The Jerusalem Assassin

by Avraham Azrieli

  *

  According to a brass plaque at the entrance, the Metz amp; Co. department store had operated on the same corner since 1740. Lemmy took the stairs up to the restaurant on the top floor. He sat by the window, which had a panoramic view of the southeast section of Amsterdam. Looking down, he saw the wide Kaizersgracht, its banks lined with houseboats of different sizes and ages, all meticulously painted, with garden chairs and potted flowers on the decks. A glass-covered motorboat, loaded with off-season tourists, cut through the oily water, passing under the arched bridge. On the street along the canal, a tram rattled on its steel rails, ringing its bell, while pedestrians and bicycle riders scattered out of the way. This was an ideal spot for tomorrow’s meeting with Tanya.

  The store was already decorated for the holiday season. Shoppers chatted in their throaty Dutch, eyeing the goods. Lemmy’s mind went back to Paula and Klaus Junior. He had placed them in danger by the very nature of his work. The Shin Bet’s aggressiveness in hunting down Tanya boded poorly for anyone associated with Elie Weiss. Was Shin Bet making a play for SOD’s agents and resources? Was it about the Koenig account? And how long would it take for the capable Israeli agents to figure out that Wilhelm Horch was Elie’s prime asset? How could he protect his identity-or his family? And then there was Tanya’s story about his father. Had Rabbi Gerster been a mole within the ultra-Orthodox, working for Elie Weiss? Had his own decision to join SOD and serve Elie been based on lies? Had he wrongly hated his father all these years? It was hard to believe, but Tanya wasn’t a liar. Or was she?

  All the answers rested with Elie Weiss in Jerusalem.

  Lemmy finished his coffee and left a generous tip. Downstairs, he used a pay phone by the glass doors to call the American Hotel and leave a message for Frau Koenig to expect his call tonight at nine p.m. He hung up and punched in another number.

  A familiar voice answered, “Doctor Mullenhuis Data Recovery.”

  “Oh, yes. I’d like to recover a crashed ego.”

  “Ego was too big?” Carl laughed. “You must be Swiss!”

  “Why? You think we’re self-important?”

  “It’s a fact. You Swiss are a bunch of pompous asses.” The crunching of computer keys indicated Carl was securing the line from eavesdropping. He had obtained a doctorate in computer engineering five years after graduating with Lemmy from Lyceum Alpin St. Nicholas. But his career with IBM Europe ended abruptly after a competitor mysteriously obtained the code to revolutionary data storage software that Carl was working on at about the same time that Lemmy helped him buy a restored 1938 Horch 853 Phaeton, the only motorcar of its kind to survive WWII, for a huge sum in cash. Going independent, Carl had specialized in facilitating the acquisition of data in sophisticated yet unsavory methods, such as the surveillance system he had installed for Lemmy at the Hoffgeitz Bank.

  “ Okay,” Carl said. “Safe to talk now. How’s the system working? You have a problem?”

  “The system is great. It helped me save my father-in-law the other day.”

  “ The rule of unintended consequences. You want to install one at home too? Watch the little wife with the gardener?”

  “ You’re sick. Listen, I’m in Amsterdam and need a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “In person. Meet me at the Begijnhof, inside the yard.”

  “What happened to the lobby at Hotel de L’Europe?”

  “The Begijnhof, five thirty, okay?”

  “I might be late. Have to finish up a project.”

  “ A cheating husband?”

  “ Venture capital outfit. They’re having a cocktail party tonight for all their competitors, with lots of booze and babes. They want every word recorded with full video, pick up all the secrets.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “ Look who’s talking!”

  *

  Tanya left the hotel briefly for a visit to a pharmacy. Back in her room, she spent an hour in the bathroom, cleaning the scratch left by Lemmy’s bullet yesterday as well as the bruises from the attack at the synagogue. She thought of Andre Silverman and his son, the funerals she was unable to attend. And she wondered how Juliette could go on living without her precious Laurent.

