The Jerusalem Assassin (41 page)

She didn’t move aside to let him out, but her smile remained fixed. “Are you looking for someone?”

“My aunt, Esther Weiss.” He lifted the bouquet. “I was told she’s in room three hundred and seventeen.” He tilted his head at the empty bed. “It’s not too late, I hope?”

“No, she’s fine.” Instead of stepping aside, the nurse entered the room and kicked the door shut with her heel. “Esther was taken downstairs for x-rays.” She reached into her coat pocket.

He shoved the flowers in her face and used a chopping strike to disable her right arm. She raised a foot to kick him, which he dodged, taking advantage of her temporary imbalance to knock her other leg from under her, swing her around, and land a punch into her left kidney. She managed to elbow him hard in the chest, but a second fist to the kidney removed what was left of her fighting spirit. He pulled her coat off her shoulders, leaving the sleeves on, and used the loose ends to tie her hands behind her back. She was lying face-down on the floor, right under the video camera. He knew time was short before her colleagues showed up.

A sucking sound told him she had managed to fill her lungs for a scream. He silenced her with a knuckle-jolt to the side of the head.

The nurse was out cold. But not for long.

As he exited the room, a man was jogging down the hallway. Lemmy pretended not to notice and walked in the opposite direction, where another set of double doors was marked with a red exit sign.

He made it down one bank of stairs when the man yelled, “Stop or I shoot!”

Lemmy raised his hands and turned slowly.

The employee card that hung from the man’s neck meant that he was part of the hospital security team, not a trained secret agent. His protruding belly confirmed it. And what he did next proved him an amateur. “Come back up here!” He stomped his shoe on the landing. “One step at a time! And keep your hands in the air!”

“What’s the problem?” Lemmy took the stairs one by one, getting closer. “I don’t understand. Is it illegal to take the stairs?”

“Come on!” The gun was pointing up at the ceiling now, the finger straight forward, not threaded in the trigger slot. “Now, over there!” He turned his head to the doors. “Walk through!”

That brief interval, when the security man faced the doors, was enough for Lemmy to deliver a hard chop to the back of his head. He collapsed, and Lemmy caught him before he rolled down the stairs. The gun was a small-caliber Beretta, and he pocketed it together with a spare magazine he found clipped to the man’s belt.

A few slaps on the face, and the security guard came to.

“Where’s the patient from four-seventeen?”

He shook his head.

Lemmy grabbed his hand and bent it backwards. “I’ll break it in five, four, three—”

“In Haifa! They’re in Haifa!”

“They?”

“The rabbi and the woman. They took the patient.”

“How do you know?”

“The taxi driver is a regular here. He told Shin Bet. They’ll catch them—”

“He drove them to Haifa?” Lemmy applied more pressure.

“No! Please!” The man’s eyes turned to the door, praying for someone to show up.

“Answer!”

“To the YMCA in Jerusalem. They had a car there. They mentioned driving to Haifa—”

Holding the gun by the barrel, Lemmy knocked him unconscious.

On the way downstairs, he switched the yellow windbreaker and cap for the blue set. The ground-floor exit let him out on the side of the building. Pedestrians and car traffic seemed normal, and no one paid any attention to him. Across a large lawn was an outdoor cafeteria. He selected a seat that was partially hidden by the thick trunk of a eucalyptus tree yet provided a clear view of the main hospital entrance.

Moments later, a white Subaru with tinted windows and a few antennas stopped at the curb. The unconvincing nurse from room 417 emerged from the lobby, no longer smiling. She got in the rear seat. The security guard showed up soon after, pressing a pack of ice to the side of his head. He went around to the driver’s side and leaned over the window, which was partially open. After a short conversation, the Subaru departed.

Lemmy waited twenty minutes before walking over to his Fiat. He took the road toward Jerusalem.

*

They argued in hushed voices over what to do about Elie Weiss. Rabbi Gerster wanted to threaten Elie with exposure of his secret dealings, but Itah objected. In her investigative experience, subjects volunteered much more information out of vanity and for shock effect than under duress. And the more urgent task was to stop the staged assassination plan. “It’s political fraud on a grand scale!”

“What about my son?”

“Finding him must wait,” Itah argued. “We should focus on the Rabin deal first.”

