted Andre and his guests. Coats and scarves were discarded, the men entered the crowded prayer hall, and the women climbed the stairs to the second-floor mezzanine. Tanya sat next to Juliette near the railing and looked below, where the congregants shook Andre’s hand and patted Laurent’s shoulder. All the big names in the French art scene were here, many of them Gentiles, including Charles Devaroux, a fellow art dealer who was now minister of art and culture under President Jacques Chirac.
The rows of seats faced east, filled with men and boys in suits, ties, and colorful skullcaps. Laurent sat next to the rabbi on the dais by the Torah ark, facing the congregation.
Tanya tried to follow the prayers in the book. She had not been inside a synagogue in many years.
After an hour of silent prayers and joyous singing, the rabbi took the Torah scroll out of the ark and passed it to Laurent, who carried it to the dais. Andre Silverman joined his son, who rolled open the parchment and read the Hebrew words in a thin voice with a heavy French accent.
The Torah chapter was divided into seven, and for each part a male relative was called up to recite a blessing. For the last portion, Laurent recited, “ Blessed be God, king of the universe, for choosing us from all the nations to receive the Torah. ”
He proceeded to read aloud, “Remember, O Israel, what Amalek did when you escaped from Egypt, weary and famished, how Amalek cut you down and killed your weakest. Therefore, you shall erase the nation of Amalek and leave no trace of it under the sky. You shall never forget!”
*
Abu Yusef watched the Jews put their holy scroll back in the ark. Their rabbi went up to the pulpit, bringing with him the chubby boy, who held a sheet of paper. Abu Yusef glanced at Bashir.
“Dear family and friends,” the boy said in a trembling voice, his eyes on the paper. “Thank you for sharing this important day with us. This morning we read how God orders us to remember what Amalek did to us and take revenge, Nekamah, of our enemies.”
Abu Yusef leaned over and whispered to Bashir, “That’s us!”
Bashir placed a calming hand on Abu Yusef’s knee. They were seated in the last row, all the way to the side, dressed formally like the men and boys around them. They wore skullcaps on their heads, and the prayer shawls around their necks were white with blue stripes, l
ike the Israeli flag. But unlike everyone else, the soft blue velvet cases in their laps were not empty.
The boy looked up and smiled at a woman in the mezzanine. “We ask a question,” he continued. “Why did God order King Saul to kill every Amalekite man and woman, baby and child, ox, lamb, camel, and ass without mercy?”
Abu Yusef realized he was sweating. He glanced back over his shoulder and was relieved that the doors remained shut. The gendarmes stayed outside during the service. He heard noises from above, looked up at the mezzanine, and saw the women passing around bags of candy. He took a deep breath. Everything according to plan.
“Amalek attacked the Israelites after God split the Red Sea for them and drowned the pursuing Egyptians. By attacking us, Amalek challenged God. That’s why it was singled out for total and eternal revenge.”
Bashir unzipped his blue velvet case. Abu Yusef did the same.
The boy cleared his throat. “But other than Amalek, even enemies deserve a chance to repent their cruelty and become friends. Forgiveness and peace should always prevail between Israel and its neighbors.”
Abu Yusef almost sneered. Peace! Right!
Bashir’s hand slipped into his velvet case.
“In conclusion, dear family and friends, God wishes us peace, shalom. And today, as I become a man, I thank my beloved parents for bringing me up to this occasion, and Rabbi Dasso for helping me prepare my Torah reading. Sabbath Shalom!”
Everyone stood and tossed sweets at the boy. “Mazal tov! Mazal tov!”
In the back of the prayer hall, Abu Yusef and Bashir pulled the hand grenades from their velvet cases, drew the rings from the fuses, and hurled the grenades through the rain of candy toward the podium. They dropped to the floor and covered their heads with their hands.
The explosions followed one another in rapid succession. An instant later, the two Arabs got up and ran through the rubble toward the front of the synagogue, away from the doors.
The wooden benches had smashed into one another as if hit by a giant fist, taking the congregants down, flesh and wood gritted together into a mass of red and brown. Smoke filled the air, descending slowly. The floor was strewn with body parts. Abu Yusef’s shoes squeaked in the puddles of blood.
A woman up in the mezzanine shrieked, “Laurent! Laurent!”
The explosions had shattered most of the wooden dais. The boy sat upright, his back to the Torah ark. The sun shone on him through the blown windows. At the foot of the dais, a white-haired Jew slumped, his chest open. Spasms of dark blood burst out between his ribs, which protruded from the flesh like broken sticks. He didn’t move. Nearby, another Jew tried to push up from the floor, his head rocking up and down. But he had no legs anymore, only stumps that oozed blood. He tried to reach down and stem the gushing blood. Slowly his head stopped rocking, and the stream of blood slowed to a trickle.
The woman in the mezzanine kept shrieking, “ Laurent! ”
The boy’s eyes opened.
Abu Yusef followed his gaze and saw, through the descending smoke, the woman lean over the railing above. She cried again, “ Laurent! ”
“ Oui, Mama? ” His voice was clear, but a moment later his head bowed, his chin rested against his chest, and his gaze froze.
“Get one of them!” Bashir’s voice tore Abu Yusef from momentary paralysis. He bent down and collected the Jew with no legs. With the corpse pressed to his chest, Abu Yusef followed Bashir, who was carrying a toddler with a split skull and a severed forearm.
The doors opened and the gendarmes peeked in cautiously.