  The rest of the morning she spent scouting the newspapers for news of Israel-any political or other event that would explain why the domestic security agency had gone overseas in violation of its very charter. It was obvious that Israel was approaching a political crisis over Rabin’s push to implement the Oslo Accords. Two major rallies were gearing up. The right-wing Likud planned a rally in Jerusalem tonight, and the Labor-led left wing was to hold a peace rally in Tel Aviv’s central square next Saturday night. But political crisis wasn’t unusual in Israel, even with such extreme accusations and counter-accusations. She still remembered the weeks leading to the 1967 Six Day War, the erosion of public confidence in the face of huge Arab armies supported by the Soviets, the digging of mass graves all over Israel in preparation for countless civilian casualties, and the bitter political acrimony around Levi Eshkol’s government. Israel’s fearful citizens had expected a crushing defeat at the hands of the Egyptians, Syrians, and Jordanians armies, reinforced by armored brigades from Lebanon, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Kuwait. Everyone feared a complete and fatal devastation of the young Jewish state.

  But instead, Israel ended up celebrating an incredible victory, tripling its size, and cementing its right to exist in the Middle East. Still, that victory had planted the seeds of today’s conflict over Israel’s continued presence in the territories it had captured, a division that split Israelis along ideological lines. But a political crisis, severe as it was, could not explain the Shin Bet’s criminal violation of clandestine boundaries.

  She again tried calling the bookstore next to Andre Silverman’s art gallery on Avenue Junot, where a member of her team always attended the phones, but got no response. A call to the gallery itself was answered by a woman whom Juliette had hired after the disaster. She informed Tanya that the bookstore had been closed since yesterday afternoon, when the staff left in the company of officious-looking people in two vans.

  Out of options, Tanya decided to call Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. She had not checked in since yesterday, and for someone of her seniority, this should have caused alarm. By now they must be gearing up for a massive search, possibly worried about abduction.

  “Research Department,” a man answered. “How may I help you?”

  “This is Tanya Galinski. Patch me through to the chief.”

  “Hold on.”

  The line was silent for a moment, then switched to music. Tanya listened to Israeli singer Boaz Sharabi serenade an old flame, promising to bring moonstones and sea treasures if she still loved him.

  “ Come on,” she said, “what’s taking so long-”

  The music stopped, replaced by a dial tone.

  She stared at the receiver in bewilderment. She punched the numbers again. The line was busy. But that was impossible! Mossad maintained multiple lines for incoming calls!

  Tanya tried again.

  Busy.

  Was Shin Ben listening in on Mossad lines? Cutting off unwanted calls? Could they block this particular call? Or trace it back to Amsterdam?

  The very idea seemed preposterous. Shin Bet wouldn’t dare interfere with Mossad communications. This would cause open war between the agencies. On the other hand, perhaps its fear of Mossad was the reason Shin Bet was determined to isolate her, prevent her from telling her colleagues in Tel Aviv what was going on in Europe.

  Tanya put down the receiver, more shocked than angry.

  The message light was blinking. She called the front desk and learned that Herr Horch would be calling again at nine tonight.

  *

  Lemmy walked the streets of Amsterdam for hours. Unlike other European capitals, its charm was unassuming, with arched bridges over murky water and absurdly-narrow houses along the canals. He repeatedly stepped aside to avoid bundl
ed-up riders pedaling their way on bicycles. He thought about Tanya. Last night’s events seemed unreal. Their encounter could have ended terribly. Instead it had turned into a reunion he had never expected. But the things she had told him also seemed unreal. His father-a mole? Elie Weiss-his father’s handler? His own transformation from a young Neturay Karta Talmudic scholar to an IDF soldier-a deal between Elie and Tanya? And now he was risking everything in reliance on what she had said. But Tanya Galinski was no longer the woman he had made love to as a teenager. She was now a top Mossad official. Would she risk her position, maybe her life, for Lemmy Gerster, a boy she had long assumed to be dead?

  A disturbing idea came to him. What if the man he had shot at the park was actually Tanya’s agent. What if they staged the call to Paris to set him up? What if “Number One” was merely a playact for the purpose of deceiving him? What if Tanya wasn’t in danger at all, wasn’t anyone’s target? What if he was the target? What if this whole thing had been staged to make him betray

  Elie’s clandestine infrastructure and secret money sources so that Mossad could take over SOD?

