The Jerusalem Assassin (40 page)

“By exterminating every human carrier?” Itah Orr shook her head. “Madness!”

Elie considered whether to say more. Recruiting a news reporter was like cultivating a pet wolf. She could become a formidable ally, but she could also turn on him and destroy everything. By sharing his plans, he had committed to playing for her support, which would be a major coup. But failing to recruit her would necessitate silencing her before she could blow the whistle. He asked, “Don’t you believe in self-defense?”

“I do. But—”

“You think we should agree to again go into exile? Into the gas showers? Turn the other cheek for the convenience of our mortal enemies?”

“Of course not. But I also don’t believe in killing indiscriminately.”

“So you believe in self-defense as long as we’re
discriminate
in our actions?”

“That’s right.”

“Me too,” Elie said. “Join us, help us operate discriminately.”

“Me?” Itah seemed intrigued rather than outraged. “I’ve been a TV reporter my whole adult life. What could I possibly do for you?”

“A lot of good. My plans include a media department, designated to deal with the global news and communications organizations vis-à-vis their anti-Semitic and anti-Israel agenda. You possess the skills to successfully run that department.”

“I’m not into killing people.”

“You can be the voice of reason. A leader of the alternative to physical elimination, which is a last resort anyhow. There are tremendous advantages in converting foes into friends, if possible.”

“The term
Counter Final Solution
implies mass extermination. It suggests killing, not kissing and making up.”

“If we can make supporters out of powerful enemies, what could be better?”

“Okay.” Her dismissive hostility was gone, replaced by journalistic curiosity. “Is that part of your plan or something you just came up with to woo me?”

“Can you blame me for trying to turn you into a partner in the most exciting Jewish enterprise in our history?”

“Rather than exterminate me?”

“That’s not an option,” Elie lied. “We need an expert like you, capable of assessing the virility of mass communication personalities in various countries. You’ll serve as director of the global media department. You’ll apply the Counter Final Solution doctrine to journalists, authors, and entertainers. If the killing of an anti-Semitic demagogue could be avoided by converting him into a pro-Israel voice, then we gain twice!”

“That’s a pipe dream.” Itah’s forehead creased, and she glanced at Abraham, who said nothing. She fixed her shoulder-length silver hair behind her ears. “No one has ever tried something like that.”

“But you see the potential, yes?”

She nodded and shrugged simultaneously.

“Then help us change history!”

“To achieve this on a global basis would be prohibitively expensive. You’ll need a huge staff of analysts ready to digest mountains of data, translators versed in every language, powerful computers connected to every media outlet, and agents on the ground in every country who are familiar with local culture and academic activities.”

“Go on.”

“And you’ll need to buy off insiders, enlist them as pens-for-hire.”

“Kind of intellectual moles?”

“Yes, major talents, capable of redirecting the political, religious, and emotional tone of newsmakers and scholars from anti-Israel to pro-Israel, from anti-Jewish to pro-Jewish, from warmongering to reconciliation. It’s an enormous undertaking.”

“But it’s possible.” Elie looked up at Itah, who stood up in excitement.

“In theory, anything is possible!” She laughed. “But in reality—”

“We’ll need someone with extensive media expertise?”

“Of course.”

“With creativity and vision?”

“Naturally.”

“With guts and big balls. Someone like you?”

“Yeah, right!” Itah dropped into the chair. “It’s a pipe dream.”

“Why?”

“Because it would cost more money than God has!”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.” She was smart enough to know he was teasing her, but she couldn’t resist the challenge. “A billion dollars, okay?”

“Is that your best estimate?”

“No, it’s my wild guess.”

“But you believe that you could do the job if this kind of money was available?”

“Oh, sure. If you give me a billion dollars, I’ll build a media department for your Counter Final Solution that will change the tone of every news outlet. Israel would be more popular than Mother Theresa, okay?”

“Funny how things work out,” Elie said. “A billion dollars is the exact budget I’ve allocated for the media department in my five-year plan.” He extended his bony hand to Itah. “Partners?”

After a brief hesitation, Itah shook his hand. “You really have that kind of money?”

“A lot more,” Elie said. “Welcome aboard.”

Rabbi Gerster clapped his hands. “You’re still the master,” he said to Elie. “I’m impressed.”

*

Lemmy stopped at a sporting goods store on the outskirts of Jerusalem and bought three baseball caps, three windbreakers, and three pairs of sunglasses, all in different colors. He followed road signs to Hadassah Hospital, which occupied a vast mountainside compound southwest of Jerusalem. Parking the Fiat in an overflow lot across the main road, he put on a yellow windbreaker, a matching cap, and sunglasses. He carried a blue set in a plastic bag.

The information desk was handling a long line. Eventually his turn came.

“I’m looking for a relative,” Lemmy said. “She was admitted a couple of days ago, but we only got word this morning—”

“Last name?”

“Weiss.”

The woman punched a few keys and looked at her computer screen. “Her first name?”

“Esther.” Lemmy lowered his sunglasses and leaned forward to get a good view of the screen. “Esther Weiss.”

She ran her finger down the list. “Don’t have her. Did you check the Hadassah campus at Mount Scopus?”

“Not yet.” Lemmy saw the name on the screen:
Weiss, Elie – Room 417
. “Thanks.”

“Next!”

Lemmy headed toward the exit, circled the vast lobby, and found the gift shop. He selected a large bouquet and a get-well card, which he addressed to
Auntie Esther
.

*

“Billions of dollars?” Rabbi Gerster returned Elie’s cold gaze without showing his anger. This was a dangerous moment, and the next step would determine whether he would ever see Lemmy again. “Have you finally put your hands on the Koenig fortune?”

Elie raised a finger to his lips, but Itah Orr didn’t miss it. “Who’s Koenig? What fortune?”

“Tanya gave you the ledger, but not an account number or a password.” The rabbi kept his voice even. “There’s no way you could reach that money without a mole inside the Hoffgeitz Bank.”

Rising from the chair, Elie said, “Let’s go inside. It’s too chilly for me.”

The rabbi blocked his way. “Answer me!”

“Yes,” Elie said. “I have people inside. So what?”

“You needed a young, bright, adaptable agent—someone similar to what I had been when you convinced me to infiltrate Neturay Karta, unknown, unattached, totally dedicated, and capable of climbing to the top, becoming a leader, and reaching through the wall of secrecy to grab Koenig’s funds.”

“You know me too well.”

“Such a mole had to look Aryan, speak German, and possess a flexible, sharp mind.”

“Possibly,” said Elie.

“Your candidate had to forgo his past life, forget his family and friends, and focus his whole life and future on this mission.”

“In other words, an impossible criteria.”

“Except for my son, who was a perfect fit.”

“Theoretically, yes.” Elie tried to squeeze by toward the glass door.

“It makes perfect sense. My Jerusalem spoke fluent German, had the looks and brains, and was alone in the world. A perfect recruit for such a long-term assignment in Switzerland.”

“He was too dead for the job.”

Itah groaned in shock at Elie’s cruel response, but Rabbi Gerster didn’t flinch. “What if he didn’t die on the Golan Heights? What if he survived? It wouldn’t be an unprecedented situation, considering your track record. Hadn’t Tanya spent twenty years thinking I was dead? Hadn’t I spent twenty years thinking she was dead?”

“I understand your pain,” Elie said. “You excommunicated Lemmy, turned your only son into a pariah, and expected him to come back begging for your forgiveness. But instead he joined the army and found happiness among the paratroopers. Yes, his happiness was short-lived, and it’s a tragedy. But don’t try to relieve your guilt by pinning it on me.”

With one hand, Rabbi Gerster grabbed the front of Elie’s shirt and lifted him over the railing. The only thing that Elie’s flailing hands could clench was the rabbi’s white beard, but with a swipe of his free arm he knocked Elie’s hands away.

“Stop it!” Itah stepped forward. “Killing him won’t bring your son back.”

“That’s right,” Elie said, glancing down over his shoulder, where a rocky garden rested eleven stories below.

“The body in the grave is not my son.”

“It’s true,” Itah said. “We dug it up.”

“Is Lemmy your mole at the Hoffgeitz Bank?” The rabbi tilted Elie farther back. “Answer!”

Elie closed his eyes. His limbs slumped as if he gave up—or fainted.

“Put him down,” Itah said. “He knows you’re not a killer.”

*

Carrying the flowers in front of him, Lemmy stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of the hospital. Three hallways led in different directions. A brass plaque credited donors who had helped construct each hospital wing. A directory pointed to rooms 400–420. The double doors were marked Intensive Care Unit.

Beyond the doors he found a strange calm, as if the severity of the patients’ conditions merited hushed voices and light steps. He glanced into the rooms while heading down the hallway. The buzzing of ventilators was constant, the sick lying immobile, connected to tubes and machinery. He kept his head turned sideways while his eyes surveyed the hallway from behind his dark sunglasses. Room 417 was near the end. A desk and two vacant chairs sat by the closed door.

He passed by the nurses’ station, drawing no attention. The absence of guards was both a relief and a concern—either they were accompanying Elie for a test on another floor or they had moved him elsewhere. The last possibility, that he had died, was out of consideration. That would truly be a dead end.

A quick glance over his shoulder, and Lemmy slipped into Room 417, closing the door.

The bed was made. The side table was clear. No shoes, clothes, or personal effects. He opened the cabinets and found only medical supplies. Had Elie been moved to another room without changing the record in the computer? Was it an intended diversion? Turning back toward the door, Lemmy noticed a security camera bolted to the ceiling. A tiny red light indicated it was operating.

Three knocks came in quick succession, and the door flew open.

*

The satisfaction Elie had felt by turning the TV reporter into a potential member of his team was tainted by doubts. If she and Abraham had dug up Lemmy’s grave, what else had they dug up? She was a professional investigator, and Abraham, despite decades of relative seclusion from the modern world, had clearly maintained both his incredible intellect and powerful physique. These two made for a dangerous pair. How much did they know?

Abraham pulled him back over the railing and lowered him into a chair. Elie kept his eyes closed and listened, hoping they would assume he was out and speak carelessly.

“He’s so skinny and pale,” Itah said. “Is he okay?”

“The shortness of breath is chronic emphysema.” Abraham felt Elie’s wrist. “But his heart is pumping well.”

“Isn’t he heartless?”

They laughed, and Elie heard them enter the suite. He needed to plan ahead. Abraham had guessed correctly that Lemmy was in Zurich rather than in the grave, but the time for their father-son reunion had not yet arrived, and maybe never would. They were more useful separately. As to the reporter, she seemed enamored with the rabbi and his mysterious life. They had worked well as a team, executing a clever rescue operation at Hadassah and choosing a perfect place to hide him. Elie knew that without their help he would be exposed to recapture by the Shin Bet. But he could not trust Abraham any longer. It was time to find another safe place to hide for the next few days.

All this trouble was temporary. Rabin’s reluctance to make a deal in advance was nothing but the naïveté of a dignified career-soldier, who had not completely internalized the rigors of real politics. But after the assassination attempt, once Rabin saw how effective Elie’s strategy worked, he would pull back Shin Bet and honor the deal. What choice would Rabin have while running for a certain victory over the discredited Likud? He would have to appoint Elie as intelligence czar—or risk a “leak” to the media of the true conspiratorial circumstances of the failed assassination, which would destroy Rabin’s credibility.

Elie heard the TV blaring. He peeked inside and saw neither of them in the living room. The bedroom door was closed, and faint voices came through. Elie reached into Itah’s purse, which rested on the table by the door. His fingers touched a few bills, which he pocketed, together with the suite’s cardkey.

Downstairs he found a phone in the lobby and asked the operator for an outside line. Freckles answered immediately.

“It’s me,” Elie said.

“Hey! How’s it going?”

“I need a safe house for a few days.”

“Super! Not a problem!” The feigned exuberance must have been for the benefit of the people present in the room with Freckles. “It’s a pleasure!”

“Pick me up at six tonight. The King David Hotel. I’ll be in the restaurant.”

“You got it!”

“Make sure you’re not being followed.”

“We’re cool,” Freckles said. “God bless!”

*

The door opened, and a nurse faced Lemmy. She was tall and broad, her white uniform ill-fitting, and her smile too wide to be sincere. “May I help you?”

“Oh, yes.” He took a step toward the door. “I’m a bit confused.”