*
The explosions tore Elie out of deep sleep. At first he thought the noise belonged in his dream. Using the wall for support, he made his way to the window. He pushed the curtains aside. Three floors below, people were running in the street.
He bent over the windowsill and looked to the right at the forecourt of the synagogue. A cloud of smoke was rising, and a small crowd formed a semi-circle around a pavement strewn with pieces of glass and wood.
His mind was maddeningly slow.
An explosion? In the synagogue? How?
It’s not Abu Yusef. Couldn’t be. Had no time to plan, to scout, to infiltrate.
Must be another group.
Hamas? Hezbollah? Al-Qaida? The Iranians?
More screaming!
A man with a colorful skullcap emerged from the smoke, carrying a bloody child.
Another man followed, also carrying a child. No. Not a child. An old man without legs!
The wounded were laid down on the pavement. A faraway siren sounded, and another one. More people ran from both ends of Rue Buffault toward the synagogue.
But against that tide of curious spectators, the two men who had carried out the first wounded walked toward Rue Chateaudun. Their suits were stained with blood, but they seemed composed and purposeful. As they passed across from his window, Elie recognized them.
Abu Yusef and Bashir Hamami!
A groan escaped his lips, and it must have been loud enough to overcome the clamor, because Abu Yusef’s head turned and his eyes met Elie’s.
For a brief moment, the world stood still around them.
Abu Yusef’s hand went under his suit jacket, reaching for a gun, but it came out empty. He moved a thumb under his throat and hurried after Bashir.
Elie watched the two Arabs until they disappeared around the corner. He stepped back into the room and found himself on the floor, gasping for air.
*
The blue BMW 740iL waited with its engine on. They jumped in. Bashir barked at the driver to go. They drove for five minutes, taking sharp turns, verifying that no one was following.
“ There!” Bashir pointed to a pay phone near a metro station.
The driver stopped at the curb and Bashir stepped out. Abu Yusef joined him. They put their heads together as the phone rang at the newsroom of Paris-1. Like all incoming calls, Abu Yusef knew it would be recorded, and he had instructed Bashir in advance what to say.
“ Paris-Une. Oui? ”
“This is the Abu Yusef group.” Bashir spoke English.
“Yes?”
“We attacked the synagogue on Rue Buffault. Our freedom fighters committed this brave attack under the command of our leader, Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine.”
“Wait a minute! Who are you?”
“Our leader is Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine. We will continue our struggle until Palestine is free again! Long live Palestine!”
Bashir hung up, they got back in the car, and the driver hit the gas, merging back into traffic.
*
The first wave of ambulances departed with the bloodied victims to several Paris hospitals. Under gathering clouds, uniformed gendarmes loaded black plastic bags into the hearses. The only sound was the crackling of glass fragments under their boots.
Gideon and Bathsheba returned from Ermenonville after hearing the news on the radio. They found Elie in the crowd, a small man in a gray coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. He looked the same as the other Parisian spectators, ogling the scene of disaster, memorizing the ghastly details to be shared with friends in the local cafe. But at a closer look, Elie’s gray face showed no curiosity. The black eyes narrowed to hateful slits, the lips pressed together tightly.
When the last body bag was gone, a fireman rolled a hose off a fire engine and began washing the pavement.
“Seventeen dead,” Elie said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as they entered the apartment, Bathsheba exploded. “I told you we should shoot Abu Yusef in Senlis! It’s your fault!”
“Your assumption is wrong.” Elie looked at her coldly. “This bombing wasn’t done by Abu Yusuf. And if you disapprove of my command, you may leave. Reapply to Mossad, see if they take you now.”
“She has a point,” Gideon said. “We should have-”
“Abu Yusef didn’t have time to plan something like this,” Elie said. “This was done by someone else, mayb
e even the PLO itself, trying to jack up the price for the next phase of the Oslo negotiations.”
“Didn’t you hear the news?” Bathsheba followed him into the room. “Abu Yusef took credit!”
“You believe the news?”
Gideon watched Elie’s face. Was he lying?
“Taking credit means nothing,” Elie continued. “Abu Yusef was first to call a TV station. An Algerian group also took credit, claiming they targeted the minister of art and culture. Others will follow. You’ll see.”
Bathsheba seemed unconvinced.
“We’re leaving,” Elie said. “This apartment is no longer safe for us.” He gathered his papers into a small pile, topped by his heavy copy of the Bible, a decorated edition that was bound between two plates of carved wood.
They packed their clothes, equipment, and weapons-two mini-Uzis and three handguns with silencers.
Gideon drove. On Rue de Rivoli, across from the public gardens, Elie told him to park at the curb.
No. 4 Palace de La Concorde had once been a hotel, but in the sixties an American law firm had turned it into its Parisian branch office. Now it had a wood-paneled lobby, which was bustling with men in business suits and strained faces. Elie led the way to a bank of pay phones in the back and ran a phone card through the slot. Gideon noticed the first numbers he was punching. Forty-one for Switzerland. One for Zurich. Then Elie moved and blocked the view.
*
Paula started working on a beef stew for dinner. The pot was hissing on the stove while she sliced a large sweet onion. The telephone rang. “Can one of you gentlemen get it?”
Klaus Junior moved the white knight to B-4. “Check!”
“What?” Lemmy examined the board. “Are you trying to kill my queen?”
The phone on the kitchen counter rang again.
Paula said, “Guys?”
“ Sorry,” Lemmy said, “but we’re at war here!”
She dropped the kitchen knife on the cutting board and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened for a moment. “Herr Horch will be right with you.”
The Jerusalem Assassin Page 13