  It all came down to one question: Could Tanya be trusted?

  He followed the Amstel River as it merged into the Singer Canal. Farther down, the row of houses seemed impenetrable until he came to an arched passageway. It led into a courtyard tiled in a colorful mosaic of the Holy Virgin. Each of the connected dwellings had a small garden, and Lemmy paused and took in the scent of freshly cut grass. A modest Catholic chapel on the left faced a stone-built English church on the right. He glanced at his watch. Carl was late.

  Toward the corner he found a wall of icons. In the center, baby Jesus was cradled by Virgin Mary, while a burning candle cast golden light upon them. Below Jesus, a hand had written: In de salvaeder. Other icons had been carved into the stone wall by the loving hands of Beguine women over the centuries, biblical scenes whose colors had dulled from rain and wind. At the bottom was a drawing of an altar atop an arid hill, a young boy tied up, a bearded Abraham holding a long blade, ready to slay his son while a guardian angel stayed his hand.

  “You believe in angels?” Carl threw his big arms around Lemmy.

  “I need all the help I can get.” He returned Carl’s embrace, pounding his friend’s back. “I’m up against very capable people.”

  “ Government or private?”

  “ Government.”

  “ Ah, bureaucrats!” Carl spat on the ground. “Incompetent fools, all of them.”

  “ These are Israelis.”

  “ Oops. They are the exception.”

  Lemmy laughed.

  “ How in the world have you antagonized the Israelis? I thought you Swiss vanillas are supposed to remain neutral.”

  “ It’s a long story. Can you get me a valid Dutch passport and a couple of credit cards with the same name?”

  “ Are you running away from them?”

  “ On the contrary. I’m going into the lions’ den.”

  “ To Israel?”

  “ Yes. My cover will be the car restoration. I hear there’s a good selection of old Citroen models for parts.”

  “ I’m sure they have plenty of Deux Chevaux wrecks, but your old Presidential will only take SM and DS parts. I’ll run a search for you.”

  “ Thanks.” He handed Carl an envelope. “Snapshots for the passport. I’ll meet you in front of Metz amp; Co. tomorrow at noon.”

  “I’ll do my best. Anything else?”

  “A friend of mine will be staying with you while I’m away. She’s in danger.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “She’s incredibly beautiful, considering she’ll turn sixty-eight on January first.”

  They hugged, and Carl left. A few minutes later Lemmy headed back to his hotel. He walked quickly through the dark mist that descended on Amsterdam, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed against the cold.

  From his room he called Christopher in Zurich and asked him to go to the bank the next morning and wait for his call.

  *

  Sabbath was over when three stars could be seen in the darkening sky. After the evening prayers and a light dinner, Rabbi Gerster and Itah Orr left Benjamin’s apartment. Itah wore a long dress and covered her hair with a scarf. They walked to the center of Jerusalem. Along the way, she used a pay phone to call her neighbor and ask him to feed her cat and clean its litter box every other day until she returned. “I hope you’re not allergic to cats,” she said as they resumed walking.

  “ I don’t know. There are no pets in Neturay Karta.” He hesitated. “I take it you’re not married?”

  “ Three times widowed. First husband killed by Egyptian artillery on the Suez Canal, left me with a baby girl. Second saw his son born-thank God for small favors!-before he was hit by a Katyusha rocket near the Lebanese border. I actually have the casing and a bunch of fragments from the rocket. I put them together like a puzzle showing the Russian manufacturer’s name, ink-stamps from Iranian and Syrian customs, and a Sharpie note from Hezbollah: Jews are monkeys and dogs. ”

  “ Didn’t Mohammed say that?”

  Itah shrugged. “Even a great man can sometimes say foolish things. Didn’t Moses tell God to go find someone else?”

  “ What happened to the third?”

  “ Johnny? He was Canadian-came to Israel too old to serve in the army so I thought we would be safe, grow old together, all that. Super guy. Helped me raise the kids like they were his own-though now they’re both in Toronto, studying art on Grandma’s dollar.”

  “ And Johnny?”

