The Jerusalem Assassin (22 page)

*

When Abu Yusef walked into the dining room, the men stopped talking and gathered around the large table. “We achieved a great victory on Saturday,” he declared. “The Zionists are bleeding badly. We must hit them again and again until they scatter to the four corners of the earth or die!”

The men cheered, raising clenched fists.

He turned to a map of Europe, which Bashir had pinned to the wall. “With our donor’s generosity, we are ready to launch a historic campaign that will blow away the Oslo Accords.” Abu Yusef paused, looking around. “Who in this room speaks Italian?”

Two of the men raised their hands.

“Spanish?”

Three hands came up.

“Greek?”

One hand.

“Dutch?”

No hand came up. Abu Yusef shook his head. “Pity. The Dutch are all Zionist bastards. Danish?”

A hand came halfway up. “I get by,” the man said.

Abu Yusef nodded. “Swedish?”

Another hesitant hand.

“Good.” He noticed two men whispering. “What?”

One of them said, “I speak good German.”

Abu Yusef shook a finger. “We’re not going to Germany. We won’t fall into that trap again. The world doesn’t like to watch Jews getting killed in Germany. It’s counter-productive.”

He realized they didn’t understand.

“Munich was an unusual opportunity,” he explained. “The Olympics, the media. And I admit that even Munich might have been a mistake. When the Nazis exterminated the Jews, the Americans or British could have easily bombed the German rails and silenced the death camps. That’s why, after the war, everybody felt guilty and let the Jews steal our land. Jews know a lot about guilt, and if we kill them in Germany, they’ll cry
Holocaust!
Everybody will forget about us and feel sorry for the Jews again.”

Some of the men mumbled curses.

“But you can go to Austria,” Abu Yusef said to the German-speaking man. “There are plenty of fat Jews in Vienna—an excellent target.” He looked at his list. “We still need Flemish and Portuguese.”

“I have a few recruits,” Bashir said. “They’ll be in later.”

“Good.” Abu Yusef turned to the map. “The blue pins stand for El Al stations and terminals. Red pins for Israeli embassies and consulates. And yellow pins for synagogues and Jewish schools. We’ll hit all these targets on the same day. Forty-seven targets representing the forty-seven years since the United Nations allowed the Zionists to declare their state!”

The men clapped.

“That’s right!” Abu Yusef held up a fist. “We’ll rock the world!”

When they quieted down, Bashir stepped forward. “Listen carefully. The money is coming in today. This evening you’ll receive your individual assignments, including maps, blueprints of the target buildings, and escape routes. Also, each team will receive enough cash to purchase vehicles, weapons, explosives, timer fuses and everything else you’ll need to successfully destroy your targets. Tonight you’ll pack up your personal belongings and be ready to head out in the morning, each team travelling separately. After the simultaneous attacks, we’ll reconvene in a new location.”

“Think of the international impact!” Abu Yusef looked each man in the eye. “Forty-seven years of shame will be redeemed by delivering forty-seven unforgettable lessons to the Jews. We’re getting enough money to do what no one has ever dared before—a barrage of attacks at the same time, synchronized to maximum shock and awe. On a single glorious day, we’ll flood Europe with the blood of the Jews, just as the valleys of Palestine are flooded with the Zionist pests.”

He paused to give them time to absorb the enormity of the operation. They seemed excited. And nervous.

“This time next week, the Oslo process will be derailed by your daring and unprecedented accomplishment. Your spirit will revive our people’s hopes. And soon you’ll lead them back to Jerusalem!”

He turned and left the room, hoping his words had inspired them. He had spoken as if a whole army was lined up in front of him, not merely two dozen men. More were joining, though. And when forty-seven Jewish targets blew up simultaneously all over Europe, every Palestinian man would leave his family and join their ranks. There would be an army of warriors waiting for his orders. The peace process would collapse into accusations and counter-accusations, and soon after that, he would see Palestine again as a victor, sailing his armada into the Haifa Bay through water dotted with the bobbing heads of dead Jews.

Bashir joined him. “It won’t be easy. We’re taking on the whole Oslo peace process. They’ll be pissed off—Arafat, Rabin, Clinton. Everybody will be after us.”

“No,” Abu Yusef said. “Everybody will respect us.”

“That also,” Bashir said. “Many of Al-Mazir’s men are ready to join. After the operation, we’ll set up recruiting networks all over.”

“But first of all, we need our best two men to do the job for the prince. We can’t afford to disappoint him.” Abu Yusef opened the door to his bedroom. It was dark except for a lamp near the empty bed.

Bashir turned to go.

“Latif was a good boy,” Abu Yusef said. “I miss him. Maybe one day, after our victory, I will marry a woman. Like Arafat.”

“That’s right.” A rare smile appeared on Bashir’s face. “A woman like Arafat.”

*

Gideon wore a navy-blue suit and a gray tie. He stuck on a thin, black moustache. The small leather briefcase completed the image of a young businessman. Bathsheba had brushed his curly hair back, smoothed it down with gel, and sprayed him with Cacharel. Before he left the car to enter the bank, Elie said, “Put your hook deep into him and give him no reason to suspect you.”

“Show him,” Bathsheba said, “how deep you can bend over.”

Gideon slammed the car door and walked down the street to the bank.

The manager, Monsieur Richar, put down his pen and stood up. “
Oui?
”

“Grant Guerra.” Gideon extended a hand. “I believe you have funds awaiting me?”

“Oh, yes!” The bank manager beckoned a bespectacled clerk. “We’re ready for you. It’s an honor!”

“Much obliged.”

“Would you like to open an account with us? Our investment department can assist you with devising an appropriate strategy for growth. We’d like to earn your business.”

“Perhaps in the future. Today’s transfer is earmarked for a joint venture that requires a substantial cash transaction. I will require a meeting room to conduct it.”

“Of course.” The bank manager seemed a tad disappointed. “We ordered additional bills as soon as we saw the wire. We normally don’t carry that much in U.S. dollars.”

“Excellent.”

They led him to a vacant office. An electrical counting machine rested on the table. The manager examined Gideon’s driver’s license, a fake that matched the particulars on the transfer from Zurich, and asked him to sign a receipt. A few moments later, a clerk brought in the money in a sack—twenty-five thousand $100 bills.

As the manager was leaving the room, Gideon said, “My associate, Monsieur Sachs, should arrive within the hour.”

“Certainly, Monsieur Guerra. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

*

The street outside the Banque Nationale de France buzzed with afternoon shoppers. The white Citroën drew no attention. Bathsheba sat behind the wheel, Elie in the passenger seat. It was four o’clock p.m., and there was no sign of Abu Yusef.

Bathsheba turned on the radio and searched the dial until she found music. Her head rocked with the drumbeat. “What if he doesn’t show up?”

Elie shut off the radio. “Abu Yusef has been waiting all his life for something like this. Arafat has always managed to squeeze heaps of cash from donors, who liked and feared him at the same time. Today Abu Yusef will step out of Arafat’s shadow, financially speaking.”

“And he’ll cast his own long shadow, if we don’t stop him.”

Elie nodded. “They’ll be edgy with so much cash on board. You must be very careful following them back to the nest. If they notice us, bad things will happen.”

Bathsheba used a piece of cloth to shine the binocular lenses. The minutes passed slowly with constant traffic along the street. Customers visited the retail shops and clients frequented the bank. Closing time approached fast.

“Here we go.” Elie pointed.

A blue BMW sedan stopped in front of the bank, followed by a red Mazda RX-7. Bashir Hamami got out of the BMW and looked up and down the street, his right hand under his coat. Two younger men emerged from the red Mazda and joined Bashir. One of them opened the rear door of the BMW, and Abu Yusef stepped out with a large briefcase.

“Nice cars.” Bathsheba reached into a tennis bag on the back seat and took out a handgun with a silencer. She cocked the gun and put it on the floor between her legs. She repeated the process with another gun, which she kept in her lap.

“You’re a pessimist,” Elie said.

“Wasn’t plan B your idea?”

“For me, redundancy is a necessity, not an aspiration.”

*

Gideon was on the move as soon as he saw the cars through the glass front of the bank. He took off his jacket, straightened his tie, and hurried to the front door, reaching it just as one of Abu Yusef’s men opened it from the outside.

He flashed a wide smile. “Monsieur Sachs?”

Abu Yusef looked at him with surprise and shook his hand.

“Welcome to Banque Nationale de France. I’m Grant Guerra—foreign currency desk. I’m sorry we missed each other last week.”

“Then how did you recognize me?”

Without missing a beat, Gideon gestured at the men and cars. “We don’t handle many transactions of this size in our branch.”

Abu Yusef’s eyes measured him up and down. “It’s a pleasure, Monsieur Guerra.”

“Please, call me Grant.”

“Grant. A strong name.” He signaled to his men to stay outside and followed Gideon through the bank.

As they passed by Monsieur Richar’s office, the bank manager glanced over his spectacles and started to get up. Gideon waved and continued to walk. These few seconds were the weakest link in the sequence of planned events. An interaction with Richar could blow his cover. Abu Yusef would realize he was dealing with someone pretending to be a bank employee and try to draw a weapon. Gideon was ready for plan B. He would kill Abu Yusef quickly with a knife, but the way out of the bank would require a public shootout with the Arabs outside. Even with Bathsheba and Elie attacking them from the rear, Bashir and his men presented a formidable force, and such a battle would have uncertain consequences.

They entered the office before Monsieur Richar managed to join them, and Gideon shut the door. “A few formalities, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Abu Yusef presented a Belgian passport under the name of Perez Sachs.

Gideon examined it carefully and compared it to a copy of a false transfer order he had brought with him that carried the name Perez Sachs as recipient. He smiled at Abu Yusef and handed him the form and a pen. “Please sign here, Monsieur Sachs.” He pointed and rested his hand on the Arab’s shoulder.

*

Abu Yusef recognized the scent. Cacharel. It reminded him of Latif, and the memory at once saddened and aroused him. He signed
Perez Sachs
and looked up at the young man, who was standing over him. Their faces were only a few inches apart, and Abu Yusef took in the sweet scent, leaning slightly closer. His nostrils quivered. He returned the pen. For a moment, their hands connected, and Abu Yusef felt a wave of heat in his groin.

“Would you like to count the money now?” Grant’s gaze was direct and unwavering, bright with excitement.

“I trust you.”

“We have time. It’s no problem.” Delicate wrinkles adorned the corners of his glistening eyes. The white, tailored shirt fit perfectly on what was clearly an athletic, masculine body. “I’m at your service, in every way you should require.”

“I might be a demanding man.” Abu Yusef chuckled.

“I’m accommodating by nature.”

“You work out regularly?” He moved a finger down the clerk’s shirtsleeve.

“Yes.” His face became a little red, but he kept smiling. “I like to break a sweat.”

“It shows.” Abu Yusef felt doubly aroused by the young man’s discomfort. He opened the large briefcase, packed up the money, and closed the lid. The handsome bank clerk remained close, smiling, inviting. Didn’t he mind the age difference, the belly, the receding hairline? His body language communicated undeniable interest. Was it the money? Did it matter? Abu Yusef took a deep breath and asked, “Perhaps we could chat later?”

“If you’d like to, sure.” Grant scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Abu Yusef. “Call me at eight tonight, okay?”

Abu Yusef followed him to the front door. It was obvious Grant was anxious to usher him out of the bank lest his boss noticed there was more going on between the two of them than a banking transaction. “Until later then.”

“
Au revoir,
Monsieur
Sachs.” The young banker’s hand touched Abu Yusef’s back, gently prodding him out to the street. He winked and closed the glass door.

Bashir had the men facing away in all directions, alert to any sign of trouble. Abu Yusef got in the back seat of the BMW, the briefcase on his lap. “Allah is great,” he declared. “Let’s go!”

*

The Arabs kept to local roads, avoiding the highway. Rush hour slowed everything down and provided plenty of vehicles to blend in. Bathsheba stayed well behind, while Elie kept the binoculars trained on the red RX-7. Twenty minutes later, they reached Ermenonville. The two cars turned into a narrow street. Bathsheba passed the turn and stopped. She got out, ran to the corner, and peeked through the shrubs. An iron gate opened, and several armed guards stood aside to let the cars enter.

Back in the Citroën, Bathsheba said, “This is it. The snake pit.” She drove off while Elie wrote down the name of the street:
Boulevard Royale.

*

After ten minutes, the manager came to check on Gideon. “Monsieur Guerra, I was hoping to meet your associate.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gideon said. “He was anxious to get going. It’s a large sum to carry around.”