The Jerusalem Assassin (19 page)

Along in the silent synagogue, Rabbi Gerster turned off the lights, locked the front doors, and went out into the cold night. He walked down to the gate and turned right. Halfway up Shivtay Israel Street, a car flashed its headlights. He got in.

“Almost gave up on you.” Itah Orr wore a scarf over her head, tied loosely under her chin.

“I didn’t want anyone to notice me leaving.”

“How did it go with Ayala?”

“Very well. She’s a lovely young woman. We need to take a look at former boyfriend, Yoni Adiel, also a law student at Bar Ilan. Apparently he suggested that the Talmudic law of
Rodef
applies to politicians who hand over parts of the land of Israel to the Arabs.”

“That’s all? He’s not the only one making this argument. I don’t have time to go around engaging right wingers in theological debates. It’s a waste of time.”

“The girl says he’s got money to spend but no regular job and no family support. He hinted that the funds came from a rich sponsor who likes Freckles.”

“Who’s the sponsor?”

“She only knew that he was an elderly man living in Paris.” Rabbi Gerster suspected Elie Weiss was that sponsor, but that was not a name he would mention to anyone. “But the combination of cash and know-how in guerilla resistance, such as the ILOT manual you gave me, indicates a high level of competency. Go to your sources and find out everything possible about Yoni Adiel.”

“If you’re right,” Itah said, “this story might be much bigger than a group of right-wing youths harassing a few Arabs.”

“Follow the money. That’s the key.” He opened the door to leave, but shut it when the interior light came on. “Have you heard from Freckles? Anything going on with ILOT?”

“He told me to attend the large Likud rally at the Zion Square on Saturday night.”

“If these guys have money for girlfriends, restaurants, and handguns, they could afford more serious weapons.”

“I’ll make some calls and let you know.”

“Good. Once we have the facts, I’ll corner Yoni Adiel.”

“Why would he talk to you?”

“He’s a fundamentalist Jew. You think he would pass up an opportunity to talk shop with Rabbi Abraham Gerster of Neturay Karta—”

“—who doesn’t believe in God?” Itah grinned in the darkness.

“Shush.” He put his finger to his lips. “That’s our secret.”

*

Monday, October 23, 1995

At the Hilton in Paris, Elie took the elevator down to the lobby and found a bank of pay phones near the restrooms. He called the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich and asked for Günter Schnell.

“
Guten Morgen, Herr Schnell
,” Elie said.

“Who is this?”

“Untersturmführer Rupert Danzig. Remember me?”

The sound of air sucked in a shocked inhalation was followed by a long silence. “Please hold.”

After a few minutes, two clicks sounded, and another voice came on. “Armande Hoffgeitz speaking. What is this about?”

“Herr President?” Elie waited for a couple of hotel guests to pass by on their way to the restrooms. “This is Untersturmführer Rupert Danzig.”

“Who?”

“It’s been a long time, but here I am again, calling on behalf of your old friend, Oberstgruppenführer Klaus von Koenig.” Elie spoke German with an eastern accent, an area until recently under Soviet communist control.

“That’s impossible!” The banker’s voice was shaking. “I don’t know who you are!”

“I think you do, Herr Hoffgeitz.”

“Do not call here!”

“But surely you want to hear from dear Klaus, yes?”

“I will summon the police! This is Zurich, not some lawless East German province!”

“The police?” Elie chuckled. “Perhaps you should consult your lawyers before contacting the authorities. Even Swiss law forbids misappropriation of clients’ funds. It’s a serious felony.”

“How dare you! This bank has never lost a deposit from any client—”

“Including Klaus von Koenig?” Elie didn’t expect a response. “If anyone should call the police, it should be me, don’t you think?”

There was a loud bang as if someone hit the desk in frustration.

“Very good,” Elie said. “Please make sure the records are in good order for my inspection. I will see you soon.
Auf Wiedersehen
!”

*

After dropping Klaus Junior off at school, Lemmy drove to the bank. As he climbed the stairs, Günter was coming down, his face ashen. “Günter? Are you feeling ill?”

“Ah, Herr Horch.” He paused, looked up toward the next floor, and continued on his way down, mumbling something incoherent.

Christopher was at his desk. “Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr called. He just landed in Paris. He’ll call from his hotel.”

Lemmy went into his office and shut the door. “Here we go,” he said out loud. He called the Hilton in Paris and asked for Rupert Danzig’s room.

After a few rings, a woman answered. “Who is this?” She said it as an Israeli, and he assumed she was the agent he’d seen by the Galeries Lafayette.

“I’d like to speak with E.W. please.”

“E.W. is out right now,” she said, switching to English with an even sharper Israeli accent. “A message?”

“Tell him that the prince has landed.”

“Thank you.” She hung up.

The computer completed its boot-up process. After two separate pass codes, the live video menu appeared with the list of the cameras: On the third floor, the interior of Herr Hoffgeitz’s office and the anteroom with Günter’s desk, on the second floor, Christopher’s desk just outside Lemmy’s door, and on the first floor, the large room where the account managers worked. Each camera was smaller than a fingernail, built into a smoke detector, together with a pin-sized microphone. His computer was set up by the Dutch specialist to operate all cameras remotely.

He selected Herr Hoffgeitz’s office.

The chair at the desk was vacant, the office quiet. Lemmy used the arrows on his keyboard to turn the camera left and right.

No sign of his father-in-law.

As his finger reached to hit the escape button, Lemmy heard an odd sound, like an abrupt whizzing. He moved the camera again, searching the empty office. At the bottom of the screen a black object appeared. It grew as he aimed the camera lower, closer to the door.

A shoe.

The whizzing sounded again.

Lemmy made the camera shift to the right. A face appeared. Armande Hoffgeitz was on the floor, his eyes closed. He breathed with a whizzing.

This would be Armande’s fourth heart attack, Lemmy thought. A few more minutes and he would be dead of natural causes—no need to plan and execute a job or fight Elie over it.

He closed the video program, and Armande Hoffgeitz’s face disappeared from the screen. All he had to do was sit tight for a few more minutes, let the old man take his last few breaths.

Lemmy’s gaze wandered to the desk and met Paula’s laughing eyes in a photograph, standing with Klaus Junior. She loved her father, and the boy loved his grandfather. Lemmy imagined them crying at the news, sobbing by the open coffin, kneeling at the gravestone—

“Damn!” He ran out of his office, startling Christopher, and sprinted upstairs. The door was slightly open. Herr Hoffgeitz was lying behind it. Lemmy pushed until there was enough space to squeeze in.

Christopher followed him.

“Call an ambulance!” There was no pulse, or it was too weak to detect. Lemmy shoved his fingers into Armande’s mouth and pulled on the tongue. With the airway clear, he began resuscitation.

*

Gideon watched Elie walk into the suite, find a chair, and sit down, panting heavily.

“Someone called,” Bathsheba said. “A man with a very nice voice.”

Elie pulled off his wool cap. “The message?”

“The prince has landed.”

Black rings circled Elie’s eyes. He pressed his chest and coughed again.

“I’m listening to his phones,” Gideon said, pointing to the equipment. “Nothing yet.”

Bathsheba pulled a juice bottle from the fridge. “I hate waiting like this. We need to take the initiative. What if Abu Yusef drops another bomb?”

“
Another?
He didn’t attack the synagogue,” Elie said, “and he won’t act until he gets more money.”

Bathsheba was unfazed. “How do you know the prince will contact Abu Yusef? Maybe they’ve already arranged it or maybe he’ll call from a public pay phone, like you do all the time to hide things from us—which is insulting, by the way.”

“You miss the point,” Elie said, ignoring her gripe. “Prince Abusalim is no passive donor, but a businessman with an ambitious agenda. And he’s too spoiled to be inconvenienced by pay phones. Especially now, after he almost lost everything, he’ll be even more eager to secure his birthright. He will lead us to Abu Yusef, and we’ll take them both down.”

“What birthright?” Bathsheba laughed. “He’s a rich Saudi with a taste for rough sex.”

“Not so simple,” Gideon said. “The last Quraysh to rule Mecca was Abd Allah ibn az-Zubayr—a direct ancestor of Prince Abusalim, who’s next in line to lead this old and bitter dynasty.”

“That’s right,” Elie said. “His dreams of prominence have deep roots in history. He won’t wait for another quarrel with his father.” Resting his hand on the carved wooden cover of his bible, Elie added, “It’s a story as old as time.”

“I think we should break into his suite as soon as he arrives,” Bathsheba said, “and start chopping off his toes one by one until he tells us where to find Abu Yusef.”

“You’re so eager to inflict pain.” Elie twisted his face, the skin as taut as wax paper over his facial bones. “Pain is a fine tool for the right occasion. In this case, inflicting pain on the prince is like using a screwdriver on a nail. He doesn’t know Abu Yusef’s hiding place, and therefore he’d be useless to us without his toes.”

Gideon laughed, but Bathsheba pressed on. “So that’s it? We wait for another transfer to Senlis and follow Abu Yusef home? And then what? How are you planning to get through all those men protecting him?”

*

The medics arrived within minutes and took over the resuscitation effort. Lemmy sat down and watched them work with efficiency and skill until they brought back a pulse.

When they rolled Herr Hoffgeitz out of the building, a few spectators stood on the pavement by the waiting ambulance.

“Call Paula,” Lemmy told Christopher. “Tell her I’ll meet her at the hospital.” He climbed in after the gurney, the doors closed, and the ambulance sped away.

Armande Hoffgeitz was admitted to the cardiac ICU at Zurich University Hospital. Paula arrived moments later, and so did Armande’s long-time physician, Dr. Spilman, who went in to consult with the hospital staff.

An hour later, Dr. Spilman came out to speak with them. He hugged Paula, who had known him since childhood. “It’s not good,” he said. “His condition has stabilized, but it’s too early to predict the chances of recovery.”

“He’s a strong man,” Paula said. “Look, he’s still alive, right?”

“Only because of this young man.” Dr. Spilman patted Lemmy’s shoulder. “Another minute or two, and he would have left us forever.”

Paula stayed with her father, and Lemmy took a taxi back to the bank. Christopher was waiting for him. They hurried up the stairs.

Günter stood in front of Herr Hoffgeitz’s door. His lips trembled.

“It’s touch and go,” Lemmy said. “He’s very ill.”

Günter did not move from the door. He took off his glasses and began shining them nervously with his tie.

“Dr. Spilman and Paula are with him.” Lemmy took a step closer. “I’d like to check his office, in case he took some medications before—”

“I’ve already checked. No medications in there.”

“I must insist.”

“But Herr Hoffgeitz left instructions for such an event.” Günter pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “I am responsible for all his accounts. Me alone!”

“For up to thirty days—while I run the bank’s affairs on behalf of the family.”

“Maybe longer. The board of directors shall meet and decide.”

“Their job is to appoint a qualified person to take over. Do you feel qualified to run this bank?” Not waiting for an answer, Lemmy turned to go.

“Would you like to see the instructions?”

“I have my own copy.” Halfway down the stairs, Lemmy paused. “Were you in Herr Hoffgeitz’s office when he collapsed?”

Günter stepped back as if physically assaulted. “Of course not! I would have called for help!”

“You seemed upset when I came in this morning.”

Günter hesitated. “We received a phone call. Very disturbing.”

“Why?”

He clearly did not want to say any more, but the desire to defend himself tipped the scales. “A man called, pretending to represent someone else.”

“Who?”

“He has done it before. Many years ago.”

“Done what?”

“Pretended to represent someone else.”

“Who?”

“An old friend of Herr Hoffgeitz.”

“Let me see if I get it straight.” Lemmy blew air in feigned frustration. “Many years ago a man called—”

“Visited. In person.”

“When?”

“In sixty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight years ago?”

Günter nodded. “He had the signed ledger that recorded all of the deposits, but he didn’t have the account number and the password.”

“So he went away, and after all these years, he called again this morning, claiming to speak for an old friend of Herr Hoffgeitz. I assume that friend still has an account with us, yes?”

“It’s complicated.” Günter seemed ready to collapse. “Herr Hoffgeitz was very angry.”

*

Bathsheba brought Chinese takeout. Elie wasn’t hungry. He stayed in the bedroom, reading his bible with a cigarette in hand. The two of them ate outside on the balcony, Gideon with a paperback edition of Robert Ludlum’s
The Bourne Identity
and Bathsheba with the binoculars, examining every detail on the imposing structure of the Eiffel Tower. Below, heavy traffic snarled across the Seine River on Pont de Bir Hakeim.

When the sun went down, Gideon went inside and lay on the sofa to read.

Close to midnight, the lights blinked on the eavesdropping equipment. He grabbed the headset and listened. Bathsheba called Elie from the bedroom.