  “ Run over while crossing the street. Can you believe it?” She chuckled to dispel the morbidity of her marital record. “The fourth would have to be suicidal.”

  “ I disagree,” he said, and left it at that.

  On Jaffa Street, a line of police barricades blocked vehicle traffic, allowing thousands of pedestrians to march down the wide road toward the Zion Square. A building overlooking the vast square had been decorated with flags of the Likud party. A huge banner read: Peace only with security! Many held placards with photos of victims from recent terror attacks as well as skeletons of blown-up buses. A chorus of a few hundred people adapted the tune of a romantic Zionist folksong to crude lyrics: “Yes, Rabin is a homo…yes, Rabin is an SOB…’cause Rabin is a dog…and a murderer!”

  The offensive crooning repeated again and again, with more voices joining. Rabbi Gerster felt Itah grip his arm. He turned to see an elderly man in a suit, who held a sign with a photo of a young woman and the words: I survived Auschwitz, but my daughter didn’t survive Oslo!

  The long balcony across the front of the building was filled with political leaders of the right, led by Ariel Sharon and Benjamin Netanyahu. The banner under the line of Likud leaders read: The Murderer Arafat Deserves Capital Punishment!

  Underneath, the plaza was dense with people, many of whom now chanted, “Death to Rabin! Death to Rabin! Death to Rabin!”

  Arik Sharon started talking into a loudspeaker, barely overcoming the chanting crowd. “The murderer Arafat was brought into our midst by the collaborators. It’s a government that forgets everything, forgets the victims of the war criminal Arafat!”

  “Look!” Itah pointed at a stout young man wearing a white skullcap. “That’s Freckles!”

  Rabbi Gerster recognized him as the leader of the small demonstration in front of the prime minister’s house. He was holding a placard with a life-size photo of SS leader Himmler in dress uniform, only the face was substituted with Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin’s face. Next to Freckles stood a few other young men with colorful placards on sticks, showing Rabin dressed as an Arab with a checkered kafiya, Rabin with a hangman’s noose around his neck, Rabin shaking hands with Arafat under the headline: Partners in Terror.

  “Freckles is very creative,” Itah spoke into Rabbi Gerster’s ear as the noise around them was deafening. “But the money fuels everything. We need to find the old man in Paris!”

  Rabbi
Gerster nodded.

  The crowd switched to another chant: “With blood…and fire…Rabin will expire!”

  Next came Netanyahu, who managed to say, “Good evening,” before the crowd roared, “Bibi! Bibi! Bibi!”

  Rabbi Gerster saw other signs rise above the crowd’s heads:

  Government of Death!

  Labor Party is Good for Arabs!

  Government of Traitors!

  Your Day is Coming!

  Likud leader Benjamin Netanyahu declared: “Arafat is a serial killer whose rightful place is among war criminals. A wicked murderer who is now supported by the current Israeli government, which blindly enables him to implement the first phase in his plan to destroy the Jewish state!”

  As the two of them advanced through the dense multitude toward Ben Yehuda Street, Netanyahu’s voice faded, while the eerie serenade continued, “Yes, Rabin is a homo…yes, Rabin is an SOB…”

  *

  At nine p.m. Lemmy called the American Hotel and asked for Frau Koenig. He wondered if Tanya knew she was hiding in the same hotel where another beautiful spy had stayed, though he hoped Tanya’s fate would be better than Mata Hari’s.

  She picked up after the third ring.

  “It’s your dead lover,” he said, “calling from the great beyond.”

  “ Not funny. Are you in Amsterdam?”

  “ Yes. How’s your head?”

  “ Achy and confused. Can you come over?”

  “ I’ll meet you at noon tomorrow in front of the Metz amp; Co. department store. You’ll be staying with a friend of mine until I come back.”

  “ Back? From where?”

  “ I’m going to Jerusalem. Elie holds the key to everything. I have to talk to him.”

  “ They won’t let you see him.”

  “ You underestimate me.”

  “ And you underestimate Shin Bet.” She was silent for a moment. “What about the bank?”

  “ Swiss banks move slowly. I can handle most things by phone through my assistant.”

  “ Especially inactive accounts.”