“I have a feeling the two are connected.”

“Perhaps. But the Shin Bet has also been paying Freckles. I can’t wait to see Elie’s face when we tell him that Freckles plays both sides.”

“Maybe he already knows. With double agents you’re never quite certain which side they really work for. It’s possible that Freckles’ first loyalty is to Elie. He could be taking Shin Bet’s money and feeding them lies from Elie.”

“You think Elie has outsmarted the Shin Bet.”

“We’ll soon find out.” Rabbi Gerster took a deep breath. Deferring to Itah was difficult after spending the past fifty years in Neturay Karta, where women were relegated to household duties and obeyed their learned husbands on all substantive decisions.

“He’s been out there too long,” Itah said. “Let’s check on him.”

They found the balcony deserted. So was the bathroom.

“He’ll be back.” Rabbi Gerster picked up the phone and asked for the international operator, who gave him the number for the Hoffgeitz Bank in Zurich. When a receptionist answered, he spoke German. “
Entschuldigen sie bitte
. This is Herman von Klausovich from Bonn, general director of inter-governmental financial cooperation of the Federal Republic.”

“Yes?”

“I met one of your top executives at a conference in Vienna a couple of years ago, but I cannot remember his name. In his forties, very handsome—Aryan, if you get my gist,
ja?
”

“That would be our vice president, Herr Wilhelm Horch.”

“Yes, that sounds right. Is he available?”

“Unfortunately Herr Horch is away on a business trip. If you leave your number, I’ll have him call you.”

“I’ll try again.
Auf Wiedersehen.
” He hung up and turned to Itah. “Wilhelm Horch. That’s my son’s name.”

“Wilhelm?”

“I bet his wife calls him Lemmy.”

*

Traffic was heavy on Herzl Road, which led into Jerusalem through dense residential neighborhoods, none of which had existed when Lemmy had last lived in the city. On his right, a restaurant on the ground floor of an apartment building spilled tables and chairs onto the sidewalk, most of them occupied by families. He remembered one of his father’s sermons, given on the last Yom Kippur Lemmy had spent at home. Why was it, his father had asked, that every time the ancient kings of Israel had made peace with their enemies, the Bible went on to describe the elaborate feast that followed? The answer, according to Rabbi Gerster, was that feeding the body calmed the mind, including its fighting spirit. On Yom Kippur, on the other hand, fasting was designed to create a sense of urgency, intensifying reflection over one’s sins and prompting repentance. The memory made Lemmy realize how hungry he was. As the light changed and traffic began to flow, he noticed a parking spot and veered right.

He chose a table that allowed him an open view while a wall protected his back.

A short, dark-haired woman began shuttling plates, not bothering to take an order. The pita bread was warm and slightly singed. The pickles were salty and crisp. And the humus was garnished with olive oil, chickpeas, and toasted pine nuts. Lemmy swiped a healthy load with a folded slice of pita bread and bit into it. The rich taste literally made him sigh with pleasure.

She rushed over. “Everything okay?”

Lemmy’s mouth was full. He gave her a thumbs up.

She beamed and disappeared into the kitchen.

Lamb skewers came next, with couscous and chopped salad. He concluded with mint tea and baklava. While paying the bill, he asked her for directions to the YMCA.

*

Elie sat in a nearby park for a couple of hours. He enjoyed the unseasonal sun and watched a group of kids chase a ball. On his way back to the hotel, he paused occasionally to catch his breath and furtively search for suspicious persons lurking about. There was nothing but the usual bustle of Jerusalem on a busy afternoon.

When he returned to the suite, Rabbi Gerster and Itah Orr were watching a TV talk show, which pitted two Knesset members against each other. The raised voices and red faces were no surprise, but even the moderator seemed riled up when he asked the Likud MK: “Why is Netanyahu pouring oil on the fanatics’ fire? Does he also wish to see Yitzhak Rabin burned at the stake?”

“Your plan is working,” Rabbi Gerster said, pressing the remote control to lower the volume. “You must be proud.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m sorry for losing my temper.”

“And I’m sorry for speaking harshly.” Elie patted his shoulder. “Anger and grief go hand in hand, as we both know from our days of fighting the Nazis. Losing your son must be a never-healing wound. I wish I could ease your pain, my dear friend.”

Abraham nodded, but the look on his face was too cryptic for Elie’s comfort. Did he know more than he was saying? Had he and Itah really dug up Lemmy’s grave? And even if they had, how could Abraham tell if the remains belonged to his son? Elie was about to ask him, but Itah grabbed the remote and increased the volume.

The TV screen showed two photos side-by-side, with a subtitle: Rabbi Abraham Gerster & TV Reporter Itah Orr.

“The two suspects evaded police yesterday,” the news anchor said, “when investigators sought them in connection with unauthorized hacking into financial databases and the theft of confidential bank records. The investigation revealed a criminal conspiracy with non-profit religious organizations, including Talmudic yeshiva institutions in Israel and New York, which have allegedly been utilized for money laundering.” The two photos were replaced by a video showing several police cars at the entrance to the Meah Shearim neighborhood, and officers carrying boxes of evidence down the road from the Neturay Karta synagogue. A group of bearded men in black hats and coats held a prayer on the pavement nearby, swaying devoutly.

“Channel One,” the anchor said, “announced it was suspending Itah Orr until the investigation is concluded. Anyone with information on the suspects’ whereabouts should contact the police.”

Itah switched off the TV. “I don’t believe this!”

“They’re clever,” Elie said. “You were identified on the security system at Hadassah, but they don’t want to mention that scene, so they made up a criminal investigation. All you need to do is stay out of sight or change your appearance. Once my operation reaches its successful conclusion, Rabin will pull back Shin Bet, and we’ll be home free.”

“What if Shin Bet stops your operation?”

“They’re groping in the dark,” Elie said. “They know I’m up to something, but they don’t know what. They’re clueless.”

“You’re an optimist,” Itah said, exchanging a glance with Rabbi Gerster. “Anyway, I can use Sorkeh’s headscarf.”

“Yes,” Elie said, “but what about the famous leader of Neturay Karta?”

Rabbi Gerster stood up. “It appears that my rabbinical career is over.”

Elie watched from the bathroom door. The scissors in Itah’s hands were small but relentless. She snipped off the payos and worked through the bushy, gray beard that had masked Abraham Gerster’s face for fifty years. The medicine cabinet was well stocked with shaving cream and disposable blades. She shaved him carefully.

Removing his black skullcap, Itah watered her hands and combed his hair backward. “My my,” she said, standing back to examine her handiwork, “you’re drop dead handsome!”

Elie felt a stab of envy. It had been the same with Tanya Galinski in 1945. Despite the deep snow and the warm corpse of her Nazi lover, Tanya had stared at Abraham Gerster the same way—enamored, enchanted. It was incredible to watch him now, at age sixty-nine, impact a woman the same way. Elie cleared his throat. “Shall we go downstairs for dinner?” He had decided not to warn them that Freckles would be arriving to pick him up. Their reaction would reveal how much they knew about the chubby agent-provocateur.

“I’m starving.” Itah adjusted Sorkeh’s headscarf over her hair.

“Why don’t we order room service?” Rabbi Gerster absently rubbed his smooth cheeks.

“Don’t worry,” Elie said. “The restaurant here is too expensive for Shin Bet agents.”

*

Traffic inched uphill while pedestrians threaded their way among the moving vehicles. Lemmy turned into the YMCA parking lot and found a spot for the Fiat. This was the last known stop in Elie’s escape, and the mention of going to Haifa could have been a diversion for the benefit of the taxi driver’s ears.

He stepped out of the Fiat, looked around, and immediately saw the solution.

Across the street, he strolled into the circular driveway at the King David Hotel and balked at the sight of two Subaru sedans with the familiar roof antennas. He kept moving along the circular driveway until he was back on the street, this time walking downhill. Was this the next trap? But how did the Shin Bet know he would be coming to the King David Hotel? Had they made the same assumption as he and were now searching the hotel?

A limousine passed by with small flags fluttering from the corners of its hood. It occurred to him that the King David Hotel was the preferred place for visiting foreign dignitaries. Shin Bet, or another government agency that used similar Subaru sedans, was probably at the hotel for reasons that had nothing to do with Elie Weiss, SOD, or the man travelling under the name of Baruch Spinoza. He almost laughed in relief. The world wasn’t revolving around this single crisis! He turned back toward the hotel